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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




"There are no carriages, Pasha Effendi. Those three are all engaged by
ladies and gentlemen in the garden," exclaims the waiter, respectfully.

"Engaged or not engaged, I want that open carriage yonder," replies the
pasha authoritatively, and already beginning to show signs of impatience."
Boxhanna. "(hi, you, there!)" drive around here," addressing the driver.

The driver enters a plea of being already engaged. The pasha's temper
rises to the point of threatening to throw carriage, horses, and driver
into the Bosphorus if his demands are not instantly complied with. Finally
the driver and everybody else interested collapse completely, and,
entering the carriage, we are driven to our destination without another
murmur. Subsequently I learned that a government officer, whether a pasha
or of lower rank, has the power of taking arbitrary possession of a
public conveyance over the head of a civilian, so that our pasha was,
after all, only sticking up for the rights of himself and my friend of
the artillery, who likewise wears the mark by which a military man is
in Turkey always distinguishable from a civilian - a longer string to the
tassel of his fez.

This is the last day of Ramadan, and the following Monday ushers in the
three days' feast of Biaram, which is in substance a kind of a general
carousal to compensate for the rigid self-denial of the thirty days
'fasting and prayer' just ended. The government offices and works are
till closed, everybody is wearing new clothes, and holiday-making engrosses
the public attention. A friend proposes a trip on a Bosphorus steamer
up as far as the entrance to the Black Sea. The steamers are profusely
decorated with gaycolored flags, and at certain hours all war-ships
anchored in the Bosphorus, as well as the forts and arsenals, fire
salutes, the roar and rattle of the great guns echoing among the hills
of Europe and Asia, that here confront each other, with but a thousand
yards of dancing blue waters between them. All along either lovely shore
villages and splendid country-seats of wealthy pashas and Constantinople
merchants dot the verdure-clad slopes. Two white marble kiosks of the
Sultan are pointed out. The old castles of Europe and Asia face each
other on opposite sides of the narrow channel. They were famous fortresses
in their day, but, save as interesting relics of a bygone age, they are
no longer of any use. At Therapia are the summer residences of the
different ambassadors, the English and French the most conspicuous. The
extensive grounds of the former are most beautifully terraced, and
evidently fit for the residence of royalty itself. Happy indeed is the
Constantinopolitan whose income commands a summer villa in Therapia, or
at any of the many desirable locations in plain view within this earthly
paradise of blue waves and sunny slopes, and a yacht in which to wing
his flight whenever and wherever fancy bids him go. In the glitter and
glare of the mid-day sun the scene along the Bosphorus is lovely, yet
its loveliness is plainly of the earth; but as we return cityward in the
eventide the dusky shadows of the gloaming settle over everything. As
we gradually approach, the city seems half hidden behind a vaporous veil,
as though, in imitation of thousands of its fair occupants, it were
hiding its comeliness behind the yashmak; the scores of tapering minarets,
and the towers, and the masts of the crowded shipping of all nations
rise above the mist, and line with delicate tracery the western sky,
already painted in richest colors by the setting sun. On Saturday morning,
July 18th, the sound of martial music announces the arrival of the
soldiers from Stamboul, to guard the streets through which the Sultan
will pass on his way to a certain mosque to perform some ceremony in
connection with the feast just over. At the designated place I find the
streets already lined with Circassian cavalry and Ethiopian zouaves; the
latter in red and blue zouave costumes and immense turbans. Mounted
gendarmes are driving civilians about, first in one direction and then
in another, to try and get the streets cleared, occasionally fetching
some unlucky wight in the threadbare shirt of the Galata plebe a stinging
cut across the shoulders with short raw-hide whips - a glaring injustice
that elicits not the slightest adverse criticism from the spectators,
and nothing but silent contortions of face and body from the individual
receiving the attention. I finally obtain a good place, where nothing
but an open plank fence and a narrow plot of ground thinly set with
shrubbery intervenes between me and the street leading from the palace.
In a few minutes the approach of the Sultan is announced by the appearance
of half a dozen Circassian outriders, who dash wildly down the streets,
one behind the other, mounted on splendid dapple-gray chargers; then
come four close carriages, containing the Sultan's mother and leading
ladies of the imperial harem, and a minute later appears a mounted guard,
two abreast, keen-eyed fellows, riding slowly, and critically eyeing
everybody and everything as they proceed; behind them comes a gorgeously
arrayed individual in a perfect blaze of gold braid and decorations, and
close behind him follows the Sultan's carriage, surrounded by a small
crowd of pedestrians and horsemen, who buzz around the imperial carriage
like bees near a hive, the pedestrians especially dodging about hither
and thither, hopping nimbly over fences, crossing gardens, etc., keeping
pace with the carriage meanwhile, as though determined upon ferreting out
and destroying anything in the shape of danger that may possibly be
lurking along the route. My object of seeing the Sultan's face is gained;
but it is only a momentary glimpse, for besides the horsemen flitting
around the carriage, an officer suddenly appears in front of my position
and unrolls a broad scroll of paper with something printed on it, which
he holds up. Whatever the scroll is, or the object of its display may
be, the Sultan bows his acknowledgments, either to the scroll or to the
officer holding it up.

Ere I am in the Ottoman capital a week, I have the opportunity of
witnessing a fire, and the workings of the Constantinople Fire Department.
While walking along Tramway Street, a hue and cry of' "yangoonvar!
yangoonvar!" (there is fire! there is fire!) is raised, and three
barefooted men, dressed in the scantiest linen clothes, come charging
pell-mell through the crowded streets, flourishing long brass hose-nozzles
to clear the way; behind them comes a crowd of about twenty others,
similarly dressed, four of whom are bearing on their
shoulders a primitive wooden pump, while others are carrying leathern
water-buckets. They are trotting along at quite a lively pace, shouting
and making much unnecessary commotion, and lastly comes their chief on
horseback, cantering close at their heels, as though to keep the men
well up to their pace. The crowds of pedestrians, who refrain from
following after the firemen, and who scurried for the sidewalks at their
approach, now resume their place in the middle of the street; but again
the wild cry of "yangoon var!" resounds along the narrow street, and
the same scene of citizens scuttling to the sidewalks, and a hurrying
fire brigade followed by a noisy crowd of gamins, is enacted over again,
as another and yet another of these primitive organizations go scooting
swiftly past. It is said that these nimble-footed firemen do almost
miraculous work, considering the material they have at command - an
assertion which I think is not at all unlikely; but the wonder is that
destructive fires are not much more frequent, when the fire department
is evidently so inefficient. In addition to the regular police force and
fire department, there is a system of night watchmen, called bekjees,
who walk their respective beats throughout the night, carrying staves
heavily shod with iron, with which they pound the flagstones with a
resounding "thwack." Owing to the hilliness of the city and the roughness
of the streets, much of the carrying business of the city is done by
hamals, a class of sturdy-limbed men, who, I am told, are mostly Armenians.
They wear a sort of pack-saddle, and carry loads the mere sight of which
makes the average Westerner groan. For carrying such trifles as crates
and hogsheads of crockery and glass-ware, and puncheons of rum, four
hamals join strength at the ends of two stout poles. Scarcely less
marvellous than the weights they carry is the apparent ease with which
they balance tremendous loads, piled high up above them, it being no
infrequent sight to see a stalwart hamal with a veritable Saratoga trunk,
for size, on his back, with several smaller trunks and valises piled
above it, making his way down Step Street, which is as much as many
pedestrians can do to descend without carrying anything. One of these
hamals, meandering along the street with six or seven hundred pounds of
merchandise on his back, has the legal right - to say nothing of the evident
moral right - to knock over any unloaded citizen who too tardily yields
the way. From observations made on the spot, one cannot help thinking
that there is no law in any country to be compared to this one, for
simon-pure justice between man and man. These are most assuredly the
strongest-backed and hardest working men I have seen anywhere. They are
remarkably trustworthy and sure-footed, and their chief ambition, I am
told, is to save sufficient money to return to the mountains and valleys
of their native Armenia, where most of them have wives patiently awaiting
their coming, and purchase a piece of land upon which to spend their
declining years in ease and independence.

Far different is the daily lot of another habitue of the streets of this
busy capital - large, pugnacious-looking rams, that occupy pretty much the
same position in Turkish sporting circles that thoroughbred bull-dogs
do in England, being kept by young Turks solely on account of their
combative propensities and the facilities thereby afforded for gambling
on the prowess of their favorite animals. At all hours of the day and
evening the Constantinople sport may be met on the streets leading his
woolly pet tenderly with a string, often carrying something in his hand
to coax the ram along. The wool of these animals is frequently clipped
to give them a fanciful aspect, the favorite clip being to produce a
lion-like appearance, and they are always carefully guarded against the
fell influence of the "evil eye" by a circlet of blue beads and pendent
charms suspended from the neck. This latter precautionary measure is not
confined to these hard-headed contestants for the championship of Galata,
Pera, and Stamboul, however, but grace the necks of a goodly proportion
of all animals met on the streets, notably the saddle-ponies, whose
services are offered on certain streetcorners to the public.

Occasionally one notices among the busy throngs a person wearing a turban
of dark green; this distinguishing mark being the sole privilege of
persons who have made the pilgrimage to Mecca. All true Mussulmans are
supposed to make this pilgrimage some time during their lives, either
in person or by employing a substitute to go in their stead, wealthy
pashas sometimes paying quite large sums to some imam or other holy
person to go as their proxy, for the holier the substitute the greater
is supposed to be the benefit to the person sending him. Other persons
are seen with turbans of a lighter shade of green than the returned Mecca
pilgrims. These are people related in some way to the reigning sovereign.

Constantinople has its peculiar attractions as the great centre of the
Mohammedan world as represented in the person of the Sultan, and during
the five hundred years of the Ottoman dominion here, almost every Sultan
and great personage has left behind him some interesting reminder of the
times in which he lived and the wonderful possibilities of unlimited
wealth and power. A stranger will scarcely show himself upon the streets
ere he is discovered and accosted by a guide. From long experience these
men can readily distinguish a new arrival, and they seldom make a mistake
regarding his nationality. Their usual mode of self-introduction is to
approach him, and ask if he is looking for the American consulate, or
the English post-office, as the case may be, and if the stranger replies
in the affirmative, to offer to show the way. Nothing is mentioned about
charges, and the uninitiated new arrival naturally wonders what kind of
a place he has got into, when, upon offering what his experience in
Western countries has taught him to consider a most liberal recompense,
the guide shrugs his shoulders, and tells you that he guided a gentleman
the same distance yesterday and the gentleman gave - usually about double
what you are offering, no matter whether it be one cherik or half a
dozen. An afternoon ramble with a guide through Stamboul embraces the
Museum of Antiquities, the St. Sophia Mosque, the Costume Museum, the
thousand and one columns, the Tomb of Sultan Mahmoud, the world-renowned
Stamboul Bazaar, the Pigeon Mosque, the Saraka Tower, and the Tomb of
Sultan Suliman I. Passing over the Museum of Antiquities, which to the
average observer is very similar to a dozen other institutions of the
kind, the visitor very naturally approaches the portals of the St. Sophia
Mosque with expectations enlivened by having already read wondrous
accounts of its magnificence and unapproachable grandeur. But, let one's
fancy riot as it will, there is small fear of being disappointed in the
"finest mosque in Constantinople." At the door one either has to take
off his shoes and go inside in stocking-feet, or, in addition to the
entrance fee of two cheriks, "backsheesh" the attendant for the use of
a pair of overslippers. People with holes in their socks and young men
wearing boots three sizes too small are the legitimate prey of the
slipper-man, since the average human would yield up almost his last
piastre rather than promenade around in St. Sophia with his big toe
protruding through his foot-gear like a mud-turtle's head, or run the
risk of having to be hauled bare-footed to his hotel in a hack, from the
impossibility of putting his boots on again. Devout Mussulmans are bowing
their foreheads down to the mat-covered floor in a dozen different parts
of the mosque as we enter; tired-looking pilgrims from a distance are
curled up in cool corners, happy in the privilege of peacefully slumbering
in the holy atmosphere of the great edifice they have, perhaps, travelled
hundreds of miles to see; a dozen half-naked youngsters are clambering
about the railings and otherwise disporting themselves after the manner
of unrestrained juveniles everywhere - free to gambol about to their
hearts' content, providing they abstain from making a noise that would
interfere with devotions. Upon the marvellous mosaic ceiling of the great
dome is a figure of the Virgin Mary, which the Turks have frequently
tried to cover up by painting it over; but paint as often as they will,
the figure will not be concealed. On one of the upper galleries are the
"Gate of Heaven " and "Gate of Hell," the former of which the Turks
once tried their best to destroy; but every arm that ventured to raise
a tool against it instantly became paralyzed, when the would-be destroyers
naturally gave up the job. In giving the readers these facts I earnestly
request them not to credit them to my personal account; for, although
earnestly believed in by a certain class of Christian natives here, I
would prefer the responsibility for their truthfulness to rest on the
broad shoulders of tradition rather than on mine.

The Turks never call the attention of visitors to these reminders of the
religion of the infidels who built the structure, at such an enormous
outlay of money and labor, little dreaming that it would become one of
the chief glories of the Mohammedan world. But the door-keeper who follows
visitors around never neglects to point out the shape of a human hand
on the wall, too high up to be closely examined, and volunteer the
intelligence that it is the imprint of the hand of the first Sultan who
visited the mosque after the occupation of Constantinople by the Osmanlis.
Perhaps, however, the Mussulman, in thus discriminating between the
traditions of the Greek residents and the alleged hand-mark of the first
Sultan, is actuated by a laudable desire to be truthful so far as possible;
for there is nothing improbable about the story of the hand-mark, inasmuch
as a hole chipped in the masonry, an application of cement, and a pressure
of the Sultan's hand against it before it hardened, give at once something
for visitors to look at through future centuries and shake their heads
incredulously about. Not the least of the attractions are two monster
wax candles, which, notwithstanding their lighting up at innumerable
fasts and feasts, for the guide does not know how many years past, are
still eight feet long by four in circumference; but more wonderful than
the monster wax candles, the brass tomb of Constantine's daughter, set
in the wall over one of the massive doors, the Sultan's hand-mark, the
figure of the Virgin Mary, and the green columns brought from Baalbec;
above everything else is the wonderful mosaic-work. The mighty dome and
the whole vast ceiling are mosaic-work in which tiny squares of blue,
green, and gold crystal are made to work out patterns. The squares used
are tiny particles having not over a quarter-inch surface; and the amount
of labor and the expense in covering the vast ceiling of this tremendous
structure with incomputable myriads of these small particles fairly
stagger any attempt at comprehension.

An interesting hour can next be spent in the Costume Museum, where life-
size figures represent the varied and most decidedly picturesque costumes
of the different officials of the Ottoman capital in previous ages, the
janizaries, and natives of the different provinces. Some of the head-gear
in vogue at Constantinople before the fez were tremendous affairs, but
the fez is certainly a step too far in the opposite direction, being
several degrees more uncomfortable than nothing in the broiling sun; the
fez makes no pretence of shading the eyes, and excludes every particle
of air from the scalp. The thousand and one columns are in an ancient
Greek reservoir that formerly supplied all Stamboul with water. The
columns number but three hundred and thirty-four in reality, but each
column is in three parts, and by stretching the point we have the fanciful
" tbousand-and-one." The reservoir is reached by descending a flight of
stone steps; it is filled in with earth up to the upper half of the
second tier of columns, so that the lower tier is buried altogether.
This filling up was done in the days of the janizaries, as it was found
that those frisky warriors were carrying their well-known theory of
"right being might and the Devil take the weakest" to the extent of robbing
unprotected people who ventured to pass this vicinity after dark, and
then consigning them to the dark depths of the deserted reservoir. The
reservoir is now occupied during the day by a number of Jewish silk-weavers,
who work here on account of the dampness and coolness being beneficial
to the silk. The tomb of Mahmoud is next visited on the way to the Bazaar.
The several coffins of the Sultan Mahmoud and his Sultana and princesses
are surrounded by massive railings of pure silver; monster wax candles
are standing at the head and foot of each coffin, in curiously wrought
candlesticks of solid silver that must weigh a hundred pounds each at
least; ranged around the room are silver caskets, inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
in which rare illumined copies of the Koran are carefully kept, the
attendant who opened one for my inspection using a silk pocket-handkerchief
to turn the leaves. The Stamboul Bazaar well deserves its renown, since
there is nothing else of its kind in the whole world to compare with it.
Its labyrinth of little stalls and shops if joined together in one
straight line would extend for miles; and a whole day might be spent
quite profitably in wandering around, watching the busy scenes of
bargaining and manufacturing. Here, in this bewildering maze of buying
and selling, the peculiar life of the Orient can be seen to perfection;
the "mysterious veiled lady" of the East is seen thronging the narrow
traffic-ways and seated in every stall; water-venders and venders of
carpooses (water-melons) and a score of different eatables are meandering
through. Here, if your guide be an honest fellow, he can pilot you into
stuffy little holes full of antique articles of every description, where
genuine bargains can be picked up; or, if he be dishonest, and in league
with equally dishonest tricksters, whose places are antiquaries only in
name, he can lead you where everything is basest imitation. In the former
case, if anything is purchased he comes in for a small and not undeserved
commission from the shopkeeper, and in the latter for perhaps as much
as thirty per cent. I am told that one of these guides, when escorting
a party of tourists with plenty of money to spend and no knowledge
whatever of the real value or genuineness of antique articles, often
makes as much as ten or fifteen pounds sterling a day commission.

On the way from the Bazaar we call at the Pigeon Mosque, so called on
account of being the resort of thousands of pigeons, that have become
quite tame from being constantly fed by visitors and surrounded by human
beings. A woman has charge of a store of seeds and grain, and visitors
purchase a handful for ten paras and throw to the pigeons, who flock
around fearlessly in the general scramble for the food. At any hour of
the day Mussulman ladies may be seen here feeding the pigeons for the
amusement of their children. From the Pigeon Mosque we ascend the Saraka
Tower, the great watch-tower of Stamboul, from the summit of which the
news of a fire in any part of the city is signalled, by suspending huge
frame-work balls covered with canvas from the ends of projecting poles
in the day, and lights at night. Constant watch and ward is kept over
the city below by men snugly housed in quarters near the summit, who,
in addition to their duties as watchmen, turn an honest cherik occasionally
by supplying cups of coffee to Visitors.

No fairer site ever greeted human vision than the prospect from the Tower
of Saraka. Stamboul, Galata, Pera, and Scutari, with every suburban
village and resort for many a mile around, can be seen to perfection
from the commanding height of Saraka Tower. The guide can here point out
every building of interest in Stamboul-the broad area of roof beneath
which the busy scenes of Stamboul Bazaar are enacted from day to day,
the great Persian khan, the different mosques, the Sultan's palaces at
Pera, the Imperial kiosks up the Bosphorus, the old Grecian aqueduct,
along which the water for supplying the great reservoir of the thousand
and one columns used to be conducted, the old city walls, and scores of
other interesting objects too numerous to mention here. On the opposite
hill, across the Golden Horn, Galata Watch-tower points skyward above
the mosques and houses of Galata and Pera. The two bridges connecting
Stamboul and Galata are seen thronged with busy traffic; a forest of
masts and spars is ranged all along the Golden Horn; steamboats are
plying hither and thither across the Bosphorus; the American cruiser
Quinnebaug rides at anchor opposite the Imperial water-side palace; the
blue waters of the Sea of Marmora and the Gulf of Ismidt are dotted here
and there with snowy sails or lined with the smoke of steamships; all
combined to make the most lovely panorama imaginable, and to which the
coast-wise hills and more lofty mountains of Asia Minor in the distance
form a most appropriate background.

>From this vantage-point the guide will not neglect whetting the curiosity
of his charge for more sight-seeing by pointing out everything that he
imagines would be interesting; he points out a hill above Scutari, whence,
he says, a splendid view can be had of "all Asia Minor," and "we could
walk there and back in half a day, or go quicker with horses or donkeys;"
he reminds you that to-morrow is the day for the howling dervishes in
Scutari, and tells you that by starting at one we can walk out to the
English cemetery, and return to Scutari in time for the howling dervishes
at four o'clock, and manages altogether to get his employer interested
in a programme, which, if carried out, would guarantee him employment
for the next week. On the way back to Galata we visit the tomb of Sulieman
I, the most magnificent tomb in Stamboul. Here, before the coffins of
Sulieman I., Sulieman II, and his brother Ahmed, are monster wax candles,
that have stood sentry here for three hundred and fifty years; and the
mosaic dome of the beautiful edifice is studded with what are popularly
believed to be genuine diamonds, that twinkle down on the curiously
gazing visitor like stars from a miniature heaven. The attendant tells
the guide, in answer to an inquiry from me, that no one living knows
whether they are genuine diamonds or not, for never, since the day it
was finished, over three centuries and a half ago, has anyone been
permitted to go up and examine them. The edifice was go perfectly and
solidly built in the beginning, that no repairs of any kind have ever
been necessary; and it looks almost like a new building to-day.

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