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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




I am now approaching pretty close to the Sea of Marmora, and next morning
I am agreeably surprised to find sandy roads, which the rains have rather
improved than otherwise; and although much is unridably heavy, it is
immeasurably superior to yesterday's mud. I pass the country residence
of a wealthy pasha, and see the ladies of his harem seated in the meadow
hard by, enjoying the fresh morning air. They form a circle, facing
inward, and the swarthy eunuch in charge stands keeping watch at a
respectful distance. I carry a pocketful of bread with me this morning,
and about nine o'clock, upon coming to a ruined mosque and a few deserted
buildings, I approach one at which signs of occupation are visible, for
some water. This place is simply a deserted Mussulman village, from which
the inhabitants probably decamped in a body during the last Russo-Turkish
war; the mosque is in a tumble-down condition, the few dwelling-houses
remaining are in the last stages of dilapidation, and the one I call at
is temporarily occupied by some shepherds, two of whom are regaling
themselves with food of some kind out of an earthenware vessel.

Obtaining the water, I sit down on some projecting boards to eat my
frugal lunch, fully conscious of being an object of much furtive speculation
on the part of the two occupants of the deserted house; which, however,
fails to strike me as anything extraordinary, since these attentions
have long since become an ordinary every-day affair. Not even the sulky
and rather hang-dog expression of the men, which failed not to escape
my observation at my first approach, awakened any shadow of suspicion
in my mind of their being possibly dangerous characters, although the
appearance of the place itself is really sufficient to make one hesitate
about venturing near; and upon sober after-thought I am fully satisfied
that this is a resort of a certain class of disreputable characters,
half shepherds, half brigands, who are only kept from turning full-fledged
freebooters by a wholesome fear of retributive justice. While I am
discussing my bread and water one of these worthies saunters with assumed
carelessness up behind me and makes a grab for my revolver, the butt of
which he sees protruding from the holster. Although I am not exactly
anticipating this movement, travelling alone among strange people makes
one's faculties of self-preservation almost mechanically on the alert,
and my hand reaches the revolver before his does. Springing up, I turn
round and confront him and his companion, who is standing in the doorway.
A full exposition of their character is plainly stamped on their faces,
and for a moment I am almost tempted to use the revolver on them. Whether
they become afraid of this or whether they have urgent business of some
nature will never be known to me, but they both disappear inside the
door; and, in view of my uncertainty of their future intentions, I
consider it advisable to meander on toward the coast.

Ere I get beyond the waste lands adjoining this village I encounter two
more of these shepherds, in charge of a small flock; they are watering
their sheep; and as I go over to the spring, ostensibly to obtain a
drink, but really to have a look at them, they both sneak off at my
approach, like criminals avoiding one whom they suspect of being a
detective. Take it all in all, I am satisfied that this neighborhood is
a place that I have been fortunate in coming through in broad daylight;
by moonlight it might have furnished a far more interesting item than
the above. An hour after, I am gratified at obtaining my first glimpse
of the Sea of Marmora off to the right, and in another hour I am disporting
in the warm clear surf, a luxury that has not been within my reach since
leaving Dieppe, and which is a thrice welcome privilege in this land,
where the usual ablutions at mehanas consist of pouring water on the
hands from a tin cup. The beach is composed of sand and tiny shells, the
warm surf-waves are clear as crystal, and my first plunge in the Marmora,
after a two months' cycle tour across a continent, is the most thoroughly
enjoyable bath I ever had; notwithstanding, I feel it my duty to keep a
loose eye on some shepherds perched on a handy knoll, who look as if
half inclined to slip down and examine my clothes. The clothes, with,
of course, the revolver and every penny I have with me, are almost as
near to them as to me, and always, after ducking my head under water,
my first care is to take a precautionary glance in their direction.
"Cursed is the mind that nurses suspicion," someone has said; but under
the circumstances almost anybody would be suspicious. These shepherds
along the Marmora coast favor each other a great deal,: and when a person
has been the recipient of undesirable attention from one of them, to
look askance at the next one met with comes natural enough.

Over the undulating cliffs and along the sandy beach, my road now leads
through the pretty little seaport of Cilivria, toward Constantinople,
traversing a most lovely stretch of country, where waving wheat-fields
hug the beach and fairly coquet with the waves, and the slopes are green
and beautiful with vineyards and fig-gardens, while away beyond the
glassy shimmer of the sea I fancy I can trace on the southern horizon
the inequalities of the hills of Asia Minor. Greek fishing-boats are
plying hither and thither; one noble sailing-vessel, with all sails set,
is slowly ploughing her way down toward the Dardanelles - probably a grain-
ship from the Black Sea - and the smoke from a couple of steamers is
discernible in the distance. Flourishing Greek fishing-villages and vine-
growing communities occupy this beautiful strip of coast, along which
the Greeks seem determined to make the Cross as much more conspicuous
than the Crescent as possible, by rearing it on every public building
under their control, and not infrequently on private ones as well. The
people of these Greek villages seem possessed of sunny dispositions, the
absence of all reserve among the women being in striking contrast to the
demeanor of the Turkish fair sex. These Greek women chatter after me
from the windows as I wheel past, and if I stop a minute in the street
they gather around by dozens, smiling pleasantly, and plying me with
questions, which, of course, I cannot understand. Some of them are quite
handsome, and nearly all have perfect white teeth, a fact that I have
ample opportunity of knowing, since they seem to be all smiles. There
has been much making of artificial highways leading from Constantinople
in this direction in ages past. A road-bed of huge blocks of stone, such
as some of the streets of Eastern towns are made impassable with, is
traceable for miles, ascending and descending the rolling hills,
imperishable witnesses of the wide difference in Eastern and Western
ideas of making a road. These are probably the work of the people who
occupied this country before the Ottoman Turks, who have also tried their
hands at making a macadam, which not infrequently runs close along-side
the old block roadway, and sometimes crosses it; and it is matter of
some wonderment that the Turks, instead of hauling material for their
road from a distance did not save expense by merely breaking the stones
of the old causeway and using the same road-bed. Twice to-day I have
been required to produce my passport, and when toward evening I pass
through a small village, the lone gendarme who is smoking a nargileh in
front of the mehana where I halt points to my revolver and demands
"passaporte," I wave examination, so to speak, by arguing the case with
him, and by the not always unhandy plan of pretending not exactly to
comprehend his meaning. "Passaporte! passaporte! gendarmerie, me, "
replies the officer, authoritatively, in answer to my explanation of a
voyager being privileged to carry a revolver; while several villagers
who have gathered around us interpose "Bin! bin! monsieur, bin! bin."
I have little notion of yielding up either revolver or passport to this
village gendarme, for much of their officiousness is simply the disposition
to show off their authority and satisfy their own personal curiosity
regarding me, to say nothing of the possibility of coming in for a little
backsheesh. The villagers are worrying me to "bin! bin!" at the same
time the gendarme is worrying me about the revolver and passport, and
knowing from previous experience that the gendarme would never stop me
from mounting, being quite as anxious to witness the performance as the
villagers, I quickly decide upon killing two birds with one stone, and
accordingly mount, and pick my way along the rough street out on to the
Constantinople road. The gloaming settles into darkness, and the domes
and minarets of Stamboul, which have been visible from the brow of every
hill for several miles back, are still eight or ten miles away, and
rightly judging that the Ottoman Capital is a most bewildering city for
a stranger to penetrate after night, I pillow my head on a sheaf of oats,
within sight of the goal toward which I have been pedalling for some
2,500 miles since leaving Liverpool. After surveying with a good deal
of satisfaction the twinkling lights that distinguish every minaret in
Constantinople each night during the fast of Ramadan, I fall asleep, and
enjoy, beneath a sky in which myriads of far-off lamps seem to be twinkling
mockingly at the Ramadan illuminations, the finest night's repose I have
had for a week. Nothing but the prevailing rains have prevented me from
sleeping beneath the starry dome entirely in peference to putting up at
the village mehanas.

En route into Stamboul, on the following morning, I meet the first train
of camels I have yet encountered; in the gray of the morning, with the
scenes around so thoroughly Oriental, it seems like an appropriate
introduction to Asiatic life. Eight o'clock finds me inside the line of
earthworks thrown up by Baker Pasha when the Russians were last knocking
at the gates of Constantinople, and ere long I am trundling through the
crooked streets of the Turkish Capital toward the bridge which connects
Stamboul with Galata and Pera. Even here my ears are assailed with the
eternal importunities to "bin! bin!" the officers collecting the bridge-
toll even joining in the request. To accommodate them I mount, and ride
part way across the bridge, and at 9 o'clock on July 2d, just two calendar
months from the start at Liverpool, I am eating my breakfast in a
Constantinople restaurant. I am not long in finding English-speaking
friends, to whom my journey across the two continents is not unknown,
and who kindly direct me to the Chamber of Commerce Hotel, Eue Omar,
Galata, a home-like establishment, kept by an English lady. I have been
purposing of late to remain in Constantinople during the heated term of
July and August, thinking to shape my course southward through Asia Minor
and down the Euphrates Valley to Bagdad, and by taking a south-easterly
direction as far as circumstances would permit into India, keep pace
with the seasons, thus avoiding the necessity of remaining over anywhere
for the winter. At the same time I have been reckoning upon meeting
Englishmen in Constantinople who, having travelled extensively in Asia,
could further enlighten me regarding the best route to India. As I house
my bicycle and am shown to my room I take a retrospective glance across
Europe and America, and feel almost as if I have arrived at the half-way
house of my journey. The distance from Liverpool to Constantinople is
fully 2,500 miles, which brings the wheeling distance from San Francisco
up to something over 6,000. So far as the, distance wheeled and to be
wheeled is concerned, it is not far from half-way; but the real difficulties
of the journey are still ahead, although I scarcely anticipate any that
time and perseverance will not overcome. My tour across Europe has been,
on the whole, a delightful journey, and, although my linguistic shortcomings
have made it rather awkward in interior places where no English-speaking
person was to be found, I always managed to make myself understood
sufficiently to get along. In the interior of Turkey a knowledge of
French has been considered indispensable to a traveller: but, although
a full knowledge of that language would have made matters much smoother
by enabling me to converse with officials and others, I have nevertheless
come through all right without it; and there have doubtless been occasions
when my ignorance has saved me from a certain amount of bother with the
gendarmerie, who, above all things, dislike to exercise their thinking
apparatus. A Turkish official is far less indisposed to act than he is
to think; his mental faculties work sluggishly, but his actions are
governed largely by the impulse of the moment.

Someone has said that to see Constantinople is to see the entire East;
and judging from the different costumes and peoples one meets on the
streets and in the bazaars, the saying is certainly not far amiss. From
its geographical situation, as well as from its history, Constantinople
naturally takes the front rank among the cosmopolitan cities of the
world, and the crowds thronging its busy thoroughfares embrace every
condition of man between the kid-gloved exquisite without a wrinkle in
his clothes and the representative of half-savage Central Asian States
incased in sheepskin garments of rudest pattern. The great fast of Ramadan
is under full headway, and all true Mussulmans neither eat nor drink a
particle of anything throughout the day until the booming of cannon at
eight in the evening announces that the fast is ended, when the scene
quickly changes into a general rush for eatables and drink. Between eight
and nine o'clock in the evening, during Ramadan, certain streets and
bazaars present their liveliest appearance, and from the highest-classed
restaurant patronized by bey and pasha to the venders of eatables on the
streets, all do a rushing business; even the mjees (water-venders), who
with leather water-bottles and a couple of tumblers wait on thirsty
pedestrians with pure drinking water, at five paras a glass, dodge about
among the crowds, announcing themselves with lusty lung, fully alive to
the opportunities of the moment.

A few of the coffee-houses provide music of an inferior quality,
Constantinople not being a very musical place. A forenoon hour spent in
a neighborhood of private residences will repay a stranger for his
trouble, since he will during that time see a bewildering assortment of
street-venders, from a peregrinating meat-market, with a complete stock
dangling from a wooden framework attached to a horse's back, to a grimy
individual worrying along beneath a small mountain of charcoal, and each
with cries more or less musical. The sidewalks of Constantinople are
ridiculously narrow, their only practical use being to keep vehicles
from running into the merchandise of the shopkeepers, and to give
pedestrians plenty of exercise in jostling each other, and hopping on
and off the curbstone to avoid inconveniencing the ladies, who of course
are not to be jostled either off the sidewalk or into a sidewalk stock
of miscellaneous merchandise. The Constantinople sidewalk is anybody's
territory; the merchant encumbers it with his wares and the coffee-houses
with chairs for customers to sit on, the rights of pedestrians being
altogether ignored; the natural consequence is that these latter fill
the streets, and the Constantinople Jehu not only has to keep his wits
about him to avoid running over men and dogs, but has to use his lungs
continually, shouting at them to clear the way. If a seat is taken in
one of the coffee-house chairs, a watchful waiter instantly makes his
appearance with a tray containing small chunks of a pasty sweetmeat,
known in England as " Turkish Delight," one of which you are expected
to take and pay half a piastre for, this being a polite way of obtaining
payment for the privilege of using the chair. The coffee is served
steaming hot in tiny cups holding about two table-spoonfuls, the price
varying from ten paras upward, according to the grade of the establishment.
A favorite way of passing the evening is to sit in front of one of these
establishments, watching the passing throngs, and smoke a nargileh, this
latter requiring a good half-hour to do it properly. I undertook to
investigate the amount of enjoyment contained in a nargileh one evening,
and before smoking it half through concluded that the taste has to be
cultivated.

One of the most inconvenient things about Constantinople is the great
scarcity of small change. Everybody seems to be short of fractional money
save the money-changers-people who are here a genuine necessity, since
one often has to patronize them before making the most trifling purchase.
Ofttimes the store-keeper will refuse point-blank to sell an article
when change is required, solely on account of his inability or unwillingness
to supply it. After drinking a cup of coffee, I have had the kahuajee
refuse to take any payment rather than change a cherik. Inquiring the
reason for this scarcity, I am informed that whenever there is any new
output of this money the noble army of money-changers, by a liberal and
judicious application of backsheesh, manage to get a corner on the lot
and compel the general public, for whose benefit it is ostensibly issued,
to obtain what they require through them. However this may be, they
manage to control its circulation to a great extent; for while their
glass cases display an overflowing plenitude, even the fruit-vender,
whose transactions are mainly of ten and twenty paras, is not infrequently
compelled to lose a customer because of his inability to make change.
There are not less than twenty money-changers' offices within a hundred
yards of the Galata end of the principal bridge spanning the Golden Horn,
and certainly not a less number on the Stamboul side.

The money-changer usually occupies a portion of the frontage of a cigarette
and tobacco stand; and on all the business streets one happens at frequent
intervals upon these little glass cases full of bowls and heaps of
miscellaneous coins, varying in value. Behind sits a business-looking
person - usually a Jew - jingling a handful of medjedis, and expectantly
eyeing every approaching stranger. The usual percentage charged is, for
changing a lira, eighty paras; thirty paras for a medjedie, and ten for
a cherik, the percentage on this latter coin being about five per cent.
Some idea of the inconvenience to the public of this state of affairs
can be better imagined by the American by reflecting that if this state
of affairs existed in Boston he would frequently have to walk around the
block and give a money-changer five per cent, for changing a dollar
before venturing upon the purchase of a dish of baked beans. If one
offers a coin of the larger denominations in payment of an article, even
in quite imposing establishments, they look as black over it as though
you were trying to palm off a counterfeit, and hand back the change with
an ungraciousness and an evident reluctance that makes a sensitive person
feel as though he has in some way been unwittingly guilty of a mean
action. Even the principal streets of Constantinople are but indifferently
lighted at night, and, save for the feeble glimmer of kerosene lamps in
front of stores and coffee-houses, the by-streets are in darkness. Small
parties of Turkish women are encountered picking their way along the
streets of Galata in charge of a male attendant, who walks a little way
behind, if of the better class, or without the attendant in the case of
poorer people, carrying small Japanese lanterns. Sometimes a lantern
will go out, or doesn't burn satisfactorily, and the whole party halts
in the middle of the, perhaps, crowded thoroughfare, and clusters around
until the lantern is radjusted. The Turkish lady walks with a slouchy
gait, her shroud-like abbas adding not a little to the ungracefulness.
Matters are likewise scarcely to be improved by wearing two pairs of
shoes, the large, slipper-like overshoes being required by etiquette to
be left on the mat upon entering the house she is visiting; and in the
case of a strictly orthodox Mussulman lady - and, doubtless, we may also
easily imagine in case of a not over-prepossessing countenance - the yashmak
hides all but the eyes. The eyes of many Turkish ladies are large and
beautiful, and peep from between the white, gauzy folds of the yashmak
with an effect upon the observant Frank not unlike coquettishly ogling
from behind a fan. Handsome young Turkish ladies with a leaning toward
Western ideas are no doubt coming to understand this, for many are
nowadays met on the streets wearing yashmaks that are but a single
thickness of transparent gauze that obscures never a feature, at the
same time producing the decidedly interesting and taking effect above
mentioned. It is readily seen that the wearing of yashmaks must be quite
a charitable custom in the case of a lady not blessed with a handsome
face, since it enables her to appear in public the equal of her more
favored sister in commanding whatever homage is to be derived from that
mystery which is said to be woman's greatest charm; and if she has but
the one redeeming feature of a beautiful pair of eyes, the advantage is
obvious. In street-cars, steamboats, and all public conveyances, board
or canvas partitions wall off a small compartment for the exclusive use
of ladies, where, hidden from the rude gaze of the Frank, the Turkish
lady can remove her yashmak and smoke cigarettes.

On Sunday, July 12th, in company with an Englishman in the Turkish
artillery service, I pay my first visit to Asian soil, taking a caique
across the Bosphorus to Kadikeui, one of the many delightful seaside
resorts within easy distance of Constantinople. Many objects of interest
are pointed out, as, propelled by a couple of swarthy, half-naked caique-
jees, the sharp-prowed caique gallantly rides the blue waves of this
loveliest of all pieces of land-environed water. More than once I have
noticed that a firm belief in the supernatural has an abiding hold upon
the average Turkish mind, having frequently during my usual evening
promenade through the Galata streets noted the expression of deep and
genuine earnestness upon the countenances of fez-crowned citizens giving
respectful audience to Arab fortune-tellers, paying twenty-para pieces
for the revelations he is favoring them with, and handing over the coins
with the business-like air of people satisfied that they are getting its
full equivalent. Consequently I am not much astonished when, rounding
Seraglio Point, my companion calls my attention to several large sections
of whalebone suspended on the wall facing the water, and tells me that
they are placed there by the fishermen, who believe them to be a talisman
of no small efficacy in keeping the Bosphorus well supplied with fish,
they firmly adhering to the story that once, when the bones were removed,
the fish nearly all disappeared. The oars used by the caique-jees are
of quite a peculiar shape, the oar-shaft immediately next the hand-hold
swells into a bulbous affair for the next eighteen inches, which is at
least four times the circumference of the remainder, and the end of the
oarblade is for some reason made swallow-tailed. The object of the
enlarged portion, which of course comes inside the rowlocks, appears to
be the double purpose of balancing the weight of the longer portion
outside, and also for preventing the oar at all times from escaping into
the water. The rowlock is simply a raw-hide loop, kept well greased, and
as, toward the end of every stroke, the caique-jee leans back to his
work, the oar slips several inches, causing a considerable loss of power.
The day is warm, the broiling sun shines directly down on the bare heads
of the caique-jees. and causes the perspiration to roll off their swarthy
faces in large beads, but they lay back to their work manfully, although,
from early morning until cannon roar at 8 P.M. neither bite nor sup, not
even so much water as to moisten the end of their parched tongues, will
pass their lips; for, although but poor hard- working caique-jees, they
are true Mussulmans. Pointing skyward from the summit of the hill back
of Seraglio Point are the four tapering minarets of the world-renowned
St. Sophia mosque, and a little farther to the left is the Sultana Achmet
mosque, the only mosque in all Mohammedanism with six minarets. Near by
is the old Seraglio Palace, or rather what is left of it, built by
Mohammed II. in 1467, out of materials from the ancient Byzantine palaces,
and in a department of which the sanjiak shereef (holy standard), boorda-y
shereef (holy mantle), and other venerated relics of the prophet Mohammed
are preserved. To this place, on the 15th of Ramadan, the Sultan and
leading dignitaries of the Empire repair to do homage to the holy relics,
upon which it would be the highest sacrilege for Christian eyes to gaze.
The hem of this holy mantle is reverently kissed by the Sultan and the
few leading personages present, after which the spot thus brought in
contact with human lips is carefully wiped with an embroidered napkin
dipped in a golden basin of water; the water used in this ceremony is
then supposed to be of priceless value as a purifier of sin, and is
carefully preserved, and, corked up in tiny phials, is distributed among
the sultanas, grand dignitaries, and prominent people of the realm, who
in return make valuable presents to the lucky messengers and Mussulman
ecclesiastics employed in its distribution. This precious liquid is doled
out drop by drop, as though it were nectar of eternal life received
direct from heaven, and, mixed with other water, is drunk immediately
upon breaking fast each evening during the remaining fifteen days of
Ramadan. Arriving at Kadikeui, the opportunity presents of observing
something of the high-handed manner in which Turkish pashas are wont to
expect from inferiors their every whim obeyed. We meet a friend of my
companion, a pasha, who for the remainder of the afternoon makes one of
our company. Unfortunately for a few other persons the pasha is in a
whimsical mood to-day and inclined to display for our benefit rather
arbitrary authority toward others. The first individual coming under his
immediate notice is a young man torturing a harp. Summoning the musician,
the pasha summarily orders him to play "Yankee Doodle." The writer
arrived in Constantinople with the full impression that it was the mosqne
of St. Sophia that has the famons six minarets, having, I am quite sure,
seen it thus quite frequently accredited in print, and I mention this
especially, in order that readers who may have been similarly misinformed
may know that the above account is the correct one, does not know it,
and humbly begs the pasha to name something more familiar. "Yankee
Doodle!" - replies the pasha peremptorily. The poor man looks as though
he would willingly relinquish all hopes of the future if only some present
avenue of escape would offer itself; but nothing of the kind seems at
all likely. The musician appeals to my Turkish-speaking friend, and begs
him to request me to favor him with the tune. I am of course only too
glad to help him stem the rising tide of the pasha's wrath by whistling
the tune for him; and after a certain amount of preliminary twanging be
strikes up and manages to blunder through "Yankee Doodle." The pasha,
after ascertaining from me that the performance is creditable, considering
the circumstances, forthwith hands him more money than he would collect
among the poorer patrons of the place in two hours. Soon a company of
five strolling acrobats and conjurers happens along, and these likewise
are summoned into the "presence" and ordered to proceed. Many of the
conjurer's tricks are quite creditable performances; but the pasha
occasionally interferes in the proceedings just in the nick of time to
prevent the prestidigitator finishing his manipulations, much to the
pasha's delight. Once, however, he cleverly manages to hoodwink the
pasha, and executes his trick in spite of the latter's interference,
which so amuses the pasha that he straightway gives him a medjedie. Our
return boat to Galata starts at seven o'clock, and it is a ten minutes'
drive down to the landing. At fifteen minutes to seven the pasha calls
for a public carriage to take us down to the steamer.

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