The coast-line of Baluchistan is six hundred miles long.
On it there
is one tree, a sickly, stunted-looking thing, near the telegraph
station of Gwadar, which serves as a landmark to native craft and a
standing joke to the English sailor. Planted some years since by a
European, it has lived doggedly on, to the surprise of all, in this
arid soil. The Tree of Baluchistan is as well known to the manner in
the Persian Gulf as Regent Circus or the Marble Arch to the London
cabman.
With this solitary exception, not a trace of vegetation exists along
the sea-board from Persian to Indian frontier. Occasionally, at
long intervals, a mud hut is seen, just showing that the country is
inhabited, and that is all. The steep, rocky cliffs, with their sharp,
spire-like summits rising almost perpendicularly out of the blue sea,
are typical of the desert wastes inland.
"And this is the India they talk so much about!" says Gerome,
contemptuously, as we watch the desolate shores from the deck of the
steamer. I do not correct the little man's geography. It is too hot
for argument, for the heat is stifling. There is not a breath of air
stirring, not a ripple on the smooth oily sea, and the sides of the
ship are cracking and blistering in the fierce, blinding sunshine.
Under the awning the temperature is that of a furnace, and one almost
regrets the cold and snow of three weeks ago, so perverse is human
nature.
Mark Tapley himself would scarcely have taken a cheerful view of
things on landing at Sonmiani. Imagine a howling wilderness of rock
and scrub, stretching away to where, on the far horizon, some low
hills cut the brazen sky-line. On the beach the so-called town of
Sonmiani - a collection of dilapidated mud huts, over which two or
three tattered red and yellow banners flutter in the breeze, and
beneath which a small and shallow harbour emits a powerful odour of
mud, sewage, and rotten fish. Every hut is surmounted by a "badgir,"
or wind-catcher - a queer-looking contrivance, in shape exactly like a
prompter's box, used in the summer heats to cool the interior of the
dark, stifling huts. A mob of ragged, wild-looking Baluchis, with
long, matted locks and gaudy rags, completes this dreary picture.
Shouts of "Kamoo!" from the crowd brought a tall, good-looking native,
clad in white, out of an adjacent hut, who, I was relieved to find,
was the interpreter destined to accompany us to Kelat. The camels and
escort were, he said, ready for a start on the morrow, if necessary.
In the mean time there was a bare but clean Government bungalow at our
disposal, and in this we were soon settled. But notwithstanding the
comparative comfort of our quarters compared with the filthy native
houses around, I determined to get away as soon as possible. The
mosquitoes were bad enough, but the flies were far worse.
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