PERSIAN CARAVAN SKETCHES 



441 



mountains twenty miles away. A cus- 

 tomary "connaught," or channel dug un- 

 derground, brought water from a distant 

 mountain stream. Our good Moham- 

 medan companions performed their rit- 

 ualistic ablutions and morning prayers 

 (see illustrations, pages 428 and 429). 



By the next relay it was hot, with chok- 

 ing dust blowing from across the desert, 

 and progress was slow, owing to tracts of 

 deep sand. In desperation we drank 

 some filthy tea, slightly flavored by the 

 saline character of the only available 

 water. Such was our initiation into the 

 delights of traveling by fourgon, Persian 

 Government hay-wagon mail service. 



A PERSIAN WAYSIDE INN 



Toward noon we arrived at a village of 

 low, mud-built houses, clustering around 

 a miniature mosque, with a sparkling 

 blue-tiled dome. A thermometer would 

 have registered well over a hundred in 

 the shade ; so with silent relief cramped 

 legs crawled down from the top of the 

 wagon the moment its creaking and 

 lurching had ceased. 



Inside the road-house (menzil) we 

 found one large smoky room. A wide 

 platform seat, covered with coarse, 

 ragged rugs and lounging occupants, 

 skirted the edge of the room. The 

 "guests" were effectively indistinguish- 

 able from beggars, and our entry had 

 roused most of these habitues from their 

 noonday siesta — or was it a stupor caused 

 by that drug which is the curse of Persia, 

 for there was a smell of opium in the 

 stagnant air. 



The innkeeper, identified by a grimi- 

 ness surpassing that of the others and by 

 the fraternal manner of his welcome, had 

 started blowing up the charcoal in the in- 

 variable Russian samovar. The smoke 

 curled unconcernedly up to the flat, black- 

 ened roof of poplar logs covered with 

 matted branches and earth ; it wantonly 

 dissipated. 



A pilgrim — one could tell it from his 

 blue hat, shaped like an auk's Qgg — was 

 chatting in low gutteral tones to a group 

 by the doorway, probably telling the latest 

 gossip (gufti-git, the Persians call it) 

 from the bazaars of Bagdad. Several 

 were smoking a kalian, water-pipe (see 

 Color Plate VII). Each inhaled deeply 



a draught or two and the overworked 

 mouthpiece, on the end of a coiling tube, 

 was passed on, while the contented in- 

 haler spat lustily on the earthen floor. 

 Others were sipping tea from diminutive 

 glasses with a loud guzzling noise. 



A filthy beggar-like chap, who, to judge 

 by the badge on his felt hat, was a Per- 

 sian gendarme, was drinking from the 

 mouth of a teapot used as the dipper 

 from the kerosene canister in which the 

 daily water supply was kept. I have 

 heard that a Persian's idea of a teapot is 

 that it is a vessel the spout of which is 

 especially adapted to drink from. 



Our lunch of tea, unleavened, pebble- 

 baked bread (see page 455), a thick but- 

 termilk replete with traces of its goat- 

 herd origin, raw cucumbers, and a melon, 

 had been placed on the platform beside us. 

 The hot sunlight was streaming through 

 the one doorway and the few green trees 

 outside looked particularly attractive. I 

 said a prayer with each mouthful and 

 sighed, "Well, this is Persia." 



SMALL TRAVELERS BECAME CLOSELY 

 ATTACHED 



To return to a more absorbing aspect 

 of our perch on the hay-cart, we had been 

 warned that one of the annoying features 

 of riding by mail stage was the Persian 

 attitude toward cleanliness. In a country 

 where it is "considered effeminate to be 

 clean, any man who is obtrusively so is 

 despised," and where "special resentment 

 is harbored against any one who indulges 

 in more than one shave per week," one 

 is not apt to be particular about appear- 

 ances. But the intimacy of our compan- 

 ionship did not let matters rest there. I 

 remember a British Tommy's pathetic 

 complaint during the "hunting season" 

 down in Bagdad: "It ain't their blinkin' 

 bitin' wot gets me fed up ; it's their bally 

 walkin' about !" 



Needless to say. when, after three and 

 a half days of this disquieting method of 

 conveyance, we decided to wait for the 

 next post-cart at Kashan and had finally 

 said Khouda hafis-i-shuma (the Persian 

 farewell) to our fellow-travelers, we 

 most involuntarily took a great many of 

 them with us. so closely had they become 

 attached. 



One of the magical charms of Persia 



