At the end of the gorge, dome-shaped Muztagh Ata, with its covering of snow, stood up magnificently, seeming to block up the end of the narrow valley, and from that moment it entered into my life, so familiar did it become to me and so greatly did I admire it. Sandy tracks now led us to the shallow Bulunkul Lake, more than half-filled with sand blown from the hills that encircle it, and we halted on a stretch of pasturage on which yaks were grazing, and were glad to think that a critical part of our journey was safely accomplished.
It may be of interest if I give some account of how we travelled during this tour. The rule was to rise at 5 A.M., if not earlier, and I would hastily dress and then emerge from my tent to lay my pith-hat, putties, gloves and stick beside the breakfast table spread in the open. Diving back into my tent I would put the last touches to the packing of hold-all and dressing-case, Jafar Bai and his colleague Humayun being busy meanwhile in tying up my bedstead and bedding in felts. While the tents were being struck we ate our breakfast in the sharp morning air, adjusted our putties, applied face-cream to keep our skins from cracking in the intense dryness of the atmosphere, and then would watch our ponies, yaks or camels as the case might be, being loaded up. These last-mentioned ungainly creatures used to cry and protest all the time, giving their owners as much trouble as possible before they could be induced to lie down, and occasionally throwing off their burdens. A baby-camel being of the party during part of our journey, its mother greatly resented being made to work, and all the animals were shedding their winter coats, the fur hanging on their bodies in loose, untidy patches. My chief objection to the camel is its disagreeable odour, and I have often wondered why an animal that is such a clean feeder should smell so horribly.
When the loads were at last adjusted and the caravan was ready to start, we would mount our horses, or one of our men would lead them behind us while we walked for an hour before we began to ride. As we had three horses between us, I usually rode half the stage on my side-saddle if the going were good, and the other half on Tommy with a native saddle which had a cushion strapped on to it, and I found that the change of seat kept me from getting overtired, while my astride habit did for either mode.
We usually marched for five hours and then halted for lunch, waiting until our caravan had overtaken and passed us. Sattur, who accompanied us on his pony, would unpack his tiffin basket, and we would lie by the water, in the shade of a tree if possible, as the sun by noon was very powerful. When the worst of the heat was over, and our baggage animals had been given an hour’s start, we would ride another three or four hours into camp, to revel in afternoon tea and warm baths, I having an extra treat in the brushing out of my hair, so hastily done up in the morning. Then would come a consultation with Daoud as to our evening meal, and one of the store boxes would be opened to give out everything needed for it and for the morrow’s breakfast and lunch. After dinner we usually strolled up and down for an hour, warmly wrapped up—for it became very cold when the sun went down—and then turned in to dreamless slumbers.
From Lake Bulunkul and onwards we saw a great deal of the Kirghiz, and, though travellers differ as to their opinion of these peaceful pastoral people, we ourselves liked them and found them most friendly and hospitable. Their broad hairless faces and high cheek-bones show their Mongol descent, but though akin to the yellow-skinned, oblique-eyed Chinese, they look very different, and both men and women have fresh ruddy complexions.
We first camped with them at a spot called “Stone Sheep-folds,” from the presence of a roughly walled enclosure into which the flocks were driven at night to be guarded from the wolves by the savage Kirghiz dogs. As we rode across a wide grassy plain towards a group of akhois, the native dwellings that look like huge bee-hives, it was the hour of the afternoon milking, and Kirghiz women in gaily coloured coats, long leather boots and the characteristic lofty white headgear, were busily at work. They had tied the sheep and the goats and the black, brown or particoloured yaks to long ropes and let the animals go free one by one when they had been milked, a loud chorus of bleating and grunting going on all the time. Troops of mares, accompanied by their foals, were feeding all round the camp, and our Badakshani horses were excited to such an extent that the chestnut had to be blindfolded in order to quiet him; and throughout the tour I had often from this cause an unpleasantly lively time with my grey, which had been imperturbable when at Kashgar.
It was mid-June, but a high wind was blowing and drove the sand in clouds from the hills, invading the little tent, in which I could not stand upright save in the centre, and whisking up its flaps. As I could not perform my toilet unless I fastened up the entrance, I had to grope for everything in almost total darkness, and though the space was extremely limited, it was surprising how easily things got mislaid. My tent was still less desirable as a residence when it rained, as after a while tiny streams would begin to trickle down inside at the points where my camp furniture touched the walls, and my belongings—most of them perforce on the ground—got damp and clammy. Of course a large tent with talc windows is very comfortable—with certain exceptions; but we had heard so much about the storms that sweep over the Pamirs that we had taken only small ones on this expedition.
At our next halt, Kuntigmas, meaning “the place that the sun cannot reach,” I was provided with an akhoi all to myself. Indeed, I always dwelt in these roomy “white houses” whenever possible. They are usually eighteen feet in diameter, the same size as the Turkoman kibitkas in the north of Persia, and the framework of willow-wood is a trellis about four feet high, which pulls out and is placed on the ground in a circle. To the upper edge of this a series of curved laths are tied about a foot apart, the other end of these laths being inserted into the holes of a thick wooden hoop that forms the top of the dome-like erection. Large felts are now fastened with ropes over the akhoi, leaving free the opening at the top to admit light and air—also rain and snow on occasion—and to let out the smoke of the fires. In case of really bad weather a felt can be drawn over the circular opening, and again withdrawn, on the same principle as the ventilation arrangements in some of the London theatres. A wooden framework, often prettily carved, is placed between the two ends of the trellis-work to serve as a doorway, and is hung with a piece of matting and a felt or carpet. Inside, the framework is completely covered with felts, and along the top of the trellis I noticed throughout our tour an effective finish in the shape of a band of red felt with a blue floriated pattern that passed half-way round the akhoi, the other half being decorated with the same design, but with the colours reversed.
These dwellings can be purchased for £7 (a Chinese yambu), but those of superior quality often go up to £35 in price. The earthen floor is beaten hard and covered with carpets, a depression being left in the centre for the fire. Some of the old carpets were very pleasing, with their soft madders and indigoes and greens, a favourite design being conventionalized flowers; but alas, most of them were badly burnt by the sparks that had leapt on to them from the brushwood used to start the fires. The Kirghiz of to-day does not appreciate their velvety sheen, but loves the modern Khotan productions, with their crude scarlets, purples, yellows and magentas all introduced into the same pattern in a series of violent colour discords.
All travellers speak of the akhoi with esteem, and I was always grateful for its space, and, in fine weather, for its comfort, although during snow and rain I found that it had some drawbacks. For example, the hole at the top let in much wet, but if the felt were drawn across it I was deprived of light, and if I rolled up my entrance carpet I had no privacy and was exposed to violent draughts, as the walls were by no means airproof. The felts that covered them were so full of holes that on a rainy day one had to use much discrimination as to where to put one’s belongings in order to keep them comparatively dry, and on more than one occasion I have slept with my mackintosh drawn up over my head in order to prevent the rain from splashing on my face during the night.