VIII. Takla Makan–Karashahr (1926)

Nicholas Roerich — Altai-Himalaya

Timur Bey is our new caravaneer. Wherever you look, there are some historical names; all are Shahs, Sultans, Beys. Even the most insignificant one appropriates to himself the title Akhun. He comes to weigh our things. The arrangement of the scale transports one into the Neolithic Age. On a beam hangs a stick with some “magic” circles and signs. A massive green piece of jade on a little string slides along as a counterbalance for the trunk and “the magi” in a round little cap proclaims the number seen by him alone. Truly we found such stones with holes from the Neolithic Age and we called themgrusily, plumb-lines; but more correctly, these are weights.

We must go eastward and that is why tomorrow we go toward the west! The stops on the way to Kashgar are: 1. Zawa; 2. Pialma; 3. Zangu Chuda; 4. Guma bazaar; 5. Cholak; 6. Ak-kim; 7. Karghalik; 8. Posgam; 9. Yarkand; 10. Kokrabat; 11. Kizil; 12. Yangi Hissar; 13. Yaberchat; 14. Kashgar.

Our friends, the Kalmucks, passed us yesterday on the shortest way to Aksu and Karashahr. In the darkness of dawn, past our gates, rang the low-toned bells of their camels. They carried rugs from Khotan to Toin Lama. With them they also carried many valuable messages which can be appreciated by the Buddhist consciousness.

Again in our caravan there will be three currents: Buddhist, Moslem, Chinese. The last one is the weakest. The last invention of Ts’ai Han Chen—the banner of the expedition with the big inscription “Lo” (Roerich) which also means “Alarm,” is put on a vivid red staff. Ts’ai Hang Chen took our cards to the officials and, as we expected, the rogues, Taotai and Amban, assured us that they had greatly helped us.

The mafas came for the lama and Ts’ai Han Chen. It is evident that these carriages have not changed since the fifteenth century. They would be good for any museum. Kudai-Berdi-Bai brought a dastarkhan in the shape of roasted mutton and pastry. Incidentally, the Chinese colonel also realized that something unfortunate had happened. Again loads; again woolly caps; again the ferocious roar of Tumbal. In the morning we started on the road. For the last time the little birds of Khotan came flying to us. And sheep came. Tumbal, like a black statue, became seemingly transfixed on the pile of baggage.