# Nicholas Roerich. Altai-Himalaya

## VIII. Takla Makan–Karashahr (1926)

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**January 27, 1926**

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.

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**January 28, 1926**

From seven o’clock in the morning we collected the caravan. We saw the type of work of
Ladakis—swift, energetic. Worse is that of the Dardistans and Kashmiris. Good is the
work of Nepalese, but worst of all, that of Khotanese. Such laziness and incapacity is
hard to imagine. From seven to twelve they loaded forty horses with effort. We went
through Khotan; again we were convinced that whatever bears the marks of old Khotan is
not so bad and shows remnants of carving, of some ornamentation and proportion. But
everything new has become a senseless heap of clay and pitiful stakes. At the bazaar you
sometimes see faces, not wicked, but depressed and void of any expression.

It is clear that places like Khotan have exhausted their old sap and can be rejuvenated
only by a radical reconstruction. The Chinese sit behind the clay walls of the Chinese
city. They show no desire to cooperate with the population. They remain accidental
newcomers, and do not think of making any improvements to help. Life has become dusty
and brains have become dusty. A flash of vigorous lightning is needed.

From afar appears the silhouette of light gray Kunlun. It grieves one to depart from
this remarkable range—it grieves one to realize that the Himalayas are again receding.

Again we have a guard of five soldiers. It is not known whether we are guarding them or
whether they are guarding us. Karakash darya is frozen and the horses break through the
thin ice. The morning is cold but by midday the sun is already burning. Buds are on the
branches. Beside the road perch gray-crested larks. We passed nine wayside towers. Again
Zawa, Ts’ai Han Chen says smiling, with a toothless mouth, “The Taotai of Khotan thinks
that we will return again to Khotan. Such a stupid official!”

But now all thoughts of stupid officials are far from us because we are again in the
desert. Again the purple of the evening sands; again bonfires. The caravan with our
belongings is much delayed, and we wait quite at ease as though these things which so
much complicate life do not exist. On the sands are many-colored feltings. The gay
tongues of flame, fiery and courageous, whirl out toward the endless long evening
clouds. In the evening, in Zawa, it was apparent that the bek and officer who were
stationed with us smoked opium. George asked Ts’ai Han Chen to reprimand them. He said,
“Of course, it is very bad, but to the chief protector of opium a statue is erected.”
And the light of the moon and the silence of the night were again permeated with human
poison. . . .

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**January 29, 1926**

<p>
Before dawn we ourselves had again to arouse the whole caravan. Timur Bey went away
somewhere and proved himself a sluggard. I began to call alongside the tents in Tibetan,
“Long, long, long”—as the Tibetans cry early in the morning, rousing the people. On the
hillock, a man with a big horn came out and began to blow a sustained note in all
directions. It seems that it is the miller notifying the peasants that he is ready to
grind grain.
<a id="t4p-55-N1"></a><span text4placeid:55>
Again the desert. Again a
mazar
with doves. But now the traces of light snow are everywhere. The silvery tones have
become more severe. The snowy mountains toward the left become more ethereal and more
varied. But the sands are as wearisome as before. We have seldom become so tired. In
the twilight—the message from the desert from the back of an unknown camel: “In Pialma
the water has dried up.” Well, we shall go somehow. At eight o’clock, in the darkness,
under a dull moon, we enter Pialma. Here, awaiting us is the Swedish missionary,
Nystrom (in Chinese, Liseti). According to his tales, he had many such cases as ours
with the Chinese officials. The same hypocritical instability and insolent changing of
decisions.
</span>
</p>

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**January 30, 1926**

The fog descends. Around us is the bluish-white fog and the circular plateau of the
sands. Sometimes the sands assume a sculptural character or resemble the shell of a
pearl. But still today we are going along a very flat plateau with rare low
*burkhans,* thin abrupt little bushes. Half-covered, lies the skeleton of a
donkey. Here, half-ruined towers—*potais*—stick out. Each one of them ten
*li* apart. One can easily cross a *potai* in forty minutes. The waves of
the sand merge into an even line on the horizon. What could disturb the monotony of this
plateau?

In the desert of Khotan, a rumor reached us about the well-known traveler, Kosloff. They
say that when Kosloff was in Karashahr, there was a “horrible dragon” living there, but
the courageous Russian *bogatyr* conquered the dangerous dragon, conjured him,
and sealed him in a glass jar. By this act the whole district was saved. They speak of
the buried cities and they point with their hands toward Takla-Makan. A sort of
reverence and superstitious fear resound as they pronounce the name of the great desert.
In this direction are spread two narrow files of caravans. They go from Pialma for fuel.
And here is nothing else. And no sounds. And no colors. And the pearly dust winds into a
blue curtain. Like ancient catafalques the *mafas* proceed rhythmically and the
purple wheels slowly turn. The red cloak of the Chinese officer shows flame-colored. As
protection from the wind he has donned the most amazing yellow cape with the longest red
cloak. Whence this invention? In it are buried some thousands of years.

To the left the file of a caravan departs. Where to? This is the direction straight to
Tibet, to Chang-thang. Yes, so it is, they go to the Tibetan lakes for salt. And here is
another memorable meeting! From afar, is silhouetted a small man. He walks boldly. His
gait is not that of a Sart; and a Chinese does not go solitary through the desert. A cap
with ear-laps. A gray cloak. Yes, it is a Ladaki. They will go anywhere, all alone in
the desert. We meet. He shows all his teeth, and they start to gleam, and he stretches
out his hand. “Djuli, Djuli,” he greets. And he is attracted toward us. We find mutual
acquaintances. We tell him whither each one went. One to Chang-thang; another through
Kokyar; another was freezing in Sanju. And what is it that brings us so close to the
Ladakis? Wherefore this common tongue? Wherefrom, this united valiant step? Wherefrom
the courage of lonely marches? We wanted to keep this passing friend with us.

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**January 31, 1926**

After the wind and fog the vivid morning glows radiantly. We go as far as Chuda; the
people ask us to defer the pass to Guma for two days. We shall do this. The Chinese
department of the caravan disintegrated first. On the fourth day Ts’ai Han Chen already
had the appearance of a corpse. Tang-ke-chang collapsed and even remained somewhere on
the road. Sung lost his gloves and became irritated. The Chinese soldier lost his horse.
Altogether it was again apparent to us, that, for a march, the Chinese are absolutely
unfit. Ts’ai Han Chen excellently mounted butterflies. Chang was carefully preoccupied
beside his bed because a proper Chinese bed has to look like a mountain. Sung boldly
attacked the Sarts. The soldiers and officers in caps resembled anything except
warriors. And the guns with their muzzles hermetically stuffed-up and with the triggers
bound up are transformed from an active apparatus into a symbol. It is true there are no
robbers here, but in any case this entire troop would run at sight of the first
organized column.

Again we find the bluish-white spots of snow. From the north side of each
*barkhan* is hidden some such light, fragrant spot. Assuredly the snow gives to
the ground an especial fragrance. One cannot believe that today is the last day of
January—it is spring. The Turkis are working better today, and for this they receive a
sheep. Poor ones—they appreciate every token. Apparently the proprietor of the caravan
is pressing them. And what kind of a “ladder of octopi” is this? Gegen is again angry at
the Chinese.

It is pleasant to come to the encampment before dark. Yes, yes, verily, it is spring. I
have been painting.

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**February 1, 1926**

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Guma Bazaar. We marched through some fantastic sand formations. At times it seemed as
though these were remains of stupas or towers. There is more snow. The white slopes give
the impression of shores and between them it seems as though there were a sea. So
convincing is the impression of the sea that one has to remind one’s self that in the
desert there are no such water surfaces.

<p>
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Again a dusty garden is “prepared” for us; again beks and soldiers. We had hardly
succeeded in spreading our tents before the Amban came. Our impression of him is
better than that of the one in Khotan. The Amban knows about our Khotan troubles. He
is indignant at the Khotan officials. He wonders how one can prohibit a painter from
working
</span>
and confirms the fact that the road to Tun-huang through the desert is very difficult.
And for the
“T’ai-T’ai”
it would be impossible to go on such a road for two months. The conversation turns to
childish themes. In Guma it is very hot in summer; it is hotter than in Kansu. In
Urumchi it is now very cold; it is impossible to sit outdoors as we do here. In Guma the
horses are not good but in Kashgar there are tall horses and the best pacing horses are
in Karashahr. All this we also knew without him. With the Amban is his nine-year-old
son. Afterward they put father and son into a vividly-colored two-wheeled conveyance—
*mafa*
—and all go away. And George has again to go on horseback to pay his return visit. There
is a crowd at the gates. Above the clay walls a mass of heads in woolly caps peer out.
The soldiers are noisily whipping the uninvited spectators, tomorrow we shall stop in
Selyak instead of Cholak. In Cholak all the water has dried up.
</p>

The evening ends with Chinese dances. A procession with paper lanterns arrives. Before
the gates of the garden, a close circle is formed and they begin to dance. First, an old
man, a young woman and a camel. The young woman runs away from the old man; he catches
her and the camel decoratively shakes his woolly neck.

Then the dance of the ship accompanied by a song. In a red paper boat swings “the
beauty,” and the boatman, in a role like Charon, is rowing at the bow of the boat.
Afterwards dragons and horsemen on paper horses. They sing: “As in the heaven are being
born the stars, so from the earth, are emerging the waters.” It is not subtle but there
is nothing common or insolent about it. Voices of grown-ups mingle with clear young
voices. The darkness of the night is filled with the movements of a simple and not
unruly crowd.

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**February 2, 1926**

<p>
A wintry white desert. The torrents are frozen.
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A flat plain abruptly commences after Guma Bazaar. On the horizon are low snowy hills.
On account of the water we had to stop in Selyak at one o’clock in the afternoon. We
have not yet had such short crossings as these. Selyak is a simple clay serai for
caravans, with a few gnarled trees amidst the silent desert.
</span>
A gray sky. An eastern wind. Some camels, half a dozen dogs and the frightened children
of the proprietor. Nothing else. And here strange information reaches us about Khotan.
Karken Bey—alias Moldavak—who looked so remarkably like a European, proclaimed himself a
Persian citizen, but proved to be a director of the Ottoman bank and a Catholic. This
is, verily, a strange combination. In his workshop they are imitating carpets, following
the ones found in the editions of the British Museum. With what firm in London or Paris
is he connected? And in what antique shops does one encounter his imitations?
</p>

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At the bazaar in Guma the women lifted back their veils from their faces in order to see
us better. The veil, thrown back, is put together like a
*kokoshnik*
(Slavonic headgear). Probably the form of some
*kokoshniks*
developed from the raised veil. The bek in Guma is an absolute “Sadko” and he does not
even have to use make-up. There are characters ready-made for all the operas of
Rimsky-Korsakoff.

In the road the soldiers are telling our T’sai Han Chen the reason why their horses are
so poor. “The officials bill the government twenty-five or thirty
*scars,*
but they themselves pay fifteen or ten.” They all are speaking about the murder of the
Kashgar Titai by the Taotai of Khotan. Somehow the murderer hastened to put an end to
the arrested one, without the trial of the Governor-General. Everywhere are mercenary
motives of some kind.

We had to leave Chang in Guma. He collapsed completely—an example of the destructive
effect of opium. As soon as the smoker, from out his smoky den, comes into vigorous
conditions of nature, he falls apart like a card house.

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The water in Selyak is like weak coffee. The tea turns out to be ugly looking and
unsavory. Again we are setting up the tents. Not far off is a lonely tomb with two
animal tails on the bent stakes. I have been painting.

We are reading Vladimirtzeff’s description of the life of Jenghis Khan. A fine, vital
savant is Vladimirtzeff. Recently he has published several books and all of such virile
content! And so needed for the time! It is a pity that Rudnief is silent. One ought to
translate the description of the life of Jenghis Khan for America. This enterprising
fundamental spirit will be valued there.

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**February 3, 1926**

During the night the caravans pass by—the bells of the camels ring out as a complete
orchestra. Finally one caravan walks against our tent and almost crushes it. From
morning on there is a wind. The desert is completely white. The winter has started and
through the entire long crossing we go as in the far north. We pass an old
*langar* with the ruins of towers. The low trees stand out in silhouette and we
can see Ak-kem—a small village with a few little huts. Our caravan is very much delayed
and we sit and wait once more.

Again endless tales about the cowardice of the Chinese colonel T’ung-ling); about the
treachery of Taotai; about the stupidity of the Amban. Never and nowhere before have we
heard such unanimous condemnation of the officials. It is even boring to set it down; it
cannot continue like this; new China will have completely to change the character of its
officials. Sung fell twice from the horse. The Chinese department of the caravan is
completely without luck. E.I. has been trotting on her horse from eight to four. This is
astonishing. In some former time she must have been a rider.

From somewhere they are bringing very beautiful feltings, as coverings for the floor. In
Khotan we saw none like these. A complicated mosaic design. Better than the carpets.
Truly, koshmas and chintzes are the best of the local industries. The designs of the
chintzes are the same as in Russia in the seventeenth century or earlier. I have been
painting.

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**February 4, 1926**

From Ak-kem to Karghalik is a short but a cold crossing along the snowy desert. They say
that in a day the snow will again disappear. Somehow the strip from Selyak to Karghalik
is always exceptionally snowy. Maybe it is the influence of some range of
mountains—other reasons are not apparent. The other peculiarity of the local places is
that silver and even gold become absolutely black; probably the consistency of the soil
contributes to this. Gradually along the extended outskirts we enter the Karghalik
Bazaar. Alas! By its severe smell it recalls ill-smelling Srinagar. We ask why it is so
dirty here, worse than in Guma. The customary reply: “Amban pu hao.” That means a “mean
Amban.”

We receive quarters in the very bazaar itself amidst unbelievable dirt. We had to resign
ourselves to our operetta escort, the beks, and look for a garden outside the city. We
found a solitary house with a garden, Tomorrow, the gloomy possessions of the Khotan
Taotai end. Will it be better? One thing this criminal could not spoil: he could not
contaminate the air of the desert. A wonderful prelude to spring. The air is brisk.

The day ends again with dances. The dragon and the boat are seen again. But best of all
is the dance on stilts. The natural artists reveal themselves. The same Russian dance
concerning a young man’s courtship of a maiden is accompanied by strings resembling the
balalaika. Diaghileff and Bolm could find suggestions for their compositions. And the
servants in red with paper lanterns are not bad. This little fragment of creation for a
minute lit up the deadness of the desert.

Here are less goiters. Give to this people at least a small window of light and the
vehement fire of the hearts will flare up.

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**February 5, 1926**

<p>
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Karghalik said farewell poorly. The beks, stationed with us, appeared to be idiots. We
could not get any horses; finally one bek appeared on a wild colt which kicked
Olla—the horse of E.I. The blow fell just on the leg of E.I. But happily it was
softened by the Gilgit soft boots.
</span>
And, truly, why should they force upon us these beks and soldiers? Besides discomfort
and expense they do not contribute anything. Yesterday a Chinese came to be hired as a
servant. As it happened, he remained in Karghalik after the murder of the Amban by the
soldiers—many murders. We ask our Tsung why even the beks in Karghalik are bad. The
stereotyped answer: “Amban is mean.” (They pronounce it here not Amban but Ambal.)
</p>

<p>
The snow stopped at once beyond Karghalik. Apparently the snowy expanse ended; but then
the white salt marshes started.
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We passed two bazaars. We passed wretched mosques and cemeteries and we entered the
long Posgam bazaar. We do not stay in the tents but in the house of the elder, a big
house with dark little rooms. Again many-colored feltings are on the floor; the table
and armchairs are even upholstered with leather. Of course this house was pointed out
to us by an incidental Punjabian from the bazaar because all the beks only hindered us
from moving. When will these hopelessly monotonous habitations end, deprived of color
and deteriorating in filth and wilderness? We have just passed a forge. Of course it
would be wonderful for the details of a setting of the Nieblungen, but as an
agricultural instrument it cannot be of any worth. In the little holes are half-naked
men and children blowing into toy-like bellows. Take away the excitement of the
caravan and everything will sink into a complete paralysis.
</span>
</p>

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**February 6, 1926**

Almost the entire crossing to Yarkand is amidst the peaceful borders of oases. For a
moment the rumbling surface of Yarkand darya glimmered. For a moment the colorful
crossing on rafts amidst the icy shores flashed out, amidst the gathering of horses,
camels, mules and *mafas;* and afterward the *mazars* and clay huts. And
the heavy-topped trunks of the willows beside the road. Thus up to Yarkand itself, up to
the clay walls. Again a house is prepared for us, in the bazaar itself; but there
appears a deliverer in the shape of a Ladaki Aksakal. They lead us out of town and in a
quiet garden we find a white house with quarters for our men, with red carpets and, most
important, with the Lhasa language of the Aksakal himself. From Posgam our farewell was
the salutation of the Punjabi—“Urus Kharosh.” And here is the familiar Tibetan language.
We visit the Swedish missionaries. We cure our old man, the Chinese; we listen again to
different tales of the local customs; how Chinese officials are driving the population
toward complete ruin, after which they easily govern the pauperized pariahs. A letter
came from the English Consul. He invites us to stop with him. The local Asiatic bank
also offers three rooms in Kashgar.

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**February 7, 1926**

A day in Yarkand. Our people are eating mutton. Silence. A strange thing; absolutely all
beg to continue with us. Even the Chinese soldiers of the escort say they would joyfully
go further with us. A Chinese captain entered our service as a sweeper; also an officer,
an Armenian, the major-domo of the former Amban; they all beg us; so that until we reach
Urumchi we shall go in a strange international combination. We paid a visit to the local
Amban. He makes a better impression than the Khotan “rulers.”

When our Ts’ai Han Chen began to relate the circumstances of our Khotan captivity, the
Amban became sincerely indignant. But the most remarkable thing is that, according to
the words of the Amban, letters from Peking about our passage were received everywhere
with requests to help us along. The Amban is indignant. How did the Khotan people dare
to disregard the order from Peking?

Again we pass through bazaars as in Khotan. A slight variation. On the doorways of the
*yamen,* instead of a catlike dragon, there are pictures of a series of warriors
with swords. At three o’clock the soldiers and the beks come to us and, preceded by a
red umbrella, arrives the Amban himself. Then follows a peaceful tea-party. The Amban
apologizes that he could not arrange a good lunch because of our hasty departure. After
many agreeable compliments, we part. A Chinese doctor comes for Ts’ai Han Chen. The
sentries stand in black turbans.

Chinese theater follows. They are trying out the horses. A peaceful medieval nonsense as
in the paintings of Vinckboons.

From somewhere rumors creep into Yarkand about some events in China; about the movements
of Feng, about the closing of banks in Peking; about the actions of the old dynasty! But
no one knows anything and one cannot understand a thing.

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**February 8, 1926**

Buddha was opposed to prisons. He demanded labor and intensive work. In Darjeeling not
long ago there was an interesting case. In a crowd an old lama was arrested. He did not
try to vindicate himself and was put into prison. Then came the time to liberate him but
the prisoner would not come out. He said that never and nowhere did he have such a quiet
place, where there was no noise, where they fed one and did not disturb his meditation.
With difficulty they persuaded the old man to leave the prison.

The lama says: “Do not beat people but let them justly work out their penalty.” This
remark is provoked on seeing that the beks are striking people and are planting furrows
of hatred, protests and humiliation.

At the time of our departure we do not escape a fray. Yarkand itself makes a much better
impression than Khotan; it is bigger in size and more varied in its trade; and even the
clay towers and walls give a certain decorative impression. And there, beyond the tops
of the trees, appear the mountains—the ridge of Kashgar, which does not leave our left
the whole way. And everything becomes beautified; and tiny ice-covered lakes and blue
rivers and brown hillocks appear against a blue background of rocky mountains. We love
the mountains so much! Our own planet would be very mountainous!

Again trouble with the Chinese. It appeared that Ts’ai Han Chen has started to smoke
opium and has begun to demoralize the rest of the caravan. We shall have to use severe
measures. We are standing behind the boundary of a little village, Kokrabat. It will be
announced that everyone who smokes opium will be discharged immediately.

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**February 9, 1926**

Again the *mazars,* the graves with banners. Little mosques for the
*Namaz.* How much more touching is the *Namaz* in the desert on a little
rug before the face of heaven, than the *Namaz* before a barren clay wall. Very
humble, these by-way clay mosques, with crooked walls and toy-like turrets. Where did
the creativeness of this country disappear to? For the whole time we have seen only one
filigree earring, not bad, and a couple of silver buttons. In the sun, women on donkeys
with bright green and scarlet *chekmens,* are gracefully riding by. It seems as
though there are fewer goiters here than in Khotan. It is an interesting problem to
investigate the cause of that monstrous growth of the thyroid gland. Aside from the
quality of the water there must be other reasons.

A man rides past us with a falcon in his hands. The falcon hunt is still the favorite
sport here. We are followed by flocks of meddling crows and ravens. We remember how in
Mongolia you sometimes have to shoot them to rid yourself of the innumerable flocks of
crows that attack the horses. We are going along the Kara-kum sands—meaning the black
sands. A layer of chipped stones and pebbles gives a grayish pearly surface to the
desert. At the left the masses of mountains continue. It is strange to think that beyond
these mountains is already Russian Turkestan, and that these ranges end in the heights
of Pamir. It is the first day, after three months, when the desert is really beautiful,
colorful and varied. And the blue sky adorns itself with an especially subtle design of
feathery white cloudlets. Upon the crests of the mountains the snow glitters. The pink
foothills disappear into a blue mist out of which emerges the outline of the ridges. A
bright day.

The men are anticipating the visit to Kashgar. Everything that is good in Kashgar is
called foreign. The good houses are foreign. The good boots are foreign. The good horses
are foreign. The good carts are foreign. We are passing two or three abandoned
*langars—*inns. And in clouds of darkening dust we enter Kizil where we will
camp. The crossing is considered a long one but we already have arrived at two-thirty.
Kizil is a strange, half-abandoned place with silent clay squares of huts. A big old
Moslem cemetery. From afar it looks like a whole big city of red clay. The holes of the
old graves are black. The people complain about Ts’ai Han Chen. The old man smoked opium
the whole night. We decided to let him go as soon as possible. We cannot retain in the
caravan such an unpleasant example; Sung holds out better than the rest of the Chinese.
He does not smoke and shows resourcefulness. We asked him why the little finger on his
left hand was amputated. It appears he was a terrible gambler who lost everything,
became poor, and in order to pay his debts, he himself cut off his little finger, and
thus we have one gambler, one officer of the murdered Amban, one from the caravan of the
murdered American, Langdon; one a confirmed smoker of opium—quite a variety.

Our Ladaki, Ramsana, adorned himself to such an extent that he even pinned to his chest
two buckles from a garter. But the greatest desire of Ramsana is to carry a gun, and
ride a good horse. He is eighteen years old and a useful man can be made out of him. His
father is a Moslem and his mother a Buddhist. By some kind of marks the lamas recognized
in him the reincarnated dead abbot of the monastery, but his father, a confirmed Moslem,
interfered with his monastic career.

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**February 10, 1926**

Mist; the north wind and dense clouds of mist. For long we journeyed through sandy
corridors and deep creeks. For a long time we have not seen such an amount of
all-pervading sand. Then gray salt marshes appeared and low hillocks of a bluish-brown
tone. It became more beautiful, and when we approached Kingul darya with high shores,
with a frozen high hanging bridge, with dams and with a cluster of houses and walls, it
became quite lovely. Such landscapes one finds on old Chinese drawings. We entered into
the long bazaar of Yangi Hissar. A house was prepared in the bazaar and as usual it was
not good. We stopped in the Swedish Mission. The conversation was about Stockholm, about
the curing of goiter with iodine and the movement of Feng toward Sinkiang.

They say that behind the grave of Mohammed there is an empty grave prepared for Jesus,
in the time of his second coming. In Ispahan, in Persia, they keep a saddled white horse
ready for the coming of the Messiah. Everyone in his own way.

Just now the Hindu merchants came to give us their “salaam” and to greet us upon our
arrival. They show us photographs of the crucified Titai and of his murdered son. They
recount the medieval details of this murder, without trial. In general the stories of
Khotan coincide except for the details of the beheading. Here they say that the
crucified ruler remained on the cross for two days, and that then his body was thrown
out somewhere. And now the *mazar* (the grave) built by the ruler stands empty.
In the papers little was described of this tragedy of crucifixion. Here continue
crucifixions and treachery, the sale of people and generous remuneration for murderers.
The hastening of evolution is necessary.

They say that near Kashgar are the ruins of a Buddhist temple. So it must be, because in
these regions Buddhism existed; but it is interesting that we did not happen to hear
previously about these ruins. That means that in Kashgar there are mosques and the
*mazar* of Miriam and the ruins of Buddhism!

The evening is spent with the Swedish folk. A quiet supper. We hear tales about the
richness of this country where not more than three per cent of the area is cultivated.
In the near-by mountains, iron, copper, silver and coal are found. The murdered Titai
intended to start certain developments, but now these possibilities have again been
sunken into darkness.

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**February 11, 1926**

We bid farewell to the hospitable family of Anderson. The seven-month-old Sven stared
with his blue eyes at E.I., caught her finger tightly and did not want to let her go. We
spoke about the fertility of the district where, besides varied vegetables, many
curative herbs: ricinus, licorice, digitalis and others, are growing wild. One can
imagine how the plain would develop under the tractors of Ford. They speak about the
absence of forests in these localities; but two days’ march away (and the crossings are
short) there is a wonderful store of coal. We take with us a piece of this product which
does not fall below the best samples. And may it not be that here in the neighborhood
there is oil? Or that there is radium in the mountains? At that, how easy it is to plant
whole spaces with trees. While excavating, great stumps have often been found in these
places as well as the trunks of former forests. It is only necessary to apply the least
diligence and resourcefulness and the district will become unrecognizable. There is
plenty of water during the summer; one has only to collect it in reservoirs. Now in
February the days are just like spring. Only December and January are cold. The cold air
of the night is of a refreshing nature. If the Chinese would only not fear everything
new and if their officials were chosen according to merit and not according to their
capacity for robbing! Otherwise, whence this incomprehensibly speedy enrichment of the
Ambans and Taotais? By such means every manifestation of assiduity is only for the ends
of the most speedy enrichment of the officials, immersed in opium and gambling. We
stopped in Yaberchat, a small place four hours from Kashgar. We could easily have made
the route to Kashgar in one day, but on account of the pack horses we had to stay in the
outskirts, among heavy-topped willows and clay walls.

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**February 12, 1926**

Mist, low brush, naked willows and a bumpy road, with crossings over ice-covered
streams. First we pass the new city of Kashgar. The walls are more imposing than the
Yarkand walls. There is more verve and motion in the bazaar. Prisoners in chains are
begging alms for their food. Between the new and the old city is a distance of about two
*p’o-t’ai.* Toward us ride two “vividly red Chaprassi” from the English Consul.
The Consul awaits us for breakfast while the house of the local bank is being made
ready. The British Consul and his wife inquire sympathetically about the affairs at
Khotan. In the bank they speak “about the character” of the Chinese administration. It
seems that the Khotan Taotai is known in the whole province and nobody is astonished at
his action. The caravan arrives. The things are brought in.

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**February 13, 1926**

The Chinese New Year! At four o’clock in the morning we are awakened by the noise of
firecrackers and rockets. Behind the wall is a pillar of flame and shots are heard. We
thought it was a fire.

Major Gillan, the British Consul, and his wife came. It appears that they are both
Scotch. Among the Scotch we long ago found sympathetic people, and these belong to a
fine type of Scotch clans. The Ladaki Aksakal comes. He is a Moslem who lived for a long
time in Lhasa and Shigatse. The translator of the consulate comes. He complains of the
increase of smoking of opium and hemp hashish. The rich permit themselves the luxury of
using expensive opium, and the poor ones dope themselves with homemade hashish. The
possibility of earning a livelihood is very poor here. Formerly about thirty thousand
people went each year to other countries for their living.

And again endless tales about the enrichment of Chinese officials by pillage. When you
are seated in a peaceful Chinese restaurant in America, remember about the robbers—the
Taotais and Ambans—who are keeping the people in complete torpor. Let the sight-seeing
motors to Chinatown remind you how millions of people are perishing in the darkness of
ignorance.

The director of the branch of the local bank, A., comes. A new wave of information. Each
part of the province has its own money, which is accepted with reluctance in the
neighboring provinces. In Kashgar are *sars;* in Urumchi, *lans,* which
have the value of one-third of a *sar;* in Kuldja, they have their own
*lans,* which the population calls roubles. At that, half or a quarter of a
*lan* is obtained by tearing the bill into corresponding parts. As a result of
such operations the monetary symbols are turned into tatters, deprived of any
designation. But when it is necessary to give the symbol its former value, one pastes
under it some pieces of any kind of paper. One may receive *lans* of which
one-half consists of an advertisement of a sale of soap or something as unexpected.

We see the Swedish missionary, Palmberg. In spite of the medical activity of the Swedish
Missions, they are periodically subject to persecution on the part of the officials.
Recently they even had to temporarily discontinue the work, and yet they are the only
doctors in the whole large district. Not even at the garrison is there a doctor. The
local inhabitants tell us that nowhere in the world do people know what is occurring in
abandoned Chinese Turkestan, left as it is to the plunder of a handful of ignoramuses.
They beseech us: “Write and tell to the world about the deterioration of an entire
country into a savage state.” Again prisoners in chains are passing, begging alms. This
custom was common in the fifteenth century, but to see it in usage now astonishes one.

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**February 14, 1926**

We are sitting in semi-inactivity because the Chinese New Year is being celebrated for
several days. I remember how the American Consul in Calcutta, dear Mr. Jenkins, figured
out all the days of the year which were not affected by the holidays of the different
local nationalities. There remained only fifty-two working days. And here they
celebrated the European New Year and now the Chinese. The various explanations hinder
greatly the calculations of the months. Moslem, Chinese, Tibetan—all these calculate
different dates.

A Sart comes and says that near Kucha the inhabitants are destroying the remains of the
Buddhist temples. . . . The reason is that many travelers and Chinese are interested in
these ruins and frescoes, and it is difficult for the people to accommodate all these
guests. They built a great fire within the ruins, and the frescoes were destroyed. One
may suspect also another cause—the ancient iconoclasm of the Moslems. Whether by this or
some other means, soon these small remnants of Tokhars and Uigurs will also disappear.

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**February 15, 1926**

In the morning we visit the Taotai. The impression is one of good-nature. The
*yamen* has a more livable aspect. One does not see the tattered soldiers. There
is no crowd of beks. Mr. Tao, the manager of the foreign department, is also present. Of
course, our passports appear to be absolutely correct. The letters of recommendation are
found excellent. And they express astonishment at the actions of Khotan. They will
immediately send a telegram to the Governor-General about the return of our arms. During
the day we saw the Swedish missionary, Torquist, and many inhabitants of the local
colony. It is curious to notice that for a long time now, the Governor-General has
attempted to leave Urumchi with his pillaged goods. But the neighboring province does
not permit him to pass without the payment of a tribute of many millions. Thus, one of
his caravans, comprising several wagons with silver, has already been confiscated. Now
the “dignitary” is trying to transfer his capital to foreign banks. One also should note
that after the murder of the Titai and his son, in Kashgar, their families suffered
complete robbery. The earrings were ripped out of the ears of the son’s wife. They
brought a photo of the crucified Titai. Friends, look upon this brutality committed
without trial and without thought of responsibility! Incidentally, they say that the
Taotai from Aksu is already collecting soldiers to proceed to Khotan. The pillaged goods
do not lie in the same place for long.

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**February 16, 1926**

The Taotai arrived. Boring conversations about the cult of ancestors, about astrology,
about the weather. He looked at the photographs of my paintings. He said that he had
already telegraphed to Urumchi about permission for us to proceed. These permissions for
each step recall the most brutal times and we are bored by it, to the last degree. Even
to complain about the rudeness of the officials, one needs permission. Passing through
the city we again observed the local types. These are very cruel faces. Many more
beggars and cripples than in Yarkand. We must exchange the remaining rupees. We are
advised to take some gold. The Kirghiz are bringing it from the mountains. Hindus and
Turki accept it gladly.

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**February 17, 1926**

The day for the exchange of money. The selection of a *tarantas.* A new driver—a
Cossack refugee from Orenburg. An instructive scene in the bazaar. A
*mullah* with a whip is chasing the people to the mosque. The lashes of the whip
strike the backs, the shoulders, the faces. The enthusiasm for prayer is evoked with
difficulty and many are hurrying to hide themselves in the side-streets. They say that
*Medresse*—the schools at the mosques—are visited rarely. Even in the wilderness,
the people expect more refined and more profound forms of knowledge.

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**February 18, 1926**

Not far from the village Artish, one can see, high in the rock, three windows. Of
course, these are the Buddhist caves, explored by LeCoq and Stein. From below one can
distinguish remnants of frescoes. No objects of especial note have been found there. The
people adorn these caves with a legend. The old king had a daughter. Death from a
scorpion’s sting was predicted for her. In order to save her the king constructed a
dwelling place for her in the rock, but her destiny was fulfilled. The princess wanted
to taste some grapes. She drew up a basket on a rope and in it a venomous scorpion was
hiding.

Fifteen miles eastward, in the middle of the cemetery, the tomb of Mary the mother of
Issa is pointed out. The details of the legend are slipping away. Why, just Mary in
Kashgar, nobody can tell. It is the same concerning Issa in Srinagar. Are there not some
traces of Nestorianism and Manicheism here?

Along the bazaar, Kadi, the judge, passes pompously, with a whip in his hand. He is
going to catch gamblers. Of course, the groups of gamblers quickly disperse and after
the passing of the “guard” they at once collect again. Like opium, gambling is
despoiling the population.

We enter a Chinese dwelling. Opposite the entrance is an altar with New Year’s offerings
and sweets. On the wall is a vividly colored picture of the “ruler” of the gods. Who is
it? It is the same Gessar; it is the same one who is awaited. Each in his own way. The
New Year is welcomed precisely with his image. Even in Kashgar which is almost Moslem,
is hidden the Far Eastern belief. There, also, we see Kuan Yin, the Mother of the World,
and Man-long-life (the synthesis of all ages). And one more image the “Ruler of Gods.”
This image is less intricate. There are only two figures—The “Ruler” and his guardian.
The “Ruler,” sitting at the table, is watching the flame of a red candle. In the
forehead of the “Ruler,” is a precious stone like a red star. The picture is of new and
simple work, but very decorative. We went into the yard of a small temple. The temple
itself is closed. The service is not performed. Opposite the entrance is a stage for the
Chinese theater.

The setting sun is flooding the banks of Tumen daria. Alongside a narrow ridge you go
toward the sandy slopes. Like a dead city, immovable and breathless, stand the clay
walls above these slopes. The trees are naked. One can see very far. This is the first
sight of what one may call a Central Asiatic city. And not under ill-smelling sheds of
the narrow bazaars; not by the faces of lepers; but in the golden rays of the sun and in
the immovability of the walls you realize that Kashgar is verily an old place.

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**February 19, 1926**

Many subterranean waters are in Kashgar. The flooding of the rivers and the rice fields
gives a special kind of fever somewhat like malaria. There are widely varying symptoms:
aching of joints; sleepiness, pain in the extremities.

It is not easy to receive money on checks from China. *Taels* were awaiting us
since November, but now it is already the end of February and the post office delays
handing over the money. The money may, of course, have been given out on percentage.
They tell us that one of the local ambans refused, for a long time, to transfer the
collected taxes to the Governor-General, because they were loaned out on percentage for
the enrichment of the Amban. They brought photographs of the victims “of justice”: rows
of people with chopped off fingers or soles of the feet with cut tendons. The majority
of them were unable or could not pay on time “to whom was necessary.” Here are also
photographs of the murdered Titai in his full “glory” with two ribbons crossed, with
stars and with widespread legs. Here are also photographs of the developments of
oil-wells, started by the Titai; group of the wives of Titai and other local officials.
Old letters came from America from October 30th through Peking. It took three months and
a half to reach us this way.

Apparently to find horses here is still more difficult than in Yarkand. At Dr.
Yalovenko’s, we found all drugs necessary for us. His little hospital is better equipped
than the one of the Swedish Mission.

We drink tea at the Gillans’; we go with them to inspect a stupa. Near the river the
road starts to become muddy. We cross a narrow bridge and ascend amidst the fantastic
sand formations created by water and earthquake.

Of course, here was the most ancient part of Kashgar; here may be found Buddhist traces.
The stupa itself has become a formless mass and only the remnants of the bricks lying at
the bottom, reveal the construction. Its size is great; not smaller than the great stupa
in Sarnath. In reality there remains only the base, and the whole top cupola has
disappeared. It is difficult among sand slopes to distinguish ruins. How many of such
masked ruins are buried underneath the currents of rivers and under the sloping Kurgans,
under the typical Asiatic cover. . . .

It becomes cold toward evening. And, purple-silhouetted, stands Kashgar with a Chinese
temple on the wall of the city. The silhouette is not devoid of calmness and grandeur
but this is, as it were, a false grandeur, because the mass of the silhouette is
transformed into the fragility of clay and sand buildings. Late in the evening, George
Chu, the Chinese secretary of the British Consul, arrives with the good news that a
telegram from the Tu-t’u of Urumchi has come, and that we are permitted to leave. But in
spite of the request of the Kashgar Taotai and the British Consul, our two guns and
three revolvers are left sealed and the permission to paint is not even mentioned,
although the Consul and Taotai distinctly asked about it in the telegrams. Mr. George
Chu smilingly says: “I learned English from an American teacher in Peking and I have
been glad to help and to bring a good message to an American Expedition.”

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**February 20, 1926**

We prepare the caravan in a hurry, in order to leave more quickly before the beginning
of the spring thaw and before the flooding of the river. The journey to Urumchi is a
good one thousand eight hundred miles. It is difficult to get horses. All the best
horses are sent to Fergan where there is a big demand for horses from Russia.

We have to discharge Ts’ai Han Chen; he became completely mad yesterday and beat the
Ladaki Musu; he is a victim to opium smoking. We go to express our gratitude to Mr.
Gillan for his help in sending telegrams. I tell him how agreeable it is to find such
cultural regard for the tasks of our Expedition. I regret that in spite of his
representation neither the arms nor the permission to sketch have been given. I ask him
to give us the text of the telegrams that he sent, for inclusion in our diary. Then some
talk about the exchange of rupees which rose in value to the *sars:* There are
rumors about the exchange of the current *sars* for a new currency. Nobody knows
anything. Just as the missionary Torquist says: “The Chinese are born Confucians. They
live as Taoists and die Buddhists.” We should like to see real Chinese. So much is being
spoken about the intensive work in Canton. Is it possible that there they do not know
about the dark life of Chinese Turkestan? Is it possible that they do not know how one
robber usurps the place of another robber and crucifies him—not for the people’s
welfare, not for justice, but for personal motives and personal enrichment? And the
helpers of the “power”—the rich beks—are treading with whips on the bent backs of the
poor.

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**February 21, 1926**

It is impossible to find horses. All the good horses have been dispatched to Andijan to
transport goods from abroad. Now they are demanding one *sar* a day for horses.
The price is unprecedented. We will have to take *arbas,* and this means that to
Urumchi we will have to go fifty-five days instead of forty. It is one thousand eight
hundred miles. We must hurry because the thaw will soon begin. Outside the city, near
the horse-market, is an interesting *mazar,* Gissarlik—a *mazar* which is
said to belong to some Mongolian count. There is a belief that if one throws a piece of
clay at the cupola of a *mazar,* one’s moles fall off.

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**February 22, 1926**

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**February 23, 1926**

It is not easy to receive money through the Chinese post office. Since November, the
post office has not been able to collect one thousand six hundred Mexican dollars. It is
really ridiculous when one knows that the local general, by commission of the
Governor-General is transferring ten thousand pounds of “personal savings” through here.

We went to the Taotai to talk about our arms and the permission to sketch. The Taotai
came to a resolution, “Try to paint and if the police prohibit it, then stop.” Our arms
became rusted from dampness. When we pointed it out, we were told by the interpreter of
the Consulate, “Do not make too much fuss about it.” Again we felt ourselves in a
country not of justice, but in a country of personal license. We were also told that if
Tu T’u (the Governor-General) will *find us worthy* then he will permit us our
arms and the possibility of work. Colossal indifference is needed to accept seriously
all these sentences. It is interesting to know by what means and with what apparatus the
Governor-General will investigate our “worthiness,” for the work and for the arms. . . .
But the “worthiness” of similar officials is evident to us without any special
apparatus. Whence come these depths of ignorance? To cap the climax it was stipulated
that we should not remove from the case containing the arms, any more than were
permitted. That means, we should not take out the revolvers. As usual, the visit ended
with assurances that they had helped us very much. Such hypocrisy!

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**February 24, 1926**

The tales about the movements of the Chinese army of Sinkiang are interesting. A cannon
is drawn by two horses. On each one of them sits a soldier. On the muzzle of the cannon
also sits a warrior. When the horses stop, they add one more nag from a village. “An
army” which went forth twenty thousand strong, at an expense of six million
*sars,* reached the battleground about two thousand in number. They count the
size of the army by the number of caps. Therefore, if there are not enough “warriors” in
the carts, they put out caps on sticks. The calculation of cavalry is by men and horses,
or doubly. Nowhere is this forgotten province written about as it actually is.
Unknowingly some of the travelers don a dress suit, when they visit the Taotai, but it
is time to tell what really exists. It is time to speak simply, in the name of human
dignity. One may consider “seriously” the surviving customs of the inhabitants of the
Solomon Islands, but a kingdom with four hundred million people cannot be looked upon in
our times from the point of view of ethnographical curiosities. One ought in every way
to help the true workers of China to bring the country out of its tragi-comical
situation. We do not know what and how will be our further path, but the observations of
the unembellished life of Sinkiang appall us. Sinkiang was conquered in its time by
Mongols, Arabs, Chinese, Tibetans. The backs of the Sarts endured everything and they
brought their *salaams.*

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**February 25, 1926**

If you have a Chinese postal money-order, it does not mean that as yet you have the
money. China cannot even redeem a check for one thousand six hundred Mexican dollars.
Whereas the local bank through Tashkent pays you immediately. Friends do not use the
Chinese mail. The letters are opened, many things do not reach you, and money is not
delivered to you. Again, one has to transport one’s consciousness to the Solomon Islands
and then one can understand better the actions of the Sinkiang company.

And here again the British Consul and his secretary, Chu, must take steps for us. Thanks
to their personal influence, as a special favor, we finally receive that which is one’s
common right. We express to Mr. Chu our hope that we will meet him in the Washington or
Paris Embassies. We exchange greetings with Major and Mrs. Gillan. Truly, they have
helped us to leave Khotan. We ask each other where we shall meet again.

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**February 26, 1926**

We left. In the morning the Consul with his wife came to say good-by; the Secretary of
the Consulate, Chu, the Director of the Bank, Anokhin; Dr. Yalovenko; the family of
Krijhoffs. We said good-by. We sat for a while. Where shall we meet again? We pass
through the Kashgar bazaars. We go through the sandy gray road. At the left, the Kashgar
River glows blue; pools, rice fields, fever-beds. At the right are villages, and muddy
lakes. A milky spring mist is overhanging. The crossing is not long. Toward three
o’clock we stopped in a small village, Yamdom.

We have parted with Ts’ai Han Chen. He smoked opium and led women away from the bazaars
and beat the servants. I remember his two stories. The horse under him was frightened
and he fell down. For that he broke the horse’s leg with a stone. Another story. An
eagle came down and scratched his hand. Here the vengeance was subtle; a piece of meat
stuffed with gunpowder was put out on a long wick. The eagle seized the meat and
exploded.

The man who goes ahead as the scout is called *Dorogha* here.

Toward evening it gets cold. There is no snow. The mountains are not seen.

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**February 27, 1926**

Salt marshes, bushes, willows, small villages. A short crossing to Faizabad. By
half-past one, we are already at the site. Nevertheless, in the book of routes, the way
from Kashgar to Faizabad is divided into three days. Even at a slow walking pace one can
reach it sooner. How thoroughly all the books with information about the “facts” must be
inspected. Too many untrue “facts” are lying on the shelves of libraries and there is
too much reverence attached to the printed word, without any revaluation.

Anew, anew, anew—through new consciousness and new containment.

And some people respect money as such! Just now wooden chips were brought to us with
inscribed signs, and the people assure us that this is real money: And the best money,
because it is issued by the gamblers. This authority apparently stands in high esteem.
Everywhere in the bazaars are groups of men actively occupied in gambling. I remember
hearing in some bank a furious exclamation: “I do not pay you with wooden chips.”
According to the local customs this remark was not exaggerated. The chip is brown,
three-and-a-half inches long, and on it, inscribed by hand, are Chinese signs. People
love this money because it does not tear. The redemption of these signs is very simple
here. After the sign is worn out the government refuses to redeem it at the treasury,
and the last owner of such a symbol liquidated the State debt. We investigated the sites
of our further encampments and we found that these are not correctly given in the book
of routes. We sometimes have to combine two stretches, otherwise we will not reach
Urumchi even in fifty days. They sent us two soldiers as escorts—true bandits. We had to
send them back.

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**February 28, 1926**

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The whole night, till four o’clock, under the full green moon, they were singing all
around in the different *kishlaks* probably in honor of the month of Barat. They
sang wildly, but mellowed by distance, the notes sometimes resounded beautifully. The
singing was not by Sarts, but by Torguts. How strange! How did Torguts come to Moslem
Faizabad? Of course these are prisoners of former wars. Until now, they have retained
their customs of singing their resonant songs under the full moon. Analyzing the
nationalities, you can sometimes distinguish them by the remnants of their garments,
sometimes by the language and sometimes by the ancient sacred chants. During the nights
the melodies of their native land ring out. And somehow the heart readily responds to
this call. It is instructive to follow the combinations of peoples covered by the sands
of the deserts.

<a id="t4p-68-N1"></a><!-- text4placeid:68 -->
We rose early, at five o’clock, because the road is long—fifteen *p’o-t’ai.* It
means a hundred and fifty Chinese *lee,* which means about sixty miles. First,
salt marshes, greenish-gray; then dead sand, *barkhans.* The dust is opaque; the
thin brush has been uprooted for fuel and because of this the entire desert is being
completely devastated, while two stops away from Kashgar are wonderful coal and oil
deposits. People themselves through their ignorance deplete their soil. Near the small
rivers ice is still lying; and under the sun, it is already burning hot and it is
difficult to move in furs. The site of the encampment is called Kara julgun, a small
gray village. The caravan is late. We drink tea out of the local *kungan.* There
is not enough black paint to depict this teapot. The sketches are multiplying.

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**March 1, 1926**

It seems to be the most desolate crossing. Almost the entire time we went along the
sites of old destroyed forests. All the *barkhans* are filled with gigantic old
stumps and roots. Apparently there was a big forest here but now people have carried
away the wood. The sands have scattered it and one proceeds as though along a gnarled
cemetery. The scanty brush cannot withstand the sand *burans.* Everything is
gray. Gray also are the pools and the spring floods which have begun. On account of
these floods we are making twelve *p’o-t’ai,* instead of eight. Ditches, stumps,
sand slopes; the biggest Chinese road is comparable to a small trail. During the day we
meet a few sparse caravans, but they, of course, cannot comprise the nerve of true
commerce. Everything is dead.

The gray village Urdaklik. On the flat roofs silent figures linger, though they cannot
see anything from their roof but the dusty horizon. And these people have no outlook or
hope. Occasional travelers pass by them. During the night the fire of a caravan will
suddenly flare up. And again the same oppressive silence. Geese and ducks are flying
toward the spring floods but here only the crows and rooks are keeping house. Instead of
a plow, some wooden implement of the stone age. Is it possible that the beks and Chinese
ambans succeed in enriching themselves at the expense of these people also?

Our Chinese escort has no luck. In three days, three “warriors” managed to fall down
from their horses. What if there were a whole regiment of such *tseriks*, as they
are called here? It is related that in certain Chinese armies the cannons are carried on
the backs of people, and the enemies in the daytime shoot in the air and at night sit
together at their gambling.

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**March 2, 1926**

Chinese Turkestan has been described from the archaeological standpoint; the ancient
conquest and the change of rulership have been recounted. But nothing has been related
of the present consciousness of the country. Yet, in the progress of the world’s
evolution we cannot cover with silence this vast country forgotten by destiny. It is
very instructive to follow the remnants of the Tokhar, Uigur and Mongol constructions,
but it is also very instructive and astonishing to see into what the consciousness of
the country has turned: Again the same sandy gray hopelessness.

The *buran* lasts the entire day. We go beside “the forest”—to speak more
correctly, the forest-cemetery. The surviving *kargach*—trees—are sticking out,
crooked, brushy and horny. Instead of the sun there is a silvery circle. How clearly one
sees the reason which impelled the great migrators and conquerors toward the west and
south. Imagining a great migration, do not picture feet, shoes or hoofs—everything up to
the waistline is drowned in a thick dusty cloud.

We overtake an old man. He is complaining about something. We understand that somebody
has broken his shoulder and that they have driven away sixteen of his horses. Of course
on the Karakorum heights, they are more ethical. During the day we meet three caravans
of donkeys and half a dozen carts. We stop in Chuga. We covered fourteen-and-a-half
*p’o-t’ai.* Is it possible that this is the greatest Chinese road? And can a
government be called a power which keeps its chief artery in such condition? One has to
cry out about this, as about every ignorant deed impeding culture.

E.I. caught cold.

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**March 3, 1926**

It is especially absurd to realize that a whole day of exhausting travel is equal to two
hours’ ride by automobile or to an hour by aeroplane. The roads here could be utilized
easily for automobiles and one would not even have to build aerodromes. Perhaps nothing
would so awaken the people’s consciousness as a steel bird with a message of good cheer
and with necessary supplies. Through these aisles, with their files of dusty and
overloaded donkeys, would be opened a crevice of reason. Sir Aurel Stein expresses in
his books the fear lest the primitiveness of this country be disturbed by the building
of railroads and other evidences of civilization. I always have been against uncultural
evidences of civilization, but there are moments of such paralysis of a country that one
needs every supermeasure of enlightenment.

But the Buddhist knows the reason of the apathy of the country: In the Books of Kanjur
it is said that if the country should reject the teaching of Buddha, the trees would
wither and the grass would droop and welfare would disappear.

We make our way first along the so-called “forest,” then salt marshes. We get into the
flood of Yarkand darya; finally, we reach the clay walls and towers of Maral-bashi. Do
not shoot at these walls with a cannon—-too much dust will remain! The long bazaar of
Maral-bashi is dirtier and darker than the other bazaars, or equal to all others. We
halt in a garden far behind the city. The Amban has sent to inquire our names. It
appears that in the order of the Kashgar Taotai regarding our passage our name is
omitted. No, with Chinese conduct of affairs you will not go far!

Among the *sars* which were given to us with such difficulty in Kashgar, many are
valueless. There should be ten letters on them, but often the tenth, the middle letter,
is torn out and then the money is no longer accepted. Carefully examine all money which
you receive whether from the bazaar or from the governor’s *yamen.*

George remembers that Prjevalsky was the first to speak about Tun-huang, but afterwards
the honor of this discovery was claimed by other scientists. As early as the Seventies,
Prjevalsky spoke about these remarkable cave temples.

Near Maral-bashi are a few lakes. Fish abound. But sometimes one finds poisonous fish.

A new insolence from the Amban. He informs us that he will send us soldiers if we will
ask him. But we do not need soldiers and, according to the command of the
Governor-General they are guarding our confiscated and sealed arms. How can we question
the Amban about the fulfillment of the command of the Governor-General? It is insolent
and absurd. Again the people say: “The Amban does not know any customs.” Sung had to go
in spite of fatigue and the late hour to bring the Amban to reason, to tell him that we
do not need the soldiers but they are needed by the order of the Governor-General.

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**March 4, 1926**

They send new soldiers. They do not even look like people, simply like insects. We
remembered the stories of M.; how he himself turned to flight thirty
*tseriks* and how a whole regiment of *tseriks* surrendered to two
gunners. Yes, apparently all this is not exaggerated.

We first went by a dismal plain. Soon, at the right, against the yellow sky, appeared
the opal silhouette of the mountains. Welcome, beloved mountains!

Suleiman relates, “A giant was living here. He saw that the lake was too big and with
his sword he chopped the slopes from the neighboring mountains and threw them here.
Behind this mountain is a beautiful garden and holy people live there but nobody can
enter without their permission. Sarts have tried to go there but nobody has ever come
back.” And Suleiman pointed to the southeast.

Soon an unpleasant experience is in store for us. Some people gallop to meet us and warn
us that water has begun to overflow the road. We had to make a detour of twenty miles.
One also has to place this against the account of our arrest and detention in Khotan. We
lost the best time for travel. Now we will be delayed everywhere by floods.

Another tale: “Under Urumchi is a steep mountain and there also live holy people. Once a
Kalmuck wounded a mountain ram and the ram led the Kalmuck to a holy man. The man asked
the Kalmuck to remain with them but the Kalmuck asked to return home, and the holy man
gave the Kalmuck a lapful of wooden chips. The Kalmuck took them and thought, ‘Where
shall I carry these rarities?’ He took them and threw them out into the woods. Only two
chips remained caught, and when he came home, lo! gold hung to his garments. And so the
Kalmuck lost.”

We are going further, near gray sandy mountains with vigorous strata. We pass an old
tomb. Then we pass a *mazar* of a giant holy man. They say that even the trails
of the hoofs of his horses have remained on the mountain The mountains become more
beautiful and merge into the romantic silhouette of Bible lore. Not far from here is an
ancient site, Haivar. Near the road are the remains of the Chinese fortress, Angelik.
Then, again, sands and floods.

Another tale: “Not far from Angelik is an old house. Whoever enters it is lost in wonder
at the rich adornments and the heaps of gold. If one takes a heap of gold the door
closes by itself, and he cannot leave. And until he returns the gold, to the very last
grain, so long the door will remain unopened. A similar place is near Uch-Turfan. There
stands a structure like a city, one can even see the smoke but one can enter only on
Fridays. But one cannot carry out gold from this site either. And in Kucha they found an
underground opening like a whole subterranean passage. They brought thousands of wagons
with stones to fill it in—but they could not. The stones are to be seen even now. The
tomb of a saint was also found there. Thirty-nine doors were open into it but they could
not open the fortieth. And so they covered it again.” The people remember also about the
predicted beautiful gardens and about foreign gold.

It becomes dark. We come to the village Tumshuk. Bonfires and stars, and dreams of the
people. And for a long, long time, someone was praying, by the light of a bonfire. For
what? Is it not for enlightenment? High stands the chalice of Orion. Around the bonfire
barefooted youths are lying—this is our guard.

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**March 5, 1926**

If you want to give a gift to these barefooted night guards your desire is in vain. All
that you give will be taken away by the Elder. . . .

One of the tedious crossings is to Yaka Khuduk. Again unbearable dust; hidden ditches. A
burnt forest. Boar-weed and shallow river banks. There are many boar. Often we travel
under a single telegraph wire. This is the same line which transmits telegrams in an
absolutely unintelligible shape. In the last telegram from New York, there was a series
of unintelligible letters and only the one last word “Advise” was legible. To whom and
about what? One may think that it is a very sly code or a mischievous joke, where only
the last provocative word is comprehensible.

Another tale: “In Kashgar recently lived a holy man. He heard when people in the holy
place were praying, although it took six months to reach that place. There is such a
holy place behind the mountains. In the district of Orenburg also there lived such a
man. He heard about the present and the future, and about the war and about famine. In
two hundred years the Sarts expect a great saint, and perhaps earlier.”

We stop on the dusty bank of Yarkand darya. Sometimes a wind rises and whirls tall cruel
pillars of sand. Here are small clay huts, naked bushes and sandy river banks.

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**March 6, 1926**

It is very simple to give an idea of our passage of today! On a round dish place a good
bit of gray dust; throw in a few gray pieces of wool and stick in fragments of matches.
Let ants crawl over this bumpy plain, and for realism, blow it in order to create
pillars of dust.

And so we creep along. We expected to stay in Chulan, but there the water is bitter so
we had to make a detour in order to spend the night in a *kishlak* in New Chulan.
At the approach to its gray clay huts a light silhouette of mountains is seen
unexpectedly—the thresholds of T’ian Shan. E.I. ’s cold is still torturing her.

Suleiman relates how now in this country two firms are dealing in sausage casings; one
German (Faust) and one American (Brenner). The prices of casings have risen so
unprecedentedly that the works have become unprofitable. It is very strange to know that
the casings of the sausages in American markets come from Khotan and Aksu. The same
obstacles occur in the cotton trade. In order to raise the prices they mix different
unmatched varieties and in this way are ruining the value of the entire product. With
silk, similar difficulties occur. It is impossible to obtain the delivery of an entire
order of a quality equal to a chosen sample. It is impossible to obtain material of a
chosen shade. All this reduces the industry to medieval conditions. The melons and the
raisins are of good quality.

The amber sun melts into the dusk of the horizon. In the distances the eyes of the
bonfires light up. Somewhere someone is sitting and weaving the design of rumors. In the
dusk the songs thunder out. The noisy *Tamasha* is held.

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**March 7, 1926**

<p>
<a id="t4p-74-N1"></a><span text4placeid:74>
It appears that the water in old Chulan is very good, even better than in New Chulan.
But the inhabitants of New Chulan decided to lure the passers-by and threw dead mules
and dogs into the lake of old Chulan.
</span>
The caravan is the nerve of the country and this case of luring the passers-by is quite
typical.
<a id="t4p-75-N1"></a><span text4placeid:75>
We went thirteen
p’o-t’ai,
as far as the small habitation of Chutu Khuduk, a battered-down little village. It
seems incredible that this little station is on the greatest road of China. All along
are sands, but on the left stretches a mass of mountains and the pearly foothills
adorn the horizon.
</span>
</p>

Another tale: “Near the city Osch there is still a Mountain of Solomon. There even
remain the little impressions where Solomon prayed on his knees.”

We recall how the British Consul in Kashgar notified us that George’s friend Allen
Priest was in Urumchi as late as November. After Boston we met Priest on the threshold
of the Vatican in Rome. And now we find him on the Asiatic roads—an active sensitive
man. The British Consul says that he received the permission to go from Siberia to
Peking. Will we still find him in Urumchi? There are people with whom it is agreeable to
meet anywhere—where shall we meet our dear Americans?

It is long since we have seen so noble a sunset with such broad gradations of opal
purple hues. The golden sun, somewhat dulled, lingered long on the crags of the far-off
mountains. And it went leaving a soft fiery pillar. These mountains mark the limits of
this country. Today there are no songs. The village is silent. In the outskirts on the
plain are our tents. From above, Orion peers down.

E.I. has almost recovered.

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**March 8, 1926**

We approach Ujkul, first by sands; afterward two *p’o-t’ai* of habitations;
fields; altogether ten *p’o-t’ai.* They start to sow. They are plowing. The plow
is of the stone age. Two oxen drag one horny wooden device. Can one plow deeply with
such utensil? The day is spring-like. A fresh wind and the warmth of the sun. Ujkul is a
long dusty village. For a day there are a few occurrences in the caravan! A horse fell;
his head swelled all the morning, and at three, he died. In the *mafa* of the
Gegen, the middle horse fell on a bad ridge. We feared we could not raise him. Thereupon
it was discovered that yesterday a cart fell down and the entire load fell out. And the
guarding *tserik* had hidden this occurrence. When we reprimanded him he
idiotically smiled.

The cool evening approaches; we speak about the decline of the Chinese language. There
are forty thousand signs collected, but not one of them expresses the letter R. In olden
times there was a sign which approximately expressed this letter, but afterward it
disappeared out of the eight thousand signs used in daily life. One asks oneself why
dictionaries preserve thirty-two thousand unnecessary signs? In these unnecessary
tatters is seen the complete decline of Chinese evolution. And as a result the local
people whisper: “Do not go into this yard; there are Chinese!” or “Can one expect
justice from Chinese?”

And how many young people are innocently dragging after them the results of the
ignorance and cruelty of their fathers and grandfathers. How they must hasten to get rid
of such an inheritance! If all these many thousands of signs have led them toward
ignorance, one should quickly liberate oneself from these skeletons of conventions.
Valiantly and severely one has to cut out the decay of survivals. Otherwise, why have
entire nations vanished so often from the history of the earth? “Great Matter is weaving
its design and mercilessly casts out each useless thread from its cosmic web.” Why did
Confucius have to keep his traveling cart always at hand? When the criminal power
departs one will have to provide railroads and the possibility of growth and exchange
for the people immediately. And how easy it would be to lay railroad lines along the
plains here!

Today the water is especially bad. During the whole week the water was yellowish brown,
and today it is soapy gray and ill-smelling—one cannot drink it. You may expect someone
to draw the head of a Dungan from out the well in a pail. This has already happened!

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**March 9, 1926**

From Ujkul we go to Aksu, the capital of the unsuccessful Yakub-bek, who half a century
ago tried to liberate Turkestan from Chinese rule, but could not find allies. The road
is dank with many ditches. The river Aksu—it means white water—has already started to
overflow. The bridges, as everywhere, are dancing as though alive. And this is the chief
road of China! Gray sky and a yellow plowed field. We remember America; we remember the
beauties of Santa Fe, the Grand Canyon, Colorado and Arizona. Again we mentally urge our
friends—the Americans—to know better the beauties of their superb country. We recall how
all types of ungifted Jean Cocteaux in Europe offer Americans a special dish of
nonsense. . . . But America is full of its own possibilities.

Imperceptibly we approach the borders of Aksu. The same little clay houses and stalls.
As always, two cities. The old one on the muddy place. The new, a little drier, where
the Chinese officials, Taotai, Amban and the Colonel live. Five days from here is the
Muzart Pass toward the Iliisk district of the Kalmucks. We stop in the new city, in the
garden of the Andijan Aksakal. It is dusty.

Today the first bloodshed occurred. Two tramps beat our *mafakesh* until he bled
and almost took out his eye. Screaming. Noise. The tramps were caught. They bound them
and took them to the Amban. And our revolvers are sealed, because the Governor-General
(that is the Tu-t’u) does not trust our American papers of recommendation. The Governor
of course does not know his province: he is busy transferring his riches to different
banks through various fantastic ways, to get it more quickly out of this territory! The
Lama begs us not to remain in Aksu a long time. The local bazaar is notorious for its
thievery and perversion. It is getting dark. The Amban comes to visit us. An agreeable
exception; he speaks English, a little bit of other languages: he was employed in the
Russian Asiatic Bank and knows Allan Priest (now Priest is in Peking) personally. We
converse a long time. The Amban begs us to remain for a day, otherwise he cannot arrange
for two horses until Kucha. We tell him about the Khotan ignoramuses. He shrugs his
shoulders and says: “Probably you are in China for the first time.” A sympathetic type
of young official, who is watching events and who knows the significance of many things.
He will come for luncheon tomorrow. He is the first cultured Chinese we encountered
here. He does not seem to have the aggressiveness of Chu in Kashgar. The Amban of Aksu
is somewhat on the type of earnest Chinese students, whom one may meet in American and
Parisian universities. We rejoice to meet this type because we had molded our
understanding of contemporary China according to his type and not according to the
*buffalos.* Let us see what will happen further.

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**March 10, 1926**

Early in the morning we heard familiar singing. Thus at dawn on the passes did the
Ladaki sing their prayers; and so it is here. Our two Ladaki caravaneers are sitting
under a tree and are singing harmonious hymns to Tara and the Lord Maitreya.

Pan Tsi-lu, the Amban, comes. We speak about Chinese problems, about religion, about the
teachings of life. He complains very much about the life in Aksu. He dreams of leaving
because he cannot do anything there. Being alone and a subordinate, he cannot start
anything constructive. We wished him success in his intentions. The Amban brought two
issues of Chinese papers of the ninth and sixteenth of January. We read how Chang Tso
Lin has declared himself independent of the central government. We read also of the
resignation of Feng.

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**March 11, 1926**

The last Chinese in the caravan has exploded! It came out that Sung has spent each night
in the bazaar playing cards. The amputated finger did not teach him a lesson. Of our
Chinese, two turned out to be opium smokers, and two gamblers. And here the best of the
Chinese whom we met—the Amban in Aksu—is anxious to leave this country and feels that he
cannot do anything. And who will be the one to undertake, courageously and
self-sacrificingly, to turn this dusty cemetery into a flourishing garden? Silver and
copper and coal and oil—all are there; but there is no solicitous hand.

We go by a long path to Karakhuduk (eighteen *p’o-t’ai).* First the clay walls of
the new city. Then the pearly desert. Then *burkhans* and reeds. We march until
midnight. We stop at a Chinese inn. Another worry: the backs of the pack horses are
rotting because the caravaneers never remove the saddles; and the luggage is permeated
with a repulsive odor. In the future it will be necessary to regulate this caravan evil;
horses, mules and camels are so burdened here that one cannot permit them to be devoured
alive by worms. Tibetans pity the horses. But Kashmiri and Sarts consign them to the
worms. It is difficult to believe.

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**March 12, 1926**

The Sinkiang anecdote continues. Today our famous escort wanted to attach an arrested
criminal to our caravan. With great noise we had to eject the uninvited recruit.

And the entire day has been such a beautiful one. We have been going through fantastic,
ancient sand formations. The sun is already burning but in the shade there is still ice.
There are no trees nor habitations—far around us is the desert, ending in blue cragged
hills. The lines are simple and powerful. In such places one may expect old monuments.
At sunset we approach a lonely *langar,* Toghrak-dang. Very high up on the sandy
rocks, something is silhouetted. We have no doubt that these are openings of old
Buddhist caves. And so it is. Some of them are outlined very high and the entrances to
them are crumbled. But three caves are on a low slope. The ceilings and the walls are
pretty well gone. Of course it is the Moslems who have destroyed the images they hate.
Near the ground a little below are still seen the remnants of ornaments, covered over
with Turki inscriptions. But the most enticing thing is the hollow sound beneath the
floor. It means that below, in the buried part of the rock, are also caves, not even
filled in. We do not remember any mention of this place in Stein. It recalls to us the
Tokhar antiquities of the fifth to the eighth centuries. The caves face the East. Before
the eyes of the hermits spread the broad mountain view—a good and beautiful place. Under
the cave a mountain spring murmurs—not a waterfall but just a light little stream. The
thin spring runs through a wooden trough into the wooden pail of the Sart woman. So,
also, did the hermits draw their water here. Among the crumbled fragments many pieces of
basalt glow darkly. Of course, beside the caves there were stupas and separate
structures, which were covered by the avalanche of rocks.

Little bells are ringing; the postman is hurrying to pass us with two sealed bags of
mail. From Kashgar to Urumchi the mail takes thirteen days.

<a id="b4p-80-N1"></a><!-- block4placeid:80 -->

**March 13, 1926**

The children from the *langar* hasten to gather the papers left by the caravan.
One little girl finds a colorful label from a match box. The exultation of the possessor
is unbounded. We regret not having colored postal cards to distribute. If you want to
find a place in a child’s heart in the quickest way, do it through vividly colored
little pictures. The children will take them with joy and will remember.

We bid farewell to the caves. We pass rich sand formations, like high waves with
congealed crests, or like threatening outstretched fingers, or like towers with bridges,
or like tents. After the mountains we descend again to the sands. Probably a
*buran* from Takla Makan has swept past here. Everything is drowned in clouds of
thick dust. We shall stop in Kushtami in a dusty *langar.* Again some people are
quarreling noisily. On our way we meet several droves of horses. They go to the Russian
border toward Andijan. The breed of horses is not fine. We are nearing the horse country
and the breed becomes inferior: the values and reputations have to be carefully
examined. This was apparent already in the jade, silk, horses; in the quality of
singing, in ceramics, and many other things. And one should not be afraid to examine
traditions because it is time to transport one’s self from the past to the future. One
can know the past but one has to direct one’s consciousness toward the future.

In the yard of the *langar* is a band of professional gamblers. Near the place
are two tents of Karakirghiz—notorious thieves. Exactly in this place an escort given by
the Amban once robbed a traveler. One has to take special precautions. The village did
not send any guards. If we had our rifles everything would be well, but the ceremony of
the sealing of the arms was made openly in order that the servants and all the knaves
along the road would know. One cannot rely upon the Chinese escort. The only guard is
our Tibetan Tumbal.

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**March 14, 1926**

As one might have expected, during the night an outrageous thing occurred. It appeared
that in spite of our refusal, the prisoner went along with our caravan. During the night
there was frenzied gambling. The prisoner lost much money. They bound him. ... In a
word, the Chinese have arranged for us an “honorary” escort. Quicker, quicker out of
this region!

After the *buran,* everything merges into mist. The mountains disappear. Yellow
fields and occasional black oxen at the plow. They are sowing. On the poplars the buds
swell. But here and there, near the rivers, lies late snow. We should stop in the city
of Bai. But we are terrified at the dirt of the bazaar and decide to go five
*p’o-t’ai* farther to the small *langar.* We are standing in a field among
old tombs—*mazars.* In the darkness we set up the tents. It is interesting to
note that the Amban in Bai is a nephew of the Tu-t’u. Apparently he has a collection of
nephews and to all are given positions of Ambans and Consuls. The Sinkiang Company!
Today important decisions are made. There is a communication.

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**March 15, 1926**

A dull day. Purple-gray sky. Yellow fields. The mountains at the right are of a pale
opal silhouette. In these mountains are caves. Three *p’o-t’ai* from Kizil, where
we shall stop, the caves have been explored by Stein. The remnants of the paintings have
been burned by the local iconoclasts. On the way we find huge herds of sheep and goats.
Where are they being driven? The answer is the same: to Andijan; the sheep, and the
goats and the horses and the bulls and the wool, everything is going for sale. The
common dream is trade and communications with foreigners. At the same time, hordes of
Sarts are going away to find work, because one cannot find any work here. To Andijan, to
Kuldje, to Chuguchak—these are three arteries which attract the travel of the entire
country. We go through a bazaar and again they are calling to us, “You go well, Urus.”
Where from is this? Tomorrow to Kucha we have a long way—eighteen *p’o-t’ai.* We
have to leave at five o’clock.

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**March 16, 1926**

<p>
One of the most beautiful days. Up to seven o’clock it is freezing and then there is a
hot sun. First a valiant desert, in pearly tones. Afterwards a crossing brings the most
unusual sand formations, like congealed ocean waves, like hundred-towered castles, like
cathedrals, like
*yurtas*
—and all in an endless variety.
<a id="t4p-83-N1"></a><span text4placeid:83>
In the Toghrak-dang
langar
we feed the horses. Not far from there are two caves with traces of colored
decoration.
</span>
<a id="t4p-84-N1"></a><span text4placeid:84>
Two
p’o-t’ai
from Kucha on a slope rises a tower, Kizil karga—meaning the red raven.
</span>
<a id="t4p-467-N1"></a><span text4placeid:467>
On looking back we notice that not far away are the dark entrances of caves. We
dismount and hurry there over the sandy mounds. These are the same celebrated caves,
it seems to me, some of which LeCoq reproduced. But, as always, reproductions do not
give even a fraction of the real impression. One must come to this amphitheater of
former temples toward evening, when the impression is intensified by the quietude of
nature. One has to imagine all these cavern-shrines, not with darkened walls and
vaults, but vividly and brilliantly frescoed. In the niches one has to imagine the
figures of the Blessed One and of Bodhisattvas, which are now carried away. In one
cave remain the traces of images of thousands of Buddhas. In another cave remains the
place of repose of Buddha and a part of the ceiling. The bottoms of the walls are
covered with Moslem inscriptions. Under the floor one feels hollow spaces. Apparently
there is a row of unopened subterranean structures. One cannot consider these
excavations completed if the hollowness of the hidden parts resounds so apparently.
Not Lamaism, but traces of true Buddhism are apparent in the silence of these caves.
Of course it is wonderful that examples of the frescoes have been scattered into the
museums of Europe. But the walls of the caves remain denuded and the true image of the
shrines has disappeared—only the skeletons have remained.
</span>
</p>

<p>
<a id="t4p-85-N1"></a><span text4placeid:85>
We are going to Kucha, passing a row of gardens. The city seems cleaner than the
others. Why is this? The Elder, the old Mullah, forces them to clean the streets. Of
course it is again impossible to halt in the bazaar. They mention a garden behind the
city but how can one reach it in the complete darkness which has fallen? A savior
appears; out of this same darkness emerges a white turban, and an unexpected friend, a
Sart, leads us out of town. There is a garden and a house and stables.
</span>
The hostlers beg that they may sleep in the kitchen. Why? In the house for the servants
lives “a man deprived of a soul.” They mean an insane man. And the whole group of
healthy peasants is afraid of him. The cook calls the chicken-coop the little chickens’
carriage.
<a id="t4p-85-N2"></a><span text4placeid:85>
Here we are in the capital of Tokhars. Here it is that the Tokhar King, Pochan, was
persecuted by the Chinese and flew out of the city on a dragon, taking with him all
his treasure! Much is rumored about the gold in the Buddhist caves.
</span>
</p>

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**March 17, 1926**

The whole morning is spent in negotiations with *arbakeshs, mafakeshs* and
*korakeshs;* at first everything seems impossible. Then after an avalanche of
unnecessary discussion everything becomes possible. At first, as far as Karashahr, the
road is estimated as twelve long days. Whereas, as everybody knows, eight days is the
customary period. We peer into all these faces. And where are the traces of the Tokhars?
They are not visible. Perhaps something of a more Mongoloid type appears in the
features, but in general, these are the same Turk Sarts. And thus, the Tokhars
disappeared leaving no traces and no one knows even the true pronunciation of the
symbols of their writings.

So, before the eyes of history has come a nation, from whence is unknown; nor is it
known how it scattered and disappeared without a trace. And not a savage people but one
with a written language, with culture. Just so is it with their Tzar Pochan: whither he
flew on the dragon is known. And it is strange to sit in this same country—in this
pear-garden—and not know anything about the inhabitants who were here not long ago.

One cannot obtain objects of antiquity here either—“Somewhere, someone knows about them
in Takla Makan.”

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**March 18, 1926**

At one o’clock at night, drums, trumpets and singing began. Loud and shrill and
persistent were the screams of “Allah.” These are the Moslems preparing for the fast of
Ramazan. During the day they have to fast, but at night they can partake of food
aplenty. In order not to outsleep the period of eating, the good Moslems play and dance
on the eve of the day’s fast. The dogs barked a great deal and were running wild during
the night. Ramsana got up in order to inspect the camp and he noticed that the
government guards, the *tseriks**,* slept heavily. Ramsana took away the
rifle from one of them, went around the camp and fell asleep with the rifle. The
*tserik* was startled when he awoke in the morning without his gun. Oh, these
unhappy *tseriks!*

In the morning a Swedish woman missionary came. She has been in this country for fifteen
years and not one convert! However, the missionary busies herself with doctoring and
midwifery and here it is absolutely necessary because all these “cities” are without a
single doctor.

Then the American day begins. We go to see the American firm, Brenner Brothers of New
York. They are in the gut and wool business. An entire community of vigorous working
people. A unique community with children and with a joyous realization of the growing
work. The business is developing. With all the primitiveness of the apparatus one has to
admire the fine results. Here they are assorting and washing the wool. Here, on a
hand-made press they are pressing it. Here a line of camels are waiting to lift the
white heaps of wool and to carry them abroad, to Tientsin and to the ports for Europe
and America. In the whole artel there are no books; for the entire community there is
one New Testament and an accidental volume of Korolenko. It is a joy to be able to give
them old newspapers and two books. There are tales about the affairs of the Sarts. They
praise the murdered Titai. They ask what happens in the world. D. is skillfully
interpreting the local customs by way of religious discussions. In this way the
intolerance and superstition which are spread by the Mullahs find resistance. And there
is much intolerance. And many of the local Beys have planned to strangle the new foreign
enterprise. D. and P. show themselves as pioneers for America in this country. They
listen to our tales about America. D. tells about the mineral riches of the Torgut and
Iliisk district.

The Kalmucks are excellent marksmen. The Kalmuck administration does not hesitate to
make innovations. The people praise the Sarts for their work. They have initiative,
ability and adaptability.

In the country are many narrators of legends and fairy tales which touch the questions
of the Koran and religion. Often the listeners enter into a dialogue with the narrator.
Often keen questions upset the routine of superstition. In Turfan there exists a curious
custom of sending young men with an experienced guide in the guise of a story-teller
through the whole country, even to Mecca. Thus a unique experimental university is
evolving. Through this, one may explain the adaptability of Turfanians.

The gatherings and festivities usually end with a song about Issa (Jesus):

“As Issa went on his wanderings, he saw a great head. On the road lay a dead human head.
Issa thought that the great head belonged to a great man. And Issa decided to do good
and to resurrect this great head. And the head covered itself with skin. And the eyes
filled themselves. And there grew a great body and the blood flowed. And the heart was
filled. And the mighty giant rose and thanked Issa that he resurrected him for
usefulness to humankind.”

There are many legends about the flights of Solomon, and among the Kalmucks is very
widely spread a legend about Jesus which is nothing else than one of the manuscripts
already known to us, “Issa, the Best of Human Sons.” Of course it has penetrated here
not from Hemis but from another original source. Everywhere are spread the signs of
beauty. It is time to gather them fearlessly without superstition.

Again information is given to us about ancient places. About many caves and stupas along
Kizil darya. Part of them have been excavated and part of them are still hidden. Not
long ago on the bazaar they sold “a trunk with antiquities” brought from Lob (near
Lob-nor). There are tales about old cities along the stream of Tarim or Yarkand darya.
There are people who know these cities. The fossilized bodies in the burial grounds
indicate a very great stature, taller of course than Mongolians. The expeditions which
were there, completed the easier and most apparent part of the work. Now there yet
remains the more concealed work demanding greater construction and preparation.

In Kucha it is already warm. The young grass is getting green and is two inches high. We
learn that from Karashahr to Urumchi one can go by the mountain road. It will be five
days shorter. In this way, one can avoid the hot site at Tukson, where there is a
descent into the Turfan Oasis (960 feet below sea level). In the summer in Turfan people
bury themselves in the earth and cannot walk more than one *p’o-t’ai.* Besides
the approaching heat, there is mud by now, on the great road. It is better to go through
the Kalmuck territory, along the mountain passes.

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**March 19, 1926**

Ramsana again took the gun away from the sleeping *tserik* and strolled around
the camp. And again the *tserik* bowed to his feet and asked him to return the
gun as otherwise the Amban would beat him.

They ask on what the comparatively high exchange of the Chinese currency is based. But
all know that it is not guaranteed by anything and circulates like dry leaves by command
of the Governor. Of course, this is one of the successive misunderstandings and justice
will soon clarify it.

Until now in Tibet there exists a custom of specially prosecuting gambling houses and
brothels. A certain lama called Gekö Lama, upon learning of the existence of such
houses, takes a dozen lamas with whips and at the very peak of the orgy presents himself
at the house. And then, there on the spot, all present are whipped.

Interesting is the Kalmuck song, “Of him who came earlier”: “One man pondered long and
forgot to come to the elections of a Noyon (prince). Another man did not sleep that
night and came first. And he was selected Noyon, because he entered first. And so the
former who pondered, sits and broods that for him no place was found in the
*yurta* of the Noyon.”

As in other countries, so here are many marks of treasures. Often on the rocks one can
see tiny projecting piles of stones. These are the signs of treasures. In the monastery
records one can find directions as to how at certain times of the day, according to the
indications of the shadows, one may go from one pile to another to the site of the
treasure. D. is called Ishan here, meaning the holy one, for his knowledge of religious
subjects. B. has seen an ancient tomb recently. The tibial bone found there reached six
quarters in length. The spot is in the direction of Lob-nor. B. has marked it. So there
are interesting indications for the future.

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**March 20, 1926**

We bid farewell to the workers’ group at Brenner’s. We again noticed that wherever there
is labor there is joy. P. went on a
*troyka;*
D. and M. went on horseback to accompany us out of town. Again questions. Where shall we
meet? They will discuss the newspapers and books we left for a long time. For our
farewell they demonstrated to us the wonderful pace of their Karashahr horses. “Now you
shall encircle a part of the Gobi,” calls D. We are sinking into the milky desert. A
*shamal*
begins. It fills our eyes. We turn into a yellow mass.

Every day new significant information comes. “The Mongolian army has reached the river
Urungu and threatens Sin-kiang.” Nobody in Europe and America knows about the affairs of
the local countries.

<a id="t4p-86-N1"></a><!-- text4placeid:86 -->
We are stopping in the village Yaka-arik.

<a id="t4p-86-N2"></a><!-- text4placeid:86 -->
Underground creeks are often used here. This corresponds fully to the tradition of
underground passages, so prevalent in Asia. Precisely in Central Asia, are interwoven
fairy tales and reality. European measures are not applicable here.

From Peking it was proposed to the Tu-t’u of Sinkiang that an aeroplane communication
between Peking and Urumchi be established. The Tu-t’u answered that in this province
this would not be practicable, because his people were wild and would flee to the
mountains. Of course the people would not flee; but rumors of the various ignorant
activities of the Governor-General would spread more quickly. The people would very
quickly welcome these air messengers. The dream of the Orient about the flying carpets,
which the people attribute to Solomon, would be reborn in their expectation of the iron
birds. For in Tibet also the most ancient prophecies have envisaged iron birds and iron
serpents. There are also, as in traces of the fundamental teaching of Buddha, references
to the cosmogonic problems of planetary evolution and of the development of life. As
soon as we began to speak about Buddhism, as of a realistic teaching, the woman
missionary in Kucha hastened to leave us, saying, “The scriptures of Buddhism are taken
from Christianity.” But the Pillars of Asoka were standing before Christianity and in
the first century before Christ the recording of the covenants of Gautama was already
begun. One has to regard things more simply and without prejudice.

<a id="b4p-87-N1"></a><!-- block4placeid:87 -->

**March 21, 1926**

Not long ago the travels of Sven Hedin appeared as an unprecedented heroism; and now
E.I. is crossing the same deserts and heights with no thought that it is anything
extraordinary. Now the representatives of Brenner are traversing the same expanses where
Sven Hedin, according to his books, almost perished from lack of water. And soon iron
birds will swiftly fly above these same places. And the fairy tale of the past will be
replaced by the new fairy tale of the cosmos.

Since evening the cicadas have been singing. High stands the shining moon. There is the
fragrance of grass. But at two o’clock at night the *buran* struck. Verily
struck. It came flying like a dragon and roared threateningly until morning. The tent
was all aflutter. We had to prepare ourselves in case the tent should fly away. And in
the morning again the pearly Gobi desert. Mother of pearl and opal, and above, dull
sapphire. On the road, in order, is spread out a big caravan. This is Brenner’s, or, as
they call it here, Belyan-khan which goes to Tientsin.

Approaching us, tinkling, is a kazan *troyka.* Two women and three Tartar girls
from Chuguchak are going to Karaul. We passed fourteen *p’o-t’ai.* And we shall
stop in the garden of Yangiabad. The last *p’o-t’ai* suffocated us again with
their deep sands. Tommy is limping. He has malanders. He will be out of service for five
days. In the evening everything becomes quiet. The silvery sun sets.

Here we are called Rerengi-Bey. It is our fifth name thus far.

<a id="b4p-88-N1"></a><!-- block4placeid:88 -->

**March 22, 1926**

We are trying to find out whether we can avoid Karashahr and go from Kurat through a
Kalmuck encampment, by way of the monastery Sharasüme on the mountain road to Urumchi.
The Kalmucks, as a nation, have slipped out of attention. It is instructive to go
through their *ulus* for a week.

The Dungans, or Chinese Moslems, occupy a strange position in the country. They are
frankly disliked by Moslem, Chinese and Kalmucks. The word “Dungan” itself is pronounced
with a certain contempt. The faces of the Dungans are scarcely attractive. There is much
cruelty in them.

We proceed as far as Bogar, a dusty bazaar site. It is divided into nine
*p’o-t’ai,* but apparently it is more, judging by the time. Here the
*p’o-t’ai* are counted peculiarly. There are short *p’o-t’ai* and long
*p’o-t’ai.* Down a mountain is a long *p’o-t’ai,* uphill is a short
*p’o-t’ai.* A strange measure of distance.

First we go by the opal desert. To the left are hills. Three *p’o-t’ai* before
Bogar one comes upon a swampy oasis. On the road is mud. Big flocks of ducks and geese
are on the wing. The hoopoes are strutting about in a most pompous way. They say of
them: “These are former men.” The end of the road is enveloped in clouds of dust.

A dusty garden. On the fence is sitting the son of the Amban. Politely Sung persuades
him “It is not good to sit on a fence.” But nothing helps, and Sung applies the
customary means here and throws a stone. The boy disappears.

From all sides you hear the same remarks about the inaccuracy of existing maps. In some
important sites and details are omitted. It is necessary to examine the transcription of
the name. In some, non-existing names are introduced. Some are taken from the Turki,
others from the Chinese, and still others, from some kind of local jargon which is not
recognized anywhere. Even in the staff maps there are a great many errors which promise
one much trouble on the route.

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**March 23, 1926**

<a id="t4p-89-N1"></a><!-- text4placeid:89 -->
Was not Tamerlane a great disinfector? He destroyed many cities. We know what it means
to destroy little clay cities full of all sorts of contagion. Here we have passed twelve
cities. What can be done with them? For the people’s welfare, one ought to burn them and
plan new villages beside them. While the old is in its final decay—it is difficult to
force the natives to turn toward new places. Here the Tung-ling of Kucha constructed a
new city alongside the old city. Broad streets, underground canals. But the people are
afraid of the new place.

<p>
<a id="t4p-468-N1"></a><span text4placeid:468>
We follow a broad plain. We pass Yangizar.
</span>
<a id="t4p-89-N2"></a><span text4placeid:89>
We go further through a dusty forest. We shall stop behind Chader. It is dark. We have
passed sixteen
p’o-t’ai.
The caravan is delayed. Sabsa’s back is swollen. Mastan and Olla are keeping up
remarkably. Nobody knows distances. The caravan arrives at one at night.
</span>
</p>

<a id="b4p-161-N1"></a><!-- block4placeid:161 -->

**March 24, 1926**

A tiring day. It is hot. We are passing by a dusty forest and low shrubs. Up to Chirchi
it is twelve *p’o-t’ai.* We pass a big caravan of Belyankhan. Another caravan of
the same firm stands in Chirchi. The pioneers of America are working.

Today is the day of our institutions in America! The day of the founders. We are sending
our thoughts to America, to the house of the Museum and the school, where the day is
being observed. Our dear friends, it is as if we were present at your annual meeting.
The distance does not exist. Traversing these spaces we recall the plains of the
Mississippi and Missouri and the immeasurable steppes of Russia. We are even rejoicing
at the caravan of Belyankhan. This is already cooperation with Asia. As though both
continents, divided by a cosmic catastrophe, remembered their former unity. How much of
Mongolian there is in the types of the later Mayans and the red-skinned Indians! How
much equal breadth there is in America and in Asia. And now in its moment of
regeneration, Asia remembers its distant ties. Greetings to America!

<a id="b4p-90-N1"></a><!-- block4placeid:90 -->

**March 25, 1926**

They show us another species of monetary symbols—some sort of greasy little rag and a
dirty little bone. This is the situation of the local currency: *Lans* (or
*sar* or *teza)* are equal to four hundred *dekhans.* But a Kashgar
*lan* is equal to three Urumchi *lans* and an Urumchi *lan* is
equal to three Kuldja *lans.* A Khotan *lan* is considered eight hundred
*dekhans.* You will say it is nonsense. I agree with you. But because of this
nonsense, millions of people are suffering. Can such differences in standards of money
existing in one province be further complicated by wooden and rag signs? This is the
reason that people ask why the value of Chinese currency has stood so high until now.

Nowhere are objects of antiquity to be found. Apparently the accessible upper layer of
discoveries has already been exported to Europe and as for the hidden layers, let them
remain for Asia itself. The dignity of the countries demand that they should wisely
dispose of their true resources. But so far the Ambans are disposing of the people’s
treasures for their own benefit. The Amban of Yangi Hissar (designated as Consul to
Andijan) lost many thousands of *lans* at cards. Now he has especially increased
the taxes without limit and will not leave for his new position until he regains his
loss.

Twelve more *p’o-t’ai* through the desert with small brush. We reach Tim. In the
morning it is still cool, but by midday the sun is already burning. The caravans begin
to travel by night as during the summer. Again tales about the heat of Turfan where, in
summer, they bake little cakes on the stones under the sun. It is said, “There are many
underground springs here, and also many underground passages.” In the past they once
tortured a holy man and he hid himself in a subterranean passage and came out after six
months of wandering.

And another thing happened long ago: “Some people went in search of God in Barkul. They
came to a king who considered himself a god. He sat and read a book and his cat held a
candle before him. The pilgrims decided to test whether the king really was a god. They
argued, ‘If we let loose a mouse, will the king’s shrewd cat run after it? If the king
is a god then his power should stop the cat.’ Thereupon they let a mouse loose, and the
king’s cat ran away and threw down the candle. The people now saw that the king was not
a god.

“They went further. They met a shepherd who gave them bread and asked if he could be
their comrade. They took him, but the shepherd did not wish to take his dog. He said
that because of the animal, people would find them more easily. But the dog ran after
him. The shepherd did not even have pity on him and killed the dog. Only to seek God!

“They approached a chasm-like crevice in the mountain. And as they entered, the stone
door closed after them. What passed where the holy people dwell, no one knows. Some time
afterward the shepherd who had been sent for something came out; he came to the city to
buy bread at the bazaar. He offered them money, but the people were astonished at the
coming of the giant and they refused to take his money, saying that for two thousand
years such money had not been current. The shepherd quickly returned to the mountain and
the king of the place hurried after him in order to investigate this wonder. But
apparently the holy people have no need for kings, for the mountain closed. Nor could it
be opened either by tempest or by prayer. The king brought his entire army but much as
they labored at this mountain, and though they all perished in the attempt, the mountain
did not open. And near this mountain is the tomb of the king. Such deeds there were and
such underground passages there are.”

A young Baksha overtakes us on horseback. He sings fairy tales and tells legends, and he
“conjures devils”—“Baksha, sing the tale of Shabistan!” He takes out from behind his
back a long-stringed *gejack*. He sings as he rides. He plays. The strings sound
well. And somehow one forgets the dry sands and the hot sun. Two melodies resound. Now
the higher one dominates, as if in supplication or command; again the lower thunders out
its victorious affirmation.

Then the Baksha takes the tambourine and fills the desert with widely varied rhythms. We
rejoice that on the last day in the country of the Sarts, we are accompanied by the song
and melodies of the Baksha Sart. Tomorrow we shall reach the *ulus* of the
Kalmucks.

At the left, to the north, out of the fog looms the ridge of T’ian Shan. Behind it are
the Kalmucks and beyond it Semirechye. At the entrance to Tim is a great ancient stupa
and ruins of old structures, banners of Buddhism. It is said that the mountain where
Buddha was initiated was all aflame. But after the prayer of the Blessed One, snow fell
and extinguished the fire. Ice and snow now encircle this mountain and it is difficult
to find it until the predestined date.

A quiet warm evening, a milky spring sky. If one only could reach an encampment of the
Kalmuck Khan without entering Karashahr and go there, by monasteries and mountains, to
Urumchi! We are awaiting the Kalmucks. This is significant.

<a id="b4p-341-N1"></a><!-- block4placeid:341 -->

**March 26, 1926**

<p>
A fair, beautiful day. First from the north, rose the range of T’ian Shan. All sapphire
and amethyst. Then we crossed a row of fine sand formations. From below the hill flashed
a blue mountain river. A powerful and overflowing one. We followed the river. In front
of us, closed gates—the custom house. The boundary of Kalmuck soil. The first Kalmucks
appear. George tries his Mongolian on them. They understand each other.
<a id="t4p-626-N1"></a><span text4placeid:626>
We stop in a
langar,
not far from Mingoi Saur (thousand ruins). The ruins are enveloped in a legend that a
lama saw a light at a certain place. The people dug. They reached water and there
appeared a water-serpent.
</span>
</p>

There is a belief that on these sites stood a large monastery containing the chalice of
Buddha, which disappeared from Peshawar, and which is mentioned by Fa-hsien in
Karashahr.

Now we are stopping by the river, near strata of coal. This is the first day without
dust—again mountain air. The first tree is in blossom. The Kalmuck soil smiles. It is as
though we were now walking around its borders. At night a full moon shines. Behind the
river glow the shepherds’ bonfires.

We recall the hopes of the Kalmucks. We recall how Chuntse, the first one, told us about
Toin Lama. Later there came full information as to what this Torgut leader can achieve
if he is able to accept what is sent to him. And should he fail to accept it—then a long
farewell to Dzungaria! Of what avail to speak if one’s palm is full of holes. ...

<a id="b4p-91-N1"></a><!-- block4placeid:91 -->

**March 27, 1926**

<p>
The crossing to Karashahr (or Karachahr, or Karachar). Soon the mountains recede and the
river disappears toward the south. Again a dusty and famished desert. Again a village
road, instead of a broad Chinese highway. On the surface is a great deal of inflammable
clay slate. There is coal in the mountains.
<a id="t4p-457-N1"></a><span text4placeid:457>
In a whirl of dust we reach the river opposite Karashahr. The crossing is on primitive
rafts. There were such crossings on the small tributaries of the Volga.
</span>
A multi-colored crowd; piles of balls; carts, mules, camels and horses. And again, in
the city itself, there is nothing Buddhist. Still Sarts and Chinese. One seldom sees the
faces of Kalmucks, marked as they are by greater keenness and alertness.
</p>

S., a representative of Belyankhan, meets us. He praises the Kalmucks.

We have to change servants. Our terrorizing Gorban, of whom everybody is afraid, happens
to be very timorous himself. He is afraid of Chinese and of Kalmucks and trembles for
his miserable rupees. Sarts are apparently afraid of Kalmucks and Mongols. They fear
their keenness. We shall have to fill in the loss of Sarts in the caravan by Kalmucks.
How illuminating it is to observe this nation which may now enter the pages of history.
How refreshing it is to penetrate again into the mountains and to leave the sands and
the dust. Even the horses shake themselves when they approach fresh water and mountains.
At the sight of mountains our Tibetans, Tsering and Ramsana, fairly leap with joy.

Smile, Kalmuck soil. The Series “Asurgina” and “Orovani” is conceived.