G. A. Henty - "Under Wellington's Command"

Emily Dickinson - "Poems [Series 1]"

Daniel Defoe - "Of Captain Mission"

Frederick W. Hamilton - "Punctuation"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

From Pole to Pole

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




These insignificant noisy footpads live on the refuse and offal of the
desert from Cape Verde in the uttermost west of the Old World to the
interior of India; but their home is not in the silent desert alone.
When the military bands strike up at the clubs in Simla, you have only
to put your head out of the window to hear the mournful, piteous, and
distressed howl of the jackals.

They are not always to be treated lightly, for in 1882 jackals killed
359 men in Bengal alone. Especially are they a terrible danger when
hydrophobia rages among them, as the experiences of the last Boundary
Commission in Seistan showed. A mad jackal sneaked into the camp one
night and bit a sleeping man in the face. Within six weeks the man was
dead. Others stole into the natives' huts and lay in ambush, waiting for
an opportunity to bite. Perhaps the worst incident occurred on a dark
winter's night, when a north wind was raging and sweeping the dust along
the ground. A mad jackal came into the Englishmen's camp and crept into
a tent where several men were sleeping. Fortunately he only set his
teeth in a felt rug. This wakened the sleepers, however, and they at
once started up and looked for weapons. The camp consisted of three
sections, and more than a hundred tethered camels. In the pitchy
darkness it was impossible to see where the jackal went, but the camels
could be heard shrieking with fear, and thus it was only too clear where
the brute was. When day broke seventy-eight bitten dromedaries were
counted. They were isolated from the others, and killed as soon as they
showed signs of sickness, while the dogs and goats which had been bitten
by the jackal were shot at once.

Twenty years ago I myself had a little adventure with jackals. I was
riding with a couple of servants and some horses to the Caspian shore
from the interior of Persia, and encamped one evening at a village in
the Elburz Mountains. The caravanserai was notorious for its vermin, so
I preferred to make myself comfortable in a garden with fruit trees and
poplars, protected by a wall five feet high and without any gates. We
had to climb over the wall in order to get in. I had a saddle for a
pillow and lay wrapped in a felt rug and a cloak. The remains of my
supper, bread, honey, and apples, stood on my two small leather trunks.
When it grew dark my men went off to the village and I rolled myself up
and went to sleep.

Two hours later I was awakened by a scratching noise at the trunks and
sat up to listen, but could hear nothing but the murmur of a small brook
close at hand. The darkness was intense, only a little starlight passing
faintly through the foliage. So I went to sleep again. A little later I
was roused once more by the same noise, and heard a tearing and tugging
at the straps. Then I jumped up and distinguished half a dozen jackals
disappearing like shadows among the poplars. There was no more sleep for
me that night. It was all I could do to keep the importunate beasts at a
distance. If I kept quiet for a minute they were up again, tearing the
leathern straps, and would not make off until I struck a box with my
riding whip. They soon became accustomed even to this and drew back only
a few steps. Then I remembered the apples, and as soon as the jackals
crept up again, I threw one of them with all my strength into the ruck,
and used them as missiles till the last apple had disappeared into the
darkness. Most of my shots were misses, for I only once heard a howl
from one of the impudent animals.

The night seemed endless, but at length the day dawned between the
poplars, and the jackals jumped quietly over the wall. Then I should
have liked some breakfast, but there was not a bit of the supper left;
the jackals had taken it all. However, I had a sound sleep instead. I
heard afterwards that the jackals in that country are so vicious that
two or three of them will attack a man, so in future I always had my
servants sleeping near me.

While speaking of jackals we must not forget the hyaena, for this animal
is one of the denizens of the desert, though it is of another genus. The
hyaena is a singular animal, neither dog nor cat, but a mixture of both
and larger than either. It is of a dirty greyish-brown colour with black
stripes or patches, has a rounded head with black muzzle and eyes, and
short hind legs, so that the bristly back slopes downwards. It prowls
about for food at night, and in western Persia comes down from its
hiding-places in the mountains to the caravan roads in quest of fallen
asses, horses and camels. If corpses are not buried deep enough it
scratches them up from beneath the tombstones, for it lives almost
exclusively on dead and corrupted flesh.

Thus the four-footed inhabitants of the desert prowl around the
outskirts of Tebbes and share the country with panthers, wild asses and
graceful elegant gazelles. Tebbes itself lies lonely and forgotten like
an island in the ocean.

The principal caravan road connecting the oasis with the outer world
runs north-eastwards to the holy town of Meshed, whither many pilgrims
flock. From Meshed it is only a few days' journey through a mountainous
tract to the frontier between Persia and Russian Asia. There lie
Transcaspia, Samarcand, Bukhara, Turkestan, and the Kirghiz Steppe. This
road would take us out of our way to India, but while we halt at Tebbes
I can tell you something about the country it passes through.




V

ON THE KIRGHIZ STEPPE (1893-5)


INTO ASIA FROM ORENBURG

I started my journey across the Kirghiz Steppe in November, 1893, from
Orenburg on the Ural River, which for some distance forms the boundary
between Asia and Europe. I travelled in a stout _tarantass_, the common
means of conveyance on Russian country roads; it consists of a sort of a
box on two bars between the wheel axles, with a hood but no seat. The
bottom is filled with hay, on which are spread a mat, cushions and
pillows, furs and felt rugs, for the cold is intense. There are
ninety-nine stages and changes of horses between Orenburg and Tashkent,
the capital of Russian Turkestan. At the post-houses nothing can be got
but tea, so provisions for nineteen days had to be taken with us, as
well as sawn wood, rope and tools in case anything should break, and a
large pot of cart-grease to keep the wheels cool. My boxes and trunks
are wrapped in bast-matting and secured with strong ropes to the
driver's box and behind the _tarantass_. It takes time to get everything
ready, and it is late in the afternoon before the first team of three
post-horses is led out and harnessed to the vehicle. I take my largest
fur coat and pack myself in among the cushions and felt rugs. The
carriage is open in front and the whirling snow which sweeps round the
corners flies straight into my face. The driver takes his seat on the
box, shouts shrilly and cracks his whip, and we dash along the streets
of Orenburg in the snow and twilight to the lively jingle of the bells.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM ORENBURG TO THE PAMIR (pp. 55-71).]

The lights come to an end and the night is intensely dark when we come
out to the high-road leading into Asia. The bells worn by the middle
horse on a necklace round his neck ring in frequent beats. This horse
always goes at a trot, being harnessed between the shafts with a high
wooden arch above his neck, but the two outside horses go at a canter.
The horses are accustomed to this pace and action, and a rapidly moving
team is a fine sight. After three hours a yellow light is seen through
the swirling snow, and the team dashes into a yard and comes to a halt
at the steps of a house. As I have been already tossed about a good
deal, I am glad to jump out and get a glass of tea. The horses are
taken into the stable, and a fresh team is led out to take their place
in the still warm harness.

The _samovar_, or Russian tea-urn, is boiling in the great room. While I
am drinking my first glass of tea the stamping and rattle is heard of
two other teams which roll into the yard. It is the post; and the
courier enters covered with snow and with icicles on his beard. He is a
good fellow, and we become acquainted at once and travel together to
Orsk. He has travelled for twenty years with the mails between the two
towns and must have covered altogether a distance as far as from the
earth to the moon and six thousand miles besides.

My new driver now appears and calls out "The _troika_[8] is ready." Then
I pack myself in again among the cushions and rugs and off we speed once
more through the darkness and snow.

After forty-eight hours we are in Orsk, which also stands on the Ural
River; and when we leave this town with fresh horses and steer
southwards we are on Asiatic ground, in the vast Kirghiz Steppe, which
extends from Irkutsk to the Caspian Sea, from the Ural River to the
Syr-darya.[9] It is extremely flat and looks like a frozen sea. Day
after day we drive southwards, the horses ready to run away; there is
nothing to drive over, no ditches to fall into, no stones to carry away
a wheel. The hoofs hammer on the hard ground, the wheels creak, I and my
things are shaken and thrown about in the carriage, the coachman plants
his feet firmly against the foot-board lest he should tumble off, and on
we go over the flat dreary steppe. As we drive on day and night the
_tarantass_ seems always to be in the centre of the same unbroken
landscape, always at the same distance from the horizon.

Here live the Kirghizes, a fine race of graziers and horsemen. They
support themselves by their large flocks of sheep, and also own numerous
horses and camels, as well as cattle. Therefore they are dependent on
the grass of the steppe, and wander like other nomads from pasture to
pasture. When their flocks have eaten up the grass at one place, they
roll up their black tents, pack all their belongings on camels and
migrate to another spot. They are a freeborn, manly people and love the
boundless steppe. Life in the open air and on the level country, which
affords grazing to their flocks, has sharpened their intellect to a
wonderful degree. They never forget a place they have once seen. If the
steppe plants grow closer or thinner, if the ground shows the slightest
inequality, if there is grey or black gravel of different
coarseness--all these details serve as marks of recognition. When we
rest a minute halfway between two post-houses to let the horses breathe,
the Kirghiz driver turns round and says, "Yonder rides a Kirghiz on a
dappled mare." Yet on directing my field-glass towards the indicated
spot, I can only see a small dot, and cannot distinguish what it is.

The stations on our road are usually small solid wooden houses with two
lamp-posts at the door and a white board, on which are written the
distances to the next stations in each direction. In some places there
is no house at all but only a black Kirghiz tent, and instead of a
stable fences of sticks and reeds afford the horses shelter. At one such
station three camels are harnessed to the _tarantass_, and the clumsy
animals waddle along so that their humps bob and roll on their backs.
The reason for this change is that we are now on the shore of the Sea of
Aral, where the soft yielding drifts make it impossible for horses to
draw the _tarantass_. The two rivers, the Syr-darya (or Jaxartes) and
the Amu-darya (or Oxus), which rise in the Pamir, flow into the Sea of
Aral. The Cossacks carry on a profitable sturgeon fishery in this lake,
which in area is not very much smaller than Scotland, and contains a
great number of small islands--whence its name, for the word _aral_
means "island."

With fresh horses we speed along the bank of the Syr-darya. Here grow
small woods and thickets where tigers stalk their prey, and in the dense
reed beds wild boars dig up roots. The shy gazelles like the open
country, hares spring over the shrubs, ducks and geese quack on the
banks, and flocks of pheasants lure the traveller to sport. The setting
sun sheds a gleam of fiery red over the steppe, and as it grows dim the
stars begin to twinkle. The monotonous ring of the bells and the shouts
of the driver never cease, whether we are near the river or far off in
the dreary steppe. The ground becomes soft and swampy. The wheels cut
like knives into the mud. We move more and more slowly and heavily, and
at last stick fast in the mire. The driver shouts and scolds, and cracks
his whip over the team. The middle horse rears, one of the outside
horses jibs and the other gathers himself together for a spring which
makes the traces break with a loud report. Then the driver jumps down
and says, "You must wait here, sir, while I ride back for two more
horses." And he trots off in the darkness. After waiting about two hours
I hear the tramp of horses in the distance. Now the team is made ready,
the two extra horses are attached in front, the coachman takes his place
on the box, and with united strength our animals drag the heavy vehicle
up out of the slough. We roll and jolt on again with lumps of wet clay
dropping and splashing round the wheels.


SAMARCAND AND BUKHARA

Russian Central Asia has ten million inhabitants and an area twelve
times as large as the British Isles. The part which is called Turkestan
extends between Eastern Turkestan and the Caspian Sea, the Kirghiz
Steppe, Afghanistan, and Persia. The greater part is occupied by blown
sand, the "Red Sand" and the "Black Sand." Right through the desert flow
the two rivers, the Syr-darya and Amu-darya. Two railway lines cross
Turkestan, one from the Kirghiz Steppe to Tashkent, the other from the
Caspian Sea to Tashkent and Ferghana. Ferghana is the most fruitful part
of Turkestan and lies between mountains in its eastern portion.

Tashkent, the capital of Turkestan, has 200,000 inhabitants, and is the
headquarters of the governor-general. South-west of Tashkent is the
district of Samarcand, with a capital of the same name. South-west of
Samarcand again, on the north of the Amu-darya, stretches a country
called Bukhara, ruled by an Emir, a prince under the supremacy of
Russia.

Close to the Caspian Sea, on the east, there is a large area of country
called Transcaspia. Central Asia was conquered by Russia forty-five
years ago, Transcaspia thirty years ago. Transcaspia is inhabited by
Turkomans, a powerful and warlike people, who in former times used to
make raids into northern Persia, carrying off men and women, whom they
sold as slaves in the markets of Bukhara and Samarcand. General
Skobeleff put a check to their domination when he invaded the country in
1880. In order to convey troops and war material into the country a
railway was laid down through the desert. It runs from one oasis to
another, and hardy desert shrubs were planted or upright palings erected
to protect the line from the drifting sand.

When the Turkomans were attacked by the Russians, they withdrew within
the walls of the large fortress which is called "The Green Hill." They
numbered about 45,000 in all--men, women and children--and they
believed that the fortress was impregnable. The Russian general,
Skobeleff, had a mine carried under the wall. Inside the fortress the
Turkomans heard the soldiers working underground with picks and
crowbars, but did not understand what was intended. They supposed that
the soldiers would crawl up out of a hole one after another and
therefore they assembled with shining weapons above the place of danger.
Consequently when the mine exploded a large number of unfortunates were
killed, and the enemy stormed in over the ruins of the wall.

A fearful massacre followed of all those who did not seek safety in
flight. The Persian slaves and some thousands of women were spared.
Twenty thousand bodies lay in heaps within and without the fortress. The
Turkomans will never forget that day. The cavalry band played at the
head of the columns during the fight. Old Turkomans still remember the
strains. They cannot hear regimental bands without weeping for some
relative who fell at "The Green Hill." Here was the death-bed of their
freedom and they were swallowed up by mighty Russia.

I have crossed Turkestan many times by rail, in _tarantass_, and on
horseback. I have strolled for weeks through the narrow picturesque
streets and the gloomy bazaars of the old town called Bukhara, the
"Blessed." There silk is produced and carpets are woven; great caravans
pass by laden with cotton; disfigured by sores, lepers sit begging in
front of the mosques; mulberry trees raise their crowns above artificial
ponds. From the summit of a tall minaret criminals used to be thrown
down to be dashed to pieces on the street.

Sixty years ago there ruled in Bukhara a cruel Emir who took a delight
in torturing human beings. A mechanician from Italy fell into his
clutches and was sentenced to death. The Italian promised that if his
life were spared he would construct a machine wherewith the Emir could
measure the flight of time. His prayer was granted and he made an
ordinary clock. This called forth the Emir's astonishment and
admiration, and the Italian lived in high favour for a time. Later on,
however, the tyrant wished to force him to embrace Islamism, but he
steadfastly refused. At that time there was in Bukhara a cave called
"the bugs' hole," and into this the unfortunate man was thrown to be
eaten up by vermin. Seventy years ago two Englishmen languished in this
abominable place.

There are towns in Asia with names which impress us as soon as we hear
them, like Jerusalem, Mecca, Benares, Lhasa. Samarcand is one of these.
It is not a place of pilgrimage, but it is an ancient town and famous
among the Mohammedans of Asia. It was already in existence when
Alexander the Great conquered Central Asia. Since then vast swarms of
men and migrations of peoples have swept over this region. The Arabs
have subdued it, countless hordes of Mongols have passed through it
pillaging and devastating, and now at last it lies under the sceptre of
the Tsar. Samarcand attained the height of its splendour during the rule
of the powerful Timur. When he died in the year 1405 he had conquered
all Central Asia, Persia, Mesopotamia, South Russia, Turkey, India and
many other countries. This Timur the Lame was not only a great general
but a man of culture, for he loved art and science, and listened
willingly to the songs of the poets. He built his own mausoleum, which
still rears its melon-shaped dome above Samarcand, and had carved in
raised letters on a marble tablet the words: "If I still lived, mankind
would tremble."

Timur had a wife, Bibi, whom he dearly loved. She expressed a wish that
her coffin should not be buried but should remain above ground, and
therefore Timur caused to be erected the handsome mosque-tomb which
still bears her name. When it was finished the Queen went, attended by
her slaves, to inspect her last resting-place. A poisonous snake crept
from under an arch. Those present wished to kill it, but the Queen
forbade them and caressed the snake, which offered her no harm. When at
length she died she was decked with all her jewels--costly pearls,
necklaces, and gold bangles--and her coffin was placed in the vault. One
night thieves broke into the tomb, opened the coffin and took all the
Queen's ornaments; but when they were sneaking off with their booty the
snake crept out and bit them so that they died immediately.

The great market-place of Samarcand is one of the finest squares I have
seen in Asia. There carts and caravans swarm, there fruit sellers and
pitcher-makers take their stand, there dancing dervishes beg for alms.
On all four sides stand stately buildings erected by Timur and his
successors. Their facades, cupolas and minarets are covered with blue
faience, burned and glazed tiles in varied patterns and texts from the
holy book of Islam, the Koran. It is worth while to ascend one of the
lofty minarets to take a look over Samarcand. Hence we see innumerable
gray mud houses with courts in the centre, pools, canals and gardens,
and in the maze of streets, squares and lanes moves a stream of people
of Turkish and Persian race. The dark-blue cupolas stand out against the
light-blue sky, and are surrounded by luxuriant dark-green vegetation.
In autumn the gardens assume a bright yellow tint. In winter the whole
country is often buried in snow, and only the bright blue cupolas rise
above the whiteness. Samarcand is the "blue" town, just as Jaipur in
India is the "pink" town.


THE PAMIR

To the south-east of Samarcand stand the huge highlands of the Pamir,
called by its inhabitants the "Roof of the World," for it seems to them
to rise like a roof above all the rest of the earth. From this great
centre run the lofty mountain ranges of the earth, the Himalayas, the
Trans-himalaya, Karakorum, Kuen-lun, and the Tien-shan on the east, the
Hindu-Kush on the west. If you examine the map you will see that most of
the ranges of Asia and Europe, and the most important, are connected
with it. The Tibetan ranges extend far into China and beyond the Indian
peninsula. The Tien-shan is only the first link in a series of mountains
which stretch north-eastwards throughout Asia. The continuation of the
Hindu-Kush is found in the mountains of northern Persia, in the Caucasus
and the chains of Asia Minor, the Balkan Peninsula, the Alps and
Pyrenees. The Pamir is like the body of a cuttlefish, which throws out
arms in all directions. The Pamir and all the huge mountain ranges which
have their roots in this ganglion are the skeleton of Asia, the
framework round which the lowlands cling like masses of muscle. Rivers,
streams, brooks, and rivulets, are the arteries and capillaries of the
Asiatic body. The deserts of the interior are the sickly consumptive
parts of the body where vitality is low, while the peninsulas are the
limbs which facilitate communication between different peoples across
the intervening seas.

In the month of February, 1894, I was at Margelan, which is the capital
of Ferghana, the granary of Central Asia, a rich and fruitful valley
begirt on all sides by mountains. I had got together a small reliable
caravan of eleven horses and three men, one of them being Islam Bay, who
was afterwards to serve me faithfully for many years. We did not need
to take tents with us, for the Governor gave orders to the Kirghizes,
to set up two of their black felt tents wherever I wished to pass the
night. We had a good supply of provisions in our boxes, straw and barley
in sacks, and steel spades, axes, and alpenstocks, for we had to travel
through deep snow, and over smooth, slippery ice. We forgot to procure a
dog, but one came to us on the way, begging to be allowed to follow us.

We march southwards up on to the Pamir, following a narrow valley where
a foaming stream tumbles over ice-draped boulders. We cross it by
narrow, shaking bridges of timber which look like matches when we gaze
down on them in the valley bottom from the slopes above. It thaws in the
sun, but freezes at night, and our path is like a channel of ice running
along the edge of a vertical precipice. We have several Kirghizes with
us to give assistance. One of them leads the first horse, which carries
two large sacks of straw with my tent bed between them. The horse is
shod and can keep his feet on ice, but at one place the path slopes to
the edge. The horse stumbles, tries in vain to recover his foothold,
rolls over the edge, falls into the chasm, and breaks his back on the
bank of the river. The straw is scattered among the stones, my bed
dances along the stream, and all the men rush down to save what they
can.

Now steps are cut in the ice and the path is strewn with sand. The
higher we go the worse the travelling. A Kirghiz leads each horse by the
bridle, while another holds on to his tail to help him if he stumbles.
To ride is impossible; we crawl along on hands and feet. Darkness
follows twilight; the rushing water of the stream gives forth a sound of
metallic clearness. We have been travelling more than twelve hours when
at last the valley opens, and we see blazing camp fires in front of
Kirghiz tents.

We mount higher day after day. We cross a pass, and at this giddy height
I experience the unpleasant feelings of mountain sickness--splitting
headache, nausea, and singing in the ears. On the further side one of
the affluents of the Amu-darya flows westwards. This valley, the Alai,
is broad and open, but full of snow in winter. We make our entry into
the Alai valley in a howling snowstorm and wade and plunge through
drifts. Two Kirghizes go in front with sticks to mark out the way, in
order that the horses may not sink in the snow. Our little caravan moves
slowly and painfully. One day the snow is so deep that we have to hire
four camels, which are led in front of the caravan to tramp out a
narrow path for the horses. Everything is white, sky and earth run into
one another, and there is nothing black to be seen but the men, camels,
and horses.

At every camp we find excellent felt tents set up in readiness for us.
Once we had only a short distance to go before reaching camp when we
were stopped by a trench filled with snow ten feet deep. The first horse
disappeared in a moment as though he had fallen through a trap-door. His
load was taken off, and he was pulled up with ropes. Then the Kirghizes
thought of a grand way of getting over the treacherous snow. They took
the felt covers of the tent and spread them over the snow and led the
horses one by one over this yielding bridge.

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