From the Indus to the Tigris

by H. W. Bellew

I struck off the road, and followed the windings of the river for some miles. Its northern or right bank rises directly into high cliffs, that mark the coast-line of the great Khásh desert. In all the extent from Hazárjuft to the Khanishín hill, the alluvium is all on the left bank of the river. The right bank in this course rises at once up to the desert.

On my way along the river, I crossed a succession of deep and narrow water-cuts running in a south and south-easterly direction. Some of them proved difficult to cross. The channel of the river is very wide, and is fringed on each side by thick belts of tamarisk jangal. This extends all along the river course into Sistan, and in some parts assumes the proportions of a forest. The river itself flows in a clear stream, about a hundred yards wide, close under the right bank. The bed is strewed with great boulders, and water-fowl of every kind swarm in its pools. I found an immense flock of pelicans, geese, and ducks all together in a space of a couple of miles. I shot two or three pelicans with No. 2 shot, but they carried away the charges without a sign of discomfort.

Turning away from the river, I came to a ziárat dedicated to Sultán Wais, or Pír Kisrí. It is held in great veneration here, and is shaded by a clump of very fine and large paddah trees (Salix babylonica), growing on the sides of a deep irrigation canal that flows by it.

From Mian Pushta we marched eighteen miles to Sufár. Our route was S.S.W. over a long stretch of corn-fields, interrupted now and again by patches of camel-thorn, salsolaceæ, and other pasture plants. The alluvium here narrows considerably in width, and the desert cliffs approach to within a couple or three miles of the river. Shortly after starting, we came to the Abbasabad settlement. It consists of about a hundred huts of “wattle and dab,” belonging to Adozai Núrzais. Some of the huts were formed of the wicker frames of tamarisk withes before mentioned, supported on side-walls, and closed by another at the rear; but most were besides thatched with a long reed that grows abundantly along the river’s course.

A little farther on we passed a ziárat or shrine, shaded by a clump of trees, close under the desert bluffs to our left. High up in the perpendicular face of one of these cliffs we observed a row of three tall arched openings. They appeared of regular formation, and no means of approach were traceable on the cliff, nor could anybody tell us anything about them. At about midway on the march we passed the turreted and bastioned little fort of Lakhi. Around it are ranged a number of thatched-hut settlements of the Adozai and Alizai Núrzais. Each settlement, of which there were five or six, is protected by its own outlying towers. Each settlement consists of from thirty to forty huts, ranged on each side of a wide street, and in each the towers stand, one at each end of this.

I struck off the road here, and followed the river course for some miles. Its bed is nearly a mile and a half wide, and covered with tamarisk jangal, camel-thorn, and reeds. I found some herds of black cattle and a few camels at graze, and noticed, by the drift sticking to the trees, that the hot-weather flood of the river must be at least twelve feet above its present level, and fill the whole channel. Water-cuts and weirs occur at frequent intervals, and water-mills are found on most of them; but they are only worked in the cold season.

Gun in hand (for I had been shooting wild-fowl along the river), I entered one of these wicker cabins, out of curiosity to see the interior, and found three men coiled up in their felt cloaks or khosai, lazily watching the working of the mill. Neither of them moved more than to turn his eyes on me with a blank stare, and my salám alaikum only drew on me a harder gaze. “Have you no tongue?” said I, addressing the semblance of humanity crouched nearest the entrance, as his uplifted eyes and dropped jaw confronted me. A simple nod answered in the affirmative. “Then who are you?” This loosened his tongue. “Pukhtún,” said he, boldly. “What Pukhtún?”—“Núrzai.” “What Núrzai?”—“Adozai.” “What Adozai?”—“Sulemán Khel.” “Where do you live?”—“There,” with a jerk of the head in the direction of the river, utterly indifferent as to whether he were right or wrong. “What’s that you are grinding?”—“Wheat.”

This was enough for me, and I paused to give him an innings, the while looking from one to the other. Neither volunteered a word to my expectant glances; so with a Da Khudáe pa amán (to the protection of God), Afghan fashion, I left them to their indolent ease and stolid indifference. Proceeding some way, I faced about to see if either of them had been moved by curiosity to come out and look after us. Not a bit of it; they had not moved from their comfortable lairs.

This incident filled me with surprise, because these men could never have seen a European before, considering we are the first who are known to have visited this portion of Garmsel. I expressed my astonishment to Colonel Táj Muhammad, who had accompanied me, observing that the stupid unconcern of the millers had surprised me much more than my sudden intrusion upon their retreat had incommoded them. He explained their impassibility on the ground of their being mere country bumpkins. “Besides,” said he, glancing at the chogha or Afghan cloak I wore (for though we were walking, the morning air was sufficiently cold to render such an outside covering very acceptable), “from the way you went at them about their tribes, they most likely took you for a Kabul Sardár.” However flattering the allusion, it did not satisfy my mind; and farther on in the march, after we rejoined the main party, we met another instance of the boorish independence characteristic of the Afghan peasantry.

As we passed their several settlements, the people generally crowded to the roadside to view our party, and we usually gave them the salám, without, however, eliciting any reply. On this occasion the crowd, lining each side of a narrow roadway, were quite close to us; and as they took no notice of our salám, the Saggid remonstrated with them for their want of civility, and gave them a lecture on the sin of neglecting to reply to such salutation. His harangue made little impression, and, for the most part, fell upon deaf ears. One man did say Starai ma sha, equivalent to our “I hope you are not tired,” and his neighbour stretched out his fist with a significant cock of the thumb, and an inquiring nod of the head, a gesture which amongst these untutored people is used to signify robust health and fitness, but the rest did not even rise from their squatting postures.