Beyond Kakh the trail winds its circuitous way through a mountainous
region, following one little stream to its source, climbing over the
crest of an intervening ridge and down the bed of another stream. It is
but an indistinct donkey trail at best, and the toilsome mountain
climbing reminds me vividly of the worst parts of Asia Minor. Toward
nightfall I wander into the village of Nukhab, a small place perched
among the hills, inhabited by kindly-disposed, hospitable folks.
Having seen the unhappy effect of the Governor-General's letter of
recommendation at Torbet-i-Haiderie, and desirous of seeing what effect
it might, perchance, have on the more simple-hearted people of Nukhab, I
present it to the little, old, blue-gowned Khan of the village. Like a
very large proportion of his people, the Khan is suffering from chronic
ophthalmia; but he peruses the letter by the glimmer of a blaze of
camel-thorn. The intentions of these people were plainly most hospitable
from the beginning, so that it is difficult to determine about the effect
of the letter.
Willing hands sweep out the quarters assigned for my accommodation, the
improvised besoms filling the place with a cloud of dust; the doorway is
ruthlessly mutilated to make it large enough to admit the bicycle;
nummuds are spread and a crackling fire soon fills the room with mingled
smoke and light.
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