This is a collection of four villages close to each other, the residence of the members of the Iltáfzai family, whose head is the ruling Khán of Calát. They are surrounded by stately trees and productive gardens, watered by a brisk stream from a spring at Pír Chhatta. Some of the houses here appear very neat and comfortable residences. Altogether the place wears an air of prosperity, and is out-and-out the most picturesque and flourishing place we have seen since we left Jacobabad. Kotra is the _entrepôt_ of the trade between Balochistan (Calát and Makrán) and Shikárpúr. We arrived at Kotra just as the sun had set, and our baggage was yet far behind. After selecting a site for our camp, and waiting some time for its arrival, misgivings crept over us as to our evening meal, for it was already eight o’clock, and no signs of our baggage being near at hand were visible, and unpleasant suspicions of having to go supperless to bed forced themselves on our mind. All length I hinted to our companion Pír Ján—who, by the way, proved a very inefficient and indolent cicerone—that, in the event of our servants not coming up in time, he might be able to get us something to eat from the village before it became too late. He took the hint, and, after some delay, in the interim of which our camp arrived, at nearly nine o’clock, his messenger returned from the village with a bowl of mutton, stewed in its own broth, and some bannocks, which he said had been sent from Mír Khyr Muhammad’s house, with that Iltáfzai chiefs compliments, and excuses for not being able to see us this evening, a pleasure which he hoped to enjoy in the morning. We forthwith set to work with our fingers on the mutton, and ladled up the broth with successive spoons formed of shreds of bannock, which went the same way as their contents, until the fast “setting” grease of the cooling mess suddenly persuaded us that we had sufficiently taken off the keen edge of our appetites, and we gladly turned from the coarse bowl and soiled rag on which it stood. Though grateful for the entertainment, I must say I was disappointed in this experience of Baloch hospitality. Any Afghan peasant would have done the honours not only with better grace and substance, but spontaneously. Whilst our tents were being pitched in the dim light of approaching night, a couple of rampant _yábús_, or baggage ponies, not satisfied with a march of thirty miles, broke away from the rest, and made an unwarrantable assault on our two Baloch mares—beautiful gazelle-eyed, gentle creatures—as they quietly stood, with saddles and bridles unremoved, waiting their turn to be picketed. There was immediately a grand row; the mares kicking and squealing desperately, and the _yábús_ rearing and roaring as the horses of this country only can. A dozen men rushed to the rescue from all directions, with shouts, threats, and imprecations. In two minutes all four bolted out of camp, and tore wildly out of sight into the jangal.