Full Tilt by Dervla Murphy Read Free Book Online

nearest analogy in Christendom is the Spanish Church, even if its tactics were slightlymore subtle. It’s disconcerting how the men in the religious saddle repeatedly abuse their spiritual authority for personal gain.
    Eighty per cent of the land here is useless for anything, yet when you observe how the irrigated patches flourish it becomes clear that a few hundred more dams are the answer, as the cultivated land is basically the same as the rest. When I first saw the whitened surface of the plain today I thought it had been snowing a little, even though that seemed wildly unlikely. Then I stopped and tasted the concentrated salt which forms a light film over everything; we’re now just north of the Great Salt Desert.
    On arriving at this little village I went straight to the gendarmerie barracks, left Roz there and walked beyond the sun-gold huddle of mud houses to attempt to get some pictures of the goat and sheep herds being penned for the night. I was followed by scores of children, all obviously regarding me as a sort of circus; they didn’t beg but just wanted to be with me. I had to tell the gendarmerie to let them come as their tendency was literally to beat the infants back lest the visitor be annoyed. Actually it did me good to be able to provide so much innocent amusement by merely arriving in the village and soon my photography expedition degenerated into games for all, with me pretending to be a sheep-dog and the children convulsed by giggles and then me being a donkey (not difficult!) crawling around the sand on all fours, braying loudly, with two or three toddlers on my back.
    This barrack where I’m staying the night is a huge old fort, built entirely of mud but very impressively proportioned. I’m half-blind now from writing by a feeble oil-lamp – you’d think they’d have enough oil here in Persia!
GOOSHEH, 1 APRIL
    It’s very funny – around here the idea of a woman travelling alone is so completely outside the experience and beyond the imagination of everyone that it’s universally assumed I’m a man. This convenient illusion is fostered by the very short haircut I deliberately got in Teheran, and by a contour-obliterating shirt presented to me at Adabile by the US Army in the Middle East, who also donated awonderful pair of boots – the most comfortable footwear I’ve ever had and ideal for tramping these stony roads. The result of the locals’ little error of judgement is that last night and tonight I was shown to my bed in the gendarmerie dormitory. These beds consist of wooden planks with padded sleeping-bags laid on them and I have the bed of one of those on night-patrol. There are no problems involved as ‘getting ready for bed’ consists of removing boots, gun and belt and sliding into a flea-bag so I simply do likewise and that’s that! Incidentally, these barracks are kept spotlessly clean: as much as an accidental crumb or cigarette ash isn’t allowed on the mud floor and everything is neat and tidy. I bring in my own food and get hot water for coffee from the lads. I’m now sitting on the edge of my bed writing by a little oil-lamp while six gendarmes sleep soundly around me.
    We left Deh-Namak at 5.30 a.m. when the sun was just up and the air pleasantly cool. Though the road was much worse than yesterday we covered eighty-two miles, arriving here at 6.40 p.m. I stopped for lunch at 12.30 p.m. and slept for an hour in blazing sun; apart from sunburn (there was no shade available) this is perfectly safe, as in the wide open spaces between villages there are no men, beasts, insects or reptiles to molest one, but I suspect I’m in for trouble with sunburnt arms as I was using my wind-cheater to cover Roz’s tyres while I slept. Actually it is only when stationary that one is aware of the sun’s power, whilst moving there’s no sensation of it being ‘too hot’. I believe it’ll be the same in Afghanistan, before becoming intolerably hot in Pakistan and India. (I feel