a ronmgbt in N.W. Luristan
a small pit dug round it, the stem is incised thrice a year at
an interval of a week or so, and the gum oozes out ready to
be sold. These pits make the most irritating country to ride
over, as bad as a rabbity bit of Dartmoor.
As we were going along in pleasant loneliness, talking of
this and that, with only here and there a shepherd and his
flocks to break the long lines of curving empty land, I began
to notice that we were not keeping to our intended direction
of the Gatdhkah Pass, where a police post guards the track to
Alishtar.
" Why are we going so far south?" I asked.
" The Gatchkah is not safe to-day," said Mahmud with
one of his furtive glances. " We are going round by a
different way."
" I thought there were police up there," said I.
" So there are: but it is hilly country." With which cryptic
remark we had to be contented, and rode on in meditative
silence, rather anxiously.
And now we came over a little ridge and saw before us a
new settlement of tents and a few houses, the hamlet of Deh
Kush. And a surprise was beyond: for there in absolute
solitude wound a road, the unfinished motor road from
Khurramabad to Harsin. Between us and it rode a policeman
in pale-blue uniform.
He was more surprised than we were. He showed it more,
at any rate, and came spluttering up to ask if I knew that I
was in Luristan. I said that I not only knew it, but was on
my way to call on the Governor: the famous letter was
produced, with its usual impressive effect. It took a little
time, however, to live down the shock of our appearance,
and somebody had to be blamed. " One can't travel like this
in the middle of the wilderness," said the policeman, turning
on our guide. " Why are you off the road?"
[20]