On the "Roof of the World' 1 161 



came and vindicated the honour of the greatest 

 traveller that ever lived. 



My first shooting camp was pitched at the 

 western end of the Pamir, in a valley called 

 Kukturuk, as dreary a spot at the time of year 

 as any in Asia a snowy plain, only relieved by 

 patches of green and blue which marked the turns 

 of a frozen stream. Around us rolling mountains, 

 whose uniform whiteness was only broken here 

 and there by the black of a scarped rock. My 

 Kanjuti porters had returned to their own country, 

 having been replaced by yaks and magnificent 

 shaggy camels of the two-humped kind, supplied 

 by my Khirgiz friends, to carry tents and baggage. 

 The camels were loaded with a yurt, one of the 

 portable felt huts in which the nomads of these 

 parts live. They consist of a lattice framework, 

 over which pieces of felt are thrown, the whole 

 being anchored to the ground by ropes. In the 

 centre is a stove made of mud, in which burtza 

 roots or dry argols are burnt, the only fuel 

 obtainable on the Pamirs. These yurts are both 

 roomy and warm dwellings, but the acrid smoke, 

 which finds an escape with difficulty through a 

 hole in the roof, soon drove me to the conclusion 

 that my own tent was preferable, in spite of its 

 coldness. The only warm spot inside the latter 

 was the interior of my sleeping-bag of reindeer 



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