Baluchistan and Persia abound with scorpions, which are indeed to be found in all the hot regions of the five continents. About two hundred species have been distinguished. Some are quite small, others six inches long. Some are dark-brown, others reddish, and others again straw-yellow, as in Baluchistan. The body consists of a head and thorax without joints, and a hinder part of seven articulated rings, besides six tail rings. The last ring, the thirteenth, contains two poison glands and is furnished with a sting as fine as a needle. The poison is a fluid clear as water.

Scorpions live in rotten tree-trunks, under stones, on walls, and as they like warmth they often enter houses and huts, and creep into clothes and beds.

The scorpion leaves his dark den at night and sets out on the hunt. He holds his tail turned up over his back, in order to keep his sting from injury and to be ready at once for attack or defence. When he meets with a desirable victim, such as a large spider, he darts quickly forward, seizes it with his claws, which are like those of crabs, raises it above his head in order to examine it with his eyes, which are turned upwards, and gives it the death-stroke with his sting. Then he sucks up the softer parts and grinds the harder between his jaws.

The young ones, which are active as soon as they are born, are like the old ones from the first day, but are light-coloured and soft. They crawl about their mother's back and legs and do not leave her body for some time. When that happens the mother dies, having meanwhile wasted away.

The sting of large scorpions is dangerous even to human beings. Cases have been known of a man dying in great agony twelve hours after being stung. Others get cramp, fever, and pains before they begin to recover. A man who has often been stung becomes at last insensible to the poison.

Many a time I have found scorpions in Asiatic huts, in my tent, on my bed, and under my boxes, but I have never been stung by one. On the other hand, it has been the fate of many of my servants, and they told me that it was difficult to find out where the scorpion had stung them, for their bodies sweated and burned equally intensely all over. In Eastern Turkestan it is the practice to catch the scorpion which has stung a man and crush him into a paste, which is laid over the puncture made by the sting. But whether this is a real cure I do not know.

THE INDUS

After travelling 1500 miles on camels and dromedaries, the whistle of an engine sounds like the sweetest music to the ear. At Nushki (see map, p. 132), the furthermost station of the Indian railway, I took leave of my Baluchi servants, stepped into a train, and was carried past the garrison town of Quetta south-eastwards to the Indus. Here we find that one branch of the railway follows the river closely on its western bank to Karachi, one of the principal seaports of British India. Our train, however, carries us northwards along the eastern bank to Rawalpindi, an important military station near the borders of Kashmir.



In the large roomy compartment it is as warm as it was lately in Baluchistan, or nearly 107 deg. To shade the railway carriages from the burning sun overhead, they are provided with a kind of wooden cover with flaps falling down half over the windows. The glass is not white, as in European carriage windows, but dark blue or green, otherwise the reflexion of the sunlight from the ground would be too dazzling. On either side two windows have, instead of glass, a lattice of root fibres which are kept wet automatically night and day. Outside the window is a ventilator, which, set in action by the motion of the train, forces a rapid current of air through the wet network of fibres. Thereby the air is cooled some eighteen or twenty degrees, and it is pleasant to sit partly undressed in the draught.

Look a moment at the map. South of the Himalayas the Indian peninsula forms an inverted triangle, the apex of which juts out into the Indian Ocean like a tooth, but the northern part, at the base, is broad. Here flow the three large rivers of India, the Indus, the Ganges, and the Bramaputra. The last mentioned waters the plains of Assam at the eastern angle of the triangle. On the banks of the Ganges stands a swarm of famous large towns, some of which we shall visit when we return from Tibet. The Ganges and Bramaputra have a delta in common, through which their waters pass by innumerable arms out into the Bay of Bengal.

At the western angle of the triangle the Indus streams down to the Arabian Sea. The sources of the Indus and Bramaputra lie close to each other, up in Tibet, and the Himalayas are set like an immense jewel between the glistening silver threads of the two rivers. On the west the Indus cuts through a valley as much as 10,000 feet deep, and on the east the Bramaputra makes its way down to the lowlands through a deep-cut cleft not less wild and awesome.

The Indus has several tributaries. In foaming waterfalls and roaring rapids they rush down from the mountains to meet their lord. The largest of them is called the Sutlej, and the lowlands through which it flows are called the Punjab, a Persian word signifying "five waters." The Indus has thirteen mouths scattered along 150 miles of coast, and the whole river is 2000 miles long, or somewhat longer than the Danube.

In the month of July, 325 years before the birth of Christ, Aristotle's pupil, Alexander, King of Macedonia, floated down the Indus with a fleet of newly built ships and reached Pattala, where the arms of the delta diverge. He found the town deserted, for the inhabitants had fled inland, so he sent light troops after them to tell them that they might return in peace to their homes. A fortress was erected at the town, and several wharves on the river bank.

He turned over great schemes in his mind. Had he not at twenty years of age taken over the government of the little country of Macedonia, and subdued the people of Thrace, Illyria, and Greece? Had he not led his troops over the Hellespont, defeated the Persians, and conquered the countries of Asia Minor, Lycia, Cappadocia, and Phrygia, where with a blow of his sword he had severed the Gordian knot, a token of supremacy over Asia? At Issus, on the rectangular bay facing Cyprus, he had inflicted a crushing defeat on the great King of Persia, Darius Codomannus, who with the united forces of his kingdom had come to meet him. At Damascus he captured all the Persian war funds, and afterwards took the famous commercial towns of the Phoenicians, Tyre and Sidon. Palestine fell, and Jerusalem with the holy places. On the coast of Egypt he founded Alexandria, which now, after a lapse of 2240 years, is still a flourishing city. He marched through the Libyan desert to the oasis of Zeus Ammon, where the priests, after the old Pharaonic custom, consecrated him "Son of Ammon."

He passed eastwards into Asia, crossed the Euphrates, defeated Darius again at the Tigris, and reduced proud Babylon and Shushan, where 150 years previously King Ahasuerus, who reigned "from India even unto Ethiopia over an hundred and seven and twenty provinces," made a feast for his lords and "shewed the riches of his glorious kingdom and the honour of his excellent majesty." Then he advanced to Persepolis and set on fire the palace of the Great King to show that the old empire had passed away. Pursuing Darius through Ispahan and Hamadan, he afterwards turned aside into Bactria, the present Russian Central Asia, and marched northwards to the Syr-darya and the land of the Scythians. Thence, with an army of more than a hundred thousand men, he proceeded southwards and conquered the Punjab and subdued all the people living west of the Indus.

Now he had come to Pattala, and he thought of the victories he had gained and the countries he had annexed. He had appointed everywhere Greeks and Macedonians to rule in conjunction with the native princes and satraps.[10] The great empire must be knit together into a solid unity, and Babylon was to be its capital. Only in the west there was still an enormous gap to be conquered, the desert through which we have lately wandered on the way from Teheran through Tebbes and Seistan and Baluchistan.

In order to reduce the people living here he despatched a part of his host by a northerly route through Seistan to north Persia. He himself led forty thousand men along the coast. Twelve thousand men were to sail and row the newly-built ships along the coast of the Arabian Sea, through the Straits of Hormuz, and along the northern coast of the Persian Gulf to the mouth of the Euphrates. No Greek had ever navigated this sea before, and with the vessels of the period the enterprise was a most dangerous one, as absolutely nothing was known about the coast to be followed. But it was necessary, for Alexander wished to secure for himself the command of the sea route between the mouths of the Euphrates and Indus, so as to connect the western and eastern parts of his kingdom. It was to supply the fleet with provisions and water that he chose for himself the dangerous desert route along the coast. Of the 40,000 men who accompanied him on this march, no less than 30,000 died of thirst! The high admiral, Nearchus of Crete, performed his task with brilliant success. His voyage was one of the most remarkable ever achieved on the oceans of the globe. The chart he compiled is so exact that it may be used at the present day, though the coast has since then undergone changes in some places and has been further silted up with sand and made shallower.

Alexander would not let his fleet start on its adventurous voyage before he was himself convinced of the navigability of the Indus and had acquainted himself with the aspect of the great ocean. Accordingly he sailed down the western arm of the Indus with the swiftest vessels of the fleet—thirty-oared boats, and small triremes, or vessels whereon the 150 naked oarsmen sat on three tiers of benches above one another with oars of different lengths projecting through port-holes in the hull. The vessels were protected by troops which followed them on the bank.

In the midst of summer, when the river is at its highest level and overflows the banks for miles, it is no pleasure excursion to steer ungainly boats between banks of sand and silt without pilots. On the second day a strong southerly storm arose, and the dangerous waves in the whirlpools of the current capsized many vessels and damaged others. Alexander made for the bank to look for fishermen who might act as pilots, and under their guidance he continued his voyage. The river became wider and wider, and the fresh salt breeze from the ocean became ever more perceptible; but the wind increased, for the south-west monsoon was at its height. The grey turbid water rose in higher billows and made rowing difficult, for the oars either did not touch the water or dipped too deeply into it. It was the flood tide running up from the sea which impeded their progress, but the ebb and flow of the sea was new to them. Eventually Alexander sought the shelter of a creek, and the vessels were dragged ashore. Then came the ebb, and the water fell as though it were sucked out into the sea. The boats were left high and dry, and many of them sank deep in the mud. Astonished and bewildered, Alexander and his men could get neither forward nor backward. They had just made preparations to get the ships afloat, when the tide returned and lifted them.

Now they went farther down-stream and came in contact with the raging surf of the monsoon, which advances in light-green foam-crowned waves far into the mouth and changes the colour of the river water. The collision of the Indus current with the rising tide fills the fairway with whirlpools and eddies, which are exceedingly dangerous even for the best of vessels of the present day. Several ships were lost, some being thrown up on the banks, while others dashed together and went to pieces.

After they had taken note of the regular rise and fall of the tide, they could avoid danger, and the fleet arrived safely at an island where shelter could be obtained by the shore and where fresh water was abundant. From here the foaming, roaring surf at the very mouth of the Indus could be seen, and above the rolling breakers appeared the level horizon of the ocean.

With the best of the vessels Alexander went out to ascertain whether the surf could be passed through without danger and the open sea be reached. The trial proved successful, and another island was found, begirt on all sides by open sea. The ships then returned in the dusk to the larger island, where a solemn sacrifice was made to Ammon to celebrate the first sight of the sea and of the margin of the inhabited world towards the south.

Next day Alexander rowed right out to sea to convince himself that no more land existed, and when he had advanced so far that nothing but sky and rolling billows could be seen from the uppermost benches of the triremes, he offered sacrifices to Poseidon, the god of the sea, to the Nereids, and to the silver-footed sea-goddess Thetis, the mother of Achilles, father of his race. And he besought the favour of all the gods in the great enterprise which had brought him to the mouth of the Indus, and their protection for his fleet on its dangerous voyage to the Euphrates; and when his prayer was ended he cast a golden goblet into the sea.



Alexander died at Babylon at the age of thirty-three. His world-embracing campaign spread Greek enlightenment over all western Asia, and his eventful life did not pass like a meteor into the night of time without leaving a trace behind.

KASHMIR AND LADAK

When I arrived at Rawalpindi the first thing I did was to order a tonga for the drive of 180 miles to Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. A tonga is a two-wheeled tilted cart drawn by two horses, which are changed every half hour, for as long as the pair are on the way they go at full speed. The road was excellent, and we left the hot suffocating steam of India below us as we ascended along the bank of the Jhelum River. Sometimes we dashed at headlong speed over stretches of open road bathed in sunlight; sometimes through dark cool tunnels where the driver blew a sonorous signal with his brass horn; and then again through rustling woods of pine-trees.

Srinagar is a beautiful city, intersected as it is by the rippling Jhelum River and winding canals (Plate VIII.). The houses on their banks rise up directly from the water, and long, narrow, graceful boats pass to and fro, propelled at a swift pace by broad-bladed oars in the hands of active and muscular white-clad Kashmiris.

Kashmir is one of the native states of our Indian Empire, and its inhabitants number about three millions. Many of them are artistic and dexterous craftsmen, who make fine boxes and caskets inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and ebony; beautifully chased weapons; tankards, bowls, and vases of beaten silver with panthers and elephants on the sides, chasing one another through the jungle. The saddlery and leather work of all kinds cannot be surpassed, but most famous of all the manufactures are the soft, dainty Kashmir shawls, so fine that they can be drawn through a finger ring.

Round about the Kashmir valley stand the ridges and snow-clad heights of the Himalayas, and among them lie innumerable valleys. Up one of these valleys toiled our caravan of thirty-six mules and a hundred horses, and after a journey of some 250 miles to the eastward we arrived again at the banks of the Indus and crossed it by a swaying bridge of wood. Two days later the poplars of Leh stood in front of us.

This little town is nearly 11,500 feet above sea-level. It contains an open bazaar street, and a mound above the town is crowned by the old royal castle. Leh, as well as the whole of the district of Ladak, is subject to the Maharaja of Kashmir, but the people are mostly of Tibetan race and their religion is Lamaism.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] A "satrap" was originally a governor of a province in ancient Persia.



VII

EASTERN TURKESTAN (1895)

THE TAKLA-MAKAN DESERT

We are now on the high road between India and Eastern Turkestan, the most elevated caravan route in the world. Innumerable skeletons of transport animals lie there, marking where the road passes through snow. After a month's journey over the cold, lofty mountains we come to the town of Yarkand, in the spacious, flat, bowl-shaped hollow, surrounded on all sides except the east by mountains, which is called Eastern Turkestan.

To the south stand the immense highlands of Tibet, where the great rivers of India and China take their rise. On the west is the Pamir, the "Roof of the World," where the two great rivers of the Sea of Aral begin their course. On the north lie the Tien-shan, or Mountains of Heaven, which are continued farther north-eastwards by the Altai and several other mountain systems, among which the gigantic rivers of Siberia have their origin. Within this ring of mountains, at the very heart of the great continent of Asia, lies this lowland of Eastern Turkestan, like a Tibetan sheepfold enclosed by enormous walls of rock.

In its northern part a river called the Tarim flows from west to east. It is formed by the Yarkand-darya and the Khotan-darya on the south, and receives other affluents along its course, for water streams down from the snowfields and glaciers of the wreath of mountains enclosing Eastern Turkestan. The head-waters of the Tarim leap merrily down through narrow valleys among the mountains, but the great river is doomed never to reach the sea. It terminates and is lost in a desert lake named Lop-nor.

Trees grow along this river, mostly small, stunted poplars, but the wooded belts along the banks are very narrow; soon the trees thin out and come to an end, steppe shrubs and tamarisks take their place, and only a mile or two from the river there is nothing but deep sand without a sign of vegetation. The greater part of Eastern Turkestan is occupied by the desert called Takla-makan, the most terrible and dangerous in the world.



A belt of desert runs through the whole of Asia and Africa, like a dried-up river bed. This belt includes the Gobi, which extends over most of Mongolia, the Takla-makan, the "Red Sand" and the "Black Sand" in Russian Turkestan, the Kevir and other deserts in Persia, the deserts of Arabia, and lastly the Sahara. In this succession of deserts extending over the Old World from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic the Takla-makan is, then, a link.

ACROSS A SEA OF SAND

In the beginning of April, 1895, I had reached the Yarkand-darya and had encamped at a village, Merket, on its eastern bank. My plan was to cross the Takla-makan desert, which stretches away to the eastward, and to reach the river Khotan-darya, which flows northwards, the distance being 180 miles. My caravan consisted of four servants and eight camels; and we took provisions for two months—for we intended afterwards to travel on to Tibet—and water for twenty-five days in four iron cisterns.

We started on April 10. A white camel was led in front by a man we called the guide, because every one said that he had often been in the desert seeking for treasure. My riding camel was led by a white-bearded man named Muhamed Shah. Kasim came at the end of the file, and the faithful Islam Bay, who superintended the whole, was my confidential servant. We had also two dogs, Yolldash and Hamra, three sheep, ten hens, and a cock. The last did not like riding on a camel. He was always working his way out through the bars of his cage, and fluttering down to the ground with a loud crow.

For the first few days all went on quietly and satisfactorily. At night we could always obtain water for the camels and other animals by digging, and thus we saved the fresh river-water in our tanks. But the sand became gradually higher and forced us to diverge to the north-east. On April 18 we came to a morass surrounded by wood so thick that we had to clear a way with the axe. Next day we encamped on the shore of a lake of beautiful blue water where ducks and geese were swimming about, and my tent was set up under a couple of poplars.

Another day's march led us along the shore of a long lake with bare banks. We encamped at its southern extremity and rested a day, for here nothing could be seen towards the south and west but yellow sand. The guide asserted that it was four days' journey eastwards to the river Khotan-darya, and this statement agreed approximately with existing maps, but I took the precaution of ordering the men to take water for ten days.

On April 23 we left the last bay of the last lake to plunge into the high sand. All vegetation came to an end, and only in some hollow a solitary tamarisk was still to be seen. The sandhills became ever higher, rising to as much as 100 feet.

The next day we marched on in a violent storm. The sand swept down in clouds from the crests of the dunes, penetrating into our mouths, noses, and eyes. Islam Bay led our train and looked for the easiest way for the camels. We noticed, however, that they were already beginning to get tired. Sometimes they fell in the sand, and their loads had to be taken off before they could get up again. When the tent was set up we had made only eight miles. Now there was not a sign of life, not a moth fluttered round my candle, not a wind-borne leaf was seen in the boundless yellow sand.

On the morning of the 25th I made a terrible discovery: two cisterns were empty and the other two contained only enough water for two days. Henceforth Islam Bay was put in charge of the cisterns. The water was treasured like gold and served out in driblets.

I travelled on foot to spare my riding camel and encourage the men. The caravan moved more slowly through the murderous sands. One camel, called Old Man, lagged behind. We waited an hour, and gave him a mouthful of water and a handful of hay from his own pack-saddle. When we went on, he was led slowly after us by Muhamed Shah.

With Islam I measured out the last drops of water on the night of the 26th. There were about two small cups daily for each of us for three days. The next day we plunged again into terrible sand, the dunes being 200 feet high. In the evening we saw dense rain-clouds in the west, and hoped that Heaven would have compassion on us. The clouds spread out and came still nearer. All our vessels were made ready, and the tent was stretched on the ground to collect the sweet water which was to save us. We waited in vain, for the clouds dispersed and yielded us not a drop.

The two tired-out camels had been abandoned at the beginning of the day, and we had thrown away a stove, a carpet, my tent-bed, and two empty water cisterns.

On April 28 we were awakened by a north-easterly storm, one of those "black storms" which stir up the drift-sand in dense clouds and turn day into night. All the camp was buried in sand. Only the nearest camels could be seen, and their track was immediately obliterated. We had to keep all together lest we should lose one another. It was quite possible to lose the caravan at a distance of a few paces, and that meant death. We were almost suffocated by the volumes of sand which whirled about us, and had to rest frequently to get our breath. The camels lay down with their heads to leeward, and we thrust our faces under them that we might not be choked with sand.

Then we went on with faltering steps. A camel fell and I sent two men after him. They came back directly, saying that the track was smoothed out by the wind and that they dared not lose sight of us. That was the third victim. At the evening camp everything not absolutely indispensable was sorted out to be left behind, and a stick was set up on the nearest dune with a newspaper wrapped round it so that we might find the place again if we obtained water soon. There was still a little water left in the two cans, but next morning Islam came and told me that one of them was empty. There can be little doubt that the guide was the thief who had robbed us all. With failing steps we struggled on all day among the high sand dunes.

On the morning of the 30th there was less than two-thirds of a pint of water left in the last can. While the others were engaged in loading the camels, Islam surprised the guide as he stood with the can to his mouth. Islam fell upon him furiously, threw him to the ground, and would have killed him if I had not come up in time. Only one-third of a pint was now left. At mid-day I moistened the men's lips with the corner of a handkerchief dipped in water. In the evening the last drops were to be distributed, but when the time came the can was found to be absolutely empty. Kasim and Muhamed, who led the camels, had drunk it all.

THE END OF THE CARAVAN

The night was cold, but the sun had not long risen on May 1 before the heat spread over the dunes. The men drank the last of some rancid vegetable oil which had been intended for the camels. I was tortured with thirst, as I had not drunk a drop of water the day before, and before that only a few mouthfuls. Thirst is a fearful thing, driving one to despair, and almost depriving one of reason. As the body dries up, the desire for water leaves one no peace. We had a flask of Chinese spirits which were intended for a cooking stove. I now drank about a tumblerful of it to give my body a little moisture, and then I threw the flask away and let its dangerous contents run out into the sand.

The insidious liquor undermined my strength. When the caravan toiled on through the dunes I could not follow it. I crept and staggered in its track. The bells rang out clearly in the quiet air, but the sound became fainter, and at length died away in the distance. The silent desert lay around me—sand, sand, sand in all directions.

Following slowly in the footsteps of the others, I came at last to the crest of a dune, where I saw that the camels of the caravan had laid themselves down. Muhamed Shah was on his knees imploring help from Allah. Kasim was sitting with his face in his hands, weeping and laughing alternately. Islam, who had been exploring in front, came back and proposed that we should look for a place where we could dig for water (Plate IX.). I therefore mounted the white camel, after his load—ammunition boxes, two European saddles, and a number of other articles—had been thrown away, but the animal would not get up. We then decided to stay where we were and wait for the cool of evening, and the tent was set up to afford us shade. Even Yolldash and the sheep came in.

At mid-day a gentle breeze sprang up, and the air felt pleasant and refreshing. We killed the cock and drank its blood. Then Islam turned the head of the sheep towards Mecca, cut off its head, and collected the blood in a pail, but it was thick and smelt offensively, and not even the dog Yolldash would touch it.

We now sorted out all our belongings, taking with us only what was absolutely necessary at the moment, and leaving everything else behind in the tent. The guide had lost his reason and filled his mouth with sand, thinking it was water. He and old Muhamed Shah, who was also dying, had to be left behind.

At seven o'clock I mounted the white camel. Islam led the train and Kasim urged the animals on. The funeral bells, now rang for the last time. From a high sandy crest I turned a farewell glance at the death camp. The tent marked out a dark triangle against the lighter background, and then vanished behind the sand.

The night descended sadly and silently over the earth. We tramped through loose sand, up and down, without seeing where we were going. I jumped down from my camel, lighted the lantern, and walked on in front to see where it was easiest for the camels to follow.

Then Islam reeled up to me and whispered that he could go no farther. I bade him farewell, cheered him up, told him to rest and then follow in my track, abandoning everything. The camels were lying half-dead with necks stretched out. Kasim alone was fit to accompany me farther. He took a spade and a pail and the paunch of the sheep. I had only my watch, compass, a penknife, a pen, and a scrap of paper, two small tins of lobster and chocolate, a small box, matches and ten cigarettes. But the food gave us little satisfaction, for when the mouth, palate, and throat are as dry as the outer skin it is impossible to swallow.



It was exactly twelve o'clock. We had been shipwrecked in the midst of the desert sea, and were now trying to reach a coast. The lantern stood burning beside Islam Bay, but the light was soon hidden by the dunes.

We were clad as lightly as possible. Kasim had a thin jacket, wide trousers, and boots, but he had forgotten his cap, so I lent him my pocket handkerchief to wind round his head. I wore a white Russian cap, stiff Swedish shoes, woollen underclothing, and a white suit of thin cotton cloth. I had changed my clothes at the death camp that I might have a neat clean shroud if I died.

We pushed on with the energy of despair, but after two hours we were so sleepy that we had to rest a while. The coolness of the night woke us up at four o'clock, and we kept on the march till nine. Then we rested again and walked on farther till twelve o'clock, when we were again overcome by weariness and the burning heat of the day. In a sandy slope facing northwards Kasim digged out cool sand in which we burrowed stark naked with only our heads out. To protect ourselves from sunstroke we made a screen by hanging up clothes on the spade. At six o'clock we got up again and walked for seven hours. Our strength was giving way, and we had to rest more frequently. At one o'clock we were slumbering on a dune.

There we lay quite three hours, and then went on eastwards. I always held the compass in my hand. The next day had dawned, May 3, when Kasim stopped, caught hold of my shoulder, and pointed eastwards without saying a word. A small dark speck was seen in the distance; it was a green tamarisk! Its roots must go down to the water below the surface, or it could not live in the desert sea. We thanked God when we came up to it. We had now some hope of safety, and we chewed the soft needles of the tamarisks like beasts. We tarried a while under its slight shadow, and then walked till half-past nine, when we fell down with faintness at another bush.

We again undressed and buried ourselves in sand, lying without speaking a word for quite nine hours. At dusk we dragged ourselves on again with halting steps. After three hours of march Kasim again stopped suddenly. Something dark peeped out from among the dunes—three fine poplars with sappy foliage. The leaves were too bitter to eat, but we rubbed them on the skin until it became moist.

Here we tried to dig a well, but the spade fell out of our powerless hands. We then lay down and scraped with our hands, but could not do much. Instead we collected all the dry branches we could find and made a blazing fire as a beacon for Islam, and to attract attention from the east, for we knew that a caravan road ran along the Khotan river.

At four o'clock on May 4 we moved on again, but after five hours we were utterly exhausted. We threw ourselves heedlessly on the sand, for Kasim was unable to dig the usual burrow. I wriggled naked into the cool dune and lay there ten hours without closing an eye.

When at last the shadows spread over the earth and I was ready to set out, Kasim murmured that he could go no farther. I did not even remember to bid him farewell when I went on my way alone through the darkness and sand. Just after midnight I sank down by a tamarisk. The stars twinkled as usual, and not a sound was audible. Only the beat of my heart and the ticking of my watch broke the awful silence. Then I heard a rustling sound in the sand. "Is that you, Kasim?" I asked. "Yes, sir," he whispered back. "Let us go a little farther," I said, and he followed me with trembling legs.

We were not troubled now so much by thirst, for our bodies had become as dry as parchment and seemed to have lost all feeling; but our strength was at an end. We crawled for a long distance on our hands and feet, dazed and indifferent, as if we were walking in our sleep.

But soon we waked up into full consciousness. Dumb with astonishment we stopped before the trail of men. Shepherds from the river must have seen our fire the day before and have come to look for us. We followed the trail up a high dune where the sand was closely packed and the marks were more distinct. "It is our own trail," said Kasim in a despairing voice. We had gone round in a circle, and now we could do no more for a while. Sad and worn out, we fell down in the track.

It was May 5. We had slept half an hour. It was four o'clock, and a vague light heralding the ruddy dawn rose up above the eastern horizon. Kasim looked dreadfully ill; his tongue was swollen, white and dry, his lips bluish. He complained of a spasmodic hiccough that shook his whole body, a sign of the approach of death. The thick blood flowed sluggishly in his veins. Even the eyes and joints were dry. We had struggled bravely, but now the end was near.

But when the sun rose we saw a dark line on the eastern horizon. The sight filled us with thankfulness, for we knew that it must be the wood on the bank of the Khotan river. Now we exerted ourselves to the uttermost, for we must reach it before we sank with thirst and exhaustion. A number of poplars grew in a hollow. "Let us dig here; it is a long distance to the woods"; but the spade again slipped out of our hands, and we could only stumble and crawl on eastwards.

At last we were there. I seemed to be roused from a fearful dream, a terrible nightmare. Green and luxuriant stood the trees in front of us, and between them grew grass and weeds where numerous spoors of wild animals were visible—tigers, wolves, foxes, stags, antelopes, gazelles, and hares. The birds were singing their morning song and insects buzzed in the air. Life and joyousness reigned everywhere.

It could not now be far to the river. We tried to pass through the wood, but were stopped by impenetrable brushwood and fallen trunks. Then we came to a path with plain traces of men and horses. We decided to follow it, for surely it would lead to the bank, but not even the hope of a speedy deliverance could enable us to keep on our feet. At nine o'clock, when the day was already burning hot, we tumbled down in the shade of a couple of poplars. Kasim could not last much longer. His senses were clouded. He gasped for breath and stared with vacant eyes at the sky. He made no answer even when I shook him. I took off my clothes and crept down into a hole between the tree roots. Scorpions inhabited the dry trees and their marks were visible everywhere, but the poisonous reptiles left me in peace.

WATER AT LAST

I lay for ten hours wide awake. At seven o'clock I took the wooden haft of the spade and went alone through the wood, for Kasim could not move. I dropped down again and again on fallen trunks to rest; a few more staggering steps and again a rest on a stump. When I could not hold myself up, I crawled inch by inch through the brushwood, tearing my hands and clothes. It grew dusk and then dark in the wood. I felt sleep gradually creeping over me to rob me of life. For if I had fallen asleep now, I should never have awakened again. My last struggle was, then, against drowsiness.

Then the wood suddenly came to an end and the bed of the Khotan river lay before me. But the bottom was dry, as dry as the sand in the desert! I was at the summer margin of the river, where water only flows when the snow melts on the mountains to the south. But I was not going to die on the bank; I would cross the whole bed before I gave myself up for lost. The bed was a mile and a quarter broad, a terrible distance for my strength. I walked slowly with the spade-handle for a stick, crawling for long distances and often resting and exerting all the force of my will to resist sleep. Hitherto we had been always making eastwards, but this night I walked involuntarily south-east. It was as though I were guided by an unseen hand.

The crescent moon threw a pale light over the dry riverbed. I went towards the middle and expected to see a silvery streak glisten on a sheet of water. After an interval, which seemed endless, I descried the line of wood on the eastern bank. It became more distinct. A fallen poplar lay projecting over a hollow in the river-bed and on the bank were close thickets of bushes and reeds. I rested once more. Was it possible that the whole bed was dry? I felt that all my remaining strength would be needed to reach the bank. Was I to die of thirst in the middle of a river-bed? I rose painfully to walk the last bit, but I had not taken many steps before I stopped short. A duck rose on whirring wings, I heard the plashing sound of water, and the next moment I stood at the edge of a fresh, cool, beautiful pool.

I fell on my knees and thanked God for my marvellous escape. Then I took out my watch and felt my feeble pulse, which beat forty-nine. Then I drank, slowly at first and then more freely. A deal of water was needed to slake such a thirst; I drank and drank until at length I was satisfied. Then I sat down to rest and felt that I was reviving quickly. After a few minutes my pulse had risen to fifty-six. My hands, which had just been withered and hard as wood, softened, the blood flowed more easily through my veins and my forehead became moist. Life seemed more desirable and delightful than ever. Then I drank again, and thought of my wonderful deliverance. If I had passed fifty steps to the right or left of the pool, I should probably never have found it, or if I had crawled on in the wrong direction, I should have had to walk six miles to the next pool, which I could not have done before sleep with the death trance in its train came and carried me off.

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.



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.

This is the country of wild camels. Wild camels live in herds of half a dozen head. The leader is a dark-brown stallion; the mares are lighter in colour. Their wool is so soft and fine that it is a pleasure to pass one's hand over it. Several herds or families are often seen grazing on the same spot. They look well-fed, and the two humps are firm and full of fat. In spring and summer they can go without water for eight days, in winter for two weeks. For innumerable generations they have known where to find the springs: the mothers take their young ones to them, and when the youngsters grow up they in their turn show the springs to their foals. They drink the water, however salt it may be, for they have no choice, but they do not stay long at the meadows by the springs, for their instinct tells them that where water is to be found there the danger is great that their enemies may also come to drink.

Against danger they have no other protection than their sharply developed senses. They can scent men at a distance of twelve miles. They know the odour of a camping-ground long after the ashes have been swept away by the wind, and they avoid the spot. Tame camels passing through their country excite their suspicion; they do not smell like wild ones. They are shy and restless and do not remain long at one pasture, even if no danger threatens.

In some districts they are so numerous that the traveller cannot march for two minutes without crossing a spoor. Where the tracks all converge towards a valley between two hills, they probably lead to a spring. On one occasion when our tame camels had not had water for eleven days, they were saved by following the tracks of their wild relations.



IX

IN THE FORBIDDEN LAND (1901-2, 1906-8)

THE PLATEAU OF TIBET

South of Eastern Turkestan lies the huge upheaval of the earth's crust which is called Tibet. Its other boundaries are: on the east, China proper; on the south, Burma, Bhutan, Sikkim, Nepal, and British India; on the west, Kashmir and Ladak. Political boundaries, however, are of little and only temporary importance. They seldom remain unchanged from century to century, for from the earliest times a nation as it increased in strength has always extended its domain at the expense of its neighbours.

The earth's crust, on the other hand, remains unchanged—if we disregard the continual work performed by rain and streams, weather and wind, which tends to fill up the hollows with mud and sand, to cut the valleys ever deeper, and to diminish the mountain masses by weathering. However powerfully these forces may have acted, Tibet still remains the highest mountain land of the world.

If you lay your left hand on a map of Tibet so that the part nearest the wrist touches the Pamir, the flat of the hand covers the region of central Tibet, where there is no drainage to the ocean, but where the country falls instead into a number of isolated lake basins. Your thumb will represent the Himalayas, the forefinger the Trans-Himalaya, the middle finger the Karakorum, the third finger the Arka-tagh, and the little finger the Kuen-lun. The highest mountain ranges of the world are under your fingers; and also, as the longest finger is the middle of the five, so the Karakorum is the central range of Tibetan mountains.

Now let a little stream of water fall on the back of your hand as you hold it on a table with the fingers spread out. You will see that a tiny quantity remains on the back of the hand, but that the greater part runs away between the fingers. Thus it is in Tibet. The water poured on your hand represents the rain of the south-west monsoon, which falls more abundantly on the eastern part of the country than on the western. The water which stays on the back of the hand represents the small scattered salt lakes on the plateau country which has no drainage to the sea, while the large quantity which runs off between your fingers represents the large rivers which flow between the ranges.



Of these rivers two stream eastwards: the Yellow River (the Hwang-ho), which falls into the Yellow Sea, and the Blue River (the Yang-tse-kiang), which empties its waters into the Eastern Sea. The others run southwards, the Mekong into the China Sea, the Salwin, Irawaddy, and Brahmaputra into the great inlet of the Indian Ocean which is called the Bay of Bengal. A large quantity of water runs off along the outer side of your thumb; this is the Ganges, which comes down from the upper valleys of the Himalayas. And, far to the west, nearest to the wrist, you find two rivers with which you are already acquainted: the Indus, which flows southwards into the Arabian Sea, and the Tarim, which runs north and east and falls into Lop-nor.

The Himalayas are the loftiest range on earth, and among their crests rise the highest peaks in the world. Three of them should be remembered, for they are so well known: Mount Everest, which, with its 29,000 feet, is the very highest summit in the world; Kinchinjunga (28,200 feet), and Dhwalagiri (26,800 feet). Mount Godwin-Austen in the Karakorum is only about 650 feet lower than Mount Everest.

The Himalayas present a grand spectacle when seen from the south. No other mountain region in the world can vie with it in awe-inspiring beauty. If we travel by rail from Calcutta up to Sikkim we see the snow-clad crest of the Himalayas in front and above us, and Kinchinjunga like a dazzling white pinnacle surmounting the whole. We see the sharply defined snow limit, and the steep, wooded slopes below. If it is early in the morning and the weather is fine, the jagged, snowy crest shines brightly in the sun, while the flanks and valleys are still hidden in dense shadow. And during the journey to the great heights we shall notice that the flora changes much in the same way as it does from South Italy to the North Cape. The last forms of vegetation to contend against the cold are mosses and lichens. Then we come to the snow limit, where the mountains and rocks are bare.

North and Central Tibet have a mean elevation of 16,000 feet; that is to say, one is almost always at a greater height than the summit of Mont Blanc. Where the plateau country is so exceedingly high the mountain ranges seem quite insignificant. We have spoken of five great ranges, but between these He many smaller, all running east and west.

What a fortunate thing it is for the people of Asia that the interior of the continent rises into the tremendous boss called Tibet! Against its heights the water vapour of the monsoon is cooled and condensed, so that it falls in the form of rain and feeds the great rivers. Were the country flat like northern India or Eastern Turkestan, immense tracts of the interior of Asia would be complete desert, as in the interior of Arabia; but as it is, the water is collected in the mountains and runs off in all directions. Along the rivers the population is densest; around them spring up cities and states, and from them canals branch off to water fields and gardens.

You know, of course, that Asia is the largest division of land in the world, and that Europe is little more than a peninsula jutting out westwards from the trunk of Asia. Indeed, Asia is not much smaller than Europe, Africa, and Australia put together. Of the 1550 millions of men who inhabit the world, 830 millions, or more than half, live in Asia. If, now, you take out your atlas and compare southern Europe and southern Asia, you will find some very curious similarities. From both these continents three large peninsulas point southwards. The Iberian Peninsula, consisting of Spain and Portugal, corresponds to the Arabian Peninsula, both being quadrangular and massive. Italy corresponds to the Indian Peninsula, both having large islands near their extremities, Sicily and Ceylon. The Balkan Peninsula corresponds to Further India (the Malay Peninsula), both having irregular, deeply indented coasts with a world of islands to the south-east, the Archipelago and the Sunda Islands.

Tibet may be likened to a fortress surrounded by mighty ramparts. To the south the ramparts are double, the Himalayas and the Trans-Himalaya, and between the two is a moat partly filled with water—the Upper Indus and the Upper Brahmaputra. And Tibet is really a fortress and a defence in the rear of China. It is easily conceivable that a country surrounded by such huge mountain ranges must be very difficult of access, and the number of Europeans who have crossed Tibet is very small.

The inaccessible position of the country has also had an influence on the people. Isolated and without communication with their neighbours, the people have taken their own course and have developed in a peculiar manner within their own boundaries. The northern third of the country is uninhabited. I once travelled for three months, and on another occasion for eighty-one days, without seeing a single human being. The middle part is thinly peopled by herdsmen, who roam about with their flocks of sheep and yaks, and live in black tents. Many of them also are skilful hunters of yaks and antelopes. Others gather salt on the dried-up beds of lakes, pack it in double-ended bags, and carry it on sheep to barter it for barley in the southern districts, which are the home of the great majority of Tibet's two or three million inhabitants. There are to be found not only nomads, but also settled people, dwelling in small villages of stone huts in the deeper river valleys, especially that of the Brahmaputra, and cultivating barley. A few towns also exist here; they are all small, the largest being Lhasa and Shigatse.

When our journey takes us to India again we shall have an opportunity of learning about the religion of Buddha, which is called Buddhism. In a different form this religious creed found its way into Tibet a thousand years ago. Before this time a sort of natural religion prevailed, which peopled the mountains, rivers, lakes, and air with demons and spirits. Much of the old superstition was absorbed into the new teaching, and the combination is known by the name of Lamaism. There are 620 millions of Christians in the world and 400 million Buddhists; and of the Buddhists all the Tibetans and Mongolians, the Buriats in eastern Siberia, the Kalmukhs on the Volga, the peoples of Ladak, northern Nepal, Sikkim, and Bhutan are Lamaists.

They have a great number of monks and priests, each of whom is called a Lama. The principal one is the Dalai Lama, in Lhasa, but almost on a par with him is the Tashi Lama, the head of Tashi-lunpo, the large monastery at Shigatse. The third in rank is the High Lama at Urga in northern Mongolia. These three and some others are incarnated deities. The Dalai Lama never dies; the god that dwells in him merely changes his earthly body, just as a snake when it casts its skin. When a Dalai Lama dies it means that the divinity, his soul, sets out on its wanderings and passes into the body of a boy. When the boy is found he becomes the Dalai Lama of Lhasa. Lamaists believe, then, in the transmigration of souls, and the end, the fullest perfection, is peace in Nirvana.

There are many monasteries and nunneries in the upper Brahmaputra valley. The temple halls are adorned with images of the gods in metal or gilded clay, and butter lamps burn day and night in front of them. Monks and nuns cannot marry, but among the ordinary people the singular custom prevails that a wife can have two or several husbands. Among Mohammedans the case is just the reverse: men can have several wives.

ATTEMPT TO REACH LHASA

It was from Lop-nor in the year 1901 that I penetrated into this lofty mountain land for the third time. The summer had just set in with its suffocating dust storms, and we longed to get up into the fresh, pure air. The caravan was large, for I had sixteen Mohammedan servants from Eastern Turkestan, two Russian and two Buriat Cossacks, and a Mongolian Lama from Urga. Provisions for seven months, tents, furs, beds, weapons, and boxes were carried by 39 camels, 45 horses and mules, and 60 asses; and we also had 50 sheep for food, several dogs, and a tame stag.

When all was ready we set out towards the lofty mountains and crossed one range after another. When we reached the great heights the caravan lost strength day by day. The atmosphere is so rare that a man cannot breathe without an effort, and the slightest movement produces palpitation of the heart. The grazing becomes more scanty the higher you go, and many of the caravan animals succumbed. At last we seldom travelled more than twelve miles in a day.

After forty-four days' march due southwards we came to a part of the country where footprints of men were seen in several places, and Lhasa was only 300 miles away. Up to this time all Europeans who had tried to reach the holy city had been forced by Tibetan horsemen to turn back. The Tibetans are at bottom a good-tempered, decent people, but they will not allow any European to enter their country. They have heard that India and Central Asia have been conquered by white men, and fear that the same fate may befall Tibet. Two hundred years ago, indeed, Catholic missionaries lived in Lhasa, and the town was visited in 1845 by the famous priests Huc and Gabet from France. Since then two Europeans who had made the attempt to reach the place had been murdered, and others had to turn back without success.

Now it was my turn to try my luck. My plan was to travel in disguise with only two followers. One was the Mongolian Lama, the other the Buriat Cossack, Shagdur. The Buriats are of Mongol race, speak Mongolian, and are Lamaists. They have narrow, rather oblique eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and thick lips. The dress of both peoples is the same—a skin coat with long sleeves and a waistbelt, a cap, and a pair of boots with turned-up toes. My costume was of exactly the same kind, and everything we took with us—tent, boxes, cooking utensils, and provisions—was of Mongolian style and make. The European articles I required—instruments, writing materials, and a field-glass—were carefully packed in a box. For defence we had two Russian rifles and a Swedish revolver. Of the caravan animals, five mules and four horses, as well as two dogs, Tiger and Lilliput, were to go with us. I rode a handsome white horse, Shagdur a tall yellow horse, and the Lama a small greyish-yellow mule. The baggage animals were led by my men and I rode behind. During the first two days we had a Mohammedan with us, Oerdek, but he was to go back to headquarters, where all the rest of the caravan were ordered to await our return.

We were to ride south-eastwards and endeavour to strike the great Mongolian pilgrim route to Lhasa. Many Mongolians betake themselves annually in large armed caravans to the holy city to pay homage to the Dalai Lama, and obtain a blessing from him and the Tashi Lama. Perhaps it was wrong of me to give myself out for a Lamaist pilgrim, but there seemed no other means of getting to the forbidden city.

We left the main camp on July 27, and those we left behind did not expect ever to see us again. The first day we did not see a living thing, and the second day we rode twenty-five miles farther without hindrance. Our camp that day was situated on open ground beside two lakes, and to the south-east stood some small hills, in the neighbourhood of which our animals grazed. Oerdek was to watch them during the night in order that we might have a good sleep, for when he left us we should have to guard them ourselves.

Here my disguise was improved. My head was shaved so that it shone like a billiard ball. Only the eyebrows were left. Then the Lama rubbed fat, soot, and brown colouring-matter into the skin, and when I looked in a small hand-glass I could hardly recognise myself; but I seemed to have a certain resemblance to my two Lamaist retainers.

In the afternoon a storm broke out from the north, and we crept early into our little thin tent and slept quietly. At midnight Oerdek crept into the tent and whispered in a trembling voice that robbers were about. We seized our weapons and rushed out. The storm was still raging, and the moon shone fitfully between the riven clouds. We were too late. With some difficulty we made out two horsemen on the top of the hills driving two loose horses before them—we found afterwards that one was my favourite white horse, the other Shagdur's yellow one. Shagdur sent a bullet after the scoundrels, but it only hastened their pace.

It was still dark, but there was no more sleep for us. We settled ourselves round a small blaze, boiled rice and tea, and lighted our pipes. When the sun rose we were ready to go forward. First we examined the tracks of the thieves and found that they had come down on us with the wind, and had thus eluded the watchfulness of the dogs. One of the men had crept along a rain furrow right among the grazing horses, and, jumping up, had frightened the best two off to leeward. There a mounted Tibetan had taken them in hand and chased them on in front of him. The third had waited with his comrade's horse and his own, and then he also had made off. They had no doubt been watching us all day. Perhaps they already knew that we came from my headquarters, and they might even send a warning to Lhasa.

Oerdek was beside himself with fright at having to make the two days' journey back on foot and quite alone. We heard afterwards that he did not dare to go back on our trail, but sneaked like a wild cat along all the furrows, longing for night; but when darkness came he was still more terrified and thought that every stone was a lurking villain. A couple of wild asses nearly frightened him out of his senses, and made him scuttle like a hedgehog into a ravine. When he arrived in the darkness of night at the main camp, the night watchman took him for a stranger and raised his gun. But Oerdek shouted and waved his arms, and when he got to his tent he lay down and slept heavily for two whole days.

We three pilgrims rode on south-eastwards, and pitched our tent on open ground by a brook twenty-five miles farther on. Our positions were now reversed; Shagdur was the important man and I was only a mule-driver. With the Cossacks I always spoke Russian, but now no language must be used but Mongolian, which the Lama had been teaching me for a long time previously. After dinner I slept till eight o'clock in the evening, and when I awoke I found my two comrades in a state of the greatest anxiety, for they had seen three Tibetan horsemen spying upon us from a long distance. We must therefore expect fresh trouble at any moment.

The night was divided into three watches, from nine o'clock to midnight, midnight to three o'clock, and three o'clock to six o'clock, and usually I took the first and the Lama the last. The animals were tethered to a rope fastened to the ground in the lee of the tent, and Tiger was tied up in front of them and Lilliput behind them.

At half-past eight Shagdur and the Lama were asleep in the tent, and my first night watch began. I strolled backwards and forwards between Tiger and Lilliput, who whined with pleasure when I stroked them. The sky was covered with dense black clouds, lighted from within by flashes of lightning, while thunder rolled around us and rain streamed down in a perfect deluge. It beat and rang on the Mongolian stewpans left out at the fireplace. Sometimes I tried to get a little shelter in the tent opening, but as soon as the dogs growled I had to hurry out again.

At last it is midnight and my watch is at an end; but Shagdur is sleeping so soundly that I cannot find it in my heart to waken him. I am just thinking of shortening his watch by half an hour when both dogs begin to bark furiously. The Lama wakes up and rushes out, and we steal off with our weapons in the direction in which we hear the tramp of a horse going away through the mud. In a little while all is quiet again, and the dogs cease to bark. I wake up Shagdur and creep into my berth in my wet coat.

Next day we travel on under a sky as heavy as lead. No human beings or nomad tents are to be seen, but we find numerous tracks of flocks of sheep and yaks, and old camping-grounds. The danger of meeting people increased hourly, and so did my anxiety as to how the Tibetans would treat us when we were at last discovered.

On July 31 the rain was still pouring down. We were following a clear, well-trodden path, along which a herd of yaks had recently been driven. After a while we came up with a party of Tangut pilgrims, with fifty yaks, two horses, and three dogs. The Tanguts are a nomadic people in northeastern Tibet, and almost every second Tangut is also a robber. We passed them safely, however, and for the first time encamped near a Tibetan nomad tent occupied by a young man and two women.

While the Lama was talking with these people, the owner of the tent came up and was much astonished to find an unexpected visitor. He followed the Lama to our tent and sat down on the wet ground outside the entrance. His name was Sampo Singi, and he was the dirtiest fellow I ever saw in my life. The rain-water dropped from his matted hair on to the ragged cloak he wore; he wore felt boots but no trousers, which indeed almost all Tibetan nomads regard as quite, superfluous.

Sampo Singi blew his nose with his fingers, making a loud noise, and he did it so often that I began to think that it was some form of politeness. To make sure I followed his example. He showed not the slightest suspicion, only looked at our things and gave us the information we wanted. We had a journey of eight days more to Lhasa, he assured us. Then Shagdur gave him a pinch of snuff which made him sneeze at least fifty times. We laughed at him when he asked whether we put pepper in our snuff, whereupon, in order to keep up our story, Shagdur roared at me, "Do not sit here and stare, boy; go and drive in the cattle." I started up at once, and had a terrible job to get the animals in to the camp.