At any rate I had a visa of some sort, which I supposed was better than no visa at all. I asked my Chinese colleague what he advised me to take with me in the way of equipment. ‘Visiting cards,’ he replied without hesitation, ‘plenty of Chinese visiting cards.’ Then, seeing my dismay, ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘I will make you some,’ and seizing a quill pen and some Indian ink, proceeded to reproduce again and again the three Chinese characters which represent my name: Ma-Keling, which he explained meant ‘The horse that corrupts the morals’. ‘I hope,’ he added gleefully, ‘that they will not think you are anything to do with General Ma, the notorious Mohammedan rebel leader.’ I said that I, too, hoped they would not.
I left Moscow on June 6th on the five days’ journey by train to Alma Ata, the capital of the Kazakh S.S.R. It was the same route that I had followed on my way back from Tashkent in the autumn. The first two days were taken up with the journey through European Russia. We crossed the Volga near Samara. On the third day we reached Orenburg, the base of the Imperial Russian forces in their campaign against the rulers of Tashkent, Samarkand and Bokhara during the second half of the last century. Soon after Orenburg the barren steppe begins. On the fourth day we reached the Sea of Aral and thereafter roughly followed the course of the Syr Darya. In the appearance of the countryside there was little to show that we were near so great a river. On either side of the railway track the steppe stretched away as far as the eye could reach and cultivated patches were few and far between. It was blazing hot. An enthusiastic Kazakh in the train told me that just out of sight of the railway there roamed vast herds of cattle; and this may well have been so, for Kazakhstan is reputed to be the chief cattle-raising district of the Union.
On the journey I talked to many Kazakhs. Like the Kirghiz, from whom, to anyone but an expert, they are all but indistinguishable, they are — or were until recently — simple, friendly nomads and mountaineers of a far lower standard of culture than the neighbouring Uzbeks, who have behind them the traditions of Samarkand and Bokhara. Although it is admittedly hard to judge from isolated cases, the impression I gained was that they have proved much more malleable material from the point of view of administration and propaganda than the other culturally more developed races of Russian Central Asia. For one thing, they have fewer religious and cultural traditions to break down. Racially, too, they are different, being for the most part of a definitely Mongol type, while the Uzbeks, Tajiks and Turkomans resemble rather Persians or Afghans.
The Kazakhs I met were mostly officials on their way to Party Conferences and the like. All were obviously proud of their Republic (recently promoted to federal status) and filled with a sense of their own personal importance. In conversation they referred quite casually to those of their colleagues who had been ‘unmasked’1 during the recent purge of Kazakhstan which had culminated in the trial and execution of practically all the leading Government and Party officials. The possibility that they themselves might be the next to go did not seem to occur to them, or, if it did, was outweighed by the wireless sets, motor tractors, cheap scent, opportunities for making speeches, and other manifestations of culture which the Soviet regime has brought in its train.
On the fifth day we sighted the snow-clad mountains of Kirghizia which form the western extremity of the Tien Shan range. At the same time there was an abrupt change in the nature of the country through which we were passing. We had left the Hungry Steppe and were in fertile, well-irrigated and cultivated country. Instead of the scattered groups of yurts (the round skin tents of the Kazakhs and Kirghiz), which were the only form of human habitation we had seen for the past few days, we now passed through Arys, Chimkent, Mankent and other pleasant country towns standing in groves of poplars. From Chimkent onwards we travelled more or less due east skirting the Tien Shan range which rises like a wall to the south, until we came in sight of the snow-clad Ala Tau, the spur of the Tien Shan which rises behind Alma Ata. The first stage of my journey was completed.
My next object was to get myself to Ayaguz, the station on the Turksib Railway which is the starting-point of the main road linking Urumchi with the Soviet Union. At Alma Ata, however, the higher station officials were nowhere to be found and the subordinates unwilling to take any responsibility, so that there seemed to be little hope of getting a place, whether ‘hard’ or ‘soft’, on one of the crowded northward-bound trains passing through Alma Ata on their way from Tashkent to Novosibirsk.
Finally in the early hours of the morning I came upon the assistant stationmaster sitting in somebody else’s office with her uniform in considerable disarray, suckling her new-born baby. The station-master was lying unconscious face downwards on the floor, where he remained throughout the interview. Asleep? Drunk? Dead? It was impossible to say. But the assistant stationmaster, like so many Russian women, proved helpful and moderately efficient and in the end I was duly provided with a reserved seat as far as Ayaguz on a train leaving early next morning.
The journey of four hundred miles northwards through the eastern fringe of the Hungry Steppe from Alma Ata to Ayaguz took no less than twenty-four hours, the train never going at more than thirty miles an hour and stopping frequently while the passengers got out and picked flowers. The stops were further enlivened by an enthusiastic sailor of the Red Navy who at every stop insisted upon trying to ride the camels which were grazing near the line and at every stop was kicked off. The Hungry Steppe fully justifies its sinister name but the ice-blue peaks of the Tien Shan, which remained in sight for most of the way, served as a comforting reminder that the whole of Central Asia is not a flat waste of scorching sand.
Ayaguz, where we arrived shortly before sunrise, has sprung into existence since the building of the Turksib Railway eight years ago. It is laid out in American fashion, the streets of square white plaster or wooden houses all running at right angles to each other. It boasts a school, a club and a municipal building, as well as the inevitable statue of Lenin and Park of Rest and Culture, consisting of a few bushes with a paling round them. The population, as far as I could make out, was composed entirely of employees of the Turksib Railway and of the State Trading Organization of Sovsintorg, with a detachment of Frontier Guards and the usual quota of police spies, two of whom devoted their attention to me throughout my stay, padding along the dusty village street twenty yards behind me. At one end of Ayaguz was a small native bazaar to which the Kazakhs from the neighbouring auls ride in to sell their produce. Beyond, the desert stretched away bleakly.
The only definite information which I had been able to obtain in Moscow regarding travelling facilities between Ayaguz and Urumchi was derived from an official publication several years old. From this it appeared that the two towns were connected by a road, along which there was at certain times ‘regular motor traffic’. Knowing Soviet methods, I was glad that I had the whole day before me in which to explore the possibilities of pursuing my journey to Urumchi.
But I met with fewer difficulties than I had expected. At N.K.V.D. Headquarters, I was told politely and promptly by the officer on duty that I should address myself to the local base of Sovsintorg, the State Organization in Charge of Trade with Sinkiang. From the attitude of the N.K.V.D. I gained the impression that they had already received instructions about me from Moscow. This impression was confirmed when, a few hours later, I was informed by the Director of the Sovsintorg Base that, although normally no bus would be running on that day to the frontier town of Bakhti, he would put one on especially for my benefit. It would leave at two in the afternoon and we should reach Bakhti by eight in the evening. At Bakhti I should be able to pick up a lorry which would take me on to Urumchi. This unexpected, and, in my experience, unprecedented helpfulness, left no doubt in my mind that the authorities at Ayaguz had received explicit instructions to speed me on my way.
Before leaving Ayaguz I witnessed one of those spectacles without which no picture of any part of the Soviet Union would be complete. While I was talking to the stationmaster at Al
ma Ata, an order had come through by telephone for a detachment of N.K.V.D. troops to be dispatched to Ayaguz and these had travelled with me on the train. Now, as I was waiting for the bus to appear, the detachment paraded on the platform, where they proceeded to take charge of a contingent of prisoners who were then herded into a heavily barred truck. The prisoners, largely Kazakhs, seemed for the most part indifferent to their fate, but one of their number, a burly, red-bearded European Russian, seized this opportunity to harangue the crowd which had collected to witness their departure and had to be driven hastily into the truck at the point of a bayonet. This scene supplied the inevitable undertone of violence and repression.
The bus made its appearance at 4 o’clock — barely two hours late. Although it had been produced especially for my benefit, it was already filled to bursting point with a crowd of Kazakhs, including no less than six small babies. Room was found, or rather made, for me, and we set off as fast as the bus, a four-year-old product of the Stalin Factory, could be induced to go. The heat was stifling and the bus hermetically sealed.
After the first few miles the road emerged from the desert and ran through rolling prairies of fragrant grasses and flowering scrub, from which covey after covey of partridges got up as we passed. To the north the steppe was bounded by the blue craggy foothills of the Tarbagatai Range and to the south it stretched away as far as the eye could see. The road, though rough, was a first-class one by Soviet standards and obviously every effort was being made to keep it in a state of good repair. At frequent intervals we found gangs working on it with every modern road-building appliance. Altogether it bore the mark of a road which had been made, and was being kept up, for a very definite purpose. We passed a number of lorries filled with merchandise going in both directions.
Towards midnight, in spite of furious driving, made all the more noticeable by the absence of springs and the uneven surface of a road not designed for passenger traffic, we were still a hundred miles from the frontier. Most of the other passengers had by now faded away and we decided to spend the night at the village of Urdjar, a group of mud farmhouses clustered on the banks of a stream. Here I was given a kettle of tea and the choice of six not very promising-looking beds.
At four next morning, in the bleak half light that precedes the dawn, we started on the final stage of the journey to the frontier. For the remaining hundred miles the road runs between two ranges of mountains, to the north the Tarbagatai Hills with beyond them the Altai Mountains, and to the south the Dzungarian Range. At ten we reached the Soviet frontier town of Bakhti and drove straight to the headquarters of the N.K.V.D. Frontier Guards.
There I was received in the most friendly manner by the officer in charge, a tall good-looking Russian in the khaki-drill tunic and smart apple-green cap of his Corps. He had clearly been warned of my arrival and, in less than an hour, had commandeered a Sovsintorg lorry and installed me in it next to the driver, a merry fellow in a red and white striped football jersey. In forty-eight hours, he said, I should be in Urumchi. The journey was not a difficult one and I should be able to find food and accommodation for the night at rest houses provided by Sovsintorg for their drivers. Then he shook hands and saluted and we started on our way. Everything seemed to be going surprisingly well.
Leaving behind us the Soviet frontier post where Soviet frontier guards in smartly cut uniforms were exercising their well-groomed horses, we passed through a triumphal arch and entered Chinese territory. The road immediately became narrower and rougher than on the Soviet side of the frontier. Soon we reached the Chinese frontier post where a very old wrinkled Chinaman, with long white drooping moustaches and a very shabby black suit, came out to inspect our passports. In the background a number of Chinese and Turki soldiers in jodhpurs and bedroom slippers lounged about and searched each other for lice. The old man, after looking at my passport in a dejected way for some time, finally disappeared into a dilapidated two-storeyed house and I was left sitting outside in the sun.
While I was waiting I was engaged in conversation by an onlooker, who introduced himself as an inhabitant of Chuguchak. His father, he said, had moved there from Tashkent. He himself was a Soviet citizen but his brother had Chinese nationality. By race they were Uzbeks. He then went on to say that what was really wanted in Chuguchak was a good English school. Could I not arrange for one to be founded there? The whole population knew Russian but were longing to learn English and he hinted at promising opportunities for propaganda. He himself already knew a few words of English which he then proceeded to air. On the whole he gave the impression of being an agent provocateur. But perhaps prolonged residence in the Soviet Union had made me unduly suspicious.
After half an hour had elapsed I went up to the house to see if I could expedite matters. I was received in the most friendly way by a number of soldiers who ushered me into a small room containing a rack of eight rifles, an incredible number of flies and the largest bed I have ever seen. They then produced a teapot and two bowls, one of which they handed to me while the other was passed round from mouth to mouth. After this ceremony they invited me by means of gestures (to my surprise I found that none of them could or would speak Russian) to lie down and go to sleep. In reply I made it clear to them, also by means of gestures, that at the moment I was not anxious to go to sleep, but wished rather to continue my journey to Urumchi with as little delay as possible. At this they left me, locking the door rather ostentatiously as they went.
Time passed. My prospects, I began to feel, were not so bright as they had at first seemed. Upstairs I could hear Russian being spoken and the sounds of scuffling and female laughter.
Finally the key turned in the lock and the decayed old man in the black suit reappeared and told me that, as soon as my lorry, which had apparently broken down, had been repaired, my documents would be returned to me and I should be allowed to proceed on my way. This was good news. I cheered up and settled down to wait with better grace.
Another hour elapsed. The lorry was now in working order. Again I returned to the attack; but this time the old man announced that my passport had been sent off by special messenger some two hours before to the Governor of the neighbouring town of Chuguchak. We must wait for it to be returned.
We now sat down to watch the road to Chuguchak, which could be seen from where we were winding across the plain towards the blue mountains of Dzungaria. At last in the remote distance, a column of dust appeared moving rapidly along the road. We watched it coming nearer. Out of it there eventually emerged a small black car of Soviet manufacture, rattling along at full speed over the uneven surface. It drew up in front of the guard-house and from it descended a frail-looking young man with spectacles and a small black moustache neatly dressed in a suit of plus-fours and a mackintosh, an officer in a smart black uniform and top-boots with an enormous Mauser automatic strapped to his side and the air of a stage executioner, and a dejected-looking individual in a stiff collar. All three were Chinese.
The young man in plus-fours and the officer disappeared upstairs without a word, and I was ushered into an office where I found the third member of the party looking more embarrassed and dejected than ever. After inquiring in bad but fairly fluent Russian at some length about the state of my health, he very gradually turned the conversation to the question of my journey. The Governor of Chuguchak, he said, seemed to have received no instructions about me from the Chinese Central Government, or from the Provincial Government at Urumchi. This placed him in a dilemma. He would have liked to help me but it was impossible for him to do so. Indeed he could not even allow me to remain any longer on Chinese territory. The law prevented him. And so, taking everything into consideration, he would advise me to return to Moscow.
In reply, I explained with some vigour that I was proceeding to Urumchi on instructions from the British Government, that I was doing so with the approval of the Chinese Central Government, as was shown by the Chinese diplomatic visa and laissez-passer which had been issued to me, and, finally,
that the Sinkiang Provincial Government had been notified of my arrival both by the Chinese Central Government and by His Majesty’s Consul-General at Kashgar, and that if the authorities at Chuguchak had received no instructions regarding my journey it could only be due to a most regrettable omission on the part of the Provincial Government.
To this he answered that this was as it might be; but without explicit instructions from Urumchi he could not allow me to remain on Chinese territory, diplomatic visa or no diplomatic visa. All he could do was to telegraph to Urumchi for instructions, pending the receipt of which I must wait on the other side of the frontier. Threats and attempts at persuasion proved of no avail and the outcome of a long argument was that my baggage was transferred to a Chinese lorry and that I started off in the direction of the Soviet frontier with the assurance, for what it was worth, that as soon as the necessary instructions arrived, all possible facilities would be accorded to me.
The officer in command of the frontier guards at Bakhti expressed great concern on seeing me back so soon. He had thought, he said, with the suspicion of a smile, that I was going to China. At any rate, he went on with perhaps rather suspicious emphasis, I would agree that the Soviet authorities had done everything in their power to help me on my way. With uncultivated people like the Chinese of course one never could tell. He only wished that he could have allowed me to await the answer of the Urumchi Government at Bakhti. But unfortunately it happened to be in a forbidden area. He would advise me to return to Alma Ata where I could get into touch with Urumchi through the Chinese Consul. It so happened that the bus which had brought me to Bakhti was still there. I could leave immediately.
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