ceased as spectacularly as though someone had turned a tap off in the heavens. In the morning a hot sun transformed our dreary world and steam rose in clouds from the rocks. We dried our clothes and again began to take an interest in our position.
The continuing ascent was tiring but not difficult. The fifteen to twenty pounds of potatoes each of us carried did not make the effort any easier but no one grumbled on that account. From the heights on the fourth day there was a clear view of the range running roughly east and west and splaying out to the south like a series of great probing fingers. Our accidentally-chosen route crossed the middle of three ill-defined peaks, its summit a broad, uneven-surfaced plateau. Because it was too damp to light a fire we ate only a few peanuts and some partially- dried saucer-sized
From the southern rim of the plateau we could see to the eastward on the plain below a village of white, flat-roofed houses. Moving about in tree-shaded pasturage were animals I made out to be white goats. A group of camels, even at that range, were easily identified. The American strongly resisted the argument of Marchinkovas, Paluchowicz and Makowski that we should go off to the left and make friends with the villagers. He urged that we were still too near the border to take the slightest risk. Talking patiently and earnestly against gesturing arms and jabbing fingers, he won his point.
The negotiation of the Kentei mountains took about eight days. The last stages of the descent were notable because we were able to find wood to light a fire and there to cook the last of our stinking pigmeat. We laid a flat stone across one corner of the fire and roasted potatoes, which made a memorable meal. For dessert there were the last few peanuts.
Coming down on to the plain from the cool heights was like stepping into an oven. Off came the bulky
The treatment of sore feet became a preoccupation. Deep cracks developed between the toes and there were raw patches where the fine dust chafed inside our moccasins. We had occasion to bless the foresight of Paluchowicz, a chronic foot-sufferer, who had collected the fat dripping from the cooking pork back in the cave in Siberia and carried it in a roughly-hollowed wooden cup shaped like half a coconut shell. This fat we sparingly applied to the cracks and sore patches.
This country, we discovered, was criss-crossed with rivers, but we marched a couple of days before we struck the first one. At noon on a sun-scorched day through a shimmering heat-haze, the promise of its cool waters sent our dragging feet lifting over the dry ground. It was a beautiful sight, about a hundred yards wide, its banks green-clothed with grass, its verges supporting flourishing growths of the long-stemmed, bamboo-jointed tall water plants we had met all through Siberia. We lay on our bellies and drank and then we sat in bliss soaking our aching feet. We washed ourselves, using fine sand as a scourer, and soaked the dust out of our clothes. We baked and ate some more of our potatoes, and lay down in the grass with a sense of relaxed well-being.
Along the river an hour after our arrival came a small sampan-type boat, high-built at bows and stern, broad-bottomed and with a flimsy canopy amidships. Athwartships, just forward of the canopy, ran a long stout pole extending beyond the boat a few feet on each side, to the ends of which were lashed two thick bundles of sticks riding an inch or two above the water. At first I thought they were fenders but afterwards I concluded they were stabilizers which, dipping into the water as the craft slewed, would keep it on an even keel. The boatman was Chinese. He was bare-footed, wore a coolie sun-hat, linen trousers ending below the knees and a loose flapping shirt with ragged sleeves torn off at the elbows. The sampan was poled along with a length of strong bamboo. The spectacle was new to all of us and we waved as the sampan glided by. The Chinaman waved back and grinned. Three or four more craft moved past in the couple of hours we rested there. Propulsion was the same for all — a long bamboo pole — although one had a stumpy mast which could have been used for a sail.
There were many other boats on many other rivers in Outer Mongolia, but the men who plied their trade in them were always Chinese. On the roads I never once met a Chinese. Road travellers seemed always to be Mongols.
Our first face-to-face meeting with natives of the country occurred after we had crossed the river and moved a few miles to the south. We were following no track but planning our progress according to the lie of the land to avoid small hills, seizing on a landmark ahead and then walking steadily towards it. Our path was cut eventually by a road lying east and west. Coming slowly from the west was a group of travellers, and it was obvious that if both they and we maintained our pace we must meet. We were less than fifty yards from the road when the Mongols drew abreast. They stopped and waited for us. They were talking busily among themselves as we came within earshot but became silent as we halted before them. They smiled and bowed, keeping their eyes on us the while.
There were a dozen or more men, one camel, two mules and two donkeys. The animals were lightly laden and were also saddled for riding. Only the camel was being ridden now. Perched comfortably on it was an old man with a wispy grey beard. The men might have been a family party, of which the old man was the patriarch. All wore the typical Mongolian conical caps with their long ear-flaps turned back alongside the crown, in material which ranged from leather to quilted homespun cloth. All wore calf-length boots of excellent soft leather and the old man’s, in green leather simply embroidered on the outside of the leg in coloured silk or woollen threads, were of specially fine quality. The bottoms of their heavy loose coats reached the top of their boots. The coats opened to show broad belts, a few of leather, the rest of some strong woven stuff. I thought it strange they should wear so much warm clothing in that hot weather.
In their belts each had a knife and all seemed to be of different patterns. One had a horn-handled long clasp-knife hanging from a silver chain. The patriarch, as befitted his venerable position, carried stuck in his leather belt a knife which was about eighteen inches long overall. It was broad-bladed and slightly curved and the sheath was banded with brass into which some design had been etched or beaten.
When the bowing on both sides had been completed in silence, the greybeard got down from his camel. We bowed again and he returned the greeting. He spoke in his own language and we shook our heads. Mister Smith whispered to me, ‘Try him in Russian, Slav.’ The old man heard and turned his attention to me.
‘May your feet carry you well on your journey,’ I addressed him in Russian.
A long pause followed.
In Russian, haltingly and with an obvious searching for words in an unfamiliar tongue, came the answer: ‘Talk more, please. I understand you well but I speak little Russian. Once I speak this language but not for many years.’
I talked slowly, he listened intently. I said we were going south (that was obvious anyway), that we had crossed a river some hours before. I didn’t know what else to say. There was such a long silence when I finished that I thought the parley was over. But the old gentleman wanted to satisfy his curiosity and, as it turned out, was grappling with his rusty Russian in order to phrase his questions. The conversation, in the fullness of time, proceeded thus:
You have no camels? — We are too poor to have camels.
You have no mules? — We have no mules either.
You have no donkeys? — No donkeys.
Having established us on the lowest stratum of society, he went on to question me about our journey. The word Lhasa came up. He pointed to the south and mentioned the names of a number of places. The information was valueless because we had no maps and just did not understand what he was talking about.
‘It is a very long way,’ he said, ‘and the sun will come round many times before you reach this place.’
The question he had been itching to ask came at last. He looked at Kristina. Her hair, bleached several shades lighter in the sun, was in sharp contrast to the dark tan of her face, in which the blue eyes frankly returned the old man’s gaze. He asked how old she was, if she were related to any of us, where were we taking her. I
