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CHAPTER XII THE MONGOLIAN GRASSLAND My stay
in Peking was not all pleasure and sight-seeing, for
it was necessary to decide there upon the next steps. Within a few weeks I
would have to be on the Siberian railway homeward bound. Should I spend the
time left me in seeing Shantung, the Sacred Province, with all it had of
interest to offer, or should I make a hurried run through the debatable land of
Manchuria? One or the other seemed the natural thing to do, but I had an uneasy
feeling that either would mean conventional travel, so far as that is possible
in China, railways, and maybe hotels. Then Shantung is now a much-visited
country, while Manchuria, dominated by Russia and Japan, was hardly likely to
offer "an open door" to anything more than the most cut-and-dried
guidebook travel. But Mongolia seemed to afford a way out of my doubts.
Post-roads and trade-routes crossed the country from the Great Wall, sooner or
later striking the Siberian railway near Lake Baikal. That would set me forward
some five days on the overland journey to Moscow, cutting off just so much of
railway travel, and as far as I could learn there were no hotels, not even
Chinese inns, in Mongolia, so I would not need to
fear being too comfortable. But above all, there was the charm in the very word
Mongolia. Out of that great, little known plateau, almost as large as all of
China proper, had come in days past horde upon horde of savage warriors, the
scourge of God, the terror of the West, carrying north and south, from Peking
to Budapest, from the Volga to the Hugli, their victorious banners. What was
the land that bred such a race? What of the Mongols nowadays? Even a few weeks
would tell me something. Having made up my mind to go, I set about learning
the how and the where, with the usual results; much advice asked and unasked of
a very contradictory sort. The American Legation with fine courtesy offered no
counsel, but gave every possible help, securing for me the proper visés for my
passports, even speeding the wheels of the slow-moving Wai-wu-pu so that I
might not be delayed. The matter of getting a servant proved rather difficult.
One who was proposed declined to go with a lady, for he "would have to be
braver than she"; others were daunted by the sound of Mongolia; but
finally, through the kind help of Captain Reeves, the American military
attaché, I got hold of my invaluable Wang, interpreter, cook, and general
factotum in one, and faithfullest of Chinese. Dr. Morrison, the famous Times
correspondent, gave me much-needed encouragement at just the right moment. He
had long hoped to do it himself, he said, and of
course I could do it; and speaking of his own recent extended trip the length
of Mongolia and Chinese Turkestan, he flung out a remark which was very
comforting to my soul: Did I not hate to have people tell me that I could not
do a thing, that it was too difficult or too dangerous? If they would only stop
with giving you the facts as they knew them, and keep their opinions to
themselves. Well, I thought, if people dare to tell Dr. Morrison what he can
and cannot do, I must not mind if I am treated in the same way. But I needed to take that comfort to my heart more
than once in those days. A request for some bit of information so often met
with no facts, but simply the stern remark that it was not a thing for a woman
to do. And when I did get precise statements they could not all be facts, they
were so very contradictory. I could go from Kalgan to Urga in eighteen days; I
must allow twenty-four or thirty; it usually took thirty days to the railway; I
must not expect to do it under forty-five. I must buy ponies to cross from
Kalgan; camels were the only thing to use; no camels could be had in summer.
Beyond Urga I must hire a droshky; the only way to travel was by steamer; I
could never stand a cart; I could never sit so many hours in the saddle. There
would be no water; I could not drink it if there were. The weather would be
intolerably hot; I must expect snowstorms and sandstorms;
there would be heavy rains making going impossible. My transport would give
out; my men would desert me; brigands would waylay and rob my caravan. One gentleman to whom I wrote began his reply by
saying that he answered my inquiries "with much pleasure"; and then
continued, "Frankly, I do not think the trip from Kalgan to Urga should be
taken by a lady alone at any time." Then followed ten good reasons why I
should not go, and first and foremost that I should have to leave behind me all
inns, and would have to camp out. That settled it. There was nothing I should be so
glad to leave behind as inns, and for months I had been longing to sleep in a
tent. So I fell to making my preparations with good heart. But the enemy had
not reached the end of his resources (the enemy was usually a well-bred,
intelligent European or American with charming manners and the kindest
intentions.) An English officer just returned from Mongolia assured me I could
never get my dog across, the savage Mongol brutes would tear him in pieces; but
I knew my dog and he did not, so I put that aside. The last shot was the
hardest to meet: "It will not be worth while." Almost I gave in, but
I had reached the pig-headed stage, and I could not, though I wanted to. And now the crossing of Mongolia is a thing of the past, and I am not prepared to deny anything that any
one asserted about the journey, only somehow I managed to slip through between
all the dangers and difficulties. I did the trip from wall to railway, not
counting the stops I made for my own pleasure, in twenty-eight days; the
weather was generally a joy, and I bade my Mongols good-bye in Urga with real
regret. I had no troubles, I met with no accidents, and it was worth while —
for once. It is surprising how well one gets on with
makeshifts. As Peking is not a treaty port there are few European shops, and it
would seem as unsatisfactory a place for making up a camping-outfit as Hong
Kong was satisfactory, but with the help of kind friends I managed to get
together something that would pass muster. There were the usual stores, but
with much more in the way of tinned meat and smoked fish than I took in West
China, for there would be no handy fowls along our road across Mongolia, only
now and then a sheep; and, as always, I laid in a fair supply of jam. I
understand now why England sent tons of jam to the army in South Africa; the
fruitiness of it is most refreshing when fresh fruit and vegetables are short.
But of all my supplies, nothing proved so comforting as two bottles of lime
juice and a tin of so-called grape nuts. The latter mixed with milk helped out
the early starts when the fuel was so damp that a fire was out of the question,
while the lime juice made drinkable the roiliest and
warmest water. The only time when I felt like losing my temper with good Wang
was when he smashed the last bottle. I had to gallop off to keep from saying
things. By good luck I succeeded in hiring an old American army saddle, and it
proved just what I wanted. There is nothing like that sort of saddle for long
tours on horseback, easy for rider and beast. The question of money required careful planning; it
always does in out-of-the-way travel; but finally, through the kindness of the
officials of the Russo-Asiatic Bank, everything was arranged. I would use
little money in crossing the desert, and of course the less I carried the
better, but a good sum must be forthcoming when I reached Urga and the railway,
so the bank furnished me with drafts on the native banks and their own
branches, and I had no difficulty, while from Peking I carried dollars and
taels to meet expenses at the start. I felt like Pilgrim freed from his burden,
to be quit of carrying a lot of small change, for a dollar's worth of cash is
almost twenty pounds in weight. Fortunately my arrangements were so complete when I
arrived in Kalgan that during my two days' wait for letters I had little to do,
for my various activities in Peking, combined with the damp heat, had rather
done me up, and I was glad to take my ease while my kind young host of the
British American Tobacco Company turned the place
upside down in his efforts to provide for the comfort of my journey. My saddle
was overhauled, a charming saddle-cloth of Mongolian work was supplied, a great
package of cigarettes put up to cheer my men on the road, and for me a box of
soda water. One very important thing had been omitted from my
stores. I had neglected to bring onions and potatoes from Peking, most
desirable supplies in the country for which I was starting, a land where
nothing is grown; and neither potatoes nor onions were to be had in Kalgan.
Even my host could not help; he was out of them himself. But when I bewailed
the omission to resourceful Wang he looked wise and said quietly, "Madam
wants potatoes and onions; she shall have potatoes and onions"; and I had,
a good bag of each, and such fine ones that a missionary lady, seeing my
supplies, asked if she might inquire of my "boy" where he had got
them; never had she seen the like in Kalgan. I hope she found out; I did not.
Most likely it was one of those back-stair arrangements common in the East, and
I hope no Chinese official or Russian merchant had to go short because of it,
but I am sure my need was greater than his. They tell a delightful story in
Peking of an occasion when a group of young men attached to a certain legation,
as student interpreters, wishing to give a dinner party found themselves short
of silver, but the servants rose to the situation,
and when the night came the dinner table was resplendent with massive silver
decorated with the armorial bearings of — another legation. Just before I left Kalgan my larder was enriched from
another and unexpected source. Thanks to the friendly introduction of an
American gentleman in Peking, His Excellency, Hou Wei Têh, the Senior
Vice-President of the Wai-wu-pu, most courteously sent instructions to Chinese
officials along my route, especially at Kalgan and Urga, to give me every
assistance. And soon after my arrival in Kalgan three officials of the Bureau
of Foreign Affairs made me a formal call, and the next day they came again,
followed by a coolie bearing a basket of stores which proved to be of great
value before my journey was over. One feels rather shabby at accepting
courtesies for which one can make no return. I did my best by writing
appreciative letters to all concerned, beginning with His Excellency, the
Senior Vice-President. I hope he got the letter, but the next thing I heard of
His Excellency was his sudden appearance over the wall of the American Mission
Compound at Peking, fleeing before the mutinous soldiers. On the morning of July 26, I was rumbling over the
broken pavements of Kalgan streets in a Peking cart guided by the trusty Mongol
of a friend, and escorted by soldiers sent by the Foreign Office. My kit was packed in around me, or I should certainly have
whacked my brains out against the sides of the cover. As it was, my hair came
down, my hat rolled from side to side, and it was a miracle that anything
stayed in the cart. And I did not long, for as soon as we were outside the
walls and making our way along the dry bed of the Sha Shin Ho, I jumped out,
and for most of that day I either walked or rode the Mongol's pony. A Peking
cart may have other and better uses, but as an instrument of torture it is
unrivalled. Just as the thing was in Marco Polo's time, so it is to-day. You
crawl in on hands and knees, and then painfully screw yourself round, and so
sit cross-legged, or with feet outstretched if there is room, your head only
escaping the top as you crane your neck to catch the view or to get a bit of
fresh air. The driver sitting on the shafts has much the best of it, and more
than once I joined him, — very unsuitable, of course. The main trails that cross Mongolia from Kalgan to
Urga are two. One, the longer and better known, tends a little to the west, and
is called by various names, the "Mandarin Road" or "Relay"
or "Cart Road." Along its course are markets and Mongol settlements,
and there are post or relay stations at regular intervals. Hence it is
preferred by the Chinese caravan men as well as by the great, or those in a
hurry, who use relays. The other, known as the "Camel Road," turns
northward from Kalgan and after a hundred miles
takes a northwestward course to Urga. There are no Mongol settlements after you
have passed the fringe of villages bordering the Great Wall, and wells are few
and far between, but it is one hundred miles shorter than the more western route,
and by so much the better for those who go through with the same animals. Much
of the way is marked by the telegraph wire that now stretches its many miles
across the desert, but it would be rather unwise to trust entirely to this
guidance, for at times it leads where only winged things can follow, and above
all it never swerves to point out the wells along the way, and missing one you
might not reach another for twenty-four hours, or perhaps never. As I was
neither hurried nor privileged, I chose this road. Over one or the other of these trails pass thousands
of carts and camel trains each year, carrying north or south tea and cloth and
notions and hides and furs, to the value of many millions of taels. But most of
Mongolia's exports go on their own feet, ponies or cattle or sheep. Under the treaties of 1858 and 1860 a post-route
between the Russian frontier and Kalgan was established, and in spite of the
competing railway through Manchuria, a horse-post still crosses the desert
three times a month each way. The Mongols who are employed for the work go
through from city to city in seven days, galloping all the way, with frequent changes of horses and, less frequent, of men. And once a
month a parcels-post makes its slow way across, guarded by Cossacks. Just why the Russians persist in this costly and
slower method of forwarding mails when the railway would do it in about half
the time, I cannot understand. One reason given me was that they might not care
to trust their mails to the Japanese, who control the southern section of the
Manchurian railway. And in case of trouble between the two powers the Russians
might find it convenient to have a connection of their own with China. It
seemed to me more like a part of Russia's plan of "peaceful penetration,"
of extending her influence over Mongolia even to the Great Wall. Kalgan seems
already an outpost of Russia, with its groups of Russian merchants, its Russian
church, bank, post-office, and consulate, one as much as the other
representative of the White Tsar. Toward the end of the first day from Kalgan we passed
under the towers which are all that is left here of the Great Wall, save the
pile of stones which marks the line where it stood. Built of mud faced with
stone, it has crumbled away, leaving the solid masonry towers standing like
giant sentinels to guard the road. Here I stood face to face with another world. China
lay behind me and below, for we had risen some fifteen hundred feet since
leaving Kalgan. Before me stretched the great
Mongolian plateau. The wind that cooled my face had blown over thousands of
miles of prairie and desert. The long lines of stately, shambling camels, the
great droves of sheep herded by wild-looking men on sturdy little ponies told
of an open country. Each mile led deeper and deeper into the rolling grassland
and the barren waste of Gobi, and between me and the next town lay nearly seven
hundred miles of treeless plain and barren sand. For four days we were crossing the grassland, wide
stretches of gently undulating country covered with thick rich grass; wave upon
wave it rolled like a great ocean up to the ramparts of China. As far as the
eye could reach there was nothing but living green untouched by plough or
spade, unbroken save where little lines of settlement stretched like clutching
fingers into the sea of grass, the menacing advance of the Chinese, the tillers
of the soil. Much of the time I walked; the air of the uplands
almost carried me along, and it was joy to feel my feet on real grass once
more. Over the open country short cuts were easy to find, and I generally kept
in advance of the others. The groups of Mongols hurrying to the town greeted me
in friendly fashion; the look of the desert was in their faces, bold, hardy,
burnt, and lined by sun and wind and biting cold. Like and yet unlike the
Tibetans I had seen in Tachienlu, they were slighter
of build and gayer and more open of expression; they attracted me as the others
had repelled me. Scrambling over the grassy slopes, I more than once lost my
way, but some Mongol always turned up to put me straight. Our first stops at noon and at night were at wayside
inns built much like a Turkish khan on two or three sides of an enclosure of
mud and stones, and furnished with a strong gate. At one, the small private
room off a large common hall was given to me and to a neat-looking Chinese
woman who apparently was travelling alone and on horseback. Two thirds of the
room was taken up by a "kang," or plaster furnace, raised some three
feet above the floor, and on this our beds were spread. But that was my last
sight of a house for many a day; henceforth there was nothing but tents and
"yurts." Our stop the next night was at a small Mongol
settlement of several yurts. One of these was vacated for me. Judging from
those I stayed in later, it was unusually large and clean. Here I was in the unchanging East, if it be anywhere
to-day. More than six centuries ago an observant Venetian passed this way, and
his brief description of a Mongol abode fits as well now as it did then.
"Their huts or tents," says Marco Polo, "are formed of rods
covered with felt, and being exactly round and neatly put together, they can
gather them into one bundle." But since his
description is so brief, it may be supplemented by a more modern traveller,
genial Abbé Huc, whose visit dates back only sixty-five years: — "The Mongol tent, for about three feet from the
ground, is cylindrical in form. It then becomes conical, like a pointed hat.
The woodwork of the tent is composed below of a trellis-work of crossed bars,
which fold up and expand at pleasure. Above these, a circle of poles, fixed in
the trellis-work, meets at the top, like the sticks of an umbrella. Over the
woodwork is stretched, once or twice, a thick covering of coarse linen, and
thus the tent is composed. The door, which is always a folding door, is low and
narrow. A beam crosses it at the bottom by way of threshold, so that on
entering you have at once to raise your feet and lower your head. Besides the
door there is another opening at the top of the tent to let out the smoke. This
opening can at any time be closed with a piece of felt, fastened above it in
the tent, which can be pulled over it by means of a string, the end of which
hangs by the door. The interior is divided into two compartments; that on the
left, as you enter, is reserved for the men, and thither the visitors proceed.
Any man who should enter on the right side would be considered excessively
rude. The right compartment is occupied by the women, and there you find the
culinary utensils: large earthen vessels of glazed
earth, wherein to keep the store of water; trunks of trees, of different sizes,
hollowed into the shape of pails, and destined to contain the preparations of
milk, in the various forms which they make it undergo. In the centre of the
tent is a large trivet, planted in the earth, and always ready to receive the
large iron, bell-shaped cauldron that stands by, ready for use." And that is just what I found, but the tent covering
was always of felt, not linen, and there were often two tents, one for the men
and one for the women, instead of a tent with two divisions; and alas, more
often than not, the hollow tree trunk was replaced by Standard Oil tins. But as
the Mongol lived in Marco Polo's time, and Huc's, so he does still, and so he
will continue to live until Chinese colonization or Russian rule forces him to
give up his nomadic ways and settle down and cultivate the soil. Around the yurt gathered women and children, dogs and
calves. They were friendly, almost too much so, and the women interested me as
much as I did them. All alike were clad in long, shapeless woollen garments
that might have been any colour, so grimy were they, but the dirt and rags of
their dress only set off the more the splendour of their headgear; a broad
bandeau, elaborately fashioned of silver and set with bright stones, turquoise,
and coral, encircled the head, and from this hung
long chains and pendants falling to the shoulders. This is the woman's dowry,
with which she never parts, wearing it apparently day and night. The women
themselves, in spite of the dirt, were good-looking; fine eyes, rather good
though heavy features, a skin darkened by the sun and wind, gave them the look
of peasants of southern Europe. In bearing they were much gayer and more
unconstrained than the Chinese. Mongolia, the land of many names, with a great past
and perhaps with a future, but to-day merely a pawn in the world's game, is a
great plateau rising some four thousand feet above the sea, the eastern
extension of the T'ien-Shan, or "Heavenly Mountains." It stretches
east and west nearly two thousand miles, but its north and south width is only
about nine hundred. In the central part of the plateau is a huge depression
which the Mongol calls Gobi, the "Desert," or Shamo, the "Great
Sand," and the Chinese, Han-Hai, or "Rainless Sea." To the north
the high land rises and breaks into the wooded hills and mountains of the Altai
Range, and there are many streams, most of them finding their way sooner or
later into the Amur. To the south the land rolls in great grassy waves up to
the foot of the mountain barrier along the Chinese frontier, but the forests
have all been swept away, and the few streams
quickly lose themselves in the ground. Over most of the seven hundred miles
between Kalgan and Urga there are no trees save half a dozen scrub elms, and
the only rivers are the Sha Ho, or "Rivers of Sand." But the
grassland, after the summer rains have set in, is like the rolling prairies of
the West, and even in Gobi there are only about fifty miles quite without
vegetation. Elsewhere there is a sparse growth of coarse scrub broken by stretches
of rock and sand. In crossing Gobi one sees here and there a marsh or
shallow salt lake, telling of a different climate in a bygone time, but to-day
the passing caravan depends on wells of varying depth, and found at irregular
intervals, — ten, twenty, even fifty miles apart. They date back beyond the
tradition of living men, and each has its name and character. In some the water
is never-failing, in others it quickly runs dry. Occasionally it is slightly
brackish, but usually it is clear and cold. Without these wells the three
hundred miles of Gobi would impose an almost impassable barrier between North
and South Mongolia. As it is, the desert takes its toll from the passing
caravan; thirst, hunger, heat, and cold count their victims among the animals
by thousands, and the way is marked by their bleaching bones. This great, featureless, windswept plateau keeps but
a scanty population of less than three millions. On
the northern and southern borders a few among the people have adopted the
settled ways of the Chinese; but elsewhere they live as their fathers lived
before them, their fields the land where the flocks are grazing, their home the
spot where the yurts are temporarily set up. Nomads they are, but within
definite limits, moving no long distance nor very often. Over them rule their
native princes or khans, subject, up to last year, nominally to China; but
Chinese interference has mostly been confined to the exaction of a tribute —
and a good part of that stuck to the fingers of the princes through whose hands
it passed — and to occasional demand for police or military service. The head
of the Chinese administration is or was the Amban at Urga, and his duties
seemed to consist in looking after the Chinese traders there and keeping a
watchful eye on the Living Buddha, the spiritual and maybe now the political
head of Mongolia. But in spite of his many rulers, or perhaps because of them,
the Mongol seems to know little of the evils or benefits of government. It is
far away, it does little for him, but in turn its demands are small. The Mongol's wealth consists in his herds; horses,
cattle, sheep, camels. In our sense he owns no land, but if he digs a well,
which, I believe, he rarely does, he has certain rights over it, and his claims
to the water and grass near his yurt should be respected. His friends have to
admit that the Mongol is lazy. His chief duty is to
keep an eye on his herds, but mostly they take care of themselves. Each drove
of horses is in the charge of a stallion which looks sharply after the mares,
fighting savagely with any other stallion which attempts to join the herd. I am
told that the owner only needs to count his stallions to be sure that all the
mares have come home. There is almost nothing of Mongolian manufacture, — just
rugs and felt and saddles; and most of the work is done by the women. Nor does
the Mongol till the soil; nothing is found growing near his yurt. Unlike the
rice-eating people just across the Great Wall, his diet is almost wholly meat,
and milk in some form or other, — cheese, curds, koumiss. The tea which he
drinks in enormous quantities, so that even my "boy" opened his eyes,
is brought by the Chinese traders. The Mongol has great endurance; days in the saddle
are nothing to him, and he sleeps as soundly on his camel as on the ground. Nor
does he seem to mind heat or cold. I have seen them wearing sheepskin coats in
the blazing summer sun, and at night the men on the march would throw
themselves down without a rug or mat under the open sky, and the nights were
often cold. If he must, the Mongol can go a long time without eating, but when
the chance comes he is a great glutton, bolting enormous quantities of
half-cooked meat. Drunkenness, I am told, is a Mongol failing. By preference he
gets drunk on whiskey; failing that, on a sort of
arrack of soured mare's milk. On the other hand, the opium habit does not seem
to have crossed the frontier. Very rarely is a Mongol addicted to that. But
they all smoke tobacco, — men, women, and children, — just as they all ride. To
appreciate the Mongol you must see him on horseback, — and indeed you rarely
see him otherwise, for he does not put foot to ground if he can help it. The
Mongol without his pony is only half a Mongol, but with his pony he is as good
as two men. It is a fine sight to see him tearing over the plain, loose bridle,
easy seat, much like the Western cowboy, but with less sprawl. The Mongol of to-day is the degenerate son of the
conquering warriors of a thousand years ago. Once his name carried terror to
the shores of the Midland Sea. Now those who do not like him can say with some
truth that he lives the life of an animal, mating rather than marrying, his
warlike spirit gone, his home a lair, his chief pleasures gorging and getting
drunk; but those who do like him — and they are the ones who know him best —
declare he is a good fellow, gay, good-tempered, independent, hospitable. |