Wild Sheep in Khorassan 165 



national costumes. At the main northern gate 

 enter Kurds, Caucasians, Bokhariots, and repre- 

 sentatives of the Central Asian tribes and peoples 

 that own Russian and Chinese sway. Within, 

 folk jostle one another who have come from places 

 so far separated as Kashgar and Zanzibar. It 

 is a wonderful crowd; "some in rags, and some 

 in tags, and some in silken gowns," but all have 

 more or less rid themselves of the stains of travel 

 in honour of the shrine. They come on camels, 

 on mules, on asses, on their own ten toes. From 

 the Russian side they arrive in huge four -horse 

 fourgons, packed with an indefinite number of 

 passengers. I would roughly estimate the human 

 load of one of these at twice that of a bank holiday 

 charabanc, of which indeed it vaguely reminds 

 one, but it might be more. There are young 

 and old, male and female. Some have barely 

 strength to totter in at the gate, but these never 

 expect to pass out again. They have come to 

 die, happy in the knowledge that their bones 

 will be committed to sacred soil. The ears of 

 many arrivals are already closed to the murmur 

 of camel bells and the sounds of the march. 

 Corpses are brought for burial in Meshed from 

 far and near, so that the holy city has become 

 one vast cemetery. I remember a solitary Kurd 

 horseman on that white stretch of road with an 



