Through deserts and oases of central Asia

by Ella Sykes; Sir Percy Sykes

When we rose in the morning the desert stretched before us vast and undulating. In Canada in the early spring the prairie, reaching to the far horizon on either side of the train, had reminded me of a desert, so limitless, so barren and devoid of life did the largest wheat field in the world appear. But oh, the difference! The Takla Makan kills all life unless there is water to correct its baleful influence, while the prairie holds in its bosom food for millions.

As we rode on our way at six o’clock the early morning wind was swirling up the sand, obscuring the sky and magnifying everything strangely. At intervals the potais, most of which were in a ruinous condition, loomed monstrous through the haze, a caravan that I imagined to be composed of camels resolved itself into a group of diminutive donkeys, while a gigantic figure draped in fluttering robes turned into a harmless peasant carrying a staff and water-gourd. We followed the broad track made by arabas and the hoofs of countless animals; but I thought how easy it would be to lose the way, were a strong wind to blow the sand across our route and cover the skulls and other traces of bygone caravans. In the days of Hiuen Tsiang and Marco Polo there were no potais, and travellers must often have been lost; indeed the Chinese pilgrim tells us that when he crossed this desert the heaps of bones were his only means of knowing whether he was following the right track or not. I was interested to hear that this particular stage had the reputation of being haunted and that no peasant would traverse it alone at night. In fact, a Hindu trader told Iftikhar Ahmad that he and his servants had been greatly terrified a few days before our arrival. They were travelling after dark and, though there was no moon, a sudden light in the sky revealed a broad road bordered by irrigation channels and trees, along which marched an army. The onlookers imagined from their uniforms that the soldiers were Turks, but they could not see their faces, and suddenly they vanished, only to give place to droves of cattle and sheep, which seemed to pour in an unending stream past the frightened travellers. In the life of Hiuen Tsiang mention is made more than once of the hallucinations to which he was subject in the desert, and the following passage occurs: “He saw a body of troops amounting to several hundreds covering the sandy plain—the soldiers were clad in fur and felt. And now the appearance of camels and horses and the fluttering of standards and lances met his view....” I quote this passage because the Chinaman’s vision in the seventh century seems strangely akin to that of the Hindu and his servants. As we neared the large oasis of Guma the inevitable receptions began several miles out in the desert, and I was struck with the appearance of our host, the Aksakal. He was a tall, handsome man, remarkably like a high-class Persian, and wore a long mauve coat with a magenta waistband, and a purple felt hat with broad gold band, a purchase from India. He installed us in his newly built house, which, being in the middle of the bazar, was the haunt of legions of flies. It consisted of several small rooms opening on to a little courtyard planted with shrubs and flowers, over which lovely humming-bird moths were hovering; but, as there was no exit at the back and we were at very close quarters with our servants, I did not altogether appreciate what was evidently the ne plus ultra of Guma taste. Our rooms and the verandah were painted in pink and mauve, the window frames bright green with their shutters picked out in blue and brown, while above the window of the principal room was a richly coloured and gilded floral design. The entrance door, draped with green plush, cloth of gold and silver and a piece of purple and green embroidery, and the chairs, upholstered in orange and sky-blue velvet, made up a gorgeous whole, in which I felt rather like a prisoner, as I had to retreat constantly to my apartment, pull the shutters to, and sit in a dim twilight when the Chinese Amban and other callers arrived in state.

Guma is noted for its manufacture of paper, and we went to see the process. The pale green lining of the bark of the mulberry is boiled in great iron pots and ladled out upon broad stones, to be pulped by wooden hammers. The mixture is then spread over canvas-filled frames which are held under water during the operation, and afterwards set upright in the open air to dry, when sheets of a coarse whitish paper about the size of foolscap can be pulled off the canvas. This paper is mainly used for packing; if needed for writing, it is rubbed with glass to glaze it.

As the oasis is rich in mulberry trees it produces a considerable amount of silk; but Khotan is the chief centre of this profitable industry. The women tend the silkworms.

The soil of Guma is so sandy that the inhabitants cannot build the usual mud-houses, but are obliged to have recourse to wattle-and-daub structures, composed of a framework of sticks plastered inside and out with a mixture that is for ever dropping off in flakes, thereby giving to these dwellings a most unsubstantial air. I noticed that in the cemeteries the graves were marked by tall withered saplings, to denote the sites when they are covered up by the all-pervading sand.

The time of our visit coincided with the Mizan or Equinox, which is supposed to mark the close of the hot weather, and the “kindly fruits of the earth” were nearly ready for the harvest. The cotton crop was being gathered, its bursting pods lying on the ground; the handsome man-high maize and millet were yellowing, and we revelled in delicious corn cobs, boiled and then smeared with butter and sprinkled with salt, as I had learned to eat them in Canada. We were also given another vegetable, the roots of the lotus, which the Chinese look upon as a delicacy; but it did not appeal to my taste. The pomegranates were a glorious scarlet and the many varieties of grapes were in their prime; the melons, peaches and nectarines had passed their zenith.

On the evening before we left Guma our servants, together with the various travellers who had attached themselves to our party, organized an entertainment. There was much singing, the performers yelling at the top of their voices, accompanied by a thrumming of sitars, a thudding of drums and a squealing of pipes. Three of the men executed a pantomime dance, one being disguised as a woman, another as an old man, and the third, a handsome young fellow, having no make-up at all. All three went round in a circle one after the other with curious steps and much waving of arms, the play being based on the well-known theme of the girl-wife snatched from an old husband by her youthful lover. I felt rather like an Oriental woman as I watched the show from behind a curtain, and was amused to hear later that I was considered to be a model of discreet behaviour because I had not attended any of the Chinese banquets.

It was rather disturbing at night to hear the Chinese watchman going his rounds, beating two sticks together as an assurance to the citizens that he was guarding them faithfully, but I fancy that he and his colleagues were of the Dogberry type and would probably pretend not to notice were any devilry afoot.

Although we saw very little veiling after we had left Yarkand, this Mohamedan custom prevailing less and less the nearer we approached China, the women were extremely nervous at our approach, having seldom or never seen Europeans. They would rush in all directions, hiding their faces in the long cotton shawls which they wore over their heads, and would vanish like rabbits into their mud hovels, giving me the queer sense of being watched by legions of eyes as we rode through the mean bazars. There were many public eating-houses in this part of the world, with Chinese painted screens to hide the customers seated behind them, and with gaily coloured pictures on the walls. The food was cooked in big cauldrons in full view of the public, and I was told that the restaurant-keepers, who are Tunganis (Chinese Moslems) usually become rich, especially in one district, where both men and women take all their meals in public. As a rule no payment is demanded until six months have elapsed, and then mine host goes round to collect his debts, with the not uncommon result that greedy folk who have partaken too lavishly of the seven dishes provided are obliged to sell their property in order to pay up. Fuel is certainly a heavy item for the poor, who use it only for cooking and not to heat their houses; therefore these restaurants, if used with discretion, ought to make for economy.

During this journey the weather as a rule was perfect—fresh in the morning and evening, quite cold at night, and only during the middle of the day uncomfortably hot. I felt as if I were on a riding-tour and picnic combined, so little of the discomforts of travel did we experience, the supply question being easy and our servants doing their work with scarcely a hitch. At night we generally slept in the open air under our mosquito nets, and when the full moon rode across the heavens I was often obliged to bandage my eyes to shut out the brilliant light.