From Pole to Pole

S >> Sven Anders Hedin >> From Pole to Pole

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37

In this manner I travelled from Trebizond to Teheran. To the ceaseless
rattle of the wheels and the heavy tramp of the horses' hoofs, I plunged
day by day deeper into Asia. Soon the blue expanse of the Black Sea
passed out of sight, as the road with many steep and sudden bends wound
up to the top of a pass. On the other side it descended with as many
windings to the bottom of a valley. And thus we went up and down till we
were up at length on the level Armenian tableland.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING (_a_) JOURNEY FROM CONSTANTINOPLE TO TEHERAN
(pp. 26-33); (_b_) LATTER PART OF JOURNEY TO BAKU (pp. 34-35); AND (_c_)
JOURNEY FROM BAKU ACROSS PERSIA TO BAGHDAD AND BACK TO TEHERAN (pp.
37-45).]

Here there is a complete change. During the first days after leaving the
coast, we had driven through a beautiful and constantly changing
landscape. We had passed through woods of coniferous trees and among
rustling foliage of yellow leaves. Sometimes we had been hundreds of
feet above an abyss, at the foot of which a bluish-green stream foamed
between rounded rocks. Beside the road we had seen rows of villages and
farms, with houses and verandahs of wood, where Turks sat comfortably in
their shops and cafes; and we had met many small caravans of horses,
asses, and oxen carrying hay, fruit, and bricks between the villages. We
always began our day's march in the early morning, for the nights were
mild and the sun had scarcely risen before it felt pleasant.

But up here on the plateau it is different. No firs adorn the mountain
flanks, no foliaged trees throw their shade over the road. No creaking
carts, laden with timber and drawn by buffaloes and oxen, enliven the
way. The villages are scattered, and the houses are low cabins of stone
or sun-dried clay. The Turkish population is blended with Armenians. The
road becomes worse and more neglected as the traffic falls off. The air
is cool, and there are several degrees of frost in the night.

When we have passed Erzerum, where the Christian churches of the
Armenians stand side by side with the mosques of the Turks, we journey,
as it were, on a flat roof sloping down slightly on three sides, each
with a gutter leading into its own water-butt. These water-butts are the
Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, and the Persian Gulf, and they are always
big enough to hold all the water, however hard it may rain on the stony
roof which rises between Caucasia, Asia Minor, and Mesopotamia. The
gutters are, of course, the rivers, the greatest of which is the
Euphrates.

Now the road is very bad. There has been rain in the autumn; and now
that it is freezing, the mud, all cut up by deep wheel-ruts, is as hard
as stone. My vehicle shakes and jolts me hither and thither and up and
down, and when we arrive at the village where we are to pass the night,
I feel bruised all over. Shakir makes tea and boils eggs, and after
supper I roll myself in my cloak and go to sleep.

It is pitch-dark when I am called, and still dark when we make a start
by the light of lanterns. After a little a curious sound is heard across
the plain. The clang becomes louder, coming nearer to us, and tall, dark
ghosts pass by with silent steps. Only bells are heard. The ghosts are
camels coming from Persia with carpets, cotton, and fruit. There are
more than three hundred of them, and it is a long time before the road
is clear again. And all the time there is a ringing as from a chime of
bells.

For many thousands of years the same sound has been heard on the caravan
routes. It is the same with the roar of the waters of the Euphrates and
Tigris. Mighty powers have flourished and passed away on their banks,
whole peoples have died out, of Babylon and Nineveh only ruins are left;
but the waters of the rivers murmur just the same, and the caravan bells
ring now as in the days when Alexander led the Macedonian army over the
Euphrates and Tigris, when the Venetian merchant Marco Polo travelled
620 years ago between Tabriz and Trebizond by the road we are now
driving along, when Timur the Lame defeated the Turks and by this road
carried the Sultan Bayazid in an iron cage to exhibit him like a wild
beast in the towns of Asia.

A white morning cloud seems to be floating over the grey mountains to
the east, but when the sun rises it is seen to be a cone as regular as
the roof of an Armenian church. It is the snow-capped top of Mount
Ararat, where the ark landed when the great flood went down. The summit
is always covered with snow, for the mountain is a thousand feet higher
than Mont Blanc.

Now we are not far from the frontier, where Kurdish brigands render the
country unsafe, but once over the border into Persian territory there is
no danger. We are now in the north-western corner of Persia, in the
province of Azerbeijan, which is populated mainly by Tatars. The capital
of the province is Tabriz, once the chief market for the trade of all
northern Persia with Europe. Here goods were collected from far and
near, packed in mats of bast and bound with ropes so as to form bales,
which were laden on fresh camels and carried in fourteen days to
Trebizond.

Now not more than a fifth part of this trade remains, but still the
caravan life is the same, and as varied as ever. The Tatar leader rides
in front; beside every seventh camel walks a caravan man, who wears a
black lambskin cap, a blue frockcoat, a girdle round the waist, and
pointed shoes. Each is armed with a dagger, for the Tatars are often at
feud with the Turks and Armenians, and the dagger has a groove on each
side of the blade to allow the blood of the victim to run off. Many a
caravan leader has spent the greater part of his life in travelling to
and fro between Tabriz and Trebizond. On every journey he has seen
Ararat to the north of the road, like a perpetually anchored vessel with
its mainsail up; and he knows that the mountain is a gigantic frontier
beacon which marks the spot where Russia, Turkey, and Persia meet.

On December 13 I arrived at Teheran, having driven 800 miles in a month.
India was still 1500 miles off, and the route lies almost entirely
through deserts where only camels can travel. I therefore bought
fourteen fine camels, and took six Persians and a Tatar into my
service.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] A government servant or courier.

[5] A light scarf wound round a hat or helmet in tropical countries,
especially India.

[6] A kind of cloth hood covering the ears.

III

THROUGH THE CAUCASUS, PERSIA, AND MESOPOTAMIA (1885-6)

ST. PETERSBURG TO BAKU

On August 15, 1885, I went by steamer to St. Petersburg. There I entered
a train which ran south-eastwards through Moscow to Rostov, at the mouth
of the Don, and thence on to the Caucasus; and for four days I sat in my
compartment, letting my eyes rove over the immense steppes of Russia.
Hour after hour the train rolled along. A shrill whistle startles the
air when we come to a station, and equally sharply a bell rings once,
twice, and thrice when our line of carriages begins to move on again
over the flat country. In rapid course we fly past innumerable villages,
in which usually a whitewashed church lifts up its tower with a green
bulb-shaped roof. Homesteads and roads, rivers and brooks, fruitful
fields and haystacks, windmills with long revolving arms, carts and
wayfarers, all vanish behind us, and twilight and night four times
envelop huge Russia in darkness.

At last the mountains of the Caucasus appear in front of us, rising up
to the clouds like a light-blue wall. The whole range seems so light and
impalpable that we can scarcely believe that the very next day we shall
be driving up its valleys and over heights which are more than 16,000
feet above the sea-level. The distance is still great, but the white
summit of Mount Kazbek shines out amidst the blue.

At length we arrive at Vladikavkas, the end of the railway,[7] and begin
our journey of 130 miles over the mountains. My travelling companions
hired a carriage, and at every stage we had to change horses. I sat on
the box, and at the turns I had to hold on lest I should be thrown off
down into the abyss at the side of the road.

We constantly meet peasants with asses, or shepherds with flocks of
goats and sheep. Now comes a group of Caucasian horsemen in black
sheepskin coats and armed to the teeth; then the post-cart, packed full
of travellers; then again a load of hay drawn by oxen or grey buffaloes.

The higher we ascend, the grander and wilder the mountains become.
Sometimes the road is blasted out of perpendicular walls of rock, and
heavy masses of mountain hang like a vault above us. At dangerous
slopes, where the road is exposed to avalanches in spring, it runs
through tunnels of masonry. When an avalanche dashes furiously down the
mountain it leaps over these tunnels and continues down on the other
side without doing the road any harm.

We have now reached the highest point of the road, and after a journey
of twenty-eight hours we arrive at Tiflis, the largest town in Caucasia,
and one of the most curious towns I have seen. The houses hang like
clusters of swallows' nests on the slopes on both sides of the Kura
River, and the narrow, dirty streets are crowded with the fifteen
different tribes who dwell in Caucasia.

While the road leading to Tiflis over the mountains is grand, a more
dreary country can hardly be conceived than that crossed by the railway
between Tiflis and Baku: endless steppes and deserts, greyish-yellow and
desolate, with occasionally a caravan of slowly moving camels. A violent
storm arose as we drew near the sea. Dust rose up in clouds and
penetrated through all the chinks of the compartment, the air became
thick, heavy, and suffocating, and outside nothing could be seen but a
universal grey veil of impenetrable mist. But the worst was that the
storm struck the train on the side, and at last the engine was scarcely
able to draw the carriages along. Twice we had to stop, and on an ascent
the train even rolled back a little.

However, in spite of all, we at last reached the shore of the Caspian
Sea, where clear green billows rose as high as a house and thundered on
the strand. At seven o'clock in the evening we were at Baku, and drove
ten miles to Balakhani, where I remained seven months.

I remember that time as if it were yesterday. I struggled hopelessly
with the Russian grammar, but made great progress in Persian, and
learned to talk the Tatar language without the least difficulty.
Meanwhile I indulged in plans for a great journey to Persia. How it was
to be managed I did not know, for my means were not large. But I made up
my mind that through Persia I would travel, even if I went as a hired
servant and drove other people's asses along the roads.

The whole country round Baku is impregnated with petroleum, which
collects in vast quantities in cavities in the earth. To reach the oil a
tower of wood 50 to 65 feet high is erected, and a line with a powerful
borer runs over a block at the top. A steam-engine keeps the line in
constant motion, perpendicularly up and down, and the borer eats deeper
and deeper into the earth. The first section of piping which is forced
down into the bore-hole is about 40 inches in diameter. When this can go
no farther the boring is continued with a smaller borer, and a narrower
tube is thrust down within the first. And so the work is continued until
the petroleum level is reached and the valuable oil can be pumped up.

But it often happens that the oil is forced up through the pipe by the
pressure of gas in the bowels of the earth, and when I was at Balakhani
we often used to go out and look at this singular display. With a
deafening roar, a thick greenish-brown jet shot up out of the ground and
right through the derrick (Plate III.). It was visible from a long
distance, for it might be as much as 200 feet high, and the oil was
collected within dams thrown up around. If there was a strong wind the
jet would be dispersed, and a dark mist would lie like a veil over the
ground to leeward. In Balakhani one can hardly look out of the door
without one's clothes being smeared with oil, and the odour can be
perceived a dozen miles away. Not a blade of grass grows in this
neighbourhood; all that one sees is a forest of derricks. Lines of pipes
convey the oil from the borings to the "Black Town" of Baku, which is
full of oil refineries (over 170 in all) emitting vast volumes of smoke,
black and greasy buildings, and pools of oil refuse. When the crude
natural oil is purified, it is distributed far and wide in special
railway trucks like cisterns, and in special tank steamers, into which
the petroleum is pumped, and which carry nothing else.

In the Baku oil-fields there are now (1910) no fewer than 4094 bores, of
which 2600 are productive. Last year they yielded about eight million
tons of raw petroleum, some of them having sometimes given nearly 300
tons in twenty-four hours by pumping, and 2000 when the oil shot out
of the ground itself. The value on the spot is now about 20 shillings
a ton. The deepest boring is sunk 2800 feet into the earth.

[Illustration: PLATE III. OIL-WELL AT BALAKHANI.

A fountain of oil forced up by natural pressure.]

Late one evening in February, 1886, the dreadful cry of "Fire! Fire!"
was heard outside our house. The very thought of fire is enough to raise
terror and consternation throughout this oil-soaked district. We hurry
out and find the whole neighbourhood illuminated with a weird, whitish
light, as bright as day. The derricks stand out like ghosts against the
light background. We make for the place and feel the heat increasing.
Bright white flames shoot up fantastically into the air, sending off
black clouds of smoke. One derrick is in flames and beside it a pool of
raw petroleum is burning. A Tatar had gone to the derrick with a lantern
to fetch a tool. He lost his lantern, and only just escaped with his
life before the oil-soaked derrick took fire.

It is vain to fight against such a fire. The fire-engine came, and all
the hoses were at work, but what was the use when the jets of water were
turned to steam before they reached the burning surface of the oil pool?
The chief thing is to keep the fire from spreading, and if that is done,
the oil is left to bubble and burn until not a drop is left.

ACROSS PERSIA

It was an adventurous journey that I commenced from Baku on April 6,
1886. I had a travelling companion, a young Tatar, Baki Khanoff, about
L30 in my pocket, two changes of clothes and underclothing, a warm
coat, and a rug--all, except what I wore, packed in a Tatar bag. In a
small leather bag suspended by a strap from the shoulder I kept a
revolver, a sketch-book, a note-book, and two maps of Persia. Baki
Khanoff had a large cloak, a silver-mounted gun, and a dagger. Half the
money we had was sewed up in belts round our waists. The equipment was
therefore small for a journey of 2000 miles, through Persia and back.

For two days and a night we were compelled by a violent storm on the
Caspian Sea to wait on board before the vessel could take us to the
Persian coast. As soon as we landed we were surrounded by Persians, who,
with loud voices and lively gestures, extolled the good qualities of
their horses. After a cursory examination we chose two small, squat
steeds, secured our baggage behind the saddles, mounted, and rode
through dark woods and fragrant olive groves higher and higher towards
the Elburz Mountains.

We passed a night up on the heights in a village called Karzan. When we
set out next day it was snowing fast, and had snowed so thickly all
night that all the country was buried under deep drifts. We muffled
ourselves up as well as we could, mounted our horses, and rode on,
accompanied by their owner.

The snow fell silently in large, whirling flakes. Down in the valley it
melted off our clothes, but higher up on the open, windy heights it
froze to a cake of ice, and before long our clothes on the windward side
were converted into a thick cuirass which prevented every movement. At
last we were practically frozen fast in the saddle. Our hands were
benumbed, the reins fell on the horses' necks, our eyes were sore from
the snowstorm which dashed straight into our faces. I was so stiff that
I lost all feeling in my arms and legs, tumbled off my horse, and went
on foot, but I had to hold on to the animal's tail lest I should lose my
way in the blinding snow.

We could not go on long in this way, for we could not see where we were
going, so we decided to turn in at the first village on the road. Some
squalid huts soon came in sight through the snow. Outside one of them we
tied up our horses, shook off the snow, and entered a dark cabin with an
earthen floor. Here a large fire was lighted, and we sat down beside it
in a close circle with some other travellers who arrived at the same
time. The place had a low roof and was small, damp, and full of vermin,
but at any rate it was pleasant to warm ourselves and dry our clothes.
When Baki Khanoff had made tea, cooked eggs, and brought out bread and
salt, it was almost cosy. The company consisted of four Tatars, two
Persians, and myself, and the seven of us had to share the space for the
night. When the fire died down the close heat was succeeded by a damp
coolness, but at twenty-one years of age one is not particular.

Eventually we reached Teheran, the capital of Persia, safe and sound,
and there I stayed a short time as the guest of a fellow-countryman.
When I continued my journey southwards I had to travel alone, for Baki
Khanoff had caught fever and had to turn back to Baku.

Our journey to Teheran had been very expensive, but my good countryman
replenished my purse, so that I had again about L30 sewed up in my
waistbelt when I started off once more on April 27. The road is divided
by stations where horses are changed and you can pass the night if you
wish. A man accompanies you on every stage, and for a small silver coin
you can buy eggs and bread, a chicken, melons and grapes.

Sometimes the stable-boy who accompanies a traveller takes the best
horse for himself and gives the other to the traveller. This happened to
me on the road between the town of Kashan and the mountain village of
Kuhrud. As soon as I became aware of the trick, I exchanged horses with
my attendant, who dropped behind after some hours' journey, for his
sorry jade could go no farther. For four hours I rode along narrow paths
in complete darkness. I feared that I had gone astray, and, tired and
sleepy, I was on the point of coming to a halt, intending to tie the
horse to a tree and roll myself up in my rug for the night, when I saw a
light gleam through the darkness. "Hurrah! that is the station-house of
Kuhrud." But when I came nearer I perceived that the light came from a
nomad's tent. I rode up and called out to the people. No one answered,
but I could see by the shadows on the cloth that the tent was inhabited.
After shouting again without receiving an answer, I tied up the horse,
lifted up the tent-flap, and asked my way to Kuhrud. "Cannot one sleep
in peace in the middle of the night?" came a voice from inside. "I am a
European and you must show me the way," I returned sharply. Then a man
came out; he was as silent as a dummy, but I understood that I was to
follow him, leading my horse by the rein. He wound about in the dark
among bushes, and when he had led me to a brook a foot deep, skirted on
both sides by thick olive woods, he pointed uphill and vanished in the
darkness without saying a word. I mounted again and let the horse take
care of himself, and two hours later he stopped all right before the
station-house. It was pleasant to have reached my journey's end at last,
for I had been riding for fifteen hours, and the evening meal tasted
better than usual. Then I lay down full length on the floor, with the
saddle for a pillow and the rug over me. I made use of no other bed on
this journey.

A few days more on the great caravan road and we rode into the old
capital of Persia, Ispahan, with its many memorials of departed
greatness, its mosques with tall, graceful minarets, and its bazaars
full of the products of Persian handicrafts and industries--carpets,
silken materials, embroideries, shawls, lacquered work, water-pipes,
porcelain, and bronze vessels representing peacocks and elephants.

Farther south I came to Persepolis, so famous in ancient times, where
the great Persian kings, Xerxes and Darius, had their palaces. The
country round about is now inhabited only by some poor shepherds and
their flocks, but fine remains of the palaces still stand, in spite of
the 2400 years which have passed over them. Not far from Persepolis lies
one of the most noted towns of Persia, Shiraz, abounding in rose gardens
and country-houses, spring water and canals. The town is famous above
all, because here the immortal poets of Persia sang their most beautiful
songs.

When we came near the Persian Gulf the climate became hotter, and one
day the temperature was 102 deg. in the room where I was staying. People
therefore travel in the night. On the last stage the groom, who was an
old man, could not keep up with me, for I rode fast; so I went on all
night alone, keeping my revolver handy in case robbers showed
themselves. I was glad when the sun rose, lighting up the smooth mirror
of the Persian Gulf, and on May 22 I arrived at the town of Bushire, on
its eastern coast.

The Persian Gulf is an inlet of the Indian Ocean, and is enclosed
between Persia and Arabia. The island of Bahrein on the Arabian coast is
well known; it is under British protection, and here in summer and
autumn pearl fishing is carried on, the annual export of these beautiful
precious stones being now about L900,000. As many as a thousand boats,
with crews of thirty thousand men, are engaged in the industry. The
owner of each boat engages a number of divers, who work for him, and he
sells his pearls to the Indian markets. The diver seldom goes down to a
greater depth than seven fathoms, and remains at most fifty seconds
under water. He has wax in his ears, his nose is closed by a clip, and
with a stone at his feet and a rope round his waist he jumps overboard
and disappears into the depths. When he reaches the bottom of the sea he
gathers into a basket tied in front of him as many shells as he can get
hold of, and at a given signal is hauled up by the rope to the surface
again. Then the owner of the boat opens the shells and takes out the
costly pearls, which are of different values, according to their size
and other qualities.

ARABIA

Between the Persian Gulf on the north-east and the Red Sea on the
south-west, the Mediterranean on the north-west and the Indian Ocean on
the south-east, lies the long, bulky peninsula which is called Arabia,
and is as large as a third of Europe. Most of the coast-land is subject
to the Sultan of Turkey, but the people in the interior are practically
independent. They are a wild and warlike pastoral people, called
Beduins. Only certain parts of the country are inhabited, the rest being
occupied by terrible deserts and wastes, where even now no European has
set his foot.

Near the coast of the Red Sea are two Arab towns which are as holy and
full of memories to Mohammedans all over the world as Jerusalem and Rome
to Christians. At Mecca the prophet Mohammed was born in the year
A.D. 570, and at Medina he died and was buried in 632. He was
the founder of the Mohammedan religion, and his doctrine, Islamism,
which he proclaimed to the Arabs, has since spread over so many
countries in the Old World that its adherents now number 217 millions.

To all the followers of Islam a pilgrimage to Mecca is a most desirable
undertaking. Whoever has once been there may die in peace, and in his
lifetime he may attach the honourable title of Hajji to his name. From
distant countries in Africa and from the innermost parts of Asia
innumerable pilgrims flock annually to the holy towns.

Adjoining Arabia on the north-east lies the country called Mesopotamia,
through which flow the rivers Euphrates and Tigris. An English steamer
carried me from Bushire up the turbid waters of the Tigris, and from the
deck I could see copper-brown, half-naked Arabs riding barebacked on
handsome horses. They feed their flocks of sheep on the steppe, holding
long lances in their hands. Sometimes the steamer is invaded by a cloud
of green grasshoppers, and one can only escape them by going into one's
cabin and closing both door and windows. Round the funnel lie heaps of
grasshoppers who have singed themselves or are stupefied by the smoke.

After a voyage of a few days up the river I come to Baghdad, which
retains little of its former magnificence. In the eleventh century
Baghdad was the greatest city of the Mohammedans, and here were
collected the Indian and Arabic tales which are called the _Thousand and
one Nights_. Not far from Baghdad, but on the Euphrates, lay in early
ages the great and brilliant Babylon, which had a hundred gates of
brass. By the waters of Babylon the Jewish captives hung up their harps
on the willows, and of Babylon Jeremiah prophesied: "And Babylon shall
become heaps, a dwelling place for dragons, an astonishment, and an
hissing, without an inhabitant."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37