A Pilgrimage to Nejd, the Cradle of the Arab Race. Vol. 2 [of 2]

On the sight of our letters from the governor of Shustar he made us very welcome – conversing through the medium of his secretary, who knows Arabic. Carpets were brought, and tea made – the most delicious draught we ever tasted in our lives – flavoured with orange and some acid fruit. The gallop has cured Wilfrid, and he says he shall not be ill again.

Our caravan having arrived, we have moved outside the town, for the ferraz-bashi’s house is not big enough to hold us all, and are encamped on a little mound overlooking the gardens which skirt Ram Hormuz. I wish I could describe the beauty of this place. Round us lie a few acres of green wheat, in which quails and francolins are calling, and through which a little stream of running water winds. Close by, on another mound, stands a beautiful little kubbr, the tomb of some saint, and on either side gardens half run wild, a delicious tangle of pomegranate, fig, and vine, with here and there lemon and peach, and groups of palm. The pomegranates now are in full flower, and so are the roses, and every thicket is alive with nightingales. It is nearly sunset, and groups of blue-gowned Persians are coming across the fields from the town, to wash and say their prayers at the stream and the kubbr. The town itself is half hidden in the gardens, but shows picturesquely through, backed by a range of crimson hills, scored and lined with blue shadows. We have been following the edge of these hills all the way from Shustar. They are the same which are supposed to hold the Shirazi robbers our Arab escort feared so much.

The position of the Arabs here is a miserable one. At war with these Shirazi, and pillaged by the Government which does nothing to protect them, they still cling to their little bits of cultivation wherever there is water near the hills. They are half the year nomadic, going south and west with the flocks, but in the spring return to the hills, plough up a few acres, and gather in a crop if possible before the tax-gatherer has found them out. The Persian Government is weak, and the garrison of Ram Hormuz is generally only sufficient for its duty of holding the town, but every now and then a reinforcement arrives from Ahwas or Fellahieh and then a raid is made under pretext of a collection of arrears, and horses and cattle are driven off in payment. This seems to be the plan throughout the province. We asked Abeyeh and the Khamis Sheykh who came with him to-day to our camp, why they put themselves into this government trap by coming to the hills, when they might remain unmolested in the plain, or go where they would. “It is the soil,” they exclaimed, “the soil which is so rich. Where should we find another like it?” Indeed, the whole of this side of Persia seems meant to be a garden. Unlike the plains of Bagdad, which never can have been cultivated except with irrigation, the land here grows crops as in Europe, watered by the rain from heaven. The range of Bactiari hills by attracting clouds gives it this rare advantage.

Ram Hormuz itself must have been a great city once. Its position at a point where several rivers meet, and at the foot of a gorge, leading through the mountains to Shiraz, makes it naturally a place of importance, but it is little more now than a market for the Bedouin tribes and a military station.

The ferraz-bashi has been very amiable to us, though, like everyone else, averse to our further progress in the direction of Bebahan. The road, he says, is most unsafe, every village at war with its neighbour, and he dares not send troops with us even if he had them. There is, however, in the town, a certain potentate of the district first to be traversed, one Mohammed Jafar, Khan of the village of Sultanabad, who can protect us if any one can. To him we are to be recommended, and perhaps he will go on with us to-morrow. Abeyeh and his men, alas, can go no further. They are Arabs, and honest men, and camel drivers, and we have bid them good-bye with regret. But the people further on are Persian, and Persian and Arabian are everywhere at odds. The idea is not agreeable of plunging into a hornet’s nest, such as the country beyond us is described to be, but there is no help for it; to return is impossible. Every day becomes more and more fearfully hot, and our only hope now is the sea.

April 16. – We are refreshed by a good night’s rest, such as we have not had since leaving Shustar. The ferraz-bashi called again this morning, walking out in the cool of sunrise, with a rose in his hand, to pay us his compliment. It seems to be the fashion among the Persians to go about with flowers, which they present to each other as polite offerings, and just now it is the season of roses. His Excellency informed us that Kaïd Mohammed Jafar would be ready to start for Sultanabad at the asr (about half past three), so we have made all our preparations for departure. Although the heat has been great, 96° at coolest, I have managed to make a sketch of Ram Hormuz, but nothing can do justice to its beauty. We have been more pleasantly received here, than anywhere else in Persia, and I feel sure we might make friends with the people if only we could speak their language. Travelling without knowing the language, is like walking with one’s eyes shut.

April 17. – Mohammed Jafar arrived soon after four, and immediately we started. It was of importance that no time should be lost, for we had a river to cross, the Jerrahi which comes down here from the mountains, and runs into the Persian Gulf, at Fellahieh. The country, till we came to it, was a difficult one for camels, being a very network of irrigation, with the channels crossed by treacherous little bridges. But the camels managed it all without accident. The river, of which we crossed two branches, flows over a bed of gravel, and was nowhere over our horses’ girths. The water very cold, with melted snow, so that a delicious breeze of iced air followed the current. It was now past sundown, and we were anxious to be clear of the inclosed ground, before it should be absolutely night; but the Kaïd, tiresome man, had made an arrangement with some friends at a little village beyond the river to dine with them, and then go on in the night, a plan which did not at all suit us. Indeed it was impossible for us, with our camels, to halt in such a spot, where we could not have prevented them trampling the standing corn, and where we should have been helpless after dark. So declining, as politely as we could, the hospitality offered, we left the Kaïd to take his meal with his four horsemen, and pushed on alone. A villager was sent to show us the way, for we were not a mile from open ground, and night was falling and every minute precious, and we were resolved to reach it if we could. Road, however, it soon appeared there was none, for to reach the village, the Kaïd had taken us away from the main path, and as it grew darker we got more and more entangled, in dykes and ditches. At one moment things seemed almost hopeless with us, a deep canal barring all further progress, and the villager who had brought us to this pass, profiting by the confusion, having run away. Fortunately Wilfrid perceived this flight in time, and riding after him fired his pistol in the air, and brought him back, when, under the compulsion of fear, he showed us where to cross. It was a poor ford, and some of the loads got wet, but beyond it we were on hard ground, and able now to wait in patience till the Kaïd and his men should come. Our shot seemed to have disturbed their feast, and we had not long to wait. Then we marched on in silence and utter darkness, but over a good road, till half-past one in this morning, when a loud barking of dogs announced our arrival at Sultanabad.

Here the Kaïd has a house to which he at once retired, leaving us to lie down in our cloaks, with our camels and horses, till daylight. He would willingly have invited us in, but we dare not leave our beasts and property, and now we have pitched our tent for the day, looping it up as usual, like an umbrella, to get every breath of air. When day dawned, we saw the Kaïd’s house on one side of us, with three big canora trees overshadowing its entrance, and a walled garden at the back of it; on the other side the village with its barley fields and splendid grass crops. The houses of the village, built of sun-dried brick, are in a cluster together, about two hundred yards from our mound; in front of them two or three black tents. The Kaïd’s house is of considerable size, and appears to contain several court-yards. Sultanabad is itself a poor, mean-looking place, but if Hajji Mohammed is to be believed, a very nest of brigands, any one of whom for one single kran would kill a man, a real stronghold of robbers, and as such keeping the neighbouring country in terror. But I don’t know what to think, for Hajji Mohammed believes every tale he hears, and the horsemen have been cramming him all the way along with stories of Mohammed Jafar’s exploits, to enhance their chief’s importance. How he does what he likes in the teeth of the government, who dare not punish him for having killed several of the Shahzade’s people only a couple of years ago, how only he and his Sultanabadis can travel safely on the Bebahan road; and one can hardly blame poor Hajji Mohammed for expecting us to lead him into mischief, for we have before done so, and he thinks us reckless of danger. He is always lecturing us on prudence, though he himself is an odd combination of caution and rashness; he once at a critical moment wanted to stuff his revolver into an inaccessible bag, merely because the strap of the belt belonging to it was broken; another time he would have given his gun to a stranger to carry, had we not prevented his doing so. We spent this morning drinking tea and eating eggs and butter and a kid, and spreading wet things to dry. Fortunately no serious damage has been done, and the fierce sun soon dried everything. A breeze sprang up, too, which helped the drying, and drove away the flies.

Hajji Mohammed was commissioned in the course of the morning to negotiate terms with the Kaïd, who had been already sounding the cavass as to how much money could be got from us. He has really done it very well, and arranged that at Bebahan we are to pay the Kaïd one hundred krans. The great man at first asked for an abba or a cashmere shawl, but here Hajji Mohammed seems to have spoken with proper firmness.

We want to start at half-past four, and ought to pack now, but the servants are dawdling over the remains of the kid; they will not move till they have devoured the last morsel. Besides, they have got several girths to mend before we can load.

April 18. – We had a great deal of trouble to start at all yesterday afternoon, and after a difficult march we have got no farther than the village of Jazûn, about fifteen miles, which was reached at five A.M. this morning. At this rate we shall be a month getting to Bebahan, especially if the pass over the range of rocky hills we must cross, is as rugged as report says.

It turned out that the Kaïd himself did not intend to start with us, but to send his nephew with four people on foot, and follow himself with the four horsemen. He stood by as we loaded, and then wished us good evening. When all was ready he asked us the favour to take with us a bundle of brown wool for Bebahan, and as it was not heavy we agreed. While Wilfrid turned to look at this package, a villager took the rifle off his delúl, but hastily put it back on Wilfrid’s shouting “Stop thief,” and ran off accompanied by the little crowd which had gathered round us, no doubt equally guilty at heart, and expecting blows. Then we started – it was about half-past five, a fine evening with a breeze, which, alas, died away at sunset, after which for two hours the air was extremely sultry. The Sultanabad field crops had to be crossed, but they were on dry land, with only a few easy ditches. Then we came to ground like a park, formerly cultivated, but now abandoned to nature; canora trees dotted about like handsome hawthorn trees, as if planted for ornament, the grass all crops run wild, splendid oats and barley now in the ear. Here and there an abandoned village, the walls gleaming red in the setting sun. Some of these were inhabited not very long since, and we were told various tales regarding them; from one place the inhabitants had gone away of their own accord quite lately to escape the tax-gatherer’s next visit, leaving their corn standing; from another they had been driven by fire and sword, the soldiers burning the village after sacking it.

After about two hours we crossed the river Abn’l Faris; it is not many yards wide nor is it deep, but the banks are steep and overgrown with trees and thick bushes. A narrow and nearly perpendicular path leads down to the ford. The camels have become skilful, and managed the scramble admirably; Shakran now carries our personal baggage, he has completely recovered, and is the cleverest of them all. Hajji Mohammed sat imperturbable on Wilfrid’s delúl, and nearly got his head caught in the tangle of branches. After this we had another water or two to cross in the dark, the approaches to which were always announced by the croaking of frogs; then the chirping of grasshoppers replaced the croaking, and we were again on hard ground, the country a good deal up and down and broken up into ravines and fissures caused by rains. At ten o’clock, as far as we could make out by starlight, we were on good flat pasture land, real pasture not crops, and trees growing in groups as in a park, with a low ridge on the left. Here we halted for an hour to eat, and thought to have a nap; but Mohammed Jafar, who after all joined us some time before, would not hear of this. It would be dangerous; the Shirazi would swoop down from those hills to the north. He altogether declined remaining longer than necessary, and there was an earnestness in his manner that brought conviction with it; he really believed in the danger he talked of. The night was fine, and it would have been a pity not to make use of it; we pushed on over good ground for an hour, and after that through mud, ditches, and frogs; about one o’clock a wide ditch completely barred further progress. We had for a good while been again among crops, so rank that wading through them was hard work, and on reaching this ditch, we all groped about, trying to find a passage for the camels. There was no sort of track; the horsemen had, in fact, got off the road and could not find it again, but there was no difficulty as to general direction, the Scorpion being our guide. Here, however, we were stuck fast by irrigation works, for at this particular spot the ditch was impracticable for camels, and all efforts in the dark to hit upon a ford were vain. The horsemen had already got across, and were shouting to us to follow; indeed, they had for the last hour guided us in a haphazard way by shouts and singing. One of them sang remarkably well, and kept up a sort of refrain:

But now they screamed, shouted, and sang to no purpose. We refused to waste any more time in a useless search, and sat down to wait for daylight. One of the khayal then returned and sat with us till four A.M. talking all the while to Hajji Mohammed about the Shirazi. We lay down and went to sleep. By half-past four we had found a passage through the mud and water of the canal, and beyond it got on to desert ground, on which we passed several small detached oasis-like palm gardens. Half an hour’s march further took us to Jazûn.

Jazûn is the only village left of many which once existed between Sultanabad and Bebahan, and whose ruins we have passed. They were deserted only a few years ago; the governors of the province, who found it impossible to collect taxes from them, having solved the difficulty by destroying them. This village is now a collection of little mud houses on the left bank of a natural stream of running water. It is surrounded by fields and groups of palm trees. Our horses are tethered out by long ropes fastened to palm trees, to feed on green barley; the camels are further off with Shafi. Shafi is an excellent worker, but he does not speak a word of Arabic, or I should tell him how well satisfied we are with him. We ourselves have encamped on the high bank backed by the stream, so that the villagers, who are a tiresome set of people, can only approach us on one side.

Jazûn as well as Sultanabad, belongs to the family of Mohammed Jafar. He has been sitting here talking to us through Hajji Mohammed. He tells us that his family, although they now no longer talk Arabic, are of the Safeyeh tribe, and came originally from Nejd, bringing their horses with them; and that a beautiful little white mare his nephew rides, and which we admired yesterday evening, is a Hamdanyeh Simri. This mare is very small, 13·2 at most, but almost perfect; the head very fine with black nose, black round the eyes as if painted, jebha prominent, and mitbakh extremely fine; tail properly set on and carried, a good style of going, bones rather small, but legs apparently wiry and strong. One of the men rides a chestnut mare said to be Kehîleh Sheykhah, about 14 hands, with four white feet, handsome head, and mitbakh. Mohammed Jafar mentioned that the particular breeds now possessed by his tribe are Hamdani Simri, Abeyan, Hadban, Wadnan, Meleyhan, Seglawi and Kehîlan. His own grey mare does not look thoroughbred, and he did not say anything about her. Mohammed Jafar now informed us that his nephew would proceed to Bebahan with us while he himself must go home, and he wished to have the whole sum of one hundred krans paid to him at once. After some talk he agreed to take seventy krans as his share, the rest to be given to his nephew at the end of the journey. He certainly gets the lion’s share, but beggars cannot be choosers, and we are dependent on his goodwill to pass us through this part of the country, so that on the whole we ought to be glad that he has not asked more. We are altogether in a false position, too weak to insist upon our own terms, and our best plan is to march as fast as we can to Bebahan. Unfortunately there are not only crags to cross, but the Kurdistan river has to be forded.

April 19. – A disagreeable twenty-four hours has passed, and we have scaled the crags, and escaped from the Jazûn people, who, it seems, had some evil design. But there is still the Kurdistan river between us and Bebahan.

We managed to set out from Jazûn soon after two o’clock in the afternoon, getting at once off the plain on to broken ground, which became more and more broken till at seven o’clock, when we halted, we were involved in a confused mass of hills apparently tossed together at random. We had crossed several small streams in deep ravines, and one narrow ledge of rock at the head of a ravine, which would have been unpleasant in the dark. Saw three or four gazelles, luckily not perceived by the greyhounds, for we cannot stop for sport. Sand-grouse, beebirds, plovers, and doves abounded. By seven o’clock we had done about ten miles and ascended over 600 feet, and Wilfrid proposed to halt for some hours. I was pleased, not liking passes and steeps in the dark, and we still had the pass itself before us, but Abdallah Khan, the Kaïd’s nephew, remonstrated and protested danger. Wilfrid, however, gave a peremptory order to unload the camels and we sat down to drink tea and make a frugal meal, and proposed afterwards to make aliek for the camels, as they have had a tiring march and cannot feed now in the night. Before we had done eating Hajji Mohammed came to announce that forty Jazûnis were following to attack and plunder us. Shafi, he said, had found this out, and told him, and he added that the welled Abdallah Khan had also been told of the plot and warned by the villagers not to stay with us. He called the youth, who confirmed the tale, as did all the others, the four men on foot who had come all the way with Abdallah. It seems probable that an attack really was contemplated, for Shafi could gain nothing by inventing such a story. But, as Wilfrid suggested, it may have been only a way of “expressing the polite feelings of the inhabitants of Jazûn.” He however agreed that we ought to be on the watch and start as soon as possible – at this moment it was really impossible. Guns and revolvers were placed ready and sentinels posted, and Abdallah earnestly assured us he would stand by us. I think he would, he had been a much better guide than his uncle and was besides always ready to help and to wait for the camels at difficult places. After all this agitation, nothing happened except one or two false alarms, and I don’t think I ever slept a sweeter sleep than between nine and two o’clock this night – no mosquitoes and no flies.

It took us more than an hour to load in the dark, and we were not off till past three o’clock; at first feeling our way in single file, led by Abdallah, along a very broken and steep road. For part of the way we had a little assistance from a red crescent moon. At a quarter to six, we had gained the highest point of the ridge, between 1600 and 1700 feet above the sea, making about 900 feet ascent from Jazûn. Here there was at last an open view, down towards the Kurdistan river, with the palm village of Kaïkus plainly visible, and other palm villages beyond the river, and still further something vague, said to be Bebahan.

A gradual descent brought us on to a strip of plain, swarming with cuckoos, beebirds, doves, francolins, and sandgrouse, and dotted with canora trees, singly or in clumps, here and there fields of corn.

The sight of a mound commanding air, if air there should be, decided us to halt, and here we now are, waiting for the decline of day to set out again and ford the river. This plain by the river is hardly more than three hundred feet below the top of the pass we came over this morning.

Sunday, April 20. – Bebahan has been reached at last. Our final march, though not a long one, took us till towards midnight to accomplish, for we had the Kurdistan river to cross. This was the deepest of any we had forded, and there was a long delay in choosing a safe place; and then the water was up to our saddle bows, and running almost like a mill race. But the camels are now so used to water in every form from mud to torrents, that all marched bravely through, a portion only of the luggage getting wet. Unfitted though the country has been in many ways for camels, we may nevertheless congratulate ourselves with the thought that with no other beasts of burden could we have got our luggage across the rivers at all. Loaded mules must have been swept away.

The Kurdistan forms the boundary on this side of the cultivated plain of Bebahan. Beyond it, we found ourselves travelling entirely between cornfields, and along a broad highway towards the capital of Khusistan. When two hours from the town we sent on Hajji Mohammed to announce us to the governor, but the governor was already asleep, and it was with some difficulty that we were admitted by the guard within the gate; nor was it possible in the utter darkness of the night to choose our ground within for camping. In the first open place we stopped, and as we were, lay down and slept (we care little now, how or where it is we lie, the ground is always soft as a feather-bed). Then, with the first light, we went on through the town and stopped again in front of the Seraï. Here I have been writing my journal and sketching the picturesque old palace, with its tottering minarets covered with storks’ nests. “The Shahzade is still sleeping,” say the sentries, “and will not be awakened.”

CHAPTER VI

“Last scene of all…A mere oblivion.” – Shakespeare.

A last rush through the sun – We arrive at Dilam on the Persian Gulf – Politics of the Gulf – A journey “in extremis” – Bushire – The End.

The rest of our journey was little better than a feverish dream of heat and flies. After a day spent at Bebahan, where we were hospitably entertained by the Shahzade, Ahtesham ed-Daulah, a Persian nobleman of real good breeding, we recommenced our weary march, thinking only now to get down to Bushire alive.

The kind invitations of our host could not detain us, nor the polite attentions of his wives, nor the amiable visits of merchants, calendars, and other idle persons, who thronged our lodgings from dawn to dusk. The truth is Bebahan was like a furnace, and we felt that it was more than our strength would stand, to prolong our sufferings over another week. The lowlands of Persia, bordering on the Persian Gulf, are one of the most oven-like regions of the world, and though Bebahan lies nearly 1400 feet above the sea, it shares the climate of the Gulf. We had now, besides, nothing further to fear in the way of robbers or marauders, and prepared ourselves for a last desperate rush through the sun to Bushire. The distance was hardly more than a hundred and twenty miles, but between Bebahan and Dilam there lay a region of hills, worse, according to report, than any we had yet passed, and absolutely impassable for camels. Still we had good reason to feel confident in the climbing powers of our beasts, and could not think of leaving them behind. Accordingly the next day we started, our courage well screwed to the sticking point of endurance, and under escort of three of the Shahzade’s horsemen.