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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




Passing through a low, marshy district, peopled with solemn-looking
storks and croaking frogs, I meet a young sheikh and his personal
attendants returning from a morning's outing at their favorite sport of
hawking; they carry their falcons about on small perches, fastened by
the leg with a tiny chain. I try to induce them to make a flight, but
for some reason or other they refuse; an Osmanli Turk would have
accommodated me in a minute. Soon I arrive at another Koordish camp,
fording a stream in order to reach their tents, for I have not yet
breakfasted, and know full well that no better opportunity of obtaining
one will be likely to turn up. Entering the nearest tent, I make no
ceremony of calling for refreshments, knowing well enough that a heaping
dish of pillau will be forthcoming, and that the hospitable Koords will
regard the ordering of it as the most natural thing in the world. The
pillau is of rice, mutton, and green herbs, and is brought in a large
pewter dish; and, together with sheet bread and a bowl of excellent
yaort, is brought on a massive pewter tray, which has possibly belonged
to the tribe for centuries. These tents are divided into several
compartments; one end is a compartment where the men congregate in the
daytime, and the younger men sleep at night, and where guests are received
and entertained; the central space is the commissary and female industrial
department; the others are female and family sleeping places. Each
compartment is partitioned off with a hanging carpet partition; light
portable railing of small, upright willow sticks bound closely together
protects the central compartment from a horde of dogs hungrily nosing
about the camp, and small "coops" of the same material are usually
built inside as a further protection for bowls of milk, yaort, butter,
cheese, and cooked food; they also obtain fowls from the villagers, which
they keep cooped up in a similar manner, until the hapless prisoners are
required to fulfil their destiny in chicken pillau; the capacious covering
over all is strongly woven goats'-hair material of a black or smoky brown
color. In a wealthy tribe, the tent of their sheikh is often a capacious
affair, twenty-five by one hundred feet, containing, among other
compartments, stabling and hay-room for the sheikh's horses in winter.
My breakfast is brought in from the culinary department by a young woman
of most striking appearance, certainly not less than six feet in height;
she is of slender, willowy build, and straight as an arrow; a wealth of
auburn hair is surmounted by a small, gay-colored turban; her complexion
is fairer than common among Koordish woman, and her features are the
queenly features of a Juno; the eyes are brown and lustrous, and, were
the expression but of ordinary gentleness, the picture would be perfect;
but they are the round, wild-looking orbs of a newly-caged panther-
grimalkin eyes, that would, most assuredly, turn green and luminous in
the dark. Other women come to take a look at the stranger, gathering
around and staring at rne, while I eat, with all their eyes - and such
eyes. I never before saw such an array of "wild-animal eyes;" no, not
even in the Zoo. Many of them are magnificent types of womanhood in every
other respect, tall, queenly, and symmetrically perfect; but the eyes-oh,
those wild, tigress eyes. Travellers have told queer, queer stories about
bands of these wild-eyed Koordish women waylaying and capturing them on
the roads through Koordistan, and subjecting them to barbarous treatment.
I have smiled, and thought them merely "travellers' tales;" but I can
see plain enough, this morning, that there is no improbability in the
stories, for, from a dozen pairs of female eyes, behold, there gleams
not one single ray of tenderness: these women are capable of anything
that tigresses are capable of, beyond a doubt. Almost the first question
asked by the men of these camps is whether the English and Muscovs are
fighting; they have either heard of the present (summer of 1885) crisis
over the Afghan boundary question, or they imagine that the English and
Russians maintain a sort of desultory warfare all the time. When I tell
them that the Muscov is fenna (bad) they invariably express their approval
of the sentiment by eagerly calling each other's attention to my expression.
It is singular with what perfect faith and confidence these rude tribesmen
accept any statement I choose to make, and how eagerly they seem to dwell
on simple statements of facts that are known to every school-boy in
Christendom. I entertain them with my map, showing them the position
of Stamboul, Mecca, Erzeroum, and towns in their own Koordistan, which
they recognize joyfully as I call them by name. They are profoundly
impressed at the " extent of my knowledge," and some of the more deeply
impressed stoop down and reverently kiss Stamboul and Mecca, as I point
them out. While thus pleasantly engaged, an aged sheikh comes to the
tent and straightway begins "kicking up a blooming row" about me. It
seems that the others have been guilty of trespassing on the sheikh's
prerogative, in entertaining me themselves, instead of conducting me to
his own tent. After upbraiding them in unmeasured terms, he angrily
orders several of the younger men to make themselves beautifully scarce
forthwith. The culprits - some of them abundantly able to throw the old
fellow over their shoulders - instinctively obey; but they move off at a
snail's pace, with lowering brows, and muttering angry growls that betray
fully their untamed, intractable dispositions.

A two-hours' road experience among the constantly varying slopes of
rolling hills, and then comes a fertile valley, abounding in villages,
wheat-fields, orchards, and melon-gardens. These days I find it incumbent
on me to turn washer-woman occasionally, and, halting at the first little
stream in this valley, I take upon myself the onerous duties of Wall
Lung in Sacramento City, having for an interested and interesting audience
two evil-looking kleptomaniacs, buffalo-herders dressed in next to
nothing, who eye my garments drying on the bushes with lingering
covetousness. It is scarcely necessary to add that I watch them quite
as interestingly myself; for, while I pity the scantiness of their
wardrobe, I have nothing that I could possibly spare among mine. A network
of irrigating ditches, many of them overflowed, render this valley
difficult to traverse with a bicycle, and I reach a large village about
noon, myself and wheel plastered with mud, after traversing a, section
where the normal condition is three inches of dust.

Bread and grapes are obtained here, a light, airy dinner, that is seasoned
and made interesting by the unanimous worrying of the entire population.
Once I make a desperate effort to silence their clamorous importunities,
and obtain a little quiet, by attempting to ride over impossible ground,
and reap the well-merited reward of permitting my equanimity to be thus
disturbed in the shape of a header and a slightly-bent handle-bar. While
I am eating, the gazing-stock of a wondering, commenting crowd, a
respectably dressed man elbows his way through the compact mass of humans
around me, and announces himself as having fought under Osman Pasha at
Plevna. What this has to do with me is a puzzler; but the man himself,
and every Turk of patriotic age in the crowd, is evidently expecting to
see me make some demonstration of approval; so, not knowing what else
to do, I shake the man cordially by the hand, and modestly inform my
attentively listening audience that Osman Pasha and myself are brothers,
that Osman yielded only when the overwhelming numbers of the Muscovs
proved that it was his kismet to do so; and that the Russians would never
be permitted to occupy Constantinople; a statement, that probably makes
my simple auditors feel as though they were inheriting a new lease of
national life; anyhow, they seem not a little gratified at what I am
saying.

After this the people seem to find material for no end of amusement among
themselves, by contrasting the marifet of the bicycle with the marifet
of their creaking arabas, of which there seems to be quite a number in
this valley. They are used chiefly in harvesting, are roughly made, used,
and worn out in these mountain-environed valleys without ever going
beyond the hills that encompass them in on every side. From these villages
the people begin to evince an alarming disposition to follow me out some
distance on donkeys. This undesirable trait of their character is, of
course, easily counteracted by a short spurt, where spurting is possible,
but it is a soul-harrowing thing to trundle along a mile of unridable
road, in company with twenty importuning katir-jees, their diminutive
donkeys filling the air with suffocating clouds of dust. There is nothing
on all this mundane sphere that will so effectually subdue the proud,
haughty spirit of a wheelman, or that will so promptly and completely
snuff out his last flickering ray of dignity; it is one of the pleasantries
of 'cycling through a country where the people have been riding donkeys
and camels since the flood.

A few miles from the village I meet another candidate for medical
treatment; this time it is a woman, among a merry company of donkey-riders,
bound from Yuzgat to the salt-mines; they are laughing, singing, and
otherwise enjoying themselves, after the manner of a New England berrying
party. The woman's affliction, she says, is "fenna ghuz," which, it
appears, is the term used to denote ophthalmia, as well as the "evil-eye;"
but of course, not being a ghuz hakim, I can do nothing more than express
my sympathy. The fertile valley gradually contracts to a narrow, rocky
defile, leading up into a hilly region, and at five o'clock I reach
Tuzgat, a city claiming a population of thirty thousand, that is situated
in a depression among the mountains that can scarcely be called a valley.
I have been three and a half days making the one hundred and thirty miles
from Angora.

Everybody in Yuzgat knows Youvanaki Effendi Tifticjeeoghlou, to whom I
have brought a letter of introduction; and, shortly after reaching town,
I find myself comfortably installed on the cushioned divan of honor in
that worthy old gentleman's large reception room, while half a dozen
serving-men are almost knocking each other over in their anxiety to
furnish me coffee, vishnersu, cigarettes, etc. They seem determined upon
interpreting the slightest motion of my hand or head into some want which
I am unable to explain, and, fancying thus, they are constantly bobbing
up before me with all sorts of surprising things. Tevfik Bey, general
superintendent of the Eegie (a company having the monopoly of the tobacco
trade in Turkey, for which they pay the government a fixed sum per annum),
is also a guest of Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi's hospitable mansion, and he
at once despatches a messenger to his Yuzgat agent, Mr. G. O. Tchetchian,
a vivacious Greek, who speaks English quite fluently. After that gentleman's
arrival, we soon come to a more perfect understanding of each other all
round, and a very pleasant evening is spent in receiving crowds of
visitors in a ceremonious manner, in which I really seem to be holding
a sort of a levee, except that it is evening instead of morning. Open
door is kept for everybody, and mine host's retinue of pages and serving
men are kept pretty busy supplying coffee right and left; beggars in
their rags are even allowed to penetrate into the reception-room, to sip
a cup of coffee and take a curious peep at the Ingilisin and his wonderful
araba, the fame of which has spread like wildfire through the city. Mine
host himself is kept pretty well occupied in returning the salaams of
the more distinguished visitors, besides keeping his eye on the servants,
by way of keeping them well up to their task of dispensing coffee in a
manner satisfactory to his own liberal ideas of hospitality; but he
presides over all with a bearing of easy dignity that it is a pleasure
to witness. The street in front of the Tifticjeeoghlou residence is
swarmed with people next morning; keeping open house is, under the
circumstances, no longer practicable; the entrance gate has to be guarded,
and none permitted to enter but privileged persons. During the forenoon
the Caimacan and several officials call round and ask me to favor them
by riding along a smooth piece of road opposite the municipal konak;
as I intend remaining over here today, I enter no objections, and accompany
them forthwith. The rabble becomes wildly excited at seeing me emerge
with the bicycle, in company with the Caimacan and his staff, for they
know that their curiosity is probably on the eve of being gratified. It
proves no easy task to traverse the streets, for, like in all Oriental
cities, they are narrow, and are now jammed with people. Time and again
the Caimacan is compelled to supplement the exertions of an inadequate
force of zaptiehs with his authoritative voice, to keep down the excitement
and the wild shouts of "Bin bacalem! bin bacalem." (Hide, so that we
can see - an innovation on bin, bin, that has made itself manifest since
crossing the Kizil Irmak Kiver) that are raised, gradually swelling into
the tumultuous howl of a multitude. The uproar is deafening, and, long
before reaching the place, the Caimacan repents having brought me out.
As for myself, I certainly repent having come out, and have still better
reasons for doing so before reaching the safe retreat of Tifticjeeo-ghlou
Effendi's house, an hour afterward. The most that the inadequate squad
of zaptiehs present can do, when we arrive opposite the muncipal konak,
is to keep the crowd from pressing forward and overwhelming me and the
bicycle. They attempt to keep open a narrow passage through the surging
sea of humans blocking the street, for me to ride down; but ten yards
ahead the lane terminates in a mass of fez-crowned heads. Under the
impression that one can mount a bicycle on the stand, like mounting a
horse, the Caimacan asks me to mount, saying that when the people see
me mounted and ready to start, they will themselves yield a passage-way.
Seeing the utter futility of attempting explanations under existing
conditions, amid the defeaning clamor of " Bin bacalem! bin bacalem '"
I mount and slowly pedal along a crooked "fissure" in the compact mass
of people, which the zaptiehs manage to create by frantically flogging
right and left before me. Gaining, at length, more open ground, and the
smooth road continuing on, I speed away from the multitude, and the
Caimacan sends one fleet-footed zaptieh after me, with instructions to
pilot me back to Tifticjeeoghlou's by a roundabout way, so as to avoid
returning through the crowds. The rabble are not to be so easily deceived
and shook off as the Caimacan thinks, however; by taking various short
cuts, they manage to intercept us, and, as though considering the having
detected and overtaken us in attempting to elude them, justifies them
in taking liberties, their "Bin bacalem!" now develops into the imperious
cry of a domineering majority, determined upon doing pretty much as they
please. It is the worst mob I have seen on the journey, so far; excitement
runs high, and their shouts of "Bin bacalem!" can, most assuredly, be
heard for miles. We are enveloped by clouds of dust, raised by the feet
of the multitude; the hot sun glares down savagely upon us; the poor
zaptieh, in heavy top-boots and a brand-new uniform, heavy enough for
winter, works like a beaver to protect the bicycle, until, with perspiration
and dust, his face is streaked and tattooed like a South Sea Islander's.
Unable to proceed, we come to a stand-still, and simply occupy ourselves
in protecting the bicycle from the crush, and reasoning. with the mob;
but the only satisfaction we obtain in reply to anything we say is " Bin
bacalem." One or two pig-headed, obstreperous young men near us, emboldened
by our apparent helplessness, persist in handling the bicycle. After
being pushed away several times, one of them even assumes a menacing
attitude toward me the last time I thrust his meddlesome hand away. Under
such circumstances retributive justice, prompt and impressive, is the
only politic course to pursue; so, leaving the bicycle to the zaptieh a
moment, in the absence of a stick, I feel justified in favoring the
culprit with, a brief, pointed lesson in the noble art of self-defence,
the first boxing lesson ever given in Tuzgat. In a Western mob this would
have been anything but an act of discretion, probably, but with these
people it has a salutary effect; the idea of attempting retaliation is
the farthest of anything from their thoughts, and in all the obstreperous
crowd there is, perhaps, not one but what is quite delighted at either
seeing or hearing of me having thus chastised one of their number, and
involuntarily thanks Allah that it didn't happen to be himself. It would
be useless to attempt a description of how we finally managed, by the
assistance of two more zaptiehs, to get back to Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi's,
both myself and the zaptieh simply unrecognizable from dust and perspiration.
The zaptieh, having first washed the streaks and tattooing off his face,
now presents himself, with the broad, honest smile of one who knows he
well deserves what he is asking for, and says, "Effendi, backsheesh."

There is nothing more certain than that the honest fellow merits backsheesh
from somebody; it is also equally certain that I am the only person from
whom he stands the ghost of a chance of getting any; nevertheless, the
idea of being appealed to for backsheesh, after what I have just undergone,
merely as an act of accommodation, strikes me as just a trifle ridiculous,
and the opportunity of engaging the grinning, good-humored zaptieh in a
little banter concerning the abstract preposterousness of his expectations
is too good to be lost. So, assuming an air of astonishment, I reply:
"Backsheesh! where is my backsheesh. I should think it's me that deserves
backsheesh if anybody does." This argument is entirely beyond the zaplieh's
child-like comprehension, however; he only understands by my manner that
there is a "hitch" somewhere; and never was there a more broadly good-
humored countenance, or a smile more expressive of meritoriousness, nor
an utterance more coaxing in its modulations than his "E-f-fendi,
backsheesh." as he repeats the appeal; the smile and the modulation is
well worth the backsheesh.

In the afternoon, an officer appears with a note saying that the Mutaserif
and a number of gentlemen would like to see me ride inside the municipal
konak grounds. This I very naturally promise to do, only, under conditions
that an adequate force of zaptiehs be provided. This the Mutaserif readily
agrees to, and once more I venture into the streets, trundling along
under a strong escort of zaptiehs who form a hollow square around me.
The people accumulate rapidly, as we progress, and, by the time we arrive
at the konak gate there is a regular crush. In spite of the frantic
exertions of my escort, the mob press determinedly forward, in an attempt
to rush inside when the gate is opened; instantly I find myself and
bicycle wedged in among a struggling mass of natives; a cry of "Sakin
araba! sakin araba!" (Take care! the bicycle!) is raised; the zapliehs
make a supreme effort, the gate is opened, I am fairly carried in, and
the gate is closed. A couple of dozen happy mortals have gained admittance
in the rush. Hundreds of the better class natives are in the inclosure,
and the walls and neighboring house-tops are swarming with an interested
audience. There is a small plat of decently smooth ground, upon which I
circle around for a few minutes, to as delighted an audience as ever
collected in Bamum's circus. After the exhibition, the Mutaserif eyes
the swarming multitude on the roofs and wall, and looks perplexed; some
one suggests that the bicycle be locked up for the present, and, when
the crowds have dispersed, it can be removed without further excitement.
The Mutaserif then places the municipal chamber at my disposal, ordering
an officer to lock it up and give me the key. Later in the afternoon I
am visited by the Armenian pastor of Yuzgat, and another young Armenian,
who can speak a little English, and together we take a strolling peep
at the city. The American missionaries at Kaizarieh have a small book
store here, and the pastor kindly offers me a New Testament to carry
along. We drop in on several Armenian shopkeepers, who are introduced
as converts of the mission. Coffee is supplied wherever we call. While
sitting down a minute in a tailor's stall, a young Armenian peeps in,
smiles, and indulges in the pantomime of rubbing his chin. Asking the
meaning of this, I am informed by the interpreter that the fellow belongs
to the barber shop next door, and is taking this method of reminding me
that I stand in need of his professional attentions, not having shaved
of late. There appears to be a large proportion of Circassians in town;
a group of several wild-looking bipeds, armed a la Anatolia, ragged and
unkempt-haired for Circassians, who are generally respectable in their
personal appearance, approach us, and want me to show them the bicycle,
on the strength of their having fought against the Russians in the late
war. "I think they are liars," says the young Armenian, who speaks
English; "they only say they fought against the Russians because you
are an Englishman, and they think you will show them the bicycle." Some
one comes to me with old coins for sale, another brings a stone with
hieroglyphics on it, and the inevitable genius likewise appears; this
time it is an Armenian; the tremendous ovation I have received has filled
his mind with exaggerated ideas of making a fortune, by purchasing the
bicycle and making a two-piastre show out of it. He wants to know how
much I will take for it. Early daylight finds me astir on the following
morning, for I have found it a desirable thing to escape from town ere
the populace is out to crowd about me. Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi's better
half has kindly risen at an unusually early hour, to see me off, and
provides me with a dozen circular rolls of hard bread-rings the size of
rope quoits aboard an Atlantic steamer, which I string on Igali's cerulean
waist-scarf, and sling over one shoulder. The good lady lets me out of
the gate, and says, "Bin bacalem, Effendi." She hasn't seen me ride yet.
She is a motherly old creature, of Greek extraction, and I naturally
feel like an ingrate of the meanest type, at my inability to grant her
modest request. Stealing along the side streets, I manage to reach ridable
ground, gathering by the way only a small following of worthy early
risers, and two katir-jees, who essay to follow me on their long-eared
chargers; but, the road being smooth and level from the beginning, I at
once discourage them by a short spurt. A half-hour's trundling up a steep
hill, and then comes a coastable descent into lower territory. A
conscription party collected from the neighboring Mussulman villages,
en route to Samsoon, the nearest Black Sea port, is met while riding
down this declivity. In anticipation of the Sultan's new uniforms awaiting
them at Constantinople, they have provided themselves for the journey
with barely enough rags to cover their nakedness. They are in high glee
at their departure for Stamboul, and favor me with considerable good-natured
chaff as I wheel past. "Human nature is everywhere pretty much alike the
world over," I think to myself. There is little difference between this
regiment of ragamuffins chaffing me this morning and the well-dressed
troopers of Kaiser William, bantering me the day I wheeled out of
Strassburg.






CHAPTER XVI.




THROUGH THE SIVAS VILAYET INTO ARMENIA.

It is six hours distant from Yuzgat to the large village of Koelme, as
distance is measured here, or about twenty-three English miles; but the
road is mostly ridable, and I roll into the village in about three hours
and a half. Just beyond Koehne, the roads fork, and the mudir kindly
sends a mounted zaptieh to guide me aright, for fear I shouldn't quite
understand by his pantomimic explanations. I understand well enough,
though, and the road just here happening to be excellent wheeling, to
the delight of the whole village, I spurt ahead, outdistancing the
zaptieh's not over sprightly animal, and bowling briskly along the right
road within their range of vision, for over a mile. Soon after leaving
Koehne my attention is attracted by a small cluster of civilized-looking
tents, pitched on the bank of a running stream near the road, and from
whence issues the joyous sounds of mirth and music. The road continues
ridable, and I am wheeling leisurely along, hesitating about whether to
go and investigate or not, when a number of persons, in holiday attire,
present themselves outside the tents, and by shouting and gesturing,
invite me to pay them a visit. It turns out to be a reunion of the Yuzgat
branch of the Pampasian-Pamparsan family - an Armenian name whose
representatives in Armenia and Anatolia, it appears, correspond in
comparative numerical importance to the great and illustrious family of
Smiths in the United States. Following - or doubtless, more properly,
setting - a worthy example, they likewise have their periodical reunions,
where they eat, drink, spin yarns, sing, and twang the tuneful lyre in
frolicsome consciousness of always having a howling majority over their
less prolific neighbors.

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