CHAPTER V

THROUGH THE SNOW FROM THE ARAS TO TABRIZ

'They proceeded thence all the next day through the snow.' -XENOPHON, Anabasis, 4. 5. 7.

IMMEDIATELY after crossing the Aras at Julfa I had to proceed to the custom house. There I was received by the Director of the Persian Customs, a Belgian gentleman, who was in charge of the frontier at this point. After scanning my letters of introduction and my official papers, he made an inquiry only as to whether I carried arms and ammunition. I told about the episode across the river with my revolver. When the formalities were over, he extended to me a cordial invitation to be his guest at dinner that evening, an invitation which I gladly promised to accept as soon as I could dispose of my luggage at the Persian rest-house across the way.

This lodging-place was a house founded literally upon the sand, for it was built near the low bank of the Aras; it was long, but not deep, had two stories and fairly large rooms, a double veranda across the front, and a flag-pole on top-the latter a mark of Western influence. About the entrance were strewn bales of cotton, which a caravan had just unloaded, and in the rear was the camel train. The dromedaries were being quartered for the night in the open. They were forced to kneel down in a circle around a bundle of fodder, which helped to keep them in order. The shouts, kicks, blows, and punches of the drivers, which accompanied this proceeding, called forth a score of inarticulate growls, protests, and objections on the part of the camels. It was fortunate perhaps that I did not understand either camel language or camel-driver jargon.

At the telegraph office adjoining the rest-house I received a message from the head of the American Christian Mission at Tabriz saying he had despatched an Armenian servant to meet me, and sent a wagon drawn by four horses, with a Turkish driver named Meshad Seyid Ullah. I welcomed this assurance of a conveyance to take me to Tabriz, found my attendants had arrived, and then enjoyed a delightful evening with my host, who gave me much information regarding the route over which I was to travel. I rested well in my Persian quarters except at intervals when the camels set up a cry of protest against some wrong, real or imaginary.

It was ten o'clock next morning before I succeeded in getting everything ready to start on what proved to be a two days' journey through the snow, and altogether the worst experience I had yet encountered; but when travelling in Persia we become accustomed to discomforts and inconveniences which otherwise would seem unbearable. Two quotations from Hamlet kept recurring to my mind: one was, the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense;' the other, thus bad begins, but worse remains behind' — and worse did remain behind.

For part of the first day the route was through the exposed bed of a river filled with boulders of stone and blocks of ice. Now we were sinking in the water, next plunging into a snowbank, and again extricating the wagon from a deep gulch. The mud on the side hills was nearly up to the hubs, so there was no chance for progress with a vehicle there; nevertheless I was glad to climb up on the heights for a while, and try walking, in order to lighten the load for the struggling horses below.

At distant intervals along the trail there were mud cabins which served as tea-houses (chãi khānah). These gave a welcome excuse for a halt and refreshment. The tea was good, but dirt was plentiful, yet I soon began to be accustomed to that, for the descent to Avernus is easy. The delays in getting started again were exasperating, and I had to keep incessantly

MISHAPS ON THE WAY

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urging, scolding, begging, and bribing the driver to make haste in order to reach Marand that night. The device of the bribe proved the more effective, and resulted in a series of lashes, plied savagely upon the tired horses and accompanied by a succession of encouraging shouts, whistles, grunts, cries, squeals, yells, and chirrups, infinite in variety, but of endless weariness, and alternating with the humming of a tune which might have been the Turkish equivalent of that of which the old cow died.

We managed to keep fairly well in the caravan trail (I cannot call it a road), but once in the darkness we lost it, and a violent collision with a telegraph pole was the result. Fortunately only the harness was broken, not our bones. After making repairs we proceeded tolerably until the village of Marand was reached; there on the bank of a stream the wagon suddenly upset, and I was sent sprawling into the mud, amid bags, boxes, and bundles. The only thing to do was to take the matter good-naturedly and laugh; this cheered the situation immediately, and the villagers came out in a friendly manner from their simple homes, helped me to replace my scattered belongings, and guided us to a place of lodging.

The upper room where I spent the night was fairly comfortable, thanks to a blazing fire, but the heat had the disadvantage of bringing out from the cracks and crevices scores of huge vermin, descendants, perhaps, of the noxious khrafstras of the Avesta. I slept soundly, nevertheless, for a journey of eleven hours is conducive to weariness, although the distance covered, despite all my efforts, was only forty-five miles.

As a place, Marand is no longer of any consequence, although it was once an important town. Yakut says that even in his time, seven centuries ago, it was partly abandoned and falling into ruins because of the ravages of the Turkish tribes who swept down upon it, carrying off the inhabitants and leaving desolation in their wake.1 It is clear from his account that 1 Yakut, p. 524.