1931.11 В Шерганских Песках - In the Fergana Sands
by Leonid Solovyov (1906-1962)
In Khodji-Yagon. — Khodji-Yagon — about Kalinin. — Sand fortification. — They cut down the tugai. — Sands —Scourge of agricultural farmland.
A plain white with salt marsh. Here and there it rises up in clumsy, stumpy ridges. Round, dense bushes of yantak and kara-barak are scattered across the plain like enormous gray mushrooms.
A road winds through the salt marsh in an intricate pattern. The arbakeshi (mountain horse roads) are laid it out in winter, when the steppe floods, and, choosing drier spots, they wove the road into intricate loops and patterns.
They drove about 10 miles from Melnikovo station. The Darya River glimmered ahead. Not a single village, not a single person...
Only the gloomy dunes loomed like yellow hills, dimly outlined against the gray sky.
Three miles away, on the steep bank of the Darya, the village of Khodji-Yagon was visible.
The village had only recently recovered from famine and the Basmachi revolt. Now, little by little, it was getting back on its feet. "They were worse than beggars," says Baygut (Uzbek), " and now they've brought in camels and horses again..."
They seat us on brown felt mats with white stripes and begin questioning us. Soon the memankhana becomes completely crowded: the entire village comes running here.
"Is it true that Kalinin came to us?"
"It's true."
"They say he's simple, he accepts everyone's petitions himself..."
"He accepts them," I reply.
"With his own hand?"
"With his own hand."
Baygut is speechless for a moment, amazed, and then slaps himself:
"That's what he's like." And before, you couldn't even submit petitions to the bailiffs themselves. You had to go through a Cossack, but the Cossack demands 'silau.'" A Cossack is called "silau," a police officer is called "silau," a police officer's marja is called "silau"...
They ask about Kalinin. Whose son is he... How old is he... Where did he live... What did he do before, what is he like...
I take out a newspaper with Kalinin's portrait and give it to them.
The newspaper passes over dozens of tanned hands.
“So that's what he's like... Lenin's right hand...”
* * *
A cruel enemy is advancing on this area—the sands.
God's punishment, the residents say. - We're still okay, but Andarkhan, Potar, Yanka-Tirak, Kana-Yanga are perishing. It's a little better now, though. They're securing the sands. Over there, on Sary-Kamysh Island, Urtak Belyaev lives; thank him, he's saving us little by little. He's the commander of the sands here. The headquarters of the sand-protection district. European-style houses firmly planted in the ground, a pile of stacked yantak, prepared to protect the land from the sand.
Two newly renovated houses. A bathhouse, storage rooms. Everything is whitewashed and cheerfully gleams with new window glass.
A brilliant crimson-yellow moon lazily emerges from behind the dunes. A fresh breeze blows from the Darya River. High in the dark sky, geese fly past, cackling.
A soft knock comes from the tight place and is drowned in the dense evening darkness.
“They're cutting down the tugai again,” says Belyaev, head of the sand protection department. “Nothing can be done; the farmers are cutting down the tugai, and the result is bare, unprotected sand.”
“Catch them.’
“We’re catching them. But is that really helping? We need to explain that the tugai is the main defense against the sand. They say the sand is Allah’s punishment, and so there's no point in defending ourselves.”
In the morning, we set off for the sand stabilization work. The enormous ruins are covered in a thin crust of ice. The horses are stuck in the liquid, sticky salt marsh. A fine dust of sand hits our eyes. The distance has turned a dim white.
“It’s from the sand,” says my companion.
The sky is thick with damp, dark clouds, their edges piling up on top of each other. A tiny spot in the sky, just beneath the sun, is barely visible.
“We’re working in Potara now,” says Belyaev, “we’ll go first to the sands, and then to the village.”
We soon enter the sands. We come across several sheltered dunes.
“Our work from last year,” Belyaev says proudly.
The reed barriers on the dunes stand firmly erect, not leaning at all, holding back the mighty onslaught of sand and wind.
And nearby, as if by way of contrast, are the dunes protected by the railway: sparse, weak, timidly and hastily erected protections, leaning to one side and gradually being covered by sand advancing onto the rails.
The village of Potar is surrounded by mighty, enormous dunes reaching 10-15 fathoms in height. People crawl across the dunes like bugs, digging in reed shields.
“Our task,” says Belyaev, “is not only to strengthen the sands, but also to plant a forest in their place.”
We’re going to watch the dunes bury the fertile soil. A colossal dune has already entered the jutar field with its horns. Its roots stick out sadly from the sand.
"The work is colossal. We need the full support of the authorities, otherwise the farmers in the surrounding villages will lose their land entirely. We have limited resources."
— And how do the population feel about the sands?
“Everything is Allah. Now, however, some villages are defending themselves. Interesting phenomena are occurring. For example, the leeward boundary of the sands in the Yakka-Terek village lies above the lands of Andarkhan. The dunes are overgrown. The Yakka-Terek people are using the vegetation for fuel, and for Andarkhan, this threatens the destruction of their lands. As soon as the dunes become exposed, they will immediately move and bury the lands of Andarkhan.
This is the source of centuries-old feuds. There have been fights. Complaints are filed constantly. Sometimes Andarkhan against Yakka-Terek, sometimes Yakka-Terek against Andarkhan.
We’re heading to Potar. The so-called ash pillars catch our eye. These are pillars, sometimes up to a fathom high, formed by soil weathering. The weathered soil formed dunes.
We spend the night in Potara, a small village. In the evening, we chatter, mostly about sand. Sand in this area is the bane of agriculture.
[1000 words]
[Keywords: Syr Darya, memankhana – a guest house. Mikhail Ivanovich Kalinin was a prominent Bolshevik leader and the formal head of state of Soviet Russia and later the USSR from 1919 to 1946.
