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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




When it grows dark the mulazim takes me to the public coffee-garden,
near the burned bazaar, a place which ia really no garden at all only
some broad, rude benches encircling a round water-tank or fountain, and
which is fenced in with a low, wabbly picket-fence. Seated crossed-legged
on the benches are a score of sober-sided Turks, smoking nargilehs and
cigarettes, and sipping coffee; the feeble light dispensed by a lantern
on top of a pole in the centre of the tank makes the darkness of the
"garden" barely visible; a continuous splashing of water, the result of
the overflow from a pipe projecting three feet above the surface, furnishes
the only music; the sole auricular indication of the presence of patrons
is when some customer orders "kahvay" or "nargileh" in a scarcely
audible tone of voice; and this is the Turk's idea of an evening's
enjoyment.

Returning to the khan, I find it full of happy people looking at the
bicycle; commenting on the wonderful marifet (skill) apparent in its
mechanism, and the no less marvellous marifet required in riding it.
They ask me if I made it myself and hatch-lira ? (how many liras ?) and
then requesting the privilege of looking at my teskeri they find rare
amusement in comparing my personal charms with the description of my
form and features as interpreted by the passport officer in Galata. Two
men among them have in some manner picked up a sand from the sea-shore
of the English language. One of them is a very small sand indeed, the
solitary negative phrase, "no;" nevertheless, during the evening he
inspires the attentive auditors with respect for his linguistic
accomplishments by asking me numerous questions, and then, anticipating
a negative reply, forestalls it himself by querying, "No?" The other
"linguist" has in some unaccountable manner added the ability to say
"Good morning " to his other accomplishments; and when about time to
retire, and the crowd reluctantly bestirs itself to depart from the
magnetic presence of the bicycle, I notice an extraordinary degree of
mysterious whispering and suppressed amusement going on among them, and
then they commence filing slowly out of the door with the "linguistic
person" at their head; as that learned individual reaches the threshold
he turns toward we, makes a salaam and says, "Good-morning," and everyone
of the company, even down to the irrepressible youngster who was cuffed
a minute ago for venturing to twirl a pedal, and who now forms the rear-
guard of the column, likewise makes a salaam and says, "Good-morning."

Quilts are provided for me, and I spend the night on the divan of the
khan; a few roving mosquitoes wander in at the open window and sing their
siren songs around my couch, a few entomological specimens sally forth
from their permanent abode in the lining of the quilts to attack me and
disturb my slumbers; but later experience teaches me to regard my slumbers
to-night as comparatively peaceful and undisturbed. In the early morning
I am awakened by the murmuring voices of visitors gathering to see me
off; coffee is handed to me ere my eyes are fairly open, and the savory
odor of eggs already sizzling in the pan assail my olfactory nerves. The
khan-jee is an Osmanli and a good Mussulman, and when ready to depart I
carelessly toss him my purse and motion for him to help himself-a thing
I would not care to do with the keeper of a small tavern in any other
country or of any other nation. Were he entertaining me in a private
capacity he would feel injured at any hint of payment; but being a khan-
jee, he opens the purse and extracts a cherik - twenty cents.






CHAPTER XIII.




BEY BAZAAR, ANGORA, AND EASTWARD.

A Trundle of half an hour up the steep slopes leading out of another of
those narrow valleys in which all these towns are situated, and then
comes a gentle declivity extending with but little interruption for
several miles, winding in and out among the inequalities of an elevated
table-land. The mountain-breezes blow cool and exhilarating, and just
before descending into the little Charkhan Valley I pass some interesting
cliffs of castellated rocks, the sight of which immediately wafts my
memory back across the thousands of miles of land and water to what they
are almost a counterpart of the famous castellated rocks of Green River,
Wyo. Ter. Another scary youth takes to his heels as I descend into the
valley and halt at the village of Charkhan, a mere shapeless cluster of
mud-hovels. Before one of these a ragged agriculturist solemnly presides
over a small heap of what I unfortunately mistake at the time for pumpkins.
I say "unfortunately," because after-knowledge makes it highly probable
that they were the celebrated Charhkan musk-melons, famous far and wide
for their exquisite flavor; the variety can be grown elsewhere, but,
strange to say, the peculiar, delicate flavor which makes them so
celebrated is absent when they vegetate anywhere outside this particular
locality. It is supposed to be owing to some peculiar mineral properties
of the soil. The Charkhan Valley is a wild, weird-looking region, looking
as if it were habitually subjected to destructive downpourings of rain,
that have washed the grand old mountains out of all resemblance to
neighboring ranges round about. They are of a soft, shaly composition,
and are worn by the elements into all manner of queer, fantastic shapes;
this, together with the same variegated colors observed yesterday
afternoon, gives them a distinctive appearance not easily forgotten.
They are " grand, gloomy, and peculiar; " especially are they peculiar.
The soil of the valley itself seems to be drift-mud from the surrounding
hills; a stream furnishes water sufficient to irrigate a number of rice-
fields, whose brilliant emerald hue loses none of its brightness from
being surrounded by a framework of barren hills.

Ascending from this interesting locality my road now traverses a dreary,
monotonous district of whitish, sun-blistered hills, water-less and
verdureless for fourteen miles. The cool, refreshing breezes of early
morning have been dissipated by the growing heat of the sun; the road
continues fairly good, and while riding I am unconscious of oppressive
heat; but the fierce rays of the sun blisters my neck and the backs of
my hands, turning them red and causing the skin to peel off a few days
afterward, besides ruining a section of my gossamer coat exposed on top
of the Lamson carrier. The air is dry and thirst-creating, there is
considerable hill-climbing to be done, and long ere the fourteen miles
are covered I become sufficiently warm and thirsty to have little thought
of anything else but reaching the means of quenching thirst. Away off
in the distance ahead is observed a dark object, whose character is
indistinct through the shimmering radiation from the heated hills, but
which, upon a nearer approach, proves to be a jujube-tree, a welcome
sentinel in those arid regions, beckoning the thirsty traveller to a
never-failing supply of water. At the jujube-tree I find a most magnificent
fountain, pouring forth at least twenty gallons of delicious cold water
to the minute. The spring has been walled up and a marble spout inserted,
which gushes forth a round, crystal column, as though endeavoring to
compensate for the prevailing aridness and to apologize to the thirsty
wayfarer for the inhospitableness of its surroundings. Miles away to the
northward, perched high up among the ravines of a sun-baked mountain-spur,
one can see a circumscribed area of luxuriant foliage. This conspicuous
oasis in the desert marks the source of the beautiful road-side fountain,
which traverses a natural subterranean passage-way between these two
distant points. These little isolated clumps of waving trees, rearing
their green heads conspicuously above the surrounding barrenness, are
an unerring indication of both water and human habitations. Often one
sees them suddenly when least expected, nestling in a little depression
high up some mountain-slope far away, the little dark-green area looking
almost black in contrast with the whitish color of the hills. These are
literally "oases in the desert," on a small scale, and although from a
distance no sign of human habitations appeal, since they are but mud-
hovels corresponding in color to the hills themselves, a closer examination
invariably reveals well-worn donkey-trails leading from different
directions to the spot, and perchance a white-turbaned donkey-rider
slowly wending his way along a trail.

The heat becomes almost unbearable; the region of treeless, shelterless
hills continues to characterize my way, and when, at two o'clock P.M.,
I reach the town of Bey Bazaar, I conclude that the thirty-nine miles
already covered is the limit of discretion to-day, considering the
oppressive heat, and seek the friendly accommodation of a khan. There I
find that while shelter from the fierce heat of the sun is obtainable,
peace and quiet are altogether out of the question. Bey Bazaar is a place
of eight thousand inhabitants, and the khan at once becomes the objective
point of, it seems to me, half the population. I put the machine up on
a barricaded yattack-divan, and climb up after it; here I am out of the
meddlesome reach of the " madding crowd," but there is no escaping from
the bedlam-like clamor of their voices, and not a few, yielding to their
uncontrollable curiosity, undertake to invade my retreat; these invariably
"skedaddle" respectfully at my request, but new-comers are continually
intruding. The tumult is quite deafening, and I should certainly not be
surprised to have the khan-jee request me to leave the place, on the
reasonable ground that my presence is, under the circumstances, detrimental
to his interests, since the crush is so great that transacting business
is out of the question. The khan-jee, however, proves to be a speculative
individual, and quite contrary thoughts are occupying his mind. His
subordinate, the kahvay-jee, presents himself with mournful countenance
and humble attitude, points with a perplexed air to the surging mass of
fezzes, turbans, and upturned Turkish faces, and explains - what needs no
explanation other than the evidence of one's own eyes - that he cannot
transact his business of making coffee.

"This is your khan," I reply; "why not turn them out." "Mashallah,
effendi. I would, but for everyone I turned out, two others would come
in-the sons of burnt fathers." he says, casting a reproachful look down
at the straggling crowd of his fellow-countrymen.

"What do you propose doing, then?" I inquire. "Katch para, effendi,"
he answers, smiling approvingly at his own suggestion.

The enterprising kahvay-jee advocates charging them an admission fee
of five paras (half a cent) each as a measure of protection, both for
himself and me, proposing to make a "divvy" of the proceeds. Naturally
enough the idea of making a farthing show of either myself or the bicycle
is anything but an agreeable proposition, but it is plainly the only way
of protecting the kahvay-jee and his khan from being mobbed all the
afternoon and far into the night by a surging mass of inquisitive people;
so I reluctantly give him permission to do whatever he pleases to protect
himself. I have no idea of the financial outcome of the speculative khan-
jee's expedient, but the arrangement secures me to some extent from the
rabble, though not to any appreciable extent from being worried. The
people nearly drive me out of my seven senses with their peculiar ideas
of making themselves agreeable, and honoring me; they offer me cigarettes,
coffee, mastic, cognac, fruit, raw cucumbers, melons, everything, in
fact, but the one thing I should really appreciate - a few minutes quiet,
undisturbed, enjoyment of my own company; this is not to be secured by
locking one's self in a room, nor by any other expedient I have yet tried
in Asia. After examining the bicycle, they want to see my "Alla Franga"
watch and my revolver; then they want to know how much each thing
costs, and scores of other things that appeal strongly to their excessively
inquisitive natures.

One old fellow, yearning for a closer acquaintance, asks me if I ever
saw the wonderful "chu, chu, chu! chemin defer at Stamboul," adding that
he has seen it and intends some day to ride on it; another hands me a
Crimean medal, and says he fought against the Muscovs with the "Ingilis,"
while a third one solemnly introduces himself as a "makinis " (machinist),
fancying, I suppose, that there is some fraternal connection between
himself and me, on account of the bicycle being a makina.

I begin to feel uncomfortably like a curiosity in a dime museum - a
position not exactly congenial to my nature; so, after enduring this
sort of thing for an hour, I appoint the kahvay-jee custodian of the
bicycle and sally forth to meander about the bazaar a while, where I can
at least have the advantage of being able to move about. Upon returning
to the khan, an hour later, I find there a man whom I remember passing
on the road; he was riding a donkey, the road was all that could be
desired, and I swept past him at racing speed, purely on the impulse of
the moment, in order to treat him to the abstract sensation of blank
amazement. This impromptu action of mine is now bearing its legitimate
fruit, for, surrounded by a most attentive audience, the wonder-struck
donkey-rider is endeavoring, by word and gesture, to impress upon them
some idea of the speed at which I swept past him and vanished round a
bend. The kahvay-jee now approaches me, puffing his cheeks out like a
penny balloon and jerking his thumb in the direction of the street door.
Seeing that I don't quite comprehend the meaning of this mysterious
facial contortion, he whispers confidentially aside, "pasha," and again
goes through the highly interesting performance of puffing out his cheeks
and winking in a knowing manner; he then says-also confidentially and
aside - "lira," winking even more significantly than before. By all this
theatrical by-play, the kahvay-jee means that the pasha - a man of
extraordinary social, political, and, above all, financial importance - has
expressed a wish to see the bicycle, and is now outside; and the kahvay-jee,
with many significant winks and mysterious hints of " lira," advises me
to take the machine outside and ride it for the pasha's special benefit.
A portion of the street near by is " ridable under difficulties; " so I
conclude to act on the kahvay-jee's suggestion, simply to see what comes
of it. Nothing particular comes of it, whereupon the kahvay-jee and his
patrons all express themselves as disgusted beyond measure because the
Pasha failed-to give me a present. Shortly after this I find myself
hobnobbing with a small company of ex-Mecca pilgrims, holy personages
with huge green turbans and flowing gowns; one of them is evidently very
holy indeed, almost too holy for human associations one would imagine,
for in addition to his green turban he wears a broad green kammer bund
and a green undergarment; he is in fact very green indeed. Then a crazy
person pushes his way forward and wants me to cure him of his mental
infirmity; at all events I cannot imagine what else he wants; the man
is crazy as a loon, he cannot even give utterance to his own mother-tongue,
but tries to express himself in a series of disjointed grunts beside
which the soul-harrowing efforts of a broken-winded donkey are quite
melodious. Someone has probably told him that I am a hakim, or a wonderful
person on general principles, and the fellow is sufficiently conscious
of his own condition to come forward and endeavor to grunt himself into
my favorable consideration.

Later in the evening a couple of young Turkish dandies come round to the
khan and favor me with a serenade; one of them twangs a doleful melody
on a small stringed instrument, something like the Slavonian tamborica,
and the other one sings a doleful, melancholy song (nearly all songs and
tunes in Mohammedan countries seem doleful and melancholy); afterwards
an Arab camel-driver joins in with a dance, and furnishes some genuine
amusement with his hip-play and bodily contortions; this would scarcely
be considered dancing from our point of view, but it is according to the
ideas of the East. The dandies are distinguishable from the common run
of Turkish bipeds, like the same species in other countries, by the
fearful and wonderful cut of their garments. The Turkish dandy wears a
tassel to his fez about three times larger than the regulation size, and
he binds it carefully down to the fez with a red and yellow silk
handkerchief; he wears a jaunty-looking short jacket of bright blue
cloth, cut behind so that it reaches but little below his shoulder-blades;
the object of this is apparently to display the whole of the multifold
kammerbund, a wonderful, colored waist-scarf that is wound round and
round the waist many times, and which is held at one end by an assistant,
while the wearer spins round like a dancing dervish, the assistant
advancing gradually as the human bobbin takes up the length. The dandy
wears knee-breeches corresponding in color to his jacket, woollen stockings
of mingled red and black, and low, slipper-like shoes; he allows his
hair to fall about his eyes a la negligee, and affects a reckless, love-
lorn air.

The last party of sight-seers for the day call around near midnight,
some time after I have retired to sleep; they awaken me with their
garrulous observations concerning the bicycle, which they are critically
examining close to my head with a classic lamp; but I readily forgive
them their nocturnal intrusion, since they awaken me to the first
opportunity of hearing women wailing for the dead. A dozen or so of women
are wailing forth their lamentations in the silent night but a short
distance from the khan; I can look out of a small opening in the wall
near my shake-down, and see them moving about the house and premises by
the flickering glare of torches. I could never have believed the female
form divine capable of producing such doleful, unearthly music; but there
is no telling what these shrouded forms are really capable of doing,
since the opportunity of passing one's judgment upon their accomplishments
is confined solely to an occasional glimpse of a languishing eye. The
kahvay-jee, who is acting the part of explanatory lecturer to these
nocturnal visitors, explains the meaning of the wailing by pantomimically
describing a corpse, and then goes on to explain that the smallest
imaginable proportion of the lamentations that are making night hideous
is genuine grief for the departed, most of the uproar being made by a
body of professional mourners hired for the occasion. When I awake in
the morning the unearthly wailing is still going vigorously forward,
from which I infer they have been keeping it up all night. Though gradually
becoming inured to all sorts of strange scenes and customs, the united
wailing and lamentations of a houseful of women, awakening the echoes
of the silent night, savor too much of things supernatural and unearthly
not to jar unpleasantly on the senses; the custom is, however, on the
eve of being relegated to the musty past by the Ottoman Government.

In the larger cities where there are corpses to be wailed over every
night, it has been found so objectionable to the expanding intellects
of the more enlightened Turks that it has been prohibited as a public
nuisance, and these days it is only in such conservative interior towns
as Bey Bazaar that the custom still obtains. When about starting early
on the following morning the khanjee begs me to be seated, and then
several men who have been waiting around since before daybreak vanish
hastily through the door-way; in a few minutes I am favored with a small
company of leading citizens who, having for various reasons failed to
swell yesterday's throng, have taken the precaution to post these
messengers to watch my movements and report when I am ready to depart.
Our grunting patient, the crazy man, likewise reappears upon the scene
of my departure from the khan, and, in company with a small but eminently
respectable following, accompanies me to the brow of a bluffy hill leading
out of the depression in which Bey Bazaar snugly nestles. On the way up
he constantly gives utterance to his feelings in guttural gruntings that
make last night's lamentations seem quite earthly after all in comparison;
and when the summit is reached, and I mount and glide noiselessly away
down a gentle declivity, he uses his vocal organs in a manner that simply
defies chirographical description or any known comparison; it is the
despairing howl of a semi-lunatic at witnessing my departure without
having exercised my supposed extraordinary powers in some miraculous
manner in his behalf. The road continues as an artificial highway, but
is not continuously ridable, owing to the rocky nature of the material
used in its construction and the absence of vehicular traffic to wear
it smooth; but it is highly acceptable in the main. From Bey Bazaar
eastward it leads for several miles along a stony valley, and then through
a region that differs little from yesterday's barren hills in general
appearance, but which has the redeeming feature of being traversed here
and there by deep canons or gorges, along which meander tiny streams,
and whose wider spaces are areas of remarkably fertile soil. While
wheeling merrily along the valley road I am favored with a "peace-offering"
of a splendid bunch of grapes from a bold vintager en route, to Bey
Bazaar with a grape-laden donkey. When within a few hundred yards the
man evinces unmistakable signs of uneasiness concerning my character,
and would probably follow the bent of his inclinations and ingloriously
flee the field, but his donkey is too heavily laden to accompany him:
he looks apprehensively at my rapidly approaching figure, and then, as
if a happy thought suddenly occurs to him, he quickly takes the finest
bunch of grapes ready to hand and holds them, out toward me while I am
yet a good fifty yards away. The grapes are luscious, and the bunch
weighs fully an oke, but I should feel uncomfortably like a highwayman,
guilty of intimidating the man out of his property, were I to accept
them in the spirit in which they are offered; as it is, the honest fellow
will hardly fall to trembling in his tracks should he at any future time
again descry the centaur-like form of a mounted wheelman approaching him
in the distance.

Later in the forenoon I descend into a canon-like valley where, among a
few scattering vineyards and jujube-trees, nestles Ayash, a place which
disputes with the neighboring village of Istanos the honor of being the
theatre of Alexander the Great's celebrated exploit of cutting the Gordian
knot that disentangled the harness of the Phrygian king. Ayash is to be
congratulated upon having its historical reminiscence to recommend it
to the notice of the outer world, since it has little to attract attention
nowadays; it is merely the shapeless jumble of inferior dwellings that
characterize the average Turkish village. As I trundle through the
crooked, ill-paved alley-way that, out of respect to the historical
association referred to, may be called its business thoroughfare, with
forethought of the near approach of noon I obtain some pears, and hand
an ekmek-jee a coin for some bread; he passes over a tough flat cake,
abundantly sufficient for my purpose, together with the change. A zaptieh,
looking on, observes that the man has retained a whole half-penny for
the bread, and orders him to fork over another cake; I refuse to take
it up, whereupon the zaptieh fulfils his ideas of justice by ordering
the ekmek-jae to give it to a ragged youth among the spectators.

Continuing on my way I am next halted by a young man of the better class,
who, together with the zaptieh, endeavors to prevail upon me to stop,
going through the pantomime of writing and reading, to express some idea
that our mutual ignorance of each other's language prevents being expressed
in words. The result is a rather curious intermezzo. Thinking they want
to examine my teskeri merely to gratify their idle curiosity, I refuse
to be thus bothered, and, dismissing them quite brusquely, hurry along
over the rough cobble-stones in hopes of reaching ridable ground and
escaping from the place ere the inevitable "madding crowd" become
generally aware of my arrival. The young man disappears, while the zaptieh
trots smilingly but determinedly by my side, several times endeavoring
to coax me into making a halt; which is, however, promptly interpreted
by myself into a paternal plea on behalf of the villagers - a desire to
have me stop until they could be generally notified and collected - the
very thing I am hurrying along to avoid, I am already clear of the village
and trundling up the inevitable acclivity, the zaptieh and a small
gathering still doggedly hanging on, when the young man reappears,
hurriedly approaching from the rear, followed by half the village. The
zaptieh pats me on the shoulder and points back with a triumphant smile;
thinking he is referring to the rabble, I am rather inclined to be angry
with him and chide him for dogging my footsteps, when I observe the young
man waving aloft a letter, and at once understand that I have been guilty
of an ungenerous misinterpretation of their determined attentions. The
letter is from Mr. Binns, an English gentleman at Angora, engaged in the
exportation of mohair, and contains an invitation to become his guest
while at Angora. A well-deserved backsheesh to the good-natured zaptieh
and a penitential shake of the young man's hand silence the self-accusations
of a guilty conscience, and, after riding a short distance down the hill
for the satisfaction of the people, I continue on my way, trundling up
the varying gradations of a general acclivity for two miles. Away up the
road ahead I now observe a number of queer, shapeless objects, moving
about on the roadway, apparently descending the hill, and resembling
nothing so much as animated clumps of brushwood. Upon a closer approach
they turn out to be not so very far removed from this conception; they
are a company of poor Ayash peasant-women, each carrying a bundle of
camel-thorn shrubs several times larger than herself, which they have
been scouring the neighboring hills all morning to obtain for fuel. This
camel-thorn is a light, spriggy shrub, so that the size of their burthens
is large in proportion to its weight. Instead of being borne on the head,
they are carried in a way that forms a complete bushy background, against
which the shrouded form of the woman is undistinguishable a few hundred
yards away. Instead of keeping a straightforward course, the women seem
to be doing an unnecessary amount of erratic wandering about over the
road, which, until quite near, gives them the queer appearance of animated
clumps of brush dodging about among each other. I ask them whether there
is water ahead; they look frightened and hurry along faster, but one
brave soul turns partly round and points mutely in the direction I am
going. Two miles of good, ridable road now brings me to the spring, which
is situated near a two-acre swamp of rank sword-grass and bulrushes six
feet high and of almost inpenetrable thickness, which looks decidedly
refreshing in its setting of barren, gray hills; and I eat my noon-tide
meal of bread and pears to the cheery music of a thousand swamp-frog
bands which commence croaking at my approach, and never cease for a
moment to twang their tuneful lyre until I depart. The tortuous windings
of the chemin de fer finally bring me to a cul-de-sac in the hills,
terminating on the summit of a ridge overlooking a broad plain; and a
horseman I meet informs me that I am now mid way between Bey Bazaar and
Angora. While ascending this ridge I become thoroughly convinced of what
has frequently occurred to me between here and Nalikhan - that if the road
I am traversing is, as the people keep calling it, a chemin de fer, then
the engineer who graded it must have been a youth of tender age, and
inexperienced in railway matters, to imagine that trains can ever round
his curve or climb his grades. There is something about this broad,
artificial highway, and the tremendous amount of labor that has been
expended upon it, when compared with the glaring poverty of the country
it traverses, together with the wellnigh total absence of wheeled vehicles,
that seem to preclude the possibility of its having been made for a
wagon-road; and yet, notwithstanding the belief of the natives, it is
evident that it can never be the road-bed of a railway. We must inquire
about it at Angora.

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