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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




Other villagers soon collect, making a picturesque and interesting group
around the bicycle; but the maiden with the grapes makes too pretty and
complete a picture, for any of the others to attract more than passing
notice. One of her two companions whisperingly calls her attention to
the plainly evident fact that she is being regarded with admiration by
the stranger. She blushes perceptibly through her nut-brown cheeks at
hearing this, but she is also quite conscious of her claims to admiration,
and likes to be admired; so she neither changes her attitude of respectful
grace, nor raises her long drooping eyelashes, while I eat and eat grapes,
taking them bunch after bunch from her overflowing hands, until ashamed
to eat any more. I confess to almost falling in love with that maiden,
her manners were so easy and graceful; and when, with ever-downcast eyes
and a bewitching manner that leaves not the slightest room for considering
the doing so a bold or forward action, she puts the remainder of the
grapes in my coat pockets, a peculiar fluttering sensation - but I draw a
veil over my feelings, they are too sacred for the garish pages of a
book. I do not inquire about their nationality, I would rather it remain
a mystery, and a matter for future conjecture; but before leaving I add
something to her already conspicuous array of coins that have been
increasing since her birth, and which will form her modest dowry at
marriage. The road continues of excellent surface, but rather hilly for
a few miles, when it descends into the Valley of the Delijeh Irmak, where
the artificial highway again deteriorates into the unpacked condition
of yesterday; the donkey trails are shallow trenches of dust, and are
no longer to be depended upon as keeping my general course, but are
rather cross-country trails leading from one mountain village to another.
The well-defined caravan trail leading from Ismidt to Angora comes no
farther eastward than the latter city, which is the central point where
the one exportable commodity of the vilayet is collected for barter and
transportation to the seaboard. The Delijeh Irmak Valley is under partial
cultivation, and occasionally one passes through small areas of melon
gardens far away from any permanent habitations; temporary huts or dug-
outs are, however, an invariable adjunct to these isolated possession
of the villagers, in which some one resides day and night during the
melon season, guarding their property with gun and dog from unscrupulous
wayfarers, who otherwise would not hesitate to make their visit to town
profitable as well as pleasurable, by surreptitiously confiscating a
donkey-load of salable melons from their neighbor's roadside garden.
Sometimes I essay to purchase a musk-melon from these lone sentinels,
but it is impossible to obtain one fit to eat; these wretched prayers
on Nature's bounty evidently pluck and devour them the moment they develop
from the bitterness of their earliest growth. No villages are passed on
the road after leaving the vintagers' cluster at noon, but bunches of
mud hovels are at intervals descried a few miles to the right, perched
among the hills that form the southern boundary of the valley; being of
the same color as the general surface about them, they are not easily
distinguishable at a distance. There seems to be a decided propensity
among the natives for choosing the hills as an habitation, even when
their arable lands are miles away in the valley; the salubrity of the
more elevated location may be the chief consideration, but a swiftly
flowing mountain rivulet near his habitation is to the Mohammedan a
source of perpetual satisfaction.

I travel along for some time after nightfall, in hopes of reaching a
village, but none appearing, I finally decide to camp out. Choosing a
position behind a convenient knoll, I pitch the tent where it will bo
invisible from the road, using stones in lieu of tent-pegs; and inhabiting
for the first time this unique contrivance, I sup off the grapes remaining
over from the bountiful feast at noon-and, being without any covering,
stretch myself without undressing beside the upturned bicycle; notwithstanding
the gentle reminders of unsatisfied hunger, I am enjoying the legitimate
reward of constant exercise in the open air ten minutes after pitching
the tent. Soon after midnight I am awakened by the chilly influence of
the "wee sma' hours," and recognizing the likelihood of the tent proving
more beneficial as a coverlet than a roof, in the absence of rain, I
take it down and roll myself up in it; the thin, oiled cambric is far
from being a blanket, however, and at daybreak the bicycle and everything
is drenched with one of the heavy dews of the country. Ten miles over
an indifferent road is traversed next morning; the comfortless reflection
that anything like a "square meal" seems out of the question anywhere
between the larger towns scarcely tends to exert a soothing influence
on the ravenous attacks of a most awful appetite; and I am beginning to
think seriously of making a detour of several miles to reach a mountain
village, when I meet a party of three horsemen, a Turkish Bey - with an
escort of two zaptiehs. I am trundling at the time, and without a moment's
hesitancy I make a dead set at the Bey, with the single object of
satisfying to some extent my gastronomic requirements.

"Bey Effendi, have you any ekmek?" I ask, pointing inquiringly to his
saddle-bags on a zaptieh's horse, and at the same time giving him to
understand by impressive pantomime the uncontrollable condition of my
appetite. With what seems to me, under the circumstances, simply cold-
blooded indifference to human suffering; the Bey ignores my inquiry
altogether, and concentrating his whole attention on the bicycle, asks,
"What is that?" "An Americanish araba, Effendi; have you any ekmek ?"
toying suggestively with the tell-tale slack of my revolver belt.

"Where have you come from?" "Stamboul; have you ekmek in the saddle-
bags, Effendi." this time boldly beckoning the zaplieh with the Bey's
effects to approach nearer.

"Where are you going?" "Yuzgat! ekmek! ekmek!" tapping the saddle-bags
in quite an imperative manner. This does not make any outward impression
upon the Bey's aggravating imperturbability, however; he is not so
indifferent to my side of the question as he pretends; aware of his
inability to supply my want, and afraid that a negative answer would
hasten my departure before he has fully satisfied his curiosity concerning
me, he is playing a. little game of diplomacy in his own interests.

"What is it for." he now asks, with soul-harrowing indifference to all
my counter inquiries." To bin," I reply, desperately, curt and indifferent,
beginning to see through his game. " Bin, bin! bacalem." he says;
supplementing the request with a coaxing smile. At the same moment my
long-suffering digestive apparatus favors me with an unusually savage
reminder, and nettled beyond the point where forbearance ceases to be
any longer a virtue, I return an answer not exactly complimentary to the
Bey's ancestors, and continue my hungry way down the valley. A couple
of miles after leaving the Bey, I intercept a party of peasants traversing
a cross-country trail, with a number of pack-donkeys loaded with rock-salt,
from whom I am fortunately able to obtain several thin sheets of ekmek,
which I sit down and devour immediately, without even water to moisten
the repast; it seems one of the most tasteful and soul-satisfying
breakfasts I ever ate.

Like misfortunes, blessings never seem to come singly, for, an hour after
thus breaking my fast I happen upon a party of villagers working on an
unfinished portion of the new road; some of them are eating their morning
meal of ekmek and yaort, and no sooner do I appear upon the scene than
I am straightway invited to partake, a seat in the ragged circle congregated
around the large bowl of clabbered milk being especially prepared with
a bunch of pulled grass for my benefit. The eager hospitality of these
poor villagers is really touching; they are working without so much as
"thank you" for payment, there is not a garment amongst the gang fit
for a human covering; their unvarying daily fare is the "blotting-paper
ekmek" and yaort, with a melon or a cucumber occasionally as a luxury;
yet, the moment I approach, they assign me a place at their "table,"
and two of them immediately bestir themselves to make me a comfortable
seat. Neither is there so much as a mercenary thought among them in
connection with the invitation; these poor fellows, whose scant rags it
would be a farce to call clothing, actually betray embarrassment at the
barest mention of compensation; they fill my pockets with bread, apologize
for the absence of coffee, and compare the quality of their respective
pouches of native tobacco in order to make me a decent cigarette.

Never, surely, was the reputation of Dame Fortune for fickleness so
completely proved as in her treatment of me this morning - ten o'clock
finds me seated on a pile of rugs in a capacious black tent, "wrassling"
with a huge bowl of savory mutton pillau, flavored with green herbs, as
the guest of a Koordish sheikh; shortly afterwards I meet a man taking
a donkey-load of musk-melons to the Koordish camp, who insists on
presenting me with the finest melon I have tasted since leaving
Constantinople; and high noon finds me the guest of another Koordish
sheikh; thus does a morning, which commenced with a fair prospect of no
breakfast, following after yesterday's scant supply of unsuitable food,
end in more hospitality than I know what to do with. These nomad tribes
of the famous "black-tents " wander up toward Angora every summer with
their flocks, in order to be near a market at shearing time; they are
famed far and wide for their hospitality. Upon approaching the great
open-faced tent of the Sheikh, there is a hurrying movement among the
attendants to prepare a suitable raised seat, for they know at a glance
that I am an Englishman, and likewise are aware that an Englishman cannot
sit cross-legged like an Asiatic; at first, I am rather surprised at
their evident ready recognition of my nationality, but I soon afterwards
discover the reason. A hugh bowl of pillau, and another of excellent
yaort is placed before me without asking any questions, while the dignified
old Sheikh fulfils one's idea of a gray-bearded nomad patriarch to
perfection, as he sits cross legged on a rug, solemnly smoking a nargileh,
and watching to see that no letter of his generous code of hospitality
toward strangers is overlooked by the attendants. These latter seem to
be the picked young men of the tribe; fine, strapping fellows, well-dresed,
six-footers, and of athletic proportions; perfect specimens of semi-
civilized manhood, that would seem better employed in a grenadier regiment
than in hovering about the old Sheikh's tent, attending to the filling
and lighting of his nargileh, the arranging of his cushions by day and
his bed at night, the serving of his food, and the proper reception of
his guests; and yet it is an interesting sight to see these splendid
young fellows waiting upon their beloved old chieftain, fairly bounding,
like great affectionate mastiffs, at his merest look or suggestion. Most
of the boys and young men are out with the flocks, but the older men,
the women and children, gather in a curious crowd before the open tent;
they maintain a respectful silence so long as I am their Sheikh's guest,
but they gather about me without reserve when I leave the hospitable
shelter of that respected person's quarters. After examining my helmet
and sizing up my general appearance, they pronounce me an "English
zaptieh," a distinction for which I am indebted to the circumstance of
Col. N--, an English officer, having recently been engaged in Koordistan
organizing a force of native zaptiehs. The women of this particular camp
seem, on the whole, rather unprepossessing specimens; some of them are
hooked-nosed old hags, with piercing black eyes, and hair dyed to a
flaming "carrotty" hue with henna; this latter is supposed to render
them beautiful, and enhance their personal appearance in the eyes of the
men; they need something to enhance their personal appearance, certainly,
but to the untutored and inartistic eye of the writer it produces a
horrid, unnatural effect. According to our ideas, flaming red hair looks
uncanny and of vulgar, uneducated taste, when associated with coal-black
eyes and a complexion like gathering darkness. These vain mortals seem
inclined to think that in me they have discovered something to be petted
and made much of, treating me pretty much as a troop of affectionate
little girls - would treat a wandering kitten that might unexpectedly
appear in their midst. Giddy young things of about fifty summers cluster
around me in a compact body, examining my clothes from helmet to moccasins,
and critically feeling the texture of my coat and shirt, they take off
my helmet, reach over each other's shoulders to stroke my hair, and pat
my cheeks in the most affectionate manner; meanwhile expressing themselves
in soft, purring comments, that require no linguistic abilities to
interpret into such endearing remarks as, "Ain't he a darling, though?"
"What nice soft hair and pretty blue eyes." "Don't you wish the
dear old Sheikh would let us keep him. "Considering the source whence
it comes, it requires very little of this to satisfy one, and as soon
as I can prevail upon them to let me escape, I mount and wheel away,
several huge dogs escorting me, for some minutes, in the peculiar manner
Koordish dogs have of escorting stray 'cyclers.






CHAPTER XV.




FROM THE KOORDISH CAMP TO YUZGAT.

>From the Koordish encampment my route leads over a low mountain spur by
easy gradients, and by a winding, unridable trail down into the valley
of the eastern fork of the Delijah Irmak. The road improves as this
valley is reached, and noon finds me the wonder and admiration of another
Koordish camp, where I remain a couple of hours in deference to the
powers of the midday sun. One has no scruples about partaking of the
hospitality of the nomad Koords, for they are the wealthiest people in
the country, their flocks covering the hills in many localities; they
are, as a general thing, fairly well dressed, are cleaner in their cooking
than the villagers, and hospitable to the last degree. Like the rest of
us, however, they have their faults as well as their virtues; they are
born freebooters, and in unsettled times, when the Turkish Government,
being handicapped by weightier considerations, is compelled to relax its
control over them, they seldom fail to promptly respond to their plundering
instincts and make no end of trouble. They still retain their hospitableness,
but after making a traveller their guest for the night, and allowing him
to depart with everything he has, they will intercept him on the road
and rob him. They have some objectionable habits, even in these peaceful
times, which will better appear when we reach their own Koordistan, where
we shall, doubtless, have better opportunities for criticising them.
Whatever their faults or virtues, I leave this camp, hoping that the
termination of the day may find me the guest of another sheikh for the
night An hour after leaving this camp I pass through an area of vineyards,
out of which people come running with as many grapes among them as would
feed a dozen people; the road is ridable, and I hurry along to avoid
their bother. Verily it would seem that I am being hounded down by
retributive justice for sundry evil thoughts and impatient remarks,
associated with my hungry experiences of early morning; then I was
wondering where the next mouthful of food was going to overtake me, this
afternoon finds me pedalling determinedly to prevent being overtaken by
it.

The afternoon is hot and with scarcely a breath of air moving; the little
valley terminates in a region of barren, red hills, on which the sun
glares fiercely; some toughish climbing has to be accomplished in scaling
a ridge, and then. I emerge into an upland lava plateau, where the only
vegetation is sun-dried weeds and thistles. Here a herd of camels are
contentedly browsing, munching the dry, thorny herbage with a satisfaction
that is evident a mile away. From casual observations along the route,
I am inclined to think a camel not far behind a goat in the depravity
of its appetite; a camel will wander uneasily about over a greensward
of moist, succulent grass, scanning his surroundings in search of giant
thistles, frost-bitten tumble-weeds, tough, spriggy camel thorns, and
odds and ends of unpalatable vegetation generally. Of course, the "ship
of the desert" never sinks to such total depravity as to hanker after
old gum overshoes and circus posters, but if permitted to forage around
human habitations for a few generations, I think they would eventually
degenerate to the goat's disreputable level. The expression of utter
astonishment that overspreads the angular countenance of the camels
browsing near the roadside, at my appearance, is one of the most ludicrous
sights imaginable; they seem quite intelligent enough to recognize in a
wheelman and his steed something inexplicable and foreign to their
country, and their look of timid inquiry seems ridiculously unsuited to
their size and the general ungainliness of their appearance, producing
a comical effect that is worth going miles to see. It is approaching
sun-down, when, ascending a ridge overlooking another valley, I am
gratified at seeing it occupied by several Koordish camps, their clusters
of black tents being a conspicuous feature of the landscape. With a fair
prospect of hospitable quarters for the night before me, and there being
no distinguishable signs of a road, I make my way across country toward
one of the camps that seems to be nearest my proper course. I have arrived
within a mile of my objective point, when I observe, at the base of a
mountain about half the distance to my right, a large, white two-storied
building, the most pretentious structure, by long odds, that has been
seen since leaving Angora. My curiosity is, of course, aroused concerning
its probable character; it looks like a bit of civilization that has in
some unaccountable manner found its way to a region where no other human
habitations are visible, save the tents of wild tribesmen, and I at once
shape my course toward it. It turns out to be a rock-salt mine or quarry,
that supplies the whole region for scores of miles around with salt,
rock-salt being the only kind obtainable in the country; it was from
this mine that the donkey party from whom I first obtained bread this
morning fetched their loads. Here I am invited to remain over night, am
provided with a substantial supper, the menu including boiled mutton,
with cucumbers for desert. The managers and employees of the, quarry
make their cucumbers tasteful by rubbing the end with a piece of rock-salt
each time it is cut off or bitten, each person keeping a select little
square for the purpose. The salt is sold at the mine, and owners of
transportation facilities in the shape of pack animals make money by
purchasing it here at six paras an oke, and selling it at a profit in
distant towns.

Two young men seem to have charge of transacting the business; one of
them is inordinately inquisitive, he even wants to try and unstick the
envelope containing a letter of introduction to Mr. Tifticjeeoghlou's
father in Yuzgat, and read it out of pure curiosity to see what it says;
and he offers me a lira for my Waterbury watch, notwithstanding its Alla
Franga face is beyond his Turkish comprehension. The loud, confident
tone in which the Waterbury ticks impresses the natives very favorably
toward it, and the fact of its not opening at the back like other time-
pieces, creates the impression that it is a watch that never gets cranky
and out of order; quite different from the ones they carry, since their
curiosity leads them to be always fooling with the works. American clocks
are found all through Asia Minor, fitted with Oriental faces and there
is little doubt but the Waterbury, with its resonant tick, if similiarly
prepared, would find here a ready market. The other branch of the
managerial staff is a specimen of humanity peculiarly Asiatic Turkish,
a melancholy-faced, contemplative person, who spends nearly the whole
evening in gazing in silent wonder at me and the bicycle; now and then
giving expression to his utter inability to understand how such things
can possibly be by shaking his head and giving utterance to a peculiar
clucking of astonishment. He has heard me mention having come from
Stamboul, which satisfies him to a certain extent; for, like a true Turk,
he believes that at Stamboul all wonderful things originate; whether the
bicycle was made there, or whether it originally came from somewhere
else, doesn't seem to enter into his speculations; the simple knowledge
that I have come from Stamboul is all-sufficient for him; so far as he
is concerned, the bicycle is simply another wonder from Stamboul, another
proof that the earthly paradise of the Mussulman world on the Bosphorus
is all that he has been taught to believe it. When the contemplative
young man ventures away from the dreamy realms of his own imaginations,
and from the society of his inmost thoughts, far enough to make a remark,
it is to ask me something about Stamboul; but being naturally taciturn
and retiring, and moreover, anything but an adept at pantomimic language,
he prefers mainly to draw his own conclusions in silence. He manages to
make me understand, however, that he intends before long making a journey
to see Stamboul for himself; like many another Turk from the barren hills
of the interior, he will visit the Ottoman capital; he will recite from
the Koran under the glorious mosaic dome of St. Sophia; wander about
that wonder of the Orient, the Stamboul bazaar; gaze for hours on the
matchless beauties of the Bosphorus ; ride on one of the steamboats; see
the railway, the tramway, the Sultan's palaces, and the shipping, and
return to his native hills thoroughly convinced that in all the world
there is no place fit to be compared with Stamboul; no place so full of
wonders; no place so beautiful; and wondering how even the land of the
kara ghuz kiz, the material paradise of the Mohammedans, can possibly
be more lovely. The contemplative young man is tall and slender, has
large, dreamy, black eyes, a downy upper lip, a melancholy cast of
countenance, and wears a long print wrapper of neat dotted pattern,
gathered at the waist with a girdle a la dressing-gown.

The inquisitive partner makes me up a comfortable bed of quilts on the
divan of a large room, which is also occupied by several salt traders
remaining over night, and into which their own small private apartments
open. A few minutes after they have retired to their respective rooms,
the contemplative young man reappears with silent tread, and with a
scornful glance at my surroundings, both human and inanimate, gathers
up my loose effects, and bids me bring bicycle and everything into his
room; here, I find, he has already prepared for my reception quite a
downy couch, having contributed, among other comfortable things, his
wolf-skin overcoat; after seeing me comfortably established on a couch
more appropriate to my importance as a person recently from Stamboul
than the other, he takes a lingering look at the bicycle, shakes his
head and clucks, and then extinguishes the light. Sunrise on the following
morning finds me wheeling eastward from the salt quarry, over a trail
well worn by salt caravans, to Yuzgat; the road leads for some distance
down a grassy valley, covered with the flocks of the several Koordish
camps round about; the wild herdsmen come galloping from all directions
across the valley toward me, their uncivilized garb and long swords
giving them more the appearance of a ferocious gang of cut-throats
advancing to the attack than shepherds. Hitherto, nobody has seemed any
way inclined to attack me; I have almost wished somebody would undertake
a little devilment of some kind, for the sake of livening things up a
little, and making my narrative more stirring; after venturing everything,
I have so far nothing to tell but a story of being everywhere treated
with the greatest consideration, and much of the time even petted. I
have met armed men far away from any habitations, whose appearance was
equal to our most ferocious conception of bashi bazouks, and merely from
a disinclination to be bothered, perhaps being in a hurry at the time,
have met their curious inquiries with imperious gestures to be gone; and
have been guilty of really inconsiderate conduct on more than one occasion,
but under no considerations have I yet found them guilty of anything
worse than casting covetous glances at my effects. But there is an
apparent churlishness of manner, and an overbearing demeanor, as of men
chafing under the restraining influences that prevent them gratifying
their natural free-booting instincts, about these Koordish herdsmen whom
I encounter this morning, that forms quite a striking contrast to the
almost childlike harmlessness and universal respect toward me observed
in the disposition of the villagers. It requires no penetrating scrutiny
of these fellows' countenances to ascertain that nothing could be more
uncongenial to them than the state of affairs that prevents them stopping
ine and looting me of everything I possess; a couple of them order me
quite imperatively to make a detour from my road to avoid approaching
too near their flock of sheep, and their general behavior is pretty much
as though seeking to draw me into a quarrel, that would afford them an
opportunity of plundering me. Continuing on the even tenor of my way,
affecting a lofty unconsciousness of their existence, and wondering
whether, in case of being molested, it would be advisable to use my Smith
& Wesson in defending my effects, or taking the advice received in
Constantinople, offer no resistance whatever, and trust to being able
to recover them through the authorities, I finally emerge from their
vicinity. Their behavior simply confirms what I have previously understood
of their character; that while they will invariably extend hospitable
treatment to a stranger visiting their camps, like unreliable explosives,
they require to be handled quite "gingerly" when encountered on the
road, to prevent disagreeable consequences.

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