From Pole to Pole

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BAGHDAD TO TEHERAN

When I reached Baghdad I had only a little over L5 left, all in Persian
silver _kran_, a _kran_ being worth about seven-pence; and I could not
get any more money until I reached Teheran, 600 miles away. I knew that
if I could only get as far as the town of Kermanshah, a distance of 200
miles, I could then take service in a caravan; but it would be
unpleasant to tramp on foot the whole way, and receive no pay other than
a little bread and a few cucumbers and melons.

Just in the nick of time, however, I made the acquaintance of a caravan
owner who was starting immediately for Kermanshah with English
merchandise. The goods were loaded on fifty asses, and were accompanied
by ten Arab traders on horseback. Eight pilgrims and a Chaldean merchant
had joined the party. I, too, might go with them on paying fifty _kran_
for the hire of a mule; food and drink I must provide for myself.

It was a pleasant journey which began at ten o'clock on the evening of
June 6. Two Arabs led me on my mule slowly and solemnly through the
narrow streets of Baghdad in the warm summer night. An oil lamp
flickered dully here and there, but the bazaars were brisk and lively.
Here sat thousands of Arabs, talking, eating, drinking, and smoking. It
was the month of fasting, when nothing is eaten until after sunset.

The two Arabs conducted me into the court of a caravanserai, where the
traders were just making preparations to start. When I heard that they
would not be ready before two o'clock in the morning, I lay down on a
heap of bales and slept like a top.

Two o'clock came much sooner than I wished. An Arab came and shook me,
and, half asleep, I mounted my mule. To the shouts of the drivers, the
tinkle of the small bells, and the ding-dong of the large camel-bells
the long caravan passed out into the darkness. Soon we had the outermost
courts and palm groves of Baghdad behind us, and before us the silent,
sleeping desert.

No one troubled himself about me; I had paid for the mule and might look
after myself. Sometimes I rode in front, sometimes behind, and
occasionally I almost went to sleep in the saddle. The body of a dead
dromedary lay on the road, and a pack of hungry jackals and hyaenas were
feasting on the carcase. When we came near them they ran away
noiselessly to the desert, only to return when we were past. Farther on
some fat vultures kept watch round the body of a horse, and raised
themselves on their heavy wings as we approached.

[Illustration: PLATE IV. A PERSIAN CARAVANSERAI.]

After a ride of seven hours we reached a caravanserai, where the Arabs
unloaded their animals and said that we were to stay there all day. It
was as warm as in an oven, and there was nothing to do but lie and doze
on the stone floor.

Next night we rode eight hours to the town of Bakuba, which is
surrounded by a wood of fine date-palms. Here we encamped in the court
of a huge caravanserai (Plate IV.). I was sitting talking to one of my
travelling companions when three Turkish soldiers came and demanded to
see my passport. "I have no passport," I replied. "Well, then, pay us
ten _kran_ apiece, and you shall pass the frontier all the same." "No, I
will not pay you a farthing," was the answer they got. "Take that rug
and the bag instead," they cried, and made for my things. This I could
not stand, and gave the man who seized my bag such a blow on the chest
that he dropped his booty, and the same with the man with the rug. The
scoundrels were making to rush at me together, when two of my Arabs came
up to my assistance. To avoid further unpleasantness I went to the
governor, who for six _kran_ gave me a passport.

I had now become so friendly with the Arabs that I obtained the loan of
a horse instead of a mule. We set out again at nine o'clock, and rode
all night in the most brilliant moonshine. I was so sleepy that
sometimes I dozed in the saddle, and once, when the horse shied at a
skeleton on the road, I was roused up and fell off, while the horse ran
off over the steppe. After much trouble one of the caravan men caught
him again, and I slept no more that night.

As usual we stayed over the day at the next village. I was tired of
travelling in this fashion, moving so slowly and seeing so little of the
country. When, then, an old Arab belonging to the caravan came riding up
from Baghdad on a fine Arab horse, I determined to try to get away from
my party with his assistance. He consented to accompany me if I paid him
twenty-five _kran_ a day. At first we kept near the caravan, but as
soon as the moon had set we increased our pace, and when the sound of
the bells grew faint behind us we trotted off quickly through the night.

We arrived safely at Kermanshah on June 13. After paying the old Arab I
had only sixpence left! I could not engage a room or buy anything to
eat, and the prospect of going begging among Mohammedans was certainly
not attractive. Fortunately I had heard of a rich Arab merchant, Agha
Hassan, who lived in this town, and I directed my steps to his handsome
house. In my dusty riding-boots, and whip in hand, I passed through many
fine rooms until at last I found myself in the presence of Agha Hassan,
who was sitting with his secretary in the midst of books and papers. He
wore a white silk mantle embroidered with gold, a turban on his head and
spectacles on his nose, and looked both friendly and dignified.

"How are you, sir?" he asked. "Very well, thank you," I responded.
"Where have you come from?" "From Baghdad." "And where are you going?"
"To Teheran." "Are you an Englishman?" "No, I am a Swede." "Swede? What
is that?" "Well, I come from a country called Sweden." "Whereabouts does
it lie?" "Far away to the north-west, beyond Russia." "Ah, wait, I know!
You are no doubt from Ironhead's country?" "Yes, I am from the country
of Charles XII." "I am very glad to hear it; I have read of Charles the
Twelfth's remarkable exploits; you must tell me about him. And you must
tell me about Sweden, its king and army, and about your own home,
whether your parents are still living, and if you have any sisters. But
first you must promise to stay as my guest for six months. All that I
have is yours. You have only to command." "Sir, I am very thankful for
your kindness, but I cannot avail myself of your hospitality for more
than three days." "You surely mean three weeks?" "No, you are too good,
but I must go back to Teheran." "That is very tiresome, but, however,
you can think it over."

A servant conducted me to an adjoining building, which was to be mine
during my stay, and where I made myself at home in a large apartment
with Persian rugs and black silk divans. Two secretaries were placed at
my disposal, and servants to carry out my slightest wish. If I desired
to eat, they would bring in a piece of excellent mutton on a spit, a
chicken boiled with rice, sour milk, cheese and bread, apricots, grapes,
and melons, and at the end of the meal coffee and a water-pipe; if I
wished to drink, a sweet liquor of iced date-juice was served; and if I
thought of taking a ride in order to see the town and neighbourhood,
pure-blooded Arab horses stood in the court awaiting me.

Before the house lay a peaceful garden surrounded by a wall, and with
its paths laid with marble slabs. Here lilacs blossomed, and here I
could dream the whole day away amidst the perfume of roses. Gold-fishes
swam in a basin of crystal-clear water, and a tiny jet shot up into the
air glittering like a spider's web in the sunshine. I slept in this
enchanting garden at night, and when I awoke in the morning I could
hardly believe that all was real; it was so like an adventure from the
_Thousand and one Nights_. My rich host and my secretaries did not
suspect that I had only sixpence in my pocket.

When the last day came I could no longer conceal my destitute condition.
"I have something unpleasant to confide to you," I said to one of the
secretaries. "Indeed," he answered, looking very astonished. "Yes, my
money has come to an end. My journey has been longer than I expected,
and now I am quite cleared out." "What does that matter? You can get as
much money as you like from Agha Hassan."

It had struck midnight when I went to take farewell of my kind host. He
worked all night during the fasting month. "I am sorry that you cannot
stay longer," he said. "Yes, I too am sorry that I must leave you, and
that I can never repay your great kindness to me." "You know that the
road through the hills is unsafe owing to robbers and footpads. I have
therefore arranged that you shall accompany the post, which is escorted
by three soldiers."

Having thanked him once more, I took my leave. A secretary handed me a
leather purse full of silver. The post rider and the soldiers were
ready; we mounted, rode slowly through the dark, narrow streets of the
town, at a smart trot when the houses were scattered, and then at full
gallop when the desert stretched around us on all sides. We rode 105
miles in sixteen hours, with three relays of horses and barely an hour's
rest. We stayed a day at Hamadan, and then rode on to the capital, with
nine relays of fresh horses. During the last fifty-five hours I never
went to sleep, but often dozed in the saddle. At length the domes of
Teheran, its poplars and plane-trees, stood out against the morning sky,
and, half-dead with weariness, and ragged and torn, I rode through the
south-western gate of the city.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] At the time of this journey, the railway ended at Vladikavkas. Since
then, however, it has been extended to Baku along the northern side of
the Caucasus and the coast of the Caspian (see map, p. 30).

IV

THE PERSIAN DESERT (1906)

ACROSS THE KEVIR

We must now resume the journey to India. You will remember (see p. 33)
that after arriving at Teheran from Trebizond I made up a caravan
consisting of six Persians, one Tatar, and fourteen camels. On January 1
everything is ready. The camels are all laden; thick rugs cover their
backs to prevent them being rubbed sore by the loads, and the humps
stick up through two round holes in the cloths in order that they may
not be crushed and injured.

The largest camels go first. Each has its head adorned with a red
embroidered headstall, studded with shining plates of metal and red and
yellow pompons, and a plume waves above its forehead. Round the chest is
a row of brass sleigh-bells, and one large bell hangs round the neck.
Two of these bells are like small church bells; they are so big that the
camels would knock their knees against them if they were hung in the
usual way, so they are fastened instead to the outer sides of a couple
of boxes on the top of the loads. The camels are proud of being decked
so finely; they are conscious of their own importance, and stalk with
majestic, measured strides through the southern gate of Teheran.

My riding camel is the largest in the caravan (Plate V.). He has thick
brown wool, unusually long and plentiful on his neck and chest. His
loads form a small platform between the humps and along his flanks, with
a hollow in the middle, where I sit as in an armchair, with a leg on
each side of the front hump. From there I can spy out the land, and with
the help of a compass put down on my map everything I see--hills, sandy
zones, and large ravines. Camels put out the two left legs at the same
time, and then the two right legs. Their gait is therefore rolling, and
the rider sits as in a small boat pitching and tossing in a broken sea.
Some people become sea-sick from sitting all day bobbing between the
humps, but one soon becomes accustomed to the motion. When the animal is
standing up it is, of course, impossible to mount on his back without a
ladder, so he has to lie down to let me get on him. But sometimes it
happens that he is in too great a hurry to rise before I am settled in
my place, and then I am flung back on to my head, for he lifts himself
as quickly as a steel spring, first with the hind legs and then with the
fore. But when I am up I am quite at home. Sometimes, on the march, the
camel turns his long neck and lays his shaggy head on my knee. I pat his
nose and stroke him over the eyes. It is impossible to be other than
good friends with an animal which carries you ten hours a day for
several months. In the morning he comes up to my tent, pushes his nose
under the door-flap, and thrusts his shaggy head into the tent, which is
not large, and is almost filled up when he comes on a visit. After he
has been given a piece of bread he backs out again and goes away to
graze.

[Illustration: PLATE V. THE AUTHOR'S RIDING CAMEL, WITH GULAM HUSSEIN.]

The ring of bells is continually in my ears. The large bells beat in
time with the steps of the camels. Their strides are long and slow, and
a caravan seldom travels more than twenty miles in a day.

Our road runs south-eastwards. We have soon left behind us the districts
at the foot of the Elburz Mountains, where irrigation canals from rivers
are able to produce beautiful gardens and fruitful fields. The farther
we proceed the smaller and more scattered are the villages. Only along
their canals is the soil clothed with verdure, and we have scarcely left
a village before we are out on the greyish-yellow desert, where withered
steppe shrubs stand at wide intervals apart. Less and less frequently do
we meet trains of asses bound for Teheran with great bundles of shrubs
and bushes from the steppe to be used as fuel. The animals are small and
miserable, and are nearly hidden by their loads. Their nostrils are
cruelly pierced, so that they may be made to go quicker and keep up
longer. They look sleepy and dejected, these small, obstinate donkeys
which never move out of the way. Their long ears flap backwards and
forwards, and their under-lips hang down like bags.

At the very last village on the edge of the desert we stay two days to
prepare ourselves for the dangers ahead of us. The headman of the
village owns ten camels, which he will gladly hire us for a few days;
they are to carry trusses of straw and water in leathern bags. Our own
camels are already fully laden, and the hired camels are only to give us
a start. When they turn back we shall have to shift for ourselves.

After we have left this village not a sign of life is visible. Before us
to the south-east small isolated hills stand up like islands in the sea,
and beyond them the horizon of the desert lies as level as that of the
ocean. Through this great sandy waste the caravans travel from oasis to
oasis, but in the north there is a tract, called the Kevir, within which
not the smallest oasis can be found. Not a clump of grass, not even a
blade, is to be seen, for the desert is saturated with salt, and when it
rains in winter the briny clay becomes as slippery as ice. And this is
precisely the place we are making for.

We travelled a whole month before we came to the point where we intended
to make the attempt to cross the Kevir. Hitherto everything had
continued in a steady course, and one day had been like another. It was
winter and we had fully 25 degrees of frost in the night: one day it
snowed so thickly that the foremost camels in the train were seen only
as faint shadows. For several days mist lay so dense over the desert
that we had to trust chiefly to the compass. Sometimes we travelled for
four or five days without finding a drop of water, but we had all we
needed in our leathern bags.

At the edge of the sandy desert, where high dunes are piled up by the
wind, tamarisks and saxauls were often growing. Both are steppe bushes
which grow to a height of several feet; their stems are hard and
provided us with excellent fuel. My servants gathered large faggots, and
the camp fires flamed up brightly and grandly, throwing a yellow light
over the silent waste.

From a village called Jandak I set out with only two men and four
camels, but we had to wait for four days on the edge of the salt desert
because of rain. When rain falls in the Kevir the whole desert soon
becomes a sea of slippery mud, and camels cannot walk without slipping
and falling. Whole caravans have perished in this cruel desert by being
overtaken by rain, and in many other cases the men only have managed to
escape with the loss of their camels and their merchandise. It was
therefore fortunate for us that we were overtaken by rain before we were
out on the slippery clay. We waited till the desert had dried up again,
and then we joined forces with a caravan which came from the south.

It was pitch dark when we began to move. A fire was set going, and the
camels were laden by its light. Then we started, the fire disappeared,
and night and the desert lay before us. Only the ring of bells disturbed
the silence. We could not see where we were going, but had to trust our
riding camels. The Persians marched all the morning and most of the day
without a halt; the strength of both men and camels is strained to the
uttermost in order to get through the desert before the next rain
comes--and it may come at any moment.

After a short rest we hasten northwards again, for there is no question
of halting for the night. The darkness seems interminable, but at length
it begins to grow light again. Still the Persians do not stop, so there
is nothing for me to do but to struggle to keep up with them. "Keep
awake, sir!" shouts Gulam Hussein; "you can sleep when we get to the
other side." Another day passes, and again we rest awhile to give the
camels some straw and to drink a cup of tea ourselves. Scarcely have we
begun to enjoy the rest, however, when the chimes of the bells ring out
again. The caravan is already on the move, so we pack up and follow in
its trail.

The sky seems very unpromising, and is clouded all over. The desert is
as level as a floor; not a mound as high as a kneeling camel. The sun
sinks in the west. Like a red-hot cannon-ball it shines through a rift
between dark clouds, and a shaft of dazzling red rays streams over the
desert, the surface of which shines like a purple sea. To the north the
sky is of a dark violet colour, and against this background the camels
stand out brick-red.

The sun sets, the colours grow pale, and the long shadows which the
camels lately cast far away over the ground fade away. Another night
rises up from the east. It grows darker and darker, the caravan is lost
to view, but the bells ring out with a clear resonance. On we go without
stop or rest. This night is more trying, for we had not a wink of sleep
the night before.

The clouds break in the zenith, and the moon looks down on our progress.
The camels are seen again and shadows fall again over the desert. Here
it is as bare and desolate as on the face of the moon.

At midnight the sky becomes dark once more. The Persians have clambered
up on to their camels, and the swaying motion soon carries them into the
land of dreams. Soon no one is awake but the leader, who guides the
first camel, and myself, who am riding on the last. Suddenly heavy
drops begin to fall, and in a minute the rain pelts down on camels,
loads, and sleepers.

In a second the pace of the caravan is changed. Hear how hurriedly and
anxiously the bells swing and beat! They peal as if to awaken soldiers
and citizens in a burning town. Now the rain patters down on the level
desert and the camels begin to slip. We must hasten if our lives are
dear to us, or the desert will suck us in at the eleventh hour. The men
shout to urge on the camels. Now the bells clang as though to wake up
the dead to judgment.

There goes a camel down in the mire. Poor animals, they are lost on such
ground, for they have not hoofs like horses, but soft callous pads. When
they slip they do so thoroughly and suddenly. All four legs fly up in
one direction, and the heavy body with the loads thumps down in the
other. It is bad enough for the camel, but still worse for his rider. A
moment before he sat so well packed up, longing for the edge of the
desert sea, and now he lies sprawling in the slush.

One after another the camels fall and have to be helped up again. All
this causes delay, and meanwhile the clay is gradually becoming softer.
At every step the camels sink in deeper, the rain still pelts down, and
the bells ring jerkily. If they cease to ring, it will be because the
desert has conquered; at this very moment they stop.

"What is the matter?" I call out.

"We are at the Devil's ditch," answers a voice in the darkness.

The bells ring slowly again as the camels wade one after the other
through a trench full of salt water. I tighten my knees when my turn
comes. I cannot see the water, but I hear it spurting and splashing
round the legs of the camels in front of me. Now my camel slides down a
nasty mud bank. He slithers and wriggles about to keep himself up, and
then he, too, tramps through the water and scrambles up the other side.

"Tamarisks," I hear some one shout. Welcome sound! It means that we are
safe, for nothing grows in the salt desert. When we come to the first
tamarisks we are again on sandy ground. Then all danger is past, and
what does it matter if we are dead tired? Two more hours and we reach a
village. There Gulam Hussein makes ready a chicken and some eggs, and
then I lie down in a hut and sleep as I have never slept before.

[Illustration: PLATE VI. TEBBES.

The tree in the foreground is a huge tamarisk.]

THE OASIS OF TEBBES

Any one who has not travelled himself for weeks together through the
desert can scarcely conceive what it is to come at length to an oasis.
An oasis is to the desert wanderer what a peaceful island with its
sheltered anchorage is to mariners. Oases are like stars in the dark
vault of heaven, like moments of happiness and prosperity in a man's
life. If you had roamed for two months in the wilderness, like myself
and my Persians, you would be able to understand our feelings when we at
last saw the date-palms of Tebbes beckoning to us in the distance (see
map, p. 73).

A lofty minaret rises above the little town, which is surrounded by a
wall (Plate VI.). Within are old buildings, mosques, and a fort with
towers. Outside the town are tilled fields and palm groves.

Spring had come when we pitched our tents on a meadow in the shade of
thick dark-green palms. There was a rustle and pleasant whisper among
the hard fronds when the spring storms swept over the country. We were
tired of the everlasting dull yellow tint of the desert and were
delighted with the fresh verdure. Outside my tent purled a brook of fine
cool water, all the more agreeable after the intense drought of the
desert. A nightingale sang in the crown of the palm above my tent. He
plays an important part in Persian poetry under the name of _bulbul_.

If you were in some mysterious manner transferred to Tebbes, you would
on the very first evening wonder what was the curious serenade which you
heard from the desert. If you sat at the fall of day reading at the door
of your tent, you would look up from your book and listen. You would
have an uneasy feeling and be uncomfortable at being alone in the tent.
But after the same serenade had been repeated every evening as regular
as the sunset, you would become accustomed to it, and at length trouble
yourself no more about it.

It is only the jackals singing their evening song. The word "jackal" is
Persian, and the jackal is allied to the dog, the wolf, and the fox. He
is a beast of prey and seeks his food at night. He is not large, is
yellowish-grey in colour, has pointed ears and small, keen eyes, and
holds his tail erect, not hanging down like the wolf's. Nothing edible
comes amiss to him, but he prefers chickens and grapes to fallen caravan
animals. If he can find nothing else, he steals dates in the palm
gardens, especially when ripe fruits have fallen after heavy storms.
The jackal is, indeed, a shameless, impudent little rascal. One night a
pack of jackals sneaked into our garden and carried off our only cock
under the very noses of the dogs. We were awakened by the noise of a
terrible struggle between the two forces, but the jackals got the better
of it and we heard the despairing cackle of the cock dying away in the
desert.

Heaven knows where the jackals remain as long as the sun is up! In
zoological text-books it is stated that they dwell in holes, but I could
see no holes round Tebbes, and yet jackals come in troops to the oasis
every night. They are as mysterious as the desert; they are found
everywhere and nowhere.

As soon as the sun sinks below the horizon and the darkness spreads its
veil over the silent desert, and the palms doze off, waiting for the
return of the sun, then begins the jackals' serenade. It sounds like a
short, sharp laugh rising and falling, a plaintive whine increasing in
strength and dying away again, answered by another pack in another
direction; a united cry of anguish from children in trouble and calling
for help. They say to one another, "Comrades, we are hungry, let us seek
about for food," and gather together from their unknown lairs. Then they
steal cautiously to the skirts of the oasis, hop over walls and bars and
thieve on forbidden ground.

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