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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




A far less difficult riddle is the case of a middle-aged man, whose
costume and avocation explain nothing, save that he is not an Osmanli.
He is a passenger homeward bound to one of the coast villages, and
he constantly circulates among the crowd with a basket of water-melons,
which he has brought aboard "on spec," to vend among his fellow-passengers,
hoping thereby to gain sufficient to defray the cost of his passage.
Seated on whatever they can find to perch upon, near the canvas partition,
all unmoved by the gay and stirring scenes before them, is a group of
Mussulman pilgrims from some interior town, returning from a pilgrimage
to Stamboul - fine-looking Osmanli graybeards, whose haughty reserve not
even the bicycle is able to completely overcome, although it proves more
efficacious in subduing it and waking them out of their habitual
contemplative attitude than anything else aboard. Two of these men are
of magnificent physique; their black eyes, rather full lips, and swarthy
skins betraying Arab blood. In addition to the long daggers and antiquated
pistols so universally worn in the Orient, they are armed with fine,
large, pearl-handled revolvers, and they sit cross-legged, smoking
cigarette after cigarette in silent meditation, paying no heed even to
the merry music and the dancing of the Greeks.

At Jelova, the first village the steamer halts at, a coupleof zaptiehs
come aboard with two prisoners whom they are conveying to Ismidt. These
men are lower-class criminals, and their wretched appearance betrays the
utter absence of hygienic considerations on the part of the Turkish
prison authorities; they evidently have had no cause to complain of any
harsh measures for the enforcement of personal cleanliness. Their foot-gear
consists of pieces of rawhide, fastened on with odds and ends of string;
and pieces of coarse sacking tacked on to what were once clothes barely
suffice to cover their nakedness; bare-headed - their bushy hair has not
for months felt the smoothing influence of a comb, and their hands and
faces look as if they had just endured a seven-years' famine of soap and
water. This latter feature is a sure sign that they are not Turks, for
prisoners are most likely allowed full liberty to keep themselves clean,
and a Turk would at least have come out into the world with a clean face.

The zaptiehs squat down together and smoke cigarettes, and allow their
charges full liberty to roam wheresoever they will while on board, and
the two prisoners, to all appearances perfectly oblivious of their rags,
filth, and the degradation of their position, mingle freely with the
passengers; and, as they move about, asking and answering questions, I
look in vain among the latter for any sign of the spirit of social
Pharisaism that in a Western crowd would have kept them at a distance.
Both these men have every appearance of being the lowest of criminals -
men capable of any deed in the calendar within their mental and physical
capacities; they may even be members of the very gang I am taking this
steamer to avoid; but nobody seems to either pity or condemn them;
everybody acts toward them precisely as they act toward each other.
Perhaps in no other country in the world does this social and moral
apathy obtain among the masses to such a degree as in Turkey.

While we lie to for a few minutes to disembark passengers at the village
where the before-mentioned wedding festivities are in progress, four of
the seven imperturbable Osmanlis actually arise from the one position
they have occupied unmoved since coming aboard, and follow me to the
foredeck, in order to be present while I explain the workings and mechanism
of the bicycle to some Arnienian students of Roberts College, who can
speak a certain amount of English. Having listened to my explanations
without understanding a word, and, without condescending to question the
Armenians, they survey the machine some minutes in silence and then
return to their former positions, their cigarettes, and their meditations,
paying not the slightest heed to several caique loads of Greek merry-makers
who have rowed out to meet the new arrivals, and are paddling around the
steamer, filling the air with music. Finding that there is someone aboard
that can converse with me, the Greeks, desirous of seeing the bicycle
in action, and of introducing a novelty into the festivities of the
evening, ask me to come ashore and be their guest until the arrival of
the next Ismiclt boat - a matter of three days. Offer declined with thanks,
but not without reluctance, for these Greek merry-makings are well worth
seeing. The Ismidt packet, like everything else in Turkey, moves at a
snail's pace, and although we got under way in something less than an
hour after the advertised starting-time, which, for Turkey, is quite
commendable promptness, and the distance is but fifty-five miles, we
call at a number of villages en route, and it is 6 P.M. when we tie up
at the Ismidt wharf.

"Five piastres, Effendi," says the ticket-collector, as, after waiting
till the crowd has passed the gang-plank, I follow with the bicycle and
hand him my ticket.

"What are the five piastres for." I ask. For answer, he points' to my
wheel. "Baggage," I explain.

"Baggage yoke, cargo," he replies; and I have to pay it. The fact is,
that, never having seen a bicycle before, he don't know whether it is
cargo or baggage; but whenever a Turkish official has no precedent to
follow, he takes care to be on the right side in case there is any money
to be collected; otherwise he is not apt to be so particular. This is,
however, rather a matter of private concern than of zealousness in the
performance of his official duties; the possibilities of peculation are
ever before him.

While satisfying the claim of the ticket-collector a deck-hand comes
forward and, pointing to the bicycle, blandly asks me for backsheesh.
He asks, not because he has put a finger to the machine, or been asked
to do so, but, being a thoughtful, far-sighted youth, he is looking out
for the future. The bicycle is something he never saw on his boat before;
but the idea that these things may now become common among the passengers
wanders through his mind, and that obtaining backsheesh on this particular
occasion will establish a precedent that may be very handy hereafter;
so he makes a most respectful salaam, calls me "Bey Effendi," and
smilingly requests two piastres backsheesh. After him comes the passport
officer, who, besides the teskeri for myself, demands a special passport
for the machine. He likewise is in a puzzle (it don't take much, by the
by, to puzzle the brains of a Turkish official), because the bicycle is
something he has had no previous dealings with; but as this is a matter
in which finances play no legitimate part - though probably his demand for
a passport is made for no other purpose than that of getting backsheesh - a
vigorous protest, backed up by the unanimous, and most certainly vociferous,
support of a crowd of wharf-loafers, and my fellow-passengers, who,
having disembarked, are waiting patiently for me to come and ride down
the street, either overrules or overawes the officer and secures my
relief. Impatient at consuming a whole day in reaching Ismidt, I have
been thinking of taking to the road immediately upon landing, and
continuing till dark, taking my chances of reaching some suitable stopping-
place for the night. But the good people of Ismidt raise their voices
in protest against what they professedly regard as a rash and dangerous
proposition. As I evince a disposition to override their well-meant
interference and pull out, they hurriedly send for a Frenchman, who can
speak sufficient English to make himself intelligible. Speaking for
himself, and acting as interpreter in echoing the words and sentiments
of the others, the Frenchman straightway warns me not to start into the
interior so late in the day, and run the risk of getting benighted in
the brush; for "Much very bad people, very bad people! are between
Ismidt and Angora; Circassians plenty," he says, adding that the worst
characters are near Ismidt, and that the nearer I get to Angora the
better I shall find the people. As by this time the sun is already setting
behind the hills, I conclude that an early start in the morning will,
after all, be the most sensible course.

During the last Russo-Turkish war thousands of Circassian refugees
migrated to this part of Asia Minor. Having a restless, roving disposition,
that unfits them for the laborious and uneventful life of a husbandman,
many of them remain even to the present day loafers about the villages,
maintaining themselves nobody seems to know how. The belief appears to
be unanimous, however, that they are capable of any deviltry under the
sun, and that, while their great specialty and favorite occupation is
stealing horses, if this becomes slack or unprofitable, or even for the
sake of a little pleasant variety, these freebooters from the Caucasus
have no hesitation about turning highwaymen whenever a tempting occasion
offers. All sorts of advice about the best way to avoid being robbed is
volunteered by the people of Ismidt. My watch-chain, L.A.W. badge, and
everything that appears of any value, they tell me, must be kept strictly
out of sight, so as not to excite the latent cupidity of such Circassians
as I meet on the road or in the villages. Some advocate the plan of
adorning my coat with Turkish official buttons, shoulder-straps, and
trappings, to make myself, look like a government officer; others think
it would be best to rig myself up as a full-blown zaptieh, with whom,
of course, neither Circassian nor any other guilty person would attempt
to interfere. To these latter suggestions I point out that, while they
are very good, especially the zaplieh idea, so far as warding off
Circassians is concerned, my adoption of a uniform would most certainly
get me into hot water with the military authorities of every town and
village, owing to my ignorance of the vernacular, and cause me no end
of vexatious delay. To this the quick-witted Frenchman replies by at
once offering to go with me to the resident pasha, explain the matter
to him, and get a letter permitting me to wear the uniform; which offer
I gently but firmly decline, being secretly of the opinion that these
excessive precautions are all unnecessary. From the time I left Hungary
I have been warned so persistently of danger ahead, and have so far met
nothing really dangerous, that I am getting sceptical about there being
anything like the risk people seem to think. Without being blind to the
fact that there is a certain amount of danger in travelling alone through
a country where it is the universal custom either to travel in company
or to take a guard, I feel quite confident that the extreme novelty of
my conveyance will make so profound an impression on the Asiatic mind
that, even did they know that my buttons are gold coins of the realm,
they would hesitate seriously to molest me. From past observations among
people seeing the bicycle ridden for the first time, I believe that with
a hundred yards of smooth road it is quite possible for a cycler to ride
his way into the good graces of the worst gang of freebooters in Asia.

Having decided to remain here over-night, I seek the accommodation of a
rudely comfortable hotel, kept by an Armenian, where, at the supper-table,
I am first made acquainted with the Asiatic dish called "pillau," that
is destined to form no inconsiderable part of my daily bill of fare for
several weeks. Pillau is a dish that is met - with in one disguise or
another all over Asia. With a foundation of boiled rice, it receives a
variety of other compounds, the nature of which will appear as they enter
into my daily experiences. In deference to the limited knowledge of each
other's language possessed by myself and the proprietor, I am invited
into the cookhouse and permitted to take a peep at the contents of several
different pots and kettles simmering over a slow fire in a sort of brick
trench, to point out to the waiter such dishes as I think I shall like.
Failing to find among the assortment any familiar acquaintances, I try
the pillau, and find it quite palatable, preferring it to anything else
the house affords.

Our friend the Frenchman is quite delighted at the advent of a bicycle
in Ismidt, for in his younger days, he tells me with much enthusiasm,
he used to be somewhat partial to whirling wheels himself; and when he
first came here from France, some eighteen years ago, he actually brought
with him a bone-shaker, with which, for the first summer, he was wont
to surprise the natives. This relic of by-gone days has been stowed away
among a lot of old traps ever since, all but forgotten; but the appearance
of a mounted wheelman recalls it to memory, and this evening, in honor
of my visit, it is brought once more to light, its past history explained
by its owner, and its merits and demerits as a vehicle in comparison
with my bicycle duly discussed. The bone-shaker has wheels heavy enough
for a dog-cart; the saddle is nearly all gnawed away by mice, and it
presents altogether so antiquated an appearance that it seems a relic
rather of a past century than of a past decade. Its owner assays to take
a ride on it; but the best he can do is to wabble around a vacant space
in front of the hotel, the awkward motions of the old bone-shaker affording
intense amusement to the crowd. After supper this chatty and entertaining
gentleman brings his wife, a rotund, motherly-looking person, to see the
bicycle; she is a Levantine Greek, and besides her own lingua franca,
her husband has improved her education to the extent of a smattering of
rather misleading English. Desiring to be complimentary in return for
my riding back and forth a few times for her special benefit, the lady
comes forward as I dismount and, smiling complacently upon me, remarks,
"How very grateful you ride, monsieur!" and her husband and tutor,
desiring also to say something complimentary, echoes, " Much grateful - very."

The Greeks seem to be the life and poetry of these sea-coast places on
the Ismidt gulf. My hotel faces the water; and for hours after dark a
half-dozen caique-loads of serenaders are paddling about in front of the
town, making quite an entertaining concert in the silence of the night,
the pleasing effect being heightened by the well-known softening influence
of the water, and not a little enhanced by a display of rockets and Roman
candles. Earlier in the evening, while taking a look at Ismidt and the
surrounding scenery, in company with a few sociable natives, who point
out beauty-spots in the surrounding landscape with no little enthusiasm,
I am impressed with the extreme loveliness of the situation. The town
itself, now a place of thirteen thousand inhabitants, is the Nicomedia
of the ancients. It is built in the form of a crescent, facing the sea;
the houses, many of them painted white, are terraced upon the slopes of
the green hills, whose sides and summits are clothed with verdure, and
whose bases are laved by the blue waves of the gulf, which here, at the
upper extremity, narrows to about a mile and a half in width; white
villages dot the green mountain-slopes on the opposite shore, prominent
among them being the Armenian town of Bahgjadjik, where for a number of
years has been established an American missionary-school, a branch, I
think, of Roberts College. Every mile of visible country, whether gently
sloping or more rugged and imposing, is green with luxuriant vegetation,
and the waters of the gulf are of that deep-blue color peculiar to
mountain-locked inlets; the bright green hills, the dancing blue waters,
and the white painted villages combine to make a scene so lovely in the
chastened light of early eventide that, after the Bosporus, I think I
never saw a place more beautiful. Besides the loveliness of the situation,
the little mountain-sheltered inlet makes an excellent anchorage for
shipping; and during the late war, at the well-remembered crisis when
the Russian armies were bearing down on Constantinople and the British
fleet received the famous order to pass through the Dardanelles with or
without the Sultan's permission, the head-waters of the Ismidt gulf
became, for several months, the rendezvous of the ships.






CHAPTER XI.




ON THROUGH ASIA.

Early dawn on Tuesday morning finds me already astir and groping about
the hotel in search of some of the slumbering employees to let me out.
Pocketing a cold lunch in lieu of eating breakfast, I mount and wheel
down the long street leading out of the eastern end of town. On the way
out I pass a party of caravan-teamsters who have just arrived with a
cargo of mohair from Angora; their pack-mules are fairly festooned with
strings of bells of all sizes, from a tiny sleigh-bell to a solemn-voiced
sheet-iron affair the size of a two-gallon jar. These bells make an awful
din; the men are unpacking the weary animals, shouting both at the mules
and at each other, as if their chief object were to create as much noise
as possible; but as I wheel noiselessly past, they cease their unpacking
and their shouting, as if by common consent, and greet me with that
silent stare of wonder that men might be supposed to accord to an
apparition from another world. For some few miles a rough macadam road
affords a somewhat choppy but nevertheless ridable surface, and further
inland it develops into a fairly good roadway, where a dismount is
unnecessary for several miles. The road leads along a depression between
a continuation of the mountain-chains that inclose the Ismidt gulf, which
now run parallel with my road on either hand at the distance of a couple
of miles, some of the spurs on the south range rising to quite an imposing
height. For four miles out of Ismidt the country is flat and swampy;
beyond that it changes to higher ground; and the swampy flat, the higher
ground, and the mountain-slopes are all covered with timber and a dense
growth of underbrush, in which wild-fig shrubs and the homely but beautiful
ferns of the English commons, the Missouri Valley woods, and the California
foot-hills, mingle their respective charms, and hob-nob with scrub-oak,
chestnut, walnut, and scores of others. The whole face of the country
is covered with this dense thicket, and the first little hamlet I pass
on the road is nearly hidden in it, the roofs of the houses being barely
visible above the green sea of vegetation. Orchards and little patches
of ground that have been cleared and cultivated are hidden entirely, and
one cannot help thinking that if this interminable forest of brushwood
were once to get fairly ablaze, nothing could prevent it from destroying
everything these villagers possess.

A foretaste of what awaits me farther in the interior is obtained even
within the first few hours of the morning, when a couple of horsemen
canter at my heels for miles; they seem delighted beyond measure, and
their solicitude for my health and general welfare is quite affecting.
When I halt to pluck some blackberries, they solemnly pat their stomachs
and shake their heads in chorus, to make me understand that blackberries
are not good things to eat; and by gestures they notify me of bad places
in the road which are yet out of sight ahead. Eude mehanax, now called
khans, occupy little clearings by the roadside, at intervals of a few
miles; and among the habitues congregated there I notice several of the
Circassian refugees on whose account friends at Ismidt and Constantinople
have shown themselves so concerned for my safety.

They are dressed in the long Cossack coats of dark cloth peculiar to the
inhabitants of the Caucasus; two rows of bone or metal cartridge-cases
adorn their breast, being fitted into flutes or pockets made for them;
they wear either top boots or top bootlegs, and the counterpart of my
own moccasins; and their headdress is a tall black lamb's-wool turban,
similar to the national headgear of the Persians. They are by far the
best-dressed and most respectable-looking men one sees among the groups;
for while the majority of the natives are both ragged and barefooted, I
don't remember ever seeing Circassians either. To all outward appearances
they are the most trustworthy men of them all; but there is really more
deviltry concealed beneath the smiling exterior of one of these homeless
mountaineers from Circassia than in a whole village of the less likely-
looking natives here, whose general cutthroat appearance - an effect
produced, more than anything else, by the universal custom of wearing
all the old swords, knives, anil pistols they can get hold of-really
counts for nothing. In picturesqueness of attire some of these khan
loafers leave nothing to be desired; and although I am this morning
wearing Igali's cerulean scarf as a sash, the tri-colored pencil string
of Servia around my neck, and a handsome pair of Circassian moccasins,
I ain absolutely nowhere by the side of many a native here whose entire
wardrobe wouldn't fetch half a mcdjedie in a Galata auction-room. The
great light of Central Asian hospitality casts a glimmer even up into
this out-of-the-way northwestern corner of the continent, though it seems
to partake more of the Nevada interpretation of the word than farther
in the interior. Thrice during the forenoon I am accosted with the
invitation "mastic? cogniac? coffee." by road-side klian-jees or their
customers who wish me to stop and let them satisfy their consuming
curiosity at my novel bagar (horse), as many of them jokingly allude to
it. Beyond these three beverages and the inevitable nargileh, these
wayside khans provide nothing; vishner syrup (a pleasant extract of the
vishner cherry; a spoonful in a tumbler of water makes a most agreeable
and refreshing sherbet), which is my favorite beverage on the road, being
an inoffensive, non-intoxicating drink, is not in sufficient demand among
the patrons of the khans to justify keeping it in stock. An ancient
bowlder causeway traverses the route I am following, hut the blocks of
stone composing it have long since become misplaced and scattered about
in confusion, making it impassable for wheeled vehicles; and the natural
dirt-road alongside it is covered with several inches of dust which is
continually being churned up by mule-caravans bringing mohair from Angora
and miscellaneous merchandise from Ismidt. Camel-caravans make smooth
tracks, but they seldom venture to Ismidt at this time of the year, I
am told, on account of the bellicose character of the mosquitoes that
inhabit this particular region; their special mode of attack being to
invade the camels' sensitive nostrils, which drives these patient beasts
of burden to the last verge of distraction, sometimes even worrying them
to death. Stopping for dinner at the village of Sabanja, the scenes
familiar in connection with a halt for refreshments in the Balkan Peninsula
are enacted; though for bland and childlike assurance there is no
comparison between the European Turk and his brother in Asia Minor. More
than one villager approaches me during the few minutes I am engaged in
eating dinner, and blandly asks me to quit eating and let him see me
ride; one of them, with a view of putting it out of my power to refuse,
supplements his request with a few green apples which no European could
eat without bringing on an attack of cholera morbus, but which Asiatics
consume with impunity. After dinner I request the proprietor to save me
from the madding crowd long enough to round up a few notes, which he
attempts to do by locking me in a room over the stable. In less than ten
minutes the door is unlocked, and in walks the headman of the village,
making a most solemn and profound salaam as he enters. He has searched
out a man who fought with the English in the Crimea, according to his
- the man's-own explanation, and who knows a few words of Frank language
and has brought him along to interpret. Without the slightest hesitation
he asks me to leave off writing and come down and ride, in order that
he may see the performance, and - he continues, artfully - that he may judge
of the comparative merits of a horse and a bicycle.

This peculiar trait of the Asiatic character is further illustrated
during the afternoon in the case of a caravan leader whom I meet on an
unridable stretch of road. "Bin! bin!" says this person, as soon as
his mental faculties grasp the idea that the bicycle is something to
ride on. "Mimlcin, deyil; fenna yole; duz yolo lazim " (impossible; bad
road; good road necessary), I reply, airing my limited stock of Turkish.
Nothing daunted by this answer, the man blandly requests me to turn about
and follow his caravan until ridable road is reached - a good mile - in
order that he may be enlightened. It is, perhaps, superfluous to add
that, so far as I know, this particular individual's ideas of 'cycling
are as hazy and undefined to-day as they ever were.

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