From Pole to Pole

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Now my thoughts flew to the dying Kasim. He needed help at once, if his
life was to be saved. Dipping my waterproof boots in the pool I filled
them to the top, passed the straps over the ends of the spade shaft, and
with this over my shoulder retraced my steps. It was pitch-dark in the
wood and it was impossible to see the track. I called out "Kasim" with
all the force of my lungs, but heard no answer. Then I sought out a
dense clump of dried branches and brushwood and set it on fire. The
flame shot up immediately, the pile of dry twigs crackled, burst and
frizzled, the dried herbage was scorched by the draught from below,
tongues of flame licked the poplar trunks, and it became as light as in
the middle of the day, a yellowish red gleam illuminating the dark
recesses of the wood. Kasim could not be far off, and must see the fire.
Again I looked for the trail, but as I only got confused in the wood I
stayed by the fire, propped the boots against a root, laid myself down
where the flames could not reach me, but where I was safe from tigers
and other wild beasts, and slept soundly.

When day broke I found the trail. Kasim was lying where I left him. "I
am dying," he whispered in a scarcely audible voice; but when I raised
one of the boots to his lips, he roused himself up and drank, and
emptied the other one also. Then we agreed to go together to the pool.
It was impossible to turn back into the desert, for we had not eaten for
a week, and now that our thirst was quenched we were attacked by hunger.
Besides, we felt quite sure that the other men were dead some days ago.

Kasim was so exhausted that he could not go with me. As he was at any
rate on the right track, and it was now most important to find something
to eat, I went alone to the pool, drank, bathed, and rested, and then
walked southwards. At nine o'clock a violent westerly storm arose,
driving clouds of sand along the ground. After wandering three hours it
occurred to me that it was not wise to leave the beneficent pool. I
therefore turned back, but after half an hour only found instead a very
small pool with indifferent water. It was no use wandering about in such
a storm, for I could not see where I was going; the wind roared and
whistled through the wood, and I was half dead with fatigue and hunger.

I therefore crept into a small thicket close to this pool, where I was
out of reach of the storm, and making a pillow of my boots and cap,
slept soundly and heavily. Since May 1 I had had no proper sleep. When I
woke it was already dark, and the storm still howled through the wood. I
was now so tortured by hunger that I began to eat grass, flowers, and
reed shoots. There were numbers of young frogs in the pool. They were
bitter, but I pinched their necks and swallowed them whole. After eating
my supper I collected a store of branches to keep up a fire during the
night, and then I crept into my lair in the thicket and gazed into the
fire for a couple of hours while the storm raged outside. Then I went to
sleep again.

At dawn on May 7 I crept out of the thicket and decided to march
southwards until I met with human beings. This time I took water with me
in my boots, but after a few hours my feet were so sore and blistered
that I had to bind them up in long strips of my shirt. At length to my
delight I found a sheepfold on the bank; it had evidently not been used
for a long time, but it showed that shepherds must live in the woods
somewhere.

At noon heat and fatigue drove me into the wood again, where I ate a
breakfast of grass and reeds. After a rest I wandered on again hour
after hour towards the south, but at eight o'clock I could go no
farther, and before it became quite dark I tried to make myself
comfortable on a small space sheltered by poplars and bushes, and there
as usual I lighted my camp fire. I had nothing else to do but lie and
stare into the flames and listen to the curious mournful sounds in the
wood. Sometimes I heard tapping steps and dry twigs cracking. It might
be tigers, but I trusted that they would not venture to attack me just
when I had been saved in such a remarkable manner.

I rose on May 8 while it was still dark, and sought for a path in the
wood, but I had not gone far before the trees became scattered and came
to an end, and the dismal yellow desert lay before me. I knew it only
too well, and made haste back to the river-bed. I rested during the hot
hours of the day in the shadow of a poplar and then set off again. I now
followed the right bank of the river, and shortly before sunset stopped
dead before a remarkable sight--the fresh track of two barefooted men
who had driven four asses northwards.

It was hopeless to try and overtake these wayfarers, and therefore I
followed their track in the opposite direction. I travelled more quickly
than usual, the evening was calm and still, twilight fell over the wood.
At a jutting point of the bank I seemed to hear an unusual sound, and
held my breath to listen. But the wood was still sad and dreary.
"Perhaps it was a warbler or a thrush," I thought, and walked on. A
little later I pulled up again. This time I heard quite plainly a man's
voice and the low of a cow. I quickly pulled on my wet boots and rushed
into the wood. A flock of sheep watched by its shepherd was feeding on
an open glade among the trees. The man seemed petrified at first when he
saw me, and then he turned on his heels and vanished among the
brushwood.

After a while he came back with an older shepherd, and I gave them an
account of my adventures and begged for bread. They did not know what to
believe, but they took me to their hut and gave me maize bread and ewe's
milk.

The best thing of all, however, was that three traders rode up next day,
and I learned from them that some days previously they had discovered a
dying man beside a white camel on the bank of the river. It was Islam
Bay! They had given him water and food, and the following day both he
and Kasim appeared in my hut. Our delight was great, though we mourned
for our comrades who had died of thirst in the desert.

VIII

THE DESERT WATERWAY (1899)

DOWN THE YARKAND RIVER

No doubt you remember the village of Merket, where we set out on pur
fatal march through the Takla-makan desert in 1895. In September, 1899,
I was again at this village with a large caravan and many servants, my
plan on this occasion being to travel through the whole of Eastern
Turkestan by water. The waterway I intended to use was the river which
in its upper course is called the Yarkand, and in its lower the Tarim.

At the village a great caravan route crosses the river, and flat
ferry-boats convey travellers with their animals and goods from one bank
to the other. I bought one of the ferry-boats, and had it converted into
a floating home for our journey of more than a thousand miles (Plate
X.). It was 36 feet long by 8-1/2 broad, and was like a huge trough
built of rough planks. A floor of boards was laid in the bow
sufficiently large to serve as a support for my tent. Behind this was
built a cubical cabin of thin boards covered with sheets of black felt.
Within it was furnished with a table and shelves, and window-frames with
glass panes were let into the felt walls. Here I had all my photographic
accessories, and here I intended to develop my plates.

When all was ready the ferry-boat was rolled down on logs into the river
again. The tent was set up and its folds were spiked fast to the edges
of the flooring. My bed and my boxes were arranged in the tent, a carpet
was spread on the floor, and at the front opening was placed my
writing-table, consisting of two boxes, whereon paper, pens, compass,
and watch, field-glass and other things always lay ready. For a stool I
had a smaller hide trunk.

[Illustration: PLATE X. THE AUTHOR'S BOAT ON THE YARKAND RIVER.

The man with the white turban at the stern is Islam Bay.]

Amidships our heavy baggage was piled up: sacks of flour and rice, boxes
of sugar, tea, and groceries, saddles, weapons, and tools. The kitchen
was at the stern, in charge of my faithful Islam Bay--for he was with me
again.

When the ferry-boat was fully fitted up and ready to sail, it drew nine
inches of water. We had also a small auxiliary boat to pilot the larger
and inform us where treacherous sand-banks were hidden below the
surface. Fruit, vegetables, sheep, and fowls were carried on the smaller
boat, which looked rather like a small farmyard. The heavy baggage that
we did not need on the journey was packed on our camels, and their
leader was ordered to meet me in three months' time near the termination
of the river.

Our voyage began on September 17, 1899, the crew numbering seven,
including Islam Bay and myself. Kader was a youth who helped Islam Bay
by peeling potatoes, laying table, and fetching water from clear pools
on the banks cut off from the river. In the bow stood Palta with a long
pole, watching to thrust off if the boat went too near the bank. At the
stern stood two other polemen, who helped to handle the boat. The small
boat was managed by one man, Kasim, and as I sat at my writing-table I
could see him pushing his vessel with his pole to right or left in
search of the channel where the water was deepest and the current most
rapid. Then we had two four-legged passengers on the larger boat, Dovlet
and Yolldash. Dovlet means the "lucky one" and Yolldash "travelling
companion." The latter had succeeded to the name of the dog which died
in the Takla-makan desert.

The boat floats down with the current, following obediently the windings
of the river, and the polemen are on the watch. On the banks grow small
hawthorn bushes and tamarisks, interrupted by patches of reeds and small
clumps of young trees, among which poplars always predominate. They are
not the tall, slender poplars which tower proud as kings above other
trees, but quite a dwarf kind with a round, irregular crown. When the
day draws near to a close I give the order to stop. Palta thrusts his
pole into the river bottom, and, throwing all his strength and weight on
to it, forces the stern of the boat to swing round to the land, where
another of the crew jumps out on to the bank with a rope. He makes it
fast round a stump, and our day's voyage is ended.

The gangway is pushed out and a fire is lighted in an open space among
the trees, and soon the teapot and rice-pan are bubbling pleasantly. I
remain sitting at my writing-table and see the moonlight playing in a
streak on the surface of the river. All is quiet and silent around us,
and even the midges have gone to rest. I hear only the brands crackling
in the camp fire and the sand slipping down the neighbouring bank as the
water laps against it. A dog barking in the distance is answered by
Dovlet and Yolldash.

Now steps are heard on board, and Islam Bay brings my supper. The
writing-table is converted into a dining-table, and he serves me up rice
pudding with onions, carrots, and minced mutton, fresh bread, eggs,
cucumbers, melons, and grapes. What more could a man want? It was very
different when we were wandering on the endless sands. If I want to
drink I have only to let down a cup into the river which gently ripples
past the boat. The dogs keep me company, sitting with cocked ears
waiting for a titbit. Then Islam comes and clears the table, I close the
tent, creep into my berth, and enjoy life afloat on my own vessel, where
it is only necessary to loosen a rope to be on the way again.

After a few days we come to a place where the river contracts and forces
its way with great velocity between small islands and great heaps of
stranded driftwood. Here Palta has plenty of work, for he has constantly
to keep the boat off from some obstacle or other with the pole.
Frequently we bump up against poplar trunks which do not show above the
water, and then the boat swings round in a moment. Then all the crew
jump into the river and shove the boat off again.

A distant noise is heard, and soon becomes louder. In a moment we are in
the midst of rapids, and it is too late to heave to. It is to be hoped
that we shall not turn broadside on or we shall capsize. "Let her go
down as she likes," I call out. All the poles are drawn up, and the boat
flies along, gliding easily and smoothly over the boiling water.

Below the rapids the river widened out, and became so shallow that we
stuck fast in blue clay. We pushed and pulled, but all to no purpose.
Then all the baggage was carried ashore, and with our united strength we
swung the boat round until the clay was loosened, and then the things
were brought on board again.

Farther down, the river draws together again. The banks are lined with
dense masses of fine old trees just beginning to turn yellow in the
latter days of September. The boat seems as though it were gliding along
a canal in a park. The woods are silent, not a leaf is moving, and the
water flows noiselessly. The polemen have nothing to do. They sit
cross-legged with one hand on the pole, which trails through the water;
and only now and then have they to make a thrust to keep the boat in the
middle of the stream.

Weeks passed, and the ferry-boat drifted still farther and farther down
the river. Autumn had come, and the woods turned yellow and russet, and
the leaves fell. We had no time to spare if we did not want to be caught
fast in the ice before reaching the place where we had arranged to meet
the caravan. Therefore we started earlier in the morning and did not
land until long after sunset each day. The solemn silence of a temple
reigned around, only the quacking of a duck being heard occasionally or
the noise of a fox stealing through the reeds. A herd of wild boars lay
wallowing in the mud on the bank. When the boat glided noiselessly by
they got up, looked at us a moment with the greatest astonishment, and
dashed like a roaring whirlwind through the beds of cracking reeds. Deer
grazed on the bank. They scented danger and turned round to make for
their hiding-places in the wood. A roebuck swam across the stream a
little in front of the boat. Islam lay with his gun in the bow ready to
shoot, but the roebuck swam splendidly and, with a spring, was up on the
bank and vanished like the wind. Sometimes we saw also fresh spoor of
tigers at our camping-grounds, but we never succeeded in surprising one
of them.

One morning, when we had not seen any natives for a long time, the smoke
of a fire was seen on the bank. Some shepherds were watching their
flocks, and their dogs began to bark. The men gazed at the ferry-boat
with wonder and alarm as it floated nearer, and no doubt thought that it
was something ghostly, for they faced about and ran with the dust flying
about their sheepskin sandals. I sent two men ashore, but it was quite
impossible to catch up with the runaways.

Farther down we passed through a district where several villages stood
near the banks. They had learned of our coming through scouts, and when
we arrived we were met by whole troops of horsemen. The village headmen
were also present, and were invited on board, where they were regaled
with tea on the after-deck.

THE TARIM

The farther we went the smaller became the river. The Yarkand-darya
would never reach the lake, Lop-nor, where it discharges its water, if
it did not receive a considerable tributary on the way. This tributary
is called the Ak-su, or "White Water," and it comes foaming down from
the Tien-shan, the high mountains to the north. After the rivers have
mingled their waters, the united main stream is called the Tarim.

The weather gradually became colder. One morning a dense mist lay like a
veil between the wooded banks, and all the trees, bushes, and plants,
and the whole boat, were white with hoar frost. After this it was not
long before the frost began to spread thin sheets of ice over the pools
on the banks and the small cut-off creeks of stagnant water, and we had
to press on as fast as we could to escape being frozen in. Breakfast was
no longer laid on land, but on the after-deck of the ferry-boat, where
we built a fireplace of clay, and round this the men sat in turn to warm
themselves. At night we travelled long distances in the dark. We had
persuaded two natives to go with us in their long, narrow canoes, and
they rowed in front of us in the darkness with large Chinese paper
lanterns on poles to show us where the deep channel ran.

The woods on the bank gradually thin out, and finally come to an end
altogether, being replaced by huge sand-hills often as much as 200 feet
high. This is the margin of the great sandy desert which occupies all
the interior of Eastern Turkestan. The people in the country round about
are called Lopliks, and live to a great extent on fish.

During the last few days of November the temperature fell to 28.8 deg.
below freezing-point. The drift ice which floated down the river became
thicker, and one morning the ferry-boat lay frozen in so fast we could
walk on the ice around it. Out in the current, however, the water was
open, and we broke asunder our fetters with axes and crowbars. A
constant roar of grinding and scraping ice accompanied us all day long,
and during the nights we had to anchor the ferry-boat out in the
swiftest part of the current to prevent it being frozen in.

On December 7 broad fringes of ice lay along both banks, and all day we
danced among drifting ice as in a bath of broken crockery. At night we
had a whole flotilla of canoes with lanterns and torches to clear the
way, when suddenly the boat swung round with a bump, and we found that
the river was frozen over right across. This did not disturb us, for on
the bank we saw the flames of a wood fire, and found that it was burning
at the camp of our camel caravan.

THE WANDERING LAKE

The place where the ferry-boat was frozen in for the winter is called
New Lake (see map, p. 90). Just at this spot the Tarim bends southwards,
falling farther down into a very shallow lake called Lop-nor. The whole
country here is so flat that with the naked eye no inequalities can be
detected. Therefore the river often changes its bed, sometimes for short
and sometimes for long distances. Formerly the river did not bend
southwards, but proceeded straight on eastwards, terminating in another
lake also called Lop-nor, which lay in the northern part of the desert,
and which is mentioned in old Chinese geographies.

The peculiarity of Lop-nor is, then, that the lake moves about, and, in
conjunction with the lower course of the Tarim, swings like a pendulum
between north and south. I made many excursions in that part of the
desert where the Lop-nor formerly lay, and mapped out the old river-bed
and the old lake. There I discovered ruins of villages and farms,
ancient canoes and household utensils, tree trunks dry as tinder and
roots of reeds and rushes. In a mud house I found also a whole
collection of Chinese manuscripts, which threw much light on the state
of the country at the time when men could exist there. These writings
were more than 1600 years old.

The explanation of the lake's wanderings is this. At the time of high
water the Tarim is always full of silt, and the old lake was very
shallow. The lake, therefore, was silted up with mud and decaying
vegetation, and by the same process the bed of the river was raised. At
last came the time when the Tarim sought for an outlet to the south,
where the country was somewhat lower. The old bed was dried up by
degrees and the water in the lake evaporated. The sheet of water
remained, indeed, for a long time, but it shrank up from year to year.
At last there was not a drop of water left, and the whole country dried
up. The poplar woods perished, and the reeds withered and were blown
away by the wind. The men left their huts and moved down the new water
channel to settle at the new lake, where they erected new huts. The
Tarim and Lop-nor had swung like a pendulum to the south, and men,
animals, and plants were obliged to follow. The same thing then occurred
in the south. The new river and lake were silted up and the water
returned northwards. Thus the water swung repeatedly from north to
south, but of course many hundreds of years elapsed between the
vibrations.

At the present day the lake lies in the southern part of the desert; it
is almost entirely overgrown with reeds, and the poplar woods grow only
by the river. The few natives are partly herdsmen, partly fishermen;
they are of Turkish race and profess the religion of Islam; they are
kind-hearted and peaceable, and show great hospitality to strangers.
Their huts are constructed of bundles of reeds bound together; the
ground within is covered with reed mats, and the roof consists of boughs
covered with reeds. The men spend a large part of their time in canoes,
which are hollowed poplar trunks, and are therefore long, narrow, and
round at the bottom. The oars have broad blades and drive the canoes at
a rapid pace. Narrow passages are kept open through the reeds, and along
these the canoes wind like eels. The men are very skilful in catching
fish, and in spring they live also on eggs, which they collect from the
nests of the wild geese among the reeds. The reeds grow so thickly that
when they have been broken here and there by a storm one can walk on
them with six feet of water beneath.

Tigers were formerly common on the banks of Lop-nor, and the natives
used to hunt them in a singular manner. When a tiger had done mischief
among the cattle, the men would all assemble from the huts in the
neighbourhood at the thickets on the bank of the river where they knew
that the tiger was in hiding. They close up round him from the land
side, leaving the river-bank open. Their only weapons are poles and
sticks, so they set fire to the copse in order to make the beast leave
his lair. When the tiger finds that there is no way out on the land
side, he takes to the water to swim to some islet or to the other shore
of the lake, but before he is far out half a dozen canoes cut through
the water and surround him. The men are armed only with their oars. The
canoes can move much faster than the tiger, and one shoots quickly past
him, and the men in the bow push his head under water with their
oar-blades. Before the tiger has risen again the canoe is out of reach.
The tiger snorts and growls and puffs madly, but in a moment another
canoe is upon him and another oar thrusts him down deeper than before.
This time he has barely reached the surface before a third canoe glides
up, and his head is again shoved under water. Soon the tiger begins to
tire and to gasp for breath. He has no opportunity of using his fangs
and claws, and can only struggle for his life by swimming. Now the
first canoe has circled round again, and the man in the bow pushes the
tiger down with all his strength and holds him under water as long as he
can. This goes on until the tiger can struggle no longer and is drowned.
Then a rope is tied round his neck, and with much jubilation he is towed
to the shore.

The climate at Lop-nor is very different in winter and summer. In winter
the temperature falls to 22 deg. below zero, and rises in summer to 104
deg. Large variations like this always occur in the interior of the great
continents of the world, except in the heart of Africa, close to the
equator, where it is always warm. On the coasts the variation is
smaller, for the sea cools the air in summer and warms it in winter. In
the Lop-nor country the rivers and lakes are frozen hard in winter, but
in summer suffocating heat prevails. Men are tortured by great swarms of
gnats, and cattle are devoured by gadflies. It has even happened that
animals have been so seriously attacked by gadflies that they have died
from loss of blood. Fortunately, the flies come out only as long as the
sun is up, and therefore the animals are left in peace at night. During
the day horses and camels must be kept among the reeds, where the flies
do not come.

Incredible numbers of wild geese and ducks, swans and other swimming
birds breed at Lop-nor, and the open water is studded all over with
chattering birds. In late autumn they fly southwards through Tibet, and
in winter the lakes are quiet, with yellow reeds sticking up through the
ice.

WILD CAMELS

The level region over which the Lop-nor has wandered for thousands of
years from north to south is called the Lop desert. Its stillness is
broken only from time to time by easterly storms which roll like thunder
over the yellow clay ground. In the course of ages these strong spring
storms have ploughed out channels and furrows in the clay, but otherwise
the desert is as level as a frozen sea, the places where Lop-nor
formerly spread out its water being marked only by pink mollusc shells.

On the north the Lop desert is bounded by the easternmost chains of the
Tien-shan, which the Chinese also call the "Dry Mountains." They deserve
the name, for their sides are hardly ever washed by rain; but at their
southern foot a few salt springs are to be found. Round them grow reeds
and tamarisks, and even in other places near the mountains some
vegetation struggles for existence.

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