C Don Croner’s World Wide Wanders

Monday, November 30, 2009

Mideast | Yezidis | Shambhala

Temple of the Yezidis in northern Iraq
Now it appears the Yezidis, practitioners of arguably the oldest religion in the world, are claiming that the Kings of Shambhala are actually a manifestation of their Peacock Angel:
In Tibet the Peacock Angel appears to be manifest as Amitibha, the peacock-riding dhyani buddha who sits upon his Peacock Throne in the heaven of Sukhavati and occasionally takes a physical incarnation as the King of the World in legendary Shambhala, the land of immortals that flies the Peacock Flag. Shambhala, meaning the “Place of happiness,” is a place designed as eight territories or “petals” and recognized to be the heart chakra of planet Earth. In the center of the planetary heart chakra is the palace of the King of Shambhala, who thus functions as not only planetary monarch but soul of the world (just as the human soul resides within the human heart chakra). According to one legend, the Peacock Angel not only spread his colors around the globe but additionally merged his spirit with that of the Earth and became the world soul. Thus, his physical body is the Earth and his will is reflected in the actions of all creatures that live upon the face of the Earth.
Peacock Angel of the YezidisShambhala
See The Truth about the Yezidis and also News about the Yezidis. As you no doubt already know Yezidis have Come Under Attack by Fundamentalist Jihadis in Iraq.

Also see
Secrets of the Knights Templar and the Peacock Angel and Gurdjieff and Yezidism. You don’t need me to connect the dots here.
Yezidis from the Nineteenth Century

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Sunday, October 25, 2009

Turkey | Istanbul | Silk Road

Over the years I have wandered to many of the more famous stops on the eastern stretch of the old Silk Road, including its eastern terminus Xian, in Shaanxi Province, China. Continuing westward on the Silk Road I drifted through Lanzhou on the Yellow River, Jiayuguan, the western limit of China during the Ming Dynasty and the end of the Great Wall, and made an obligatory stop at the famous 1000 Buddha Caves at Dunhuang. On the Northern Silk Road, south of the Tian Shan but north of the Taklamakan Desert, I visited the now-tiny oasis town of Toyuk, the famous grape-growing town of Turpan, the nearby Buddhist Caves of Bezeklik and the now-ruined cities of Jiaohe and Gaochang, also known as Khocho), both of which were destroyed during the internecine wars at the beginning of the Mongol Yuan Dynasty, and the old Uighur capital of Beshbaliq, on the north side of the Tian Shan. On the Southern Silk Road, south of the Taklamakan Desert, I swung by Khotan, the ancient Buddhist stronghold, nominal location of the historical Shambhala, and center of the Silk, Carpet, and Jade trades, and also Kashgar, in eastern Xinjiang, at the confluence of the Northern and Southern Silk Roads. I also spent a night at the Tash Rabat Caravanserai in Kyrgyzstan, on the old Silk Road from Kashgar to the Fergana Valley, and much later checked into a Russian caravanserai in the ancient trading port of Astrakhan, a Silk Road terminus on the Volga River at the northern end of the Caspian Sea.

Having visited much of the eastern Silk Road, I naturally wanted to visit Istanbul, arguably the most illustrious of the Silk Road’s western termini. Over the years I had received several invitations to visit Istanbul, the latest from our very own Girl from the Golden Horn, the internationally renowned adventuress, temptress, and provocateur-auteur Gunj, with whom I once did a horse trip to Khargiin Khar Nuur in Mongolia. I had received several dispatches from Gunj over the summer in which Bukhara, Samarkhand, Cholpan Ata, Osh, and several other Central Asia cities and towns were mentioned as recent ports of call. Then came one email that mentioned she was going on some ill-defined mission into the Pamir Mountains. I accused her of searching for the notorious Sarmoung Monastery, which she adamantly denied. She did allow that George Gurdieff’s hangouts in Istanbul still existed, however.

In addition to the city’s status as a Silk Road terminous, I was also intrigued by the suggestion I have heard from several lamas in Ulaan Baatar, including Lama Gombo, that a portal to Shambhala can be found in Istanbul. These current-day assertions may be echos of certain enigmatic passages in The Crystal Mirror, a nineteenth century text by the ethnically Mongolian but Tibetan-named lama Nyima Chokyi Thuken. As you know, Khamariin Khiid in Mongolia is also reputed to be a Portal to Shambhala. (A recently surfaced rumor that yet another Portal to Shambhala can be found in the basement of the Rubin Museum in New York City should be discounted due to the dubious source of the information.)

Then came word that Gunj would be in Istanbul back in Istanbul for the last two weeks of October before returning to her pied á terre in Manhattan, not far from the Strand Book Store. If I wanted to visited Istanbul, I should do so while she was there.

So I booked a flight Ulaan Baatar–Beijing–Hong Kong–Dubai–Istanbul and return. Normally I would have stopped in Beijing and stocked up on Puerh Tea from my favorite tea dealer, the estimable Ms. Na, but now the peckerwoods in the Chinese Embassy here in UB have made it so difficult to get Chinese visas that I no longer bother; I just winged straight on through to Hong Kong. Since I had to transfer to Dragon Air for the flight down to Hong Kong I did get to see for the first time Beijing’s spectacular Terminal #3, opened for the Beijing Olympics in 2008. Mongolian Airlines still flies to old Terminal #2, so I had to take a shuttle bus to Terminal #3. To paraphrase Richard Nixon standing in front of the Great Wall, the “the terminal is really, really great.” Or at least really, really huge. A terminal of a city which has every intention to be the world leader by the middle of this century. And yes, there are Starbucks. More importantly there are “charging stations” for topping off laptops, cell phones, and Kindles, and small free wi-fi islands around at least some of the charging stations, although there does not seem to be free wi-fi terminal wide.

I had an eight-hour layover in Hong Kong, so I took the train to Kowloon, thinking I would spend a few hours just strolling around the city with one eye open for any Puerh Tea buying possibilities. Unfortunately my body had already accustomed itself to late-fall temperatures in Ulaan Baatar—we had had a nice little blizzard a couple of days before I left and there was still a few inches of snow on the ground on the morning of my departure—and I was totally unacclimated to Kowloon’s near tropical temperatures. Within ten minutes of walking I was drenched in sweat. Then a slow drizzle turned into a near deluge. So I caught the subway over to Hong Kong Island and spent a few hours in my favorite bookstore right near the Center Metro Station. Although I had already downloaded fifteen or twenty books onto my Kindle for reading on this trip I could not resist buying hard copies of Butcher and Bolt: Two Hundred Years of Foreign Entanglement in Afghanistan, a rip-roaring account of how Afghanistan has become known as The Graveyard of Empires. The English Empire suffered if not its greatest defeat in Afghanistan then certainly its most ignominious; the Soviet Empire likewise got its butt kicked, and now it is the turn of the USA. And I could not resist picking up a copy of The Blue Manuscript by Sabiha Al Kemir. I am a sucker for books about manuscripts.

Thus fortified with reading material I took the train back out to the airport and caught the 0:35 AM Red-Eye Special to Dubai. I was flying on Emirates Airlines, which has wonderfully new and clean planes with fairly roomy, plushly appointed seats, and exuberantly friendly flight attendants. They announced that among the attendants there were speakers of Arabic, English, Turkish, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Russian. When they turn out the regular cabin lights there are tiny little light bulbs embedded in the roof which twinkle like stars, so you can imagine you are sleeping out in the desert, in the “Big Tent,” as they say in Mongolia.

Arrived in Dubai’s mammoth but then deserted airport at four in the morning local time. The only place I could find open was a Burger King, so I sat and drank lamentable coffee while reading Lars Brownworth’s Lost to the West: The Forgotten Byzantine Empire on my Kindle. As soon as the sun came up I took a cab down to the Old Town, where I hoped to stock up on Arabian scents in the Perfume Souk. The souks do not open until 9:00 am, but the covered walkways of the Gold Souk were open so I took a bench and sat for two hours watching the passersby. There were no tourists or travelers at this time of the morning. All the people were locals who work in the souks—mostly Pakistanis—and an assortment of local loiterers. I was struck by the number of Chinese who appear to be working here. Are they colonizing Dubai now?

As soon as my favorite scent store opened I bought frankincense and an assortment of essential oils, including musk, rose, jasmine, araic, nooria, amber, and a smattering of others, plus several kinds of aromatic woods which can be burned as incense and some Iranian saffron for culinary purposes. Then I went back to the airport and sipped immense lattes—the cauldron-like cups have handles on either side so you can pick them up with both hands—until my 2:30 PM departure for Istanbul, also on Emirates Airlines.

Planes were stacked up over Istanbul so I was an hour late in arriving. By eight in the evening I was ensconced in a hotel within fifteen minutes walk of the Hagia Sofia, arguably the center of old Istanbul. At nine at the next morning I entered the precincts of the old Church/Mosque.
Hagia Sofia
As you know, Hagia Sofia was built between 532 and 537 A.D. on the orders of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian. For almost a thousand years, until the the completion of the cathedral in Seville, Spain, in 1520, it was the largest church in the world.
Hagia Sofia
In late June, 1203, members of the 4th Crusade, ostensibly bound for the Holy Land, where they hoped to retake Jerusalem from the Moslems, decided to swing by Istanbul—then known as Constantinople—for a little free-lance looting and plunder, this despite the fact that Constantinople was at the time a Christian city, albeit Orthodox and not Catholic, like the western European Crusaders. According to the historian Speros Vryonis:
The Latin soldiery subjected the greatest city in Europe to an indescribable sack. For three days they murdered, raped, looted and destroyed on a scale which even the ancient Vandals and Goths would have found unbelievable. Constantinople had become a veritable museum of ancient and Byzantine art, an emporium of such incredible wealth that the Latins were astounded at the riches they found. Though the Venetians had an appreciation for the art which they discovered (they were themselves semi-Byzantines) and saved much of it, the French and others destroyed indiscriminately, halting to refresh themselves with wine, violation of nuns, and murder of Orthodox clerics. The Crusaders vented their hatred for the Greeks most spectacularly in the desecration of the greatest Church in Christendom. They smashed the silver iconostasis, the icons and the holy books of Hagia Sofia, and seated upon the patriarchal throne a whore who sang coarse songs as they drank wine from the Church's holy vessels. The estrangement of East and West, which had proceeded over the centuries, culminated in the horrible massacre that accompanied the conquest of Constantinople. The Greeks were convinced that even the Turks, had they taken the city, would not have been as cruel as the Latin Christians. The defeat of Byzantium, already in a state of decline, accelerated political degeneration so that the Byzantines eventually became an easy prey to the Turks. The Crusading movement thus resulted, ultimately, in the victory of Islam, a result which was of course the exact opposite of its original intention.
Hagia Sofia
In 1453 the Ottoman Turks, after a lengthy siege described in intriguing detail in the book 1453: The Holy War for Constantinople and the Clash of Islam and the West, captured Constantinople. On Tuesday, May 29, 1453 Sultan Mehmet II entered the city and carrying the sword of the Prophet Mohammed rode his mule straight into Hafia Sofia. Dismounting, he kneeled on the floor and after sprinkling a handful of dust on his head as a sign of humility, announced the victory of Islam over the city and declared that henceforth Hagai Sofia would serve as a mosque. In 1935 Hagia Sofia was turned into a museum and is now visited by thousands, if not tens of thousands, of people a day.
Second Floor Hallway in the Hagia SofiaInterior of the Hagia Sofia
Interior of the Hagia Sofia

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Saturday, April 25, 2009

Mongolia | Life & Death of the False Lama #18

After Dambijantsan was Deported from Mongolia in 1891, we hear nothing more about him, apart from a couple of unsubstantiated rumors, for the next twenty years. How does a man like Dambijantsan, who had electrified the populace of Mongolia during his sojourns there in 1890 and 1891, almost immediately becoming the stuff of legend, and whose charisma, will power, and apparent magical abilities had left an indelible impression on almost everyone who met him, simply disappear for twenty years? This is just one of the many mysteries of Dambijantsan’s life. I might note parenthetically that arguably the greatest magus of the nineteenth-century, Helena Blavatsky, also disappeared completely for twenty years, a lacuna which even her most assidious biographers have been unable to fill in, and that the likewise arguably greatest magus of the twentieth century, George Gurdjieff, also disappeared for twenty years, another lacuna which has left biographers scratching their heads in puzzlement and dismay. And need I add that Jesus of Nazareth also disappeared for twenty years, a period about which the Bible has absolutely nothing to say? It is intriguing that legend, if not historical documentation, places Blavatsky, Gurdieff, Dambijantsan, and Jesus in India and Tibet during at least part of their missing years, but this is a topic which I must put aside for the moment while I deal with Dambijantsan’s reappearance in 1910, when he suddenly materialized in the town of Karashahr, in what is now Xinjiang Province, China.

Here he sought out the Brothers Kryajev, Russian merchants who were operating in the area at the time. One of the brothers may have been P. I. Kryajev, who back in 1891 had been living in Uliastai and had been instrumental in gaining Dambijantsan’s release from the Qing authorities. Dambijantsan was traveling under an alias and had “somewhat changed exterior; his face was shaven now whereas formerly he wore a beard.” Karashahr, now known as Yanqi, just west of Bosten Lake, on the south side of the Tian Shan Range, was in an area inhabited by Torgut Mongols, many of them descendants of the Torguts who took part in the Great Migration of Kalmyk Mongols from the Caspian Steppes in Russia back to China in 1772. Today the area is in the Bayangol Mongol Autonomous Prefecture of Xinjiang and is still home to many Torgut Mongols.

As noted earlier, Dambijantsan probably visited this area during his 1890 Sojourn through Xinjiang. Dambijantsan, himself a Dörböt, like the Torguts one of the tribes which made up the Kalmyks, would have found himself at home here among the descendants of the migrants from the Caspian Steppes along the Volga River where he was born, and he ended up staying in the Karashahr area for over a year. He must have had his ear to the ground and his political senses no doubt told him that the decrepit Qing Dynasty, tottering on its last legs, was about to come to an ignominious end. Perhaps he was just biding his time among the Torgut Mongols near Karashahr, waiting for the proper moment to make a dramatic return to western Mongolia.

According to Diluv Khutagt he arrived back in the Khovd area in late 1911 in the company of “man got up like a lama, and they had two riding camels.” The man’s man was Jimbe, and at this point he was apparently Dambijantsan’s sole disciple. At first Dambijantsan did not give out his name, but he soon became known as Khoër Temeed Badarchin, the Wandering Monk with Two Camels, the same nickname he had gotten during his earlier stay in Mongolia Soon the rumor spread that he was either Amarsanaa himself, in accordance with the legend that Amarsanaa had in fact never died, but had learned the secret of immortality, or that he was a descendant or perhaps reincarnation of Amarsanaa, returning to avenge Amarsanaa and continue his quest to free the Mongols from the hated Manchus. The legend of Amarsanaa’s return to Mongolia in one form or another dated from the late eighteenth century, and people might well have remembered the Dambijantsan’s earlier appearance in 1890-91 when he was claiming to be Amarsanaa’s descendant or incarnation. The Russian trader Burdukov noted that upon returning to Mongolia each spring from Russia, people would “naively ask when Amarsanaa will come and save us.” Now it appeared their prayers were about to be answered.

The mysterious badarchin, according to the Diluv, “was a very powerful man and the saddlebags which his men couldn’t lift he could lift onto a camel . . . He was armed with a long old-style Mongol flintlock. Although he came from the Volga, he spoke the Khalkh dialect very well. He called himself a lama, but nobody knew if he really was one. Nobody knew his real age. Nobody knew the real truth about him.” Soon people did become aware of his real, or alleged, name, Dambijantsan, and as they repeated this name it got shortened to Dambija (the name by which many in Mongolia recognize him to this day), then finally to just Ja. Apparently from this time he first became known as Ja Lama. He also became known as Ja Bogd (bodg = holy) and Ja Bagsh (bagsh = teacher).

According to the Diluv Khutagt, Dambijantsan, ”visited the Torguud (Torgut) and Ööld banners one after another and everywhere caused everyone, great and small, to have faith in him, and spent several months in Zakhchin Da’s region.” At the time there were two Zakhchin Banners southeast of Khovd City, the Da Khoshuu and the Gün Khoshuu. Dambijantsan finally decided to set up headquarters among the Zakhchin Da Khoshuu. The word zakhchin itself means “borderer,” and the Zakhchin people were one of many ethnic groups who fell under the general rubric of Western, or Oirat Mongols. They inhabit the area to this day, centered around the now neat and tidy little sum center of Mankhan. In Dambijantsan’s day, the town was well-known as the site of a monastery known as Tögrögiin Khüree. The famous lama Namkhaijantsan (1599–1662), who became better known as the Oirat Zaya Pandita, once lived here. At the at the age of nineteen Namkhaijantsan had gone to Tibet where he was ordained as a monk by the Dalai Lama himself. He staying in Tibet for eighteen years before coming back to western Mongolia. In 1649 he returned to Tibet as the chaperone and tutor of the five-year old Oirat prince Galdan (later Galdan Bolshigt) who himself entered the monkhood. (Dambijantsan, as we shall see, adopted Galdan Boshigt as one of his role models.)

Galdan Bolshigt (1644–1697)

A formidable polymathic scholar, the Zaya Pandita is famous for inventing the so-called “Clear Script” (Tod Bichig), a modification on the Uighuro-Mongolian vertical script already in use by the Mongols. It was while studying the various dialects of the Western Mongols that Namkhaijantsan stayed at the monastery in Mankhan. Over 2,000 manuscripts on religious subjects written in Clear Script still exist in the libraries of Ulaan Baatar, including forty-seven composed between 1652 and 1662 by Zaya Pandita himself. The script is still used by Torguts in Xinjiang.

Namkhaijantsan (1599–1662), The Oirat Zaya Pandita

In 1911, when Dambijantsan arrived in the area, the Zakhchin were ruled by the 12th Zakhchin Noyon (noyon = prince). The Noyon, whose given name was Sambuu, was born in 1864, the Year of the Mouse, at a place called Khuural Tsenkher, in what is now Mankhan Sum. He was the second son of a herdsman who, although very poor, was well known as a doctor practicing traditional Mongolian medicine. Sambuu’s talents were recognized early, and when he was ten years old the 10th Noyon of the Zakhchin, Dalantai, took him on as a disciple and student. Dalantai was a very learned man and highly respected as a Dalai, a man whose knowledge was as vast as on ocean (dalai = ocean, oceanic, etc.). Under the tutorage of the 10th Noyon, Sambuu learned old Mongolia Vertical Script, the Tod Script of the Oirat Zaya Pandita, the Manchu and Tibetan languages, and also studied medicine sutras and other Tibetan medical texts. He eventually became a maaramba, a practitioner of traditional medicine, and was much respected by the Zakhchin people as a doctor and a knowledgeable and talented person in general.

Sambuu, the 12th Zakhchin Noyon

Meanwhile the 10th Noyon died and was replaced by a man named Nyamdeleg, who became the 11th Noyon. Nyamdeleg soon fell ill and his health became so bad that he was unable to fulfill his duties and had to stand down. The office of Noyon was not hereditary; it could be awarded to anyone the populace, led by the lesser noblemen, felt could best perform the job. Sambuu, well known for his knowledge and pure mindedness, was soon proclaimed the 12th Zakhchin Noyon. Ever energetic, he embarked on a campaign to upgrade the Tögrögiin Khüree and other monasteries and temples and imported skilled craftsmen from China to do the work. His goal was to make these monasteries the center of Buddhism in western Mongolia.

He also had a more militant turn of mind and with the collapse of the Manchu dynasty in the Fall of 1911 he declared himself ready to fight for Mongolian independence. Therefore he apparently had no objections when Dambijantsan, voraciously expounding on the need to eject the Manchus from western Mongolia and unite the Mongolia people, suddenly showed up in his territory and announced his intention to establish a winter camp about 20 miles south of Mankhan, on the Tsenkher Gol, where the river emerges from a canyon through the Mongol-Altai Mountain. On his peregrinations around western Mongolia Dambijantsan had already attracted a small flock of disciples and followers and these people too moved to the Tsenkher Gol camp.

Apparently it was here at his winter camp on Tsenkher Gol that on December 29, 1911, Dambijantsan did what the Diluv Khutagt called a “strange, magical thing." According to the Diluv Khutagt:
The Bogd was declared Khan of Mongolia at the time of the Mongol Revolution in 1911. Long before the news of this event reached Western Mongolia, Ja Lama called the people around him, and said, “The time for rejoicing has arrived.’ He then touched the barrel of his gun to the top of each man’s head, in the way a lama gives a blessing with his prayer beads, and said, ‘Go to the east and pray.’ Later is was discovered that this was the exact day on which the Bogd had been declared Khaan.

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Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Mongolia | 1001 Arabian Nights and Dolts

I have been inundated by a blizzard of email taking exception to the characterization of my readers as “dolts” in a Previous Post. I would have thought that anyone who read this would assume that everyone but themselves were dolts and get a certain satisfaction from this, but now it appears that some people actually believed that the word applied to themselves. Rest assured that it is in fact all the other readers who are dolts and not yourself.

So what, you may wonder, led me to use the word “dolt” in my post? I’ll tell you. Just recently I finished reading Husain Haddawy’s relatively new ((latest edition: May 12, 2008) translation of the 1001 Arabian Nights.


This translation, by the way, has only 271 of the Nights included. If you want the entire 1001 Nights just about your only option is the 16-volume translation by Richard Burton. The dead tree version of this 16-volume set is a collector’s item and will set you back some big bucks, even if you are lucky enough to find a set for sale. Amazingly, the Entire 16-Volume Set is now available in Kindle format from amazon.com for a trifling $4.79. Of course I have added a copy to my Digital Scriptorium.


This work may well represent the high water mark of the Victorian mania for footnoting. Burton simply cannot resist adding as footnotes lengthy exegeses on the most arcane subjects which come up in the text, with special emphasis on his bizarre sexual obsessions, an area in which the 1001 Nights offers plentiful inspiration. Burton had, of course, spent a good part of his life in India and the Middle East researching this topic, so he came well equipped with plentiful anecdotal information.

Actually there is even a newer edition of the 1001 Nights, this one a three-volume collector set, available only in England. It is not clear how many of the Nights are covered. I have not read any reviews or added it to the Scriptorium, so I will not comment further.

Anyhow, after reading Haddawy’s translation and a good chunk of Burton’s version, I naturally got curious about the background of the 1001 Nights. Who wrote it?—an author is never listed—when and where was it written? etc. Everyone has heard of the 1001 Nights, but admit it, how much do you really know about the book? To satisfy my curiosity and fill in these lacunae in my knowledge I added to the Scriptorium a book by Robert Irwin entitled The Arabian Nights: A Companion.



This book belongs to one of my favorite genres: books about books. It gives a detailed account of the milieu out of which the the 1001 Nights probably developed, who may have written it—no one person, no doubt—an exhaustive history of the various translations down through the ages, and much, much more. There is one chapter, “The Storyteller’s Craft,” which gives a history of professional storytellers from 12th century Cairo and Baghdad to seventeenth century Damascus. It was probably these guys who over the centuries put together the opus became known as the 1001 Nights. In the early days they plied their trade in streets or squares near mosques and markets, places with a lot of foot traffic, but starting in about the sixteenth-century, with the rise of the Ottoman Empire, coffee houses became popular in these lands and the storytellers moved inside. It is interesting to note that at first some strict interpreters of the Quran considered coffee an intoxicant and thus illicit under Islamic law. Coffee houses therefore tended to attract a louche clientele. I cannot help but noticing that even in Ulaan Baatar today habitual coffee drinkers tend to hover on the brink of moral turpitude, especially compared with those who prefer to drink tea, a more spiritually uplifting beverage. Anyhow, the patrons of Louch Coffee Houses provided a ready audience for the kind of tales which make up the 1001 Nights. I myself prefer to drink oolong tea, preferably Bao Zhong from Taiwan, while reading the book, and try to avoid coffee houses, louche or otherwise, whenever possible.

Bao Zhong is a lightly oxidized oolong tea with the qualities of both oolong and green tea. Because it is partially oxidized, Bao Zhong is classified as an oolong tea, but its oxidation period is less than typical high mountain oolongs of Taiwan. For this reason Baozhong is sometimes referred to as a green tea. True green teas, however, are completely un-oxidized. In any case, a perfect complement to 1001 Nights.
Irwin also relates that Richard Burton, translator of the 1001 Nights, encountered various storytellers in Tangiers in the 1880s. At this time and place we once again find them performing in the street. They could be recognized by the tom-tom drum and stout walking stick they carried, and they often appeared to be “disreputable-looking figures.” One witnessed by Burton “speaks slowly and with emphasis, varying the diction with breaks of animation, abundant action and the most comical grimaces; he advances, retires and wheels about, illustrating every point with pantomime; and his features, voice and gestures are so expressive that even Europeans who cannot understand a word of Arabic divine the meaning of his tale.”

A similar storyteller pops up in The Teachers of Gurdieff, by Rafael Lefort (almost certainly a pen name for Idries Shah who went on to make a name for himself as one of the most visible proponents of Sufism in the West).



The book, published in 1968, purports to be a search for Sufi teachers who claimed to have taught the great twentieth century magus George Gurdjieff. While in Istanbul Lefort met with the Sufi Pir Daud, who advised him, ““Go to Tabriz and find there Daggash Rustam, Master of the Drum. He may see you or he may not. If he does, you can hope to continue on in your search. If he does not—’ he spread his palms expressively.”

Lefort proceeded to Tabriz, in Iran, and finally tracked down the storyteller Daggash Rustam, who like Burton’s storyteller carried a drum and a staff:
Ten days I spent in searching until one day, as I sat in a chai khana, my attention was drawn to a tall figure, heavily bearded, dressed in a ragged patched robe, crossing the street. On reaching a small open place he produced a drum and started to beat it crying, ‘Harken ye all to Rustam,’
I jumped, split my tea and rushed over.
The dervish was seated on a stone and round him a crowd had gathered. He held up his stick for silence.
‘I will tell you a tale, though why I waste my time on dolts like you I don’t know,’ he began. An appreciative murmur showed that this was a known gambit.
So that is where I got the expression, “why I waste my time on dolts like you I don’t know,” which I used in the earlier post. Strangely enough, however, I have not heard any “appreciative murmurs.” Of course we live in a different time and place.

In any case, the book 1001 Arabian Nights has also inspired the 1001 Arabian Nights Restaurant in Beijing, for which I am eternally grateful, having spend many enjoyable nights there.

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