Read Online A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar by Suzanne Joinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Suzanne Joinson
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is why he has banned the publication of Turki-language materials,’ the priest said. He was standing next to his crate which was covered with papers and books arranged in unreliable-looking piles. ‘Come.’
We followed him out of his room along a tight, foul-smelling corridor to a staircase at the end of the ancient building which seemed to be half made from the pink adobe clay, half from rotten wood. We climbed the Jacob’s ladder and emerged like a miracle on to the roof of the building, from where we could see a spread of rooftops stretching out across the Old Town. It was like rising from hibernation, into the full pelt of the powerful sun. A shelter had been erected along the south edge of the roof terrace and underneath it were a number of cages made from poplar branches. The priest walked towards them, and we followed, keen to get out of the glare. The cages were filled with pigeons. They rustled and chucked and as the priest came close, their cooing grew deeper and louder.
‘The atmosphere is not unlike the build-up to the Boxer Rebellion,’ Father said, but almost more to his pigeons than to us.
‘What beautiful birds, Father.’ Lizzie knelt down and began to whisper softly into the cages. As children, Lizzie and I avidly studied our father’s Guide to Pigeons and Doves of the World and had taught each other the specific voices: the quiet but far-carrying kor-wuu of the cuckoo dove, the kroookkrrooooo coo-coo-coo of the mourning collared dove. Lizzie and I looked at each other and smiled.
‘Can you remember any of it, Lizzie?’
‘The Chinese spotted dove and its “mournful croo crook croo” is the only one I remember,’ she said. She whispered, ‘coo coo cococo’ into the cages and was rewarded with a hustle and a warbling response.
‘The diamond dove has a doodle-doo-doo,’ I remembered.
‘When I first came here,’ the priest said in English as he opened one of the cages and carefully brought out a delicate-necked grey pigeon which sat well-trained on his arm, ‘during the Boxer times, I kept hearing a sound in the sky, a beautiful strain, like a harp.’
He stroked the wings and ran his fingers along the shimmering-grey neck. Millicent lit a cigarette. Spread below us was the vast, pink-dust Old Town. It looked like an insect mound, or a child’s city made from clay or earth.
‘I did not understand what this melodious sound was,’ Father Don Carlo continued, ‘but after being here in Kashgar for perhaps a year, I realised that the sound came from the air and would fade away, like heavenly music.’ His hands gently continued to stroke the feathers of the sleepy pigeon on his arm.
‘I even began to wonder if it was a celestial crowd singing to me, but then I met a man who explained to me the unusual Kashgar tradition of breeding pigeons. They tie light reed-pipes to the longer tails of some of the bigger pigeons, so that when they fly, when they swoop suddenly up or down in the air, you can hear these strange tunes come from the sky.’
‘How lovely.’ Lizzie had walked to the edge of the roof which had no wall, but simply a drop. She held the Leica to her eye to take photographs of the toy-town below us. I felt it imperative that I understand the political situation, for the purposes of my Guide, but I was struggling. The bicycle was left at the back of the souq and I was also worrying about thieves.
‘So, this Marshall Feng, why does he cause you trouble, Father?’
‘He has been given official sanction for the Christian Church on the borderlands, but it is not a comfortable arrangement.’ Father Don Carlo’s face grew blotches of purple red as he spoke.
‘Why is that, Father?’
‘The natives here resent his ways and are suspicious of his motives, making the work of conversion even more difficult for me and no doubt for you, too, when your Mission is established.’
‘Who is suspicious of him, Father?’
‘Everyone. He takes a political approach you see,’ the
We followed him out of his room along a tight, foul-smelling corridor to a staircase at the end of the ancient building which seemed to be half made from the pink adobe clay, half from rotten wood. We climbed the Jacob’s ladder and emerged like a miracle on to the roof of the building, from where we could see a spread of rooftops stretching out across the Old Town. It was like rising from hibernation, into the full pelt of the powerful sun. A shelter had been erected along the south edge of the roof terrace and underneath it were a number of cages made from poplar branches. The priest walked towards them, and we followed, keen to get out of the glare. The cages were filled with pigeons. They rustled and chucked and as the priest came close, their cooing grew deeper and louder.
‘The atmosphere is not unlike the build-up to the Boxer Rebellion,’ Father said, but almost more to his pigeons than to us.
‘What beautiful birds, Father.’ Lizzie knelt down and began to whisper softly into the cages. As children, Lizzie and I avidly studied our father’s Guide to Pigeons and Doves of the World and had taught each other the specific voices: the quiet but far-carrying kor-wuu of the cuckoo dove, the kroookkrrooooo coo-coo-coo of the mourning collared dove. Lizzie and I looked at each other and smiled.
‘Can you remember any of it, Lizzie?’
‘The Chinese spotted dove and its “mournful croo crook croo” is the only one I remember,’ she said. She whispered, ‘coo coo cococo’ into the cages and was rewarded with a hustle and a warbling response.
‘The diamond dove has a doodle-doo-doo,’ I remembered.
‘When I first came here,’ the priest said in English as he opened one of the cages and carefully brought out a delicate-necked grey pigeon which sat well-trained on his arm, ‘during the Boxer times, I kept hearing a sound in the sky, a beautiful strain, like a harp.’
He stroked the wings and ran his fingers along the shimmering-grey neck. Millicent lit a cigarette. Spread below us was the vast, pink-dust Old Town. It looked like an insect mound, or a child’s city made from clay or earth.
‘I did not understand what this melodious sound was,’ Father Don Carlo continued, ‘but after being here in Kashgar for perhaps a year, I realised that the sound came from the air and would fade away, like heavenly music.’ His hands gently continued to stroke the feathers of the sleepy pigeon on his arm.
‘I even began to wonder if it was a celestial crowd singing to me, but then I met a man who explained to me the unusual Kashgar tradition of breeding pigeons. They tie light reed-pipes to the longer tails of some of the bigger pigeons, so that when they fly, when they swoop suddenly up or down in the air, you can hear these strange tunes come from the sky.’
‘How lovely.’ Lizzie had walked to the edge of the roof which had no wall, but simply a drop. She held the Leica to her eye to take photographs of the toy-town below us. I felt it imperative that I understand the political situation, for the purposes of my Guide, but I was struggling. The bicycle was left at the back of the souq and I was also worrying about thieves.
‘So, this Marshall Feng, why does he cause you trouble, Father?’
‘He has been given official sanction for the Christian Church on the borderlands, but it is not a comfortable arrangement.’ Father Don Carlo’s face grew blotches of purple red as he spoke.
‘Why is that, Father?’
‘The natives here resent his ways and are suspicious of his motives, making the work of conversion even more difficult for me and no doubt for you, too, when your Mission is established.’
‘Who is suspicious of him, Father?’
‘Everyone. He takes a political approach you see,’ the
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