As we are having a cup of tea, we get astonished at not hearing of the arrival of our caravan.
I had ordered the servants to stop it as it passed the door. I suddenly hear that it has passed the village. Ibrahim (my head-man), at a crab’s run, goes to stop it. I saddle a horse and gallop out. At the other side of the village I find Ibrahim calling “Hoi, hoi!” to the caravan, which is a mile off. He calmly informs me that they don’t hear him. I reply, “Ass!” and canter after them and bring them in.
On nearing the house, a mob of boys, headed by a youth of eighteen, amuse themselves by hooting me, and calling out, “Dog of a European!” in Turkish. I remonstrate in Persian. Delight of boys, who hoot more. I produce two of my four words of Turkish, “Kupak ogli!” (“sons of dogs”). They throw stones. I ride at them, and give my village youth the lash of my crop across his face. They flee, and throw stones from a distance.
Arrival of my muleteer, who remonstrates in Turkish with some elders. Informs them that I am a European ambassador! (Elchi Feringhi), and dangerous to tamper with. They apologise. I reply, in a lordly manner, “Chok yakshi” (Turkish for “very good”), my other two words.
Have tea.
Ten P.M., dinner.
April 22nd.—Started at eight A.M. Gave our landlord two and threepence, with which he was satisfied. Of course, as we had bought grain, bread, wood, etc., he had made a good thing of us.
Wind still blowing very hard; lots of villages and cultivation, the sun being stronger. The wind is not so troublesome as yesterday, and we need no wraps. Still, it is difficult to talk. After two farsakhs pass through a salt swamp, which is fortunately dryish. Arrive at Kherrah, four farsakhs from Bōween, at two-thirty. Caravan gets in at three forty-five.
Find a fine caravanserai, but no rooms, the villagers having built up the entrances of the eight rooms there are. We find the shopkeeper, and take possession of his shop and the two next rooms. We have a door once more!—a real door! All his commodities are scattered about, and he does not remove a thing!
It appears this caravanserai is very little used, save by those who stick in the salt marsh. This, in wet weather, though only eight miles, must be a good day’s march, and sometimes even impassable in places. There is a causeway of big rough stones, but all the bridges were broken. At five P.M. wind went down to nearly nothing. All to-day (over the swamp) the weather seemed dull, from dust storms in the distance. We, however, fortunately did not get into one.