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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



The wooden buildings, however, really 

 need the government's care, for they rep- 

 resent as truly the zenith of a people's 

 development in architecture as do the 

 more enduring but hardly more interest- 



ing remains in northern India, now so, 

 carefully protected. In this case also ' iti 

 is probable that considerable material 

 help would be forthcoming from the 

 richer natives. 



THE AFGHAN BORDERLAND 



By Ellsworth Huntington 



Part II: The Persian Frontier 



O.UR first intimate contact with 

 Afghanistan was at the fort of 

 Zulfagar, in the northwest cor- 

 ner of the country, where Afghan terri- 

 tory touches Transcaspia on the north 

 and Persia on the west. The Heri Rud 

 River here forms the real boundary be- 

 tween Afghanistan and Persia, although 

 the Afghans lay claim to a considerable 

 area on the west bank. Among the bar- 

 ren Persian hills of white clay capped 

 with a hard corniced layer of dark gravel, 

 our caravan of horses and camels came 

 winding down toward the tamarisk jun- 

 , gle which covers the flood-plain of the 

 Heri Rud. Eastward on the other side 

 of the river, undimmed by the clear De- 

 cember air, we saw a mud fort sur- 

 rounded by flat-roofed mud houses at 

 the foot of a fine cliff made up of many 

 layers of horizontally bedded sandstone 

 and shale. 



At first the village appeared lifeless, 

 but soon it became evident that our ap- 

 proach was noticed, for tiny figures, 

 dwarfed by the deceptive distance, ap- 

 peared on the higher roofs, and soon a 

 string of white turbans and shining 

 gun barrels could be seen bobbing river- 

 ward among the thick, drv tamarisk 

 bushes. 



When we emerged from the jungle on 

 our bank of the river a group of soldiers 

 stood opposite us across the broad, 

 muddy stream, while one of their num- 

 ber, a heavy-featured man with well- 

 oiled black hair and a sinister hairlip, 

 was wading waist deep in the cold, swift 



current with his white nether garments 

 of cotton flung over his shoulder. Com- 

 ing ashore some distance below us, he 

 clothed himself and forced his way 

 through the bushes, breathing heavily 

 from fear rather than exertion. 



"Go away ; you can't come here. This 

 is Afghanistan," was his short and per- 

 emptory greeting. Our little Turkoman 

 interpreter, Kurban of Serakhs, refused 

 to' hear what more he had to sav, and 

 sent him unwillingly back to call his 

 chief, with whom alone, according to 

 Oriental ideas, it was fit that foreigners 

 should parley. There was much run- 

 ning to and fro on the other side, with 

 the result that at length a portly man in j 

 voluminous white cotton trousers, a 

 huge white turban, and a dark military 

 cloak appeared on the Afghan bank. 



"What do you want? What right 

 have you to come here?" he shouted 

 across the broad river in reply to Kur- 

 ban's flattering inquiry as to "his health 

 and happiness. 



"Most noble and worthy captain," 

 answered Kurban, with Eastern exag- 

 geration, "my masters are a renowned 

 Russian general, most rich and valiant, 

 and highly in favor with the great Tsar, 

 and a learned American 'Khoja,' who 

 knows all books and can read anything 

 that was ever written. Thev intend to 

 travel across Afghanistan, and therefore 

 bespeak your hospitality." 



"Send them away ; send them awav. 

 They can't come here," was the captain's 

 quick answer, but, bethinking himself. 



