An Easy Ride, Through A Pretty And Fertile Country, Brought Us To
The Telegraph-Station Of Konar Takta, Where Mr. E - - , The Clerk In
Charge, Had Prepared A Sumptuous Breakfast.
But we were not destined
to enjoy it.
They had, said Mr. E - - , experienced no less than nine
severe shocks of earthquake the night before, one of which had rent
the wall of his house from top to bottom. His wife and children were
living in a tent in the garden, and most of the inhabitants of the
village had deserted their mud huts, and rigged up temporary shanties
of palm leaves in the road. "We will have breakfast, anyhow," continued
our host. "You must be hungry" - leading the way into the dining-room,
where a long, deep crack in the whitewashed wall showed traces of
last night's disaster.
The latter had, apparently, considerably upset my host, who,
throughout the meal, kept continually rising and walking to the open
window and back again, in an evidently uneasy state of mind; so much
so that I was about to propose an adjournment to the garden, when a
diversion was created by the entrance of a servant with a dish of
"Sklitch," which he had no sooner placed on the table, than he rapidly
withdrew. Sklitch is peculiar to this part of Persia. It is made of a
kind of moss gathered on the mountains, mixed with cream and dates,
and, iced, is delicious. But scarcely had I raised the first mouthful
to my lips when my host leapt out of his seat. "There it is again," he
cried. "Run!" and with a bound disappeared through the window. Before
I could reach it the floor was rocking so that I could scarcely keep
my feet, and I was scarcely prepared for the drop of nine feet that
landed me on to the flower-beds. The shock lasted quite ten seconds.
Every moment I expected to see the house fall bodily over. I left poor
E - - busily engaged in removing his instruments into the garden.
"Another night like the last would turn my hair grey," he said, as we
bade him good-bye. Truly the lot of a Persian telegraph official is
not always a bed of roses.
A gradual descent of over two thousand feet leads from Konar Takta
to the village of Dalaki, which is situated on a vast plain, partly
cultivated, the southern extremity of which is washed by the waters of
the Persian Gulf. There is a comfortable rest-house at this village,
the population of which is noted as being the most fierce and lawless
in Southern Persia. Rest, though undisturbed by earthquakes, was,
however, almost out of the question, on account of a most abominable
stench of drainage, which came on at sunset and lasted throughout the
night. So overpowering was it that towards 3 a.m. both Gerome and
myself were attacked by severe vomiting, and recurrence was had to the
medicine-chest and large doses of brandy. One might have been sleeping
over an open drain. It was not till next day that I discovered the
cause - rotten naphtha, which springs in large quantities from the
ground all round the village. Curiously enough, the smell is not
observable in the daytime.
"We have done with the snow now, monsieur," said Gerome, as we rode
next morning through a land of green barley and cotton plains, date
palms, and mimosa. On the other hand, we had come in for other
annoyances, in the shape of heat, dust, and swarms of flies and
mosquitoes. Nearing the sea, vegetation entirely ceases. Nothing is
visible around but hard calcined plain, brown and level, lost on the
horizon seaward in a series of mirages, ending northward in a chain
of rocky, precipitous mountains. The bright, clear atmosphere was
remarkable; objects thirty or forty miles off looking but a mile or
so away. About midday an unusual sight appeared on the horizon - two
Europeans, a lady and gentleman, mounted on donkeys, and attended by
a chalvadar on a third, who apparently carried all the baggage of
the party. Halting for a few moments, and waiving introduction,
we exchanged a few words. Mr. and Mrs. D - - were on their way to
Teheran, with the object of making scientific researches at Persepolis
and other parts of Persia. I could not help admiring the courage of
the lady, though regretting, at the same time, the task she had set
herself. To inquiries of "How is the road?" I replied, "Very good,"
May the lie be forgiven me! It was told for a humane purpose.
Save a large herd of gazelle on the far horizon, nothing occurred to
break the monotony of the journey through deep heavy sand till about 4
p.m., when a thin thread of dark blue, cutting the yellow desert and
lighter sky-line, appeared before us. It was the Persian Gulf. An hour
later, and Sheif, the landing-place for Bushire, was reached.
A trim steam-launch, with Union Jack floating over her stern, awaited
us. She was sent by Colonel Ross, British Resident at Bushire, who
kindly invited me to the Residence during my stay in the Persian port.
I was not sorry, after the hot, dusty ride, to throw myself at length
on the soft, luxurious cushion, and, after an excellent luncheon, to
peruse the latest English papers. Skimming swiftly through the bright
blue waters, we neared the white city, not sorry to have successfully
accomplished the voyage so far, yet aware that the hardest part of the
journey to India was yet to come.
At a distance, and seen from the harbour, Bushire is not unlike Cadiz.
Its Moorish buildings, the whiteness of its houses and blueness of
the sea, give it, on a fine day, a picturesque and taking appearance,
speedily dissipated, how ever, on closer acquaintance; for Bushire is
indescribably filthy. The streets are mere alleys seven or eight feet
broad, knee-deep in dust or mud, and as irregular and puzzling to a
stranger as the maze at Hampton Court.
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