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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

T >> Thomas Stevens >> Around the World on a Bicycle V1




Ere I am five kilometres from Tatar Bazardjik the rain begins to descend,
and there is neither house nor other shelter visible anywhere ahead. The
peasants' villages are all on the river, and the road leads for mile
after mile through fields of wheat and rye. I forge ahead in a drenching
downpour that makes short work of the thin gossamer suit, which on this
occasion barely prevents me getting a wet skin ere I descry a thrice-welcome
mehana ahead and repair thither, prepared to accept, with becoming
thankfulness, whatever accommodation the place affords. It proves many
degrees superior to the average Bulgarian institution of the same name,
the proprietor causing my eyes fairly to bulge out with astonishment by
producing a box of French sardines, and bread several shades lighter
than I had, in view of previous experience expected to find it; and for
a bed provides one of the huge, thick overcoats before spoken of, which,
with the ample hood, envelops the whole figure in a covering that defies
both wet and cold. I am provided with this unsightly but none the less
acceptable garment, and given the happy privilege of occupying the floor
of a small out-building in company with several rough-looking pack-train
teamsters similarly incased; I pass a not altogether comfortless night,
the pattering of rain against the one small window effectually suppressing
such thankless thoughts as have a tendency to come unbidden whenever the
snoring of any of my fellow-lodgers gets aggravatingly harsh. In all
this company I think I am the only person who doesn't snore, and when I
awake from my rather fitful slumbers at four o'clock and find the rain
no longer pattering against the window, I arise, and take up my journey
toward Philippopolis, the city I had intended reaching yesterday. It is
after crossing the Kodja Balkans and descending into the Maritza Valley
that one finds among the people a peculiarity that, until a person becomes
used to it, causes no little mystification and many ludicrous mistakes.
A shake of the head, which with us means a negative answer, means exactly
the reverse with the people of the Maritza Valley; and it puzzled me not
a little more than once yesterday afternoon when inquiring whether I was
on the right road, and when patronizing fruit-stalls in Tatar Bazardjik.
One never feels quite certain about being right when, after inquiring
of a native if this is the correct road to Mustapha Pasha or Philippopolis
he replies with a vigorous shake of the head; and although one soon gets
accustomed to this peculiarity in others, and accepts it as it is intended,
it is not quite so easy to get into the habit yourself. This queer custom
seems to prevail only among the inhabitants of this particular valley,
for after leaving it at Adrianople I see nothing more of it. Another
peculiarity all through Oriental, and indeed through a good part of
Central Europe, is that, instead of the "whoa" which we use to a horse,
the driver hisses like a goose.

Yesterday evening's downpour has little injured the road between the
mehana and Philippopolis, the capital of Eoumelia, and I wheel to the
confines of that city in something over two hours. Philippopolis is most
beautifully situated, being built on and around a cluster of several
rocky hills; a situation which, together with a plenitude of waving
trees, imparts a pleasing and picturesque effect. With a score of tapering
minarets pointing skyward among the green foliage, the scene is thoroughly
Oriental; but, like all Eastern cities, "distance lends enchantment to
the view." All down the Maritza Valley, and in lesser numbers extending
southward and eastward over the undulating plains of Adrianople, are
many prehistoric mounds, some twenty-five or thirty feet high, and of
about the same diameter. Sometimes in groups, and sometimes singly, these
mounds occur so frequently that one can often count a dozen at a time.
In the vicinity of Philippopolis several have been excavated, and human
remains discovered reclining beneath large slabs of coarse pottery set
up like an inverted V, thus: A, evidently intended as a water-shed for
the preservation of the bodies. Another feature of the landscape, and
one that fails not to strike the observant traveller as a melancholy
feature, are the Mohammedan cemeteries. Outside every town and near every
village are broad areas of ground thickly studded with slabs of roughly
hewn rock set up on end; cities of the dead vastly more populous than
the abodes of life adjacent. A person can stand on one of the Philippopolis
heights and behold the hills and vales all around thickly dotted with
these rude reminders of our universal fate. It is but as yesterday since
the Turk occupied these lands, and was in the habit of making it
particularly interesting to any "dog of a Christian" who dared desecrate
one of these Mussulman cemeteries with his unholy presence; but to-day
they are unsurrounded by protecting fence or the moral restrictions of
dominant Mussulmans, and the sheep, cows, and goats of the "infidel
giaour" graze among them; and oh, shade of Mohammed! hogs also scratch
their backs against the tombstones and root around, at their own sweet
will, sometimes unearthing skulls and bones, which it is the Turkish
custom not to bury at any great depth. The great number and extent of
these cemeteries seem to appeal to the unaccustomed observer in eloquent
evidence against a people whose rule find religion have been of the
sword.

While obtaining my breakfast of bread and milk in the Philippopolis
bazaar an Arab ragamuffin rushes in, and, with anxious gesticulations
toward the bicycle, which I have from necessity left outside, and cries
of "Monsieur, monsieur," plainly announces that there is something going
wrong in connection with the machine. Quickly going out I find that,
although I left it standing on the narrow apology for a sidewalk, it is
in imminent danger of coming to grief at the instance of a broadly laden
donkey, which, with his load, veritably takes up the whole narrow street,
including the sidewalks, as he slowly picks his way along through mud-holes
and protruding cobble-stones. And yet Philippopolis has improved wonderfully
since it has nominally changed from a Turkish to a Christian city, I am
told; the Cross having in Philippopolis not only triumphed over the
Crescent, but its influence is rapidly changing the condition and
appearance of the streets. There is no doubt about the improvements, but
they are at present most conspicuous in the suburbs, near the English
consulate. It is threatening rain again as I am picking my way through
the crooked streets of Philippopolis toward the Adrianople road; verily,
I seem these days to be fully occupied in playing hide-and-seek with the
elements; but in Roumelia at this season it is a question of either rain
or insufferable heat, and perhaps, after all, I have reason to be thankful
at having the former to contend with rather than the latter. Two
thunderstorms have to be endured during the forenoon, and for lunch I
reach a mehana where, besides eggs roasted in the embers, and fairly
good bread, I am actually offered a napkin that has been used but a few
times - an evidence of civilization that is quite refreshing. A repetition
of the rain-dodging of the forenoon characterizes the afternoon journey,
and while halting at a small village the inhabitants actually take me
for a mountebank, and among them collect a handful of diminutive copper
coins about the size and thickness of a gold twenty-five-cent piece, and
of which it would take at least twenty to make an American cent, and
offer them to me for a performance. What with shaking my head for "no"
and the villagers naturally mistaking the motion for " yes," according
to their own custom, I have quite an interesting time of it making them
understand that I am not a mountebank travelling from one Roumelian
village to another, living on two cents' worth of black sandy bread per
diem, and giving performances for about three cents a time. For my
halting-place to-night I reach the village of Cauheme, in which I find
a mehana, where, although the accommodations are of the crudest nature,
the proprietor is a kindly disposed and, withal, a thoroughly honest
individual, furnishing me with a reed mat and a pillow, and making things
as comfortable and agreeable as possible. Eating raw cucumbers as we eat
apples or pears appears to be universal in Oriental Europe; frequently,
through Bulgaria and Roumelia, I have noticed people, both old and young,
gnawing away at a cucumber with the greatest relish, eating it rind and
all, without any condiments whatever.

All through Roumelia the gradual decay of the Crescent and the corresponding
elevation of the Cross is everywhere evident; the Christian element is
now predominant, and the Turkish authorities play but an unimportant
part in the government of internal affairs. Naturally enough, it does
not suit the Mussulman to live among people whom his religion and time-
honored custom have taught him to regard as inferiors, the consequence
being that there has of late years been a general folding of tents and
silently stealing away; and to-day it is no very infrequent occurrence
for a whole Mussulman village to pack up, bag and baggage, and move
bodily to Asia Minor, where the Sultan gives them tracts of land for
settlement. Between the Christian and Mussulman populations of these
countries there is naturally a certain amount of the "six of one and
half a dozen of the other " principle, and in certain regions, where the
Mussulmans have dwindled to a small minority, the Christians are ever
prone to bestow upon them the same treatment that the Turks formerly
gave them. There appears to be little conception of what we consider
"good manners" among Oriental villagers, and while I am writing out a
few notes this evening, the people crowding the mehana because of my
strange unaccustomed presence stand around watching every motion of my
pen, jostling carelessly against the bench, and commenting on things
concerning me and the bicycle with a garrulousness that makes it almost
impossible for me to write. The women of these Eoumelian villages bang
their hair, and wear it in two long braids, or plaited into a streaming
white head-dress of some gauzy material, behind; huge silver clasps,
artistically engraved, that are probably heirlooms, fasten a belt around
their waists; and as they walk along barefooted, strings of beads,
bangles, and necklaces of silver coins make an incessant jingling. The
sky clears and the moon shines forth resplendently ere I stretch myself
on my rude couch to-night, and the sun rising bright next morning would
seem to indicate fair weather at last; an indication that proves illusory,
however, before the day is over.

At Khaskhor, some fifteen kilometres from Cauheme, I am able to obtain
my favorite breakfast of bread, milk, and fruit, and while I am in-doors
eating it a stalwart Turk considerately mounts guard over the bicycle,
resolutely keeping the meddlesome crowd at bay until I get through eating.
The roads this morning, though hilly, are fairly smooth, and about eleven
o'clock I reach Hermouli, the last town in Roumelia, where, besides being
required to produce my passport, I am requested by a pompous lieutenant
of gendarmerie to produce my permit for carrying a revolver, the first
time I have been thus molested in Europe. Upon explaining, as best I
can, that I have no such permit, and that for a voyageur permission is
not necessary (something about which I am in no way so certain, however,
as my words would seem to indicate), I am politely disarmed, and conducted
to a guard-room in the police-barracks, and for some twenty minutes am
favored with the exclusive society of a uniformed guard and the unhappy
reflections of a probable heavy fine, if not imprisonment. I am inclined
to think afterward that in arresting and detaining me the officer was
simply showing off his authority a little to his fellow-Hermoulites,
clustered about me and the bicycle, for, at the expiration of half an
hour, my revolver and passport are handed back to me, and without further
inquiries or explanations I am allowed to depart in peace. As though in
wilful aggravation of the case, a village of gypsies have their tents
pitched and their donkeys grazing in the last Mohammedan cemetery I see
ere passing over the Roumelian border into Turkey proper, where, at the
very first village, the general aspect of religious affairs changes, as
though its proximity to the border should render rigid distinctions
desirable. Instead of the crumbling walls and tottering minarets, a group
of closely veiled women are observed praying outside a well-preserved
mosque, and praying sincerely too, since not even my ncver-before-seen
presence and the attention-commanding bicycle are sufficient to win their
attention for a moment from their devotions, albeit those I meet on the
road peer curiously enough from between the folds of their muslin yashmaks.
I am worrying along to-day in the face of a most discouraging head-wind,
and the roads, though mostly ridable, are none of the best. For much of
the way there is a macadamized road that, in the palmy days of the Ottoman
dominion, was doubtless a splendid highway, but now weeds and thistles,
evidences of decaying traffic and of the proximity of the Eoumelian
railway, are growing in the centre, and holes and impassable places make
cycling a necessarily wide-awake performance.

Mustapha Pasha is the first Turkish town of any importance I come to,
and here again my much-required "passaporte" has to be exhibited; but
the police-officers of Mustapha Pasha seem to be exceptionally intelligent
and quite agreeable fellows. My revolver is in plain view, in its
accustomed place; but they pay no sort of attention to it, neither do
they ask me a whole rigmarole of questions about my linguistic
accomplishments, whither I am going, whence I came, etc., but simply
glance at my passport, as though its examination were a matter of small
consequence anyhow, shake hands, and smilingly request me to let them
see me ride. It begins to rain soon after I leave Mustapha Pasha, forcing
me to take refuge in a convenient culvert beneath the road. I have been
under this shelter but a few minutes when I am favored with the company
of three swarthy Turks, who, riding toward Mustapha Pasha on horseback,
have sought the same shelter. These people straightway express their
astonishment at finding rne and the bicycle under the culvert, by first
commenting among themselves; then they turn a battery of Turkish
interrogations upon my devoted head, nearly driving me out of my senses
ere I escape. They are, of course, quite unintelligible to me; for if
one of them asks a question a shrug of the shoulders only causes him to
repeat the same over and over again, each time a little louder and a
little more deliberate. Sometimes they are all three propounding questions
and emphasizing them at the same time, until I begin to think that there
is a plot to talk me to death and confiscate whatever valuables I have
about me. They all three have long knives in their waistbands, and,
instead of pointing out the mechanism of the bicycle to each other with
the finger, like civilized people, they use these long, wicked-looking
knives for the purpose. They maybe a coterie of heavy villains for
anything I know to the contrary, or am able to judge from their general
appearance, and in view of the apparent disadvantage of one against three
in such cramped quarters, I avoid their immediate society as much as
possible by edging off to one end of the culvert. They are probably
honest enough, but as their stock of interrogations seems inexhaustible,
at the end of half an hour I conclude to face the elements and take my
chances of finding some other shelter farther ahead rather than endure
their vociferous onslaughts any longer. They all three come out to see
what is going to happen, and I am not ashamed to admit that I stand
tinkering around the bicycle in the pelting rain longer than is necessary
before mounting, in order to keep them out in it and get them wet through,
if possible, in revenge for having practically ousted me from the culvert,
and since I have a water-proof, and they have nothing of the sort, I
partially succeed in my plans.

The road is the same ancient and neglected macadam, but between Mustapha
Pasha and Adrianople they either make some pretence of keeping it in
repair, or else the traffic is sufficient to keep down the weeds, and I
am able to mount and ride in spite of the downpour. After riding about
two miles I come to another culvert, in which I deem it advisable to
take shelter. Here, also, I find myself honored with company, but this
time it is a lone cow-herder, who is either too dull and stupid to do
anything but stare alternately at me and the bicycle, or else is deaf
and dumb, and my recent experience makes me cautious about tempting him
to use his tongue. I am forced by the rain to remain cramped up in this
last narrow culvert until nearly dark, and then trundle along through
an area of stones and water-holes toward Adrianople, which city lies I
know not how far to the southeast. While trundling along through the
darkness, in the hope of reaching a village or mehana, I observe a rocket
shoot skyward in the distance ahead, and surmise that it indicates the
whereabout of Adrianople; but it is plainly many a weary mile ahead; the
road cannot be ridden by the uncertain light of a cloud-veiled moon, and
I have been forging ahead, over rough ways leading through an undulating
country, and most of the day against a strong head-wind, since early
dawn. By ten o'clock I happily arrive at a section of country that has
not been favored by the afternoon rain, and, no mehana making its
appearance, I conclude to sup off the cold, cheerless memories of the
black bread and half-ripe pears eaten for dinner at a small village, and
crawl beneath some wild prune-bushes for the night.

A few miles wheeling over very fair roads, next morning, brings me into
Adrianople, where, at the Hotel Constantinople, I obtain an excellent
breakfast of roast lamb, this being the only well-cooked piece of meat
I have eaten since leaving Nisch. It has rained every day without
exception since it delayed me over Sunday at Bela Palanka, and this
morning it begins while I am eating breakfast, and continues a drenching
downpour for over an hour. While waiting to see what the weather is
coming to, I wander around the crooked and mystifying streets, watching
the animated scenes about the bazaars, and try my best to pick up some
knowledge of the value of the different coins, for I have had to deal
with a bewildering mixture of late, and once again there is a complete
change. Medjidis, cheriks, piastres, and paras now take the place of
Serb francs, Bulgar francs, and a bewildering list of nickel and copper
pieces, down to one that I should think would scarcely purchase a wooden
toothpick. The first named is a large silver coin worth four and a half
francs; the cherik might be called a quarter dollar; while piastres and
paras are tokens, the former about five cents and the latter requiring
about nine to make one cent. There are no copper coins in Turkey proper,
the smaller coins being what is called "metallic money," a composition
of copper and silver, varying in value from a five-para piece to five
piastres.

The Adrianopolitans, drawn to the hotel by the magnetism of the bicycle,
are bound to see me ride whether or no, and in their quite natural
ignorance of its character, they request me to perform in the small,
roughly-paved court-yard of the hotel, and all sorts of impossible places.
I shake my head in disapproval and explanation of the impracticability
of granting their request, but unfortunately Adrianople is within the
circle where a shake of the head is understood to mean " yes, certainly;"
and the happy crowd range around a ridiculously small space, and smiling
approvingly at what they consider my willingness to oblige, motion for
me to come ahead. An explanation seems really out of the question after
this, and I conclude that the quickest and simplest way of satisfying
everybody is to demonstrate my willingness by mounting and wabbling
along, if only for a few paces, which I accordingly do beneath a hack
shed, at the imminent risk of knocking my brains out against beams and
rafters.

At eleven o'clock I decide to make a start, I and the bicycle being the
focus of attraction for a most undignified mob as I trundle through the
muddy streets toward the suburbs. Arriving at a street where it is
possible to mount and ride for a short distance, I do this in the hope
of satisfying the curiosity of the crowd, and being permitted to leave
the city in comparative peace and privacy; but the hope proves a vain
one, for only the respectable portion of the crowd disperses, leaving
me, solitary and alone, among a howling mob of the rag, tag, and bobtail
of Adrianople, who follow noisily along, vociferously yelling for me to
"bin! bin!" (mount, mount), and "chu! chu!" (ride, ride) along the
really unridable streets. This is the worst crowd I have encountered on
the entire journey across two continents, and, arriving at a street where
the prospect ahead looks comparatively promising, I mount, and wheel
forward with a view of outdistancing them if possible; but a ride of
over a hundred yards without dismounting would be an exceptional performance
in Adrianople after a rain, and I soon find that I have made a mistake
in attempting it, for, as I mount, the mob grows fairly wild and riotous
with excitement, flinging their red fezes at the wheels, rushing up
behind and giving the bicycle smart pushes forward, in their eagerness
to see it go faster, and more than one stone comes bounding along the
street, wantonly flung by some young savage unable to contain himself.
I quickly decide upon allaying the excitement by dismounting, and trundling
until the mobs gets tired of following, whatever the distance. This
movement scarcely meets with the approval of the unruly crowd, however,
and several come forward and exhibit ten-para pieces as an inducement
for me to ride again, while overgrown gamins swarm around me, and,
straddling the middle and index fingers of their right hands over their
left, to illustrate and emphasize their meaning, they clamorously cry,
"bin! bin! chu! chu! monsieur! chu! chu!" as well as much other persuasive
talk, which, if one could understand, would probably be found to mean
in substance, that, although it is the time-honored custom and privilege
of Adrianople mobs to fling stones and similar compliments at such
unbelievers from the outer world as come among them in a conspicuous
manner, they will considerately forego their privileges this time, if I
will only "bin! bin!" and "chu! chu!" The aspect of harmless
mischievousness that would characterize a crowd of Occidental youths on
a similar occasion is entirely wanting here, their faces wearing the
determined expression of people in dead earnest about grasping the only
opportunity of a lifetime. Respectable Turks stand on the sidewalk and
eye the bicycle curiously, but they regard my evident annoyance at being
followed by a mob like this with supreme indifference, as does also a
passing gendarme, whom I halt, and motion my disapproval of the proceedings.
Like the civilians, he pays no sort of attention, but fixes a curious
stare on the bicycle, and asks something, the import of which will to
me forever remain a mystery.

Once well out of the city the road is quite good for several kilometres,
and I am favored with a unanimous outburst of approval from a rough crowd
at a suburban mehana, because of outdistancing a horseman who rides out
from among them to overtake me. At Adrianople my road leaves the Maritza
Valley and leads across the undulating uplands of the Adrianople Plains,
hilly, and for most of the way of inferior surface. Reaching the village
of Hafsa, soon after noon, I am fairly taken possession of by a crowd
of turbaned and fezed Hafsaites and soldiers wearing the coarse blue
uniform of the Turkish regulars, and given not one moment's escape from
"bin! bin!" until I consent to parade my modest capabilities with the
wheel by going back and forth along a ridable section of the main street.
The population is delighted. Solid old Turks pat me on the back approvingly,
and the proprietor of the mehana fairly hauls me and the bicycle into
his establishment. This person is quite befuddled with mastic, which
makes him inclined to be tyrannical and officious; and several times
within the hour, while I wait for the never-failing thunder-shower to
subside, he peremptorily dismisses both civilians and military out of
the mehana yard; but the crowd always filters back again in less than
two minutes. Once, while eating dinner, I look out of the window and
find the bicycle has disappeared. Hurrying out, I meet the boozy proprietor
and another individual making their way with alarming unsteadiness up a
steep stairway, carrying the machine between them to an up-stairs room,
where the people will have no possible chance of seeing it. Two minutes
afterward his same whimsical and capricious disposition impels him to
politely remove the eatables from before me, and with the manners of a
showman, he gently leads me away from the table, and requests me to ride
again for the benefit of the very crowd he had, but two minutes since,
arbitrarily denied the privilege of even looking at the bicycle. Nothing
would be more natural than to refuse to ride under these circumstances;
but the crowd looks so gratified at the proprietor's sudden and unaccountable
change of front, that I deem it advisable, in the interest of being
permitted to finish my meal in peace, to take another short spin; moreover,
it is always best to swallow such little annoyances in good part.

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