Yezdikhast is situated in a valley through which runs a small river, and on each side are precipitous cliffs and a bad road, unpleasant to scramble up or down by day, and dangerous on a dark night. The town itself is built on a perpendicular island-like cliff, which stands in the middle of the deep ravine thus formed; it presents a sufficiently striking appearance as viewed from either the cliffs or the valley, impregnable to attack save from artillery; the perpendicular cliff on which it is perched shows up a bright yellow, against what is generally a verdant valley, teeming with corn and grass, though just at the time I was travelling quite bare, save just by the river. There is only one small entrance to the town at one end of the razor-backed cliff; this is a doorway just big enough to admit a horseman stooping in his saddle, or a loaded mule. This doorway is reached by a small bridge of a few poles, which can be knocked away at once: the cliff, which appears to be of sandstone, is honeycombed with underground granaries and shelters for sheep and goats, as are the cliffs on either side. On one side of the town, in the ravine, is the caravanserai; on the other the chupperkhana or post-house.
The night was pitch dark, the guide couldn’t even see the road, and I had to light my road lantern to enable us to get out of the ravine up the rocky track that leads to the high-road; when we did get on the road it was so dark, that I was unfortunately still obliged to keep my light burning, to enable us to keep on the track. And to this I suppose I owe my subsequent misfortunes.
I was coming now to a notorious “doz-gah,” or robbing place, Aminabad. Here is a magnificent caravanserai; but no one can live here, for, being the frontier of two provinces, one ruled by the Governor of Shiraz, the other by that of Ispahan, it was a sort of debatable land. A few hours’ march, too, brings one to the Bakhtiari country, governed by Houssein Kūli Khan,[22] who ruled with a rod of iron the turbulent tribes of these wild men. All wanderers, they are a brave and untamable people, their customs quite different from the inhabitants of the towns, upon whom they look with contempt. They are practically independent, merely furnishing a large contingent of irregular cavalry. The illustration gives a good idea of the tent-life of the wandering tribes of Persia. The tents are very portable, impervious to rain, wind, and sun, and are woven by the women from the hair of the black goats. They are very durable.
The Shah is here of little authority, the whole government being vested in Houssein Kūli Khan, whose eldest son remains with the king in honourable captivity in Teheran as hostage for his father’s good conduct.
Several times have villagers been placed in the Aminabad caravanserai, that the place might not be without inhabitants; but it is always looted, the ryots beaten or murdered; even in peaceful times the muleteers hurry past the caravanserai, and make the best of their way to Yezdikhast.
TENT LIFE.—WANDERING TRIBES.
The country here on the least pretext becomes disturbed, and robberies and murders in disturbed times are frequent. The last time I passed it, in 1878, I was riding on in front of the caravan, and looked into the huge courtyard out of curiosity; and though the country was very peaceful indeed, there lay the festering body of a murdered man. A few mud walls run along the road, making convenient ambush, and a ruined watch-tower marks the exact frontier line.
My lighted lantern had doubtless put the robbers of the neighbourhood on the qui vive, but I could not have got out of the Yezdikhast valley without it, and I hoped by travelling at an unusual hour (midnight) in the pitchy darkness to slip by unperceived. I had reckoned without my host. As I passed at a slow amble, making as little noise as possible, and flattering myself that no one could see us, I was challenged.
“Who are you?”