HUNTING THE IBEX

Press, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22319, 5 February 1938, Page 19

HUNTING THE IBEX

SO having made the arrangements for our early start in the morning, we go to the Shaikh’s “diwankhana,” where we are handed cigarettes, tea, and coffee and sit round the glowing stove in the centre of the room while our host takes his prayer mat, removes his shoes, kneels towards Mecca and mumbles his evening prayers all oblivious of our presence. Sometimes from the very midst of his devotions I have known him chip into the gossip going on round him, though usually the earnest cadences of the old man’s voice still the room to a respectful silence. An Evening Meal Shortly after sunset the evening meal is served on large circular copper trays some three feet across. In the middle of one tray is a high mound of the most tasty and most expensive of Persian rice and round it large sheets of bread, thin as wafers, in which one wraps the rice to convey it to the mouth. On another tray are many dishes of deliciously seasoned stews of vegetables and fruits and the choicest flesh of game-birds and lamb—the latter having been specially killed for us. The cooking would satisfy the most exacting epicure. The food has been prepared by the Shaikh’s wives, but they, of course, do not appear. There are dishes of sweet pastry and mince-pies that melt in the mouth; also wild honey, and “manna” from Sulaimaniyah, and a kind of curds and whey called “mast” which, with water, makes a most refreshing drink. Finally we eat large bunches of mountain grapes which grow even under the snow; all topped off with coffee and cigarettes. Unlike many Mahommedans of to-day the tribal people do not drink wine or spirits. Knives and forks are not used, so, before and after the meal, a manservant presents water, soap, and towel, with which to wash our hands. When the Shaikh and his guests have dined the remaining food (of which there is a vast quantity) is taken away to be consumed by the rest of the household. We then recline on the divans round the stove and smoke and chat on a hundred diverse topics—from malaria to astronomy, ships to sealing-wax, and the Shaikh shows an extraordinary general knowledge considering his isolation. With his own quaint humour and ready smile he even tells us all his troubles, including domestic worries. He loves to tell jokes, even against himself, and says with evident truth that he likes to swap stories and ideas with visitors now and again, because his own men and even his wives get a bit boring at times! So human nature is just the same the world over. With the good-fellowship of wellfed men we watch the embers die in the stove till the retainers bring our beds and bedding. We are rather glad to sleep to-night in the warm room and not on the moun-tain-tops like Baijan and Bellew, though they will have the best of it in the morning. The old Shaikh sees that everything is in order and that our rifles are by our sides (a polite formality in case we should be doubting of his goodwill), and then he bids us a Mahommedan “Good night,” shakes hands, and leaves us. With the confidence bred from many years of friendship with our host—an understanding which we feel is a matter more personal than concerning our very different races

Preliminaries to the Hunt: Tracking the Prey (Written for “The Press” by A. M. HAMILTON*

or religions, Alf and I turn into our little camp-beds and almost before we realise that we have slept soundly for hours, we are being called by the servants and all is bustle and preparation for the strenuous day ahead. The climb up the mountain in the starlight is the most fascinating of all experiences. Everything is dim and unreal like a wild dream. The seemingly inaccessible peaks stand out black against the faintly luminous sky and the stars themselves seem larger and nearer as one ascends Suddenly, out of the darkness looms the trunk of a shattered oak or a fantastic profile of rock like a spectral monster; frost crystals gleam like eyes. Yet all is silent as the grave but for the soft pad, pad of native shoes, the heavy breathing of the men behind, and the occasional clink of rifles against rocks. When he thinks it necessary, the guide stops for a brief rest and I feel his hand upon my arm as he whispers the single word “rawasta” (stop), and the straggling little party draw up one by one and wait silently for the guide’s next orders as he observes our climbing fitness critically. “Warrin” (Come), he says with equal brevity, for these professional huntsmen rarely speak, even amongst themselves. In this they are very like the Highland shepherds in Scotland. (There are indeed many other points of resemblance between the Assyrians and Kurds and the Scottish Highlanders.) A Stiff Climb It is a lung-bursting work this night-climbing, as it is impossible to conserve effort by placing one’s steps and seeing ahead. Yet th«* British soldier or engineer who has lived in Kurdistan is necessarily no mean performer on mountains and keeps as fit as an athlete. A rifle is an encumbrance as one climbs monkey-like at the difficult places, and if it crashes upon the man below the brass butt may injure or kill him. Yet somehow or other, up we go. till at last we reach the snowy ridge where the light is better but the foothold a thousand times worse! A little farther and we reach the natural cairn where Alf is to take up his position with the chief huntsman—overlooking a yawning chasm where dim blotches of rock can be seen in the snowy depths. With a whispered “Cheerio and good shooting.” and a pull at a brandy flask “to ward off frost-bite,” I push on with my two stalwarts for a somewhat higher position which will command the head of this chasm and another valley on the right, for the ridge narrows razor-like. But what a climb'. Suddenly a crash! The Kurdish lad. Sfeemen. Beg, who is one of my men and has ginger hair and a schoolboy grin in all adversity, descend- upon me in an avalanche of powdered snow, ice-axe, and rifle, but we sort ourselves out and begin again. The other Kurdish lad is Hamid, a personal servant who drives a car, cooks a meal, and such-like jobs, and has lived in the mountains since the Russians, in 1916. sacked and burnt his home in Rowanduz when he was a child. We scramble on with wet and chilled feet and legs until at last we reach our commanding position. Fortunately it is now almost dawn, and we shall not have long to wait; but there arc no rocks here to give cover, so wc must lie deep in the snow, digging a depression in which we shall not be seen. 1 (To be Continued.)