The Long Walk (23 page)

I turned to Kolemenos. ‘That’s a slow way of threshing. Let’s give the old boy some help.’ Kolemenos nodded. ‘Show me how.’

We went over and gave the sheaves a few tentative clouts with our sticks. The grain, bone-dry, showered down. I looked over to the farmer. He was grinning broadly and watching closely. I went
over to the others. ‘Let’s do the job. It won’t take long.’ Everybody agreed quite willingly, and Kristina, armed with a light staff she used as a walking stick, came too.
We stationed ourselves round the circle and set to. The boy, laughing, unharnessed the bullock and led him away. When it was almost done, the farmer spoke to the two women and they went into the
house. He stood near me and I ran grain from one hand to the other and then held out to him a thick bunch of cornstalks. He ran his hand along it and shook it and when he saw it had been beaten
clean of seed, showed evident pleasure.

I made gestures to inquire of the man whether he had a sifter for separating the chaff from the grain. He called to the boy, who went to the house and came back with a sieve, the meshes of which
were formed from the tail-hairs of a horse. We cleaned up throughly, sieved the grain into baskets and then poured it into sacks. The boy led the way to the house as I humped one of the first
filled bags.

The interior of the house was interesting. Two-thirds of it was living space, the remainder storage space. There was no partition and little else that could be called civilized refinement. As I
stepped inside one of the women was working a primitive flourmill comprising a pair of well-fashioned circular stones set on a yard-high wooden bench. Pivoting from a hole in a roof-beam was a
length of bamboo, the other end of which fitted loosely into a hole near the rim of the upper millstone. Grain was fed through a central hole in this top stone and the woman ground it by swinging
the bamboo round and round. The other woman was busy over a stone fireplace in the middle of the floor, the fuel for which, judging by the smell, was dried animal dung. There was no chimney. The
smoke curled out through a hole in the roof.

The boy had a sack, too, which he took over to a tall wooden bin, roughly the shape of a barrel, iron-hooped. As we tipped our sacks into the bin I looked round. On a wooden peg driven into the
wall were three or four sheepskin coats for winter wear. Bunches of what looked like dried herbs hung from the roof. On the floor were a couple more bins and some tall unglazed brown earthenware
jars narrowing at the necks. One of them had a small piece of cloth over the top. I later found the jars held water and milk.

When the operation was over the farmer disappeared. The boy stayed with us. I said to the others in Russian, ‘The women are cooking something in there.’ There were hopeful glances at
the smoke spiralling up out of the hole in the roof. About half-an-hour passed and then we heard the characteristic creaking and groaning of wheel-hubs on ungreased axles. Round the corner of the
house came the farmer leading his bullock yoked to a four-wheeled cart piled high with sheaves.

Mister Smith broke the dismayed silence which had fallen on us. ‘Gentlemen, the joke is on us. We have some more work to do before we dine.’

Zaro jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, all of you. Let’s see how quickly we can get through it.’ He pulled Kristina up by her wrists and led the way over to the cart.

We worked until well on in the afternoon and became more proficient as a team the longer we went on. I found it was easier on the back and no less efficient to beat out the grain against the
tethering stake. As I was the only one of the crowd who had any previous experience of such agricultural pursuits, I was agreeably surprised at the results of our combined labours. So,
understandably, was our Mongol friend trotting happily behind each sack as it was toted from the threshing ground to the bin.

The women came out to us then with our reward. One of them carried a shallow straw pannier piled with oaten cakes held with an outstretched arm against her right hip. The older woman brought one
of the tall jars I had seen in the house. It was filled with whey. The boy ambled along behind with what looked like three glass tumblers, but when he came close enough for me to examine them I saw
they were what was left of bottles from which necks and shoulders had been cleanly removed, probably by the application of heat followed by cold water. The cakes, still warm, were delicious and
filling, but the first draught of whey was tainted by paraffin which had been in or near the drinking receptacles. We switched over to our communal metal mug.

This was a period when I had a great craving for salt. I used to dream of the taste of it. It occurred to me then that I would lose nothing by asking the farmer for some. In dumb show I made my
request. I pointed to him and to myself. I held my left hand out and made the motion of taking a pinch of salt with my right. I conveyed the hand to my mouth, drew in my cheeks to demonstrate the
sharpness of salt upon the tongue, smacked my lips and smiled. The man comprehended immediately. He turned towards the house and beckoned me to join him. Inside he spoke to the women and it was
quite a long palaver. Finally the older woman took the tight-fitting lid off a small wooden bowl and produced the salt. It was brown and the crystals were large. She handled it with a care that
indicated it was a rare and precious commodity as she spilled out a quantity which would barely have filled a matchbox on to a square of sacking stuff and wrapped it up. I bowed, smiled and thanked
them all for the gift.

As we moved off down the track leading through the village I was intrigued with the primitive mechanics of the square-sunk well, from which open-topped sections of wooden conduit led away for
irrigation. From two opposite sides heavy planks reared up six feet above ground level to hold the winding spindle. But there was no familiar winding handle. The rope took two turns around the
spindle; one end disappeared into the well and the other led off to a point ten feet clear of the well where it was secured to a thick, well-rounded post socketed deeply into the ground and
extending vertically above ground a height of eight or nine feet.

About four feet above ground and well below the point at which the well-rope was made fast, a stout wooden bar was slotted through the post, making of the whole contraption a capstan for which
the motive power was, as usual, the patient bullock moving in a circle. Provision was made, too, for employing the other hard-labour force of the country – the women – by four arms
thrust through the post at breast height, a kind of auxiliary four-women-power motor. It seemed rather an elaborate arrangement for raising water, but the well was deep and the bucket, twice the
size of the Western household type, was of solid wood hooped with iron and difficult to lift even when empty.

Growing wild at the foot of the ridge against which the place nestled were clumps of blossoming azalea which attracted a variety of gaudy-hued butterflies. A couple of specimens among them were
the largest and most beautiful butterflies I have ever seen and we stopped to look at them. Zaro made a half-hearted attempt to catch one, but little Kristina begged him not to. We made our camp in
the shade of half-a-dozen small trees which from a few hundred yards away had looked like young oaks but which were, I think, camphor trees.

Thereafter vegetation became scarcer until only heather clung to the hillsides. We were heading into the desert, the extent and character of which we did not know. Had we been fully fore-warned
of its formidable terrors, we might have made more prudent preparations. The word Gobi was just a word to us. We hardly discussed it. The sun rose on our left hand in the morning and we kept moving
restlessly on until it sank on our right.

The last human activity I remember featured two Chinese fishermen between the willow-shaded banks of a river the water of which ran cool and clear over a pebbly bed. We had reached the river at
midday, appropriately enough, and first saw the fishermen an hour or so after our arrival. One walked on our side, the other near the far bank, sometimes up to their waists in the stream, at other
times barely managing to keep their chins above water. Each carried a long bamboo stave in one hand while the other hand was occupied in hauling on two ropes slung over the shoulders. They went
forward with the current. The performance was new to all of us, so we stepped into the shallows for a close look as they drew up to us.

The pair had a net stretched out between them across the river. It consisted of two wings each about twenty yards long joined in the middle to a trap, wide-mouthed and roughly five feet square
tapering almost to a point as it trailed out behind. The whole length of net and bag was buoyed along the top by oval floats of light wood. The device did not give the fish population much chance
of survival. The Chinese vigorously beat at the water with their sticks, driving the fish out of the vegetation along the banks, and the only ones to escape were those which leapt over the top of
the net. We were lucky that they chose to stop at the point where we stood. The fisherman on the far side crossed over to his partner, using his length of net to close the mouth of the bag. As they
came together in the shallows I saw that the bottom of the net was weighted at intervals with stones and the tapering end of the bag was held down with a smooth rock. The ropes the men were holding
were attached to top and bottom of the net and rove through the complete length.

One man now took over all four rope ends while the other waded out to take hold of a big floating cigar of a thing made of lengths of bamboo which had been twisting and turning lazily downstream
well behind the net. This, we discovered, was the mobile storage tank for the catch. It had a square flap tied in position over the broadest part. Through the hole went the pick of the catch.

We made signs to indicate we would like to help. The Chinese seemed to be willing. Caught in the meshes of the net were dozens of small fish. One of the fishermen took hold of one and pulled it
through by the head. He threw it wriggling on to the bank. He looked at us and pointed to the net. We followed his example, clearing the net of fish, bits of wood, grass and leaves.

The Chinese hauled the net bag with its shining, wriggling harvest of fish, just clear of the water. Skilfully and rapidly they removed the bigger ones one by one and slipped them into the
floating bamboo chamber. When they had finished there were two stone of fine, medium and small fish left which they indicated we could have. Normally, I hope, these would have gone back to re-stock
the stream. Some escaped through our unpractised fingers, but most were landed flopping and gasping on the grass above the water line. The Chinese ran their net out again and went on to fish the
next stretch.

Here was more food than we could eat in many days, so we decided to eat what we needed there and then and dry the rest in the sun on flat stones to take with us. While Kolemenos chopped the
heads off, holding his axe near the blade, I gutted them and the others, in turn, took them to the water to wash them. Kristina and Zaro got a fire going and a thin flat stone was cleaned to act as
a hotplate. Soon there was the savoury smell of grilling fresh fish. There were about five varieties in the catch, among which I recognized perch by its characteristic spiny back.

Fish drying was a novel occupation for us, but we had often seen the finished product and now tried to achieve the same result. The gutted fish was opened flat and the spine removed. Then in
relays we partially smoked and dried them round the fire. It took several hours and it was agreed we must stay the night and complete the job. Throughout the next morning the fish were laid out
under the heat of the sun while we flapped with our
fufaikas
to keep the flies away. When we judged the process complete, we shared them out and stowed them away in our bags. Later we had
reason to bless the success of the operation. We were to carry the last of this food into the Gobi Desert with us.

Not so pleasant was the experience of a day or two later. The time was afternoon when the hot sun in a vast blue sky was beginning its long decline to the west. Marchinkovas pointed out a couple
of miles ahead a great brown moving cloud and asked what it could be. Not one of us could enlighten him. There was no doubt it was moving and I thought it might be a dust storm, except that the air
was barely agitated by the lightest of breezes. This thing was covering ground rapidly, getting larger and larger as we looked.

‘It’s a locust swarm,’ Mister Smith called out suddenly. ‘It’s no good walking into it. We’d better stop here.’

We sat down on the hard-baked earth, slipping our jackets on and covering our heads with our food sacks. The glare of the sun was blotted out as the locust myriads reached us. We turned our
backs to them and huddled down. The sound as they struck our clothes was audible. They were all over us, around us and above us. The air was alive with the throbbing hum of their beating wings.

‘Thank God they can’t eat us,’ said Zaro.

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ answered the American. ‘They’ll eat almost anything.’

Kristina turned a worried-looking face to him. ‘I am only joking, child,’ he reassured her.

It took at least two hours for the swarm to pass over us. The sun shone through again and the casualties of the great migration littered the ground about us. Some were moving, others appeared to
be dead. We shook them in dozens from our clothes. They had found their way into our pockets, up our sleeves, inside our trouser legs. One consolation was that they had not got into our food sacks
with their precious small store of dried fish.

To relate time and distance has been the greatest of my difficulties in recording the story of this bid for freedom. Particularly is this so concerning the passage through Mongolia, where we had
no common speech with the inhabitants and where, even if we were given the names of rivers, villages or other landmarks, there was no means of setting the sounds down to help the memory in later
years. But I believe our progress through inhabited Outer Mongolia to the wastes of Inner Mongolia occupied us from six to eight weeks.