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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




"Doesn't it call up ideas of what you conceive the quarters of the old
alchemists to have been hundreds of years ago." asks my companion.
"Precisely what I was on the eve of suggesting to you," I reply, and then
we drop into one of the shops, sip coffee with the old silversmith, and
examine his filigree jewelry. There is nothing denoting remarkable skill
about any of it; an intricate pattern of their jewelry simply represents
a great expenditure of time and Asiatic patience, and the finishing of
clasps, rivetting, etc., is conspicuously rough. Sivas was also formerly
a seat of learning; the imposing gates, with portions of the fronts of
the old Arabic universities are still standing, with sufficient beautiful
arabesque designs in glazed tile-work still undestroyed, to proclaim
eloquently of departed glories. The squalid mud hovels of refugees from
the Caucasus now occupy the interior of these venerable edifices; ragged
urchins romp with dogs and baby buffaloes where pashas' sons formerly
congregated to learn wisdom from the teachings of their prophet, and now
what remains of the intricate arabesque designs, worked out in small,
bright-colored tiles, that once formed the glorious ceiling of the dome,
seems to look down reproachfully, and yet sorrowfully, upon the wretched
heaps of tezek placed beneath it for shelter.

I am remaining over one day at Sivas, and in the morning we call on the
American missionaries. Mr. Perry is at home, and hopes I am going to
stay a week, so that they can "sort of make up for the discomforts of
journeying through the country;" Mr. Hubbard and the ladies of the
Mission are out of town, but will be back this evening. After dinner we
go round to the government konak and call on the Vali, Hallil Eifaat
Pasha, whom Mr. Weakley describes beforehand as a very practical man,
fond of mechanical contrivances; and who would never forgive him if he
allowed me to leave Sivas with the bicycle without paying him a visit.
The usual rigmarole of salaams, cigarettes, coffee, compliments, and
questioning are gone through with; the Vali is a jolly-faced, good-natured
man, and is evidently much interested in my companion's description of
the bicycle and my journey. Of course I don't forget to praise the
excellence of the road from Yennikhan; I can conscientiously tell him
that it is superior to anything I have wheeled over south of the Balkans;
the Pasha is delighted at hearing this, and beaming joyously over his
spectacles, his fat jolly face a rotund picture of satisfaction, he says
to Mr. Weakley: "You see, he praises up our roads; and he ought to know,
he has travelled on wagon roads half way round the world." The interview
ends by the Vali inviting me to ride the bicycle out to his country
residence this evening, giving the order for a squad of zaptiehs to
escort me out of town at the appointed time. "The Vali is one of the
most energetic pashas in Turkey," says Mr. Weakley, as we take our
departure. "You would scarcely believe that he has established a small
weekly newspaper here, and makes it self-supporting into the bargain,
would you." "I confess I don't see how he manages it among these
people," I reply, quite truthfully, for these are anything but newspaper-
supporting people; "how does he manage to make it self-supporting?"
Why, he makes every employe of the government subscribe for a certain
number of copies, and the subscription price is kept back out of their
salaries; for instance, the mulazim of zaptiehs would have to take half
a dozen copies, the mutaserif a dozen, etc.; if from any unforeseen cause
the current expenses are found to be more than the income, a few additional
copies are saddled on each 'subscriber.' "Before leaving Sivas, I
arrive at the conclusion that Hallil Eifaat Pasha knows just about what's
what; while administering the affairs of the Sivas vilayet in a manner
that has gained him the good-will of the population at large, he hasn't
neglected his opportunities at the Constantinople end of the rope; more
than one beautiful Circassian girl has, I am told, been forwarded to the
Sultan's harem by the enterprising and sagacious Sivas Vali; consequently
he holds "trump cards," so to speak, both in the province and the palace.
Promptly at the hour appointed the squad of zaptiehs arrive; Mr. Weakley
mounts his servant on a prancing Arab charger, and orders him to manoeuvre
the horse so as to clear the way in front; the zaptiehs commence their
flogging, and in the middle of the cleared space I trundle the bicycle.
While making our way through the streets, Mr. Hubbard, who, with the
ladies, has just returned to the city, is encountered on the way to
invite Mr. Weakley and myself to supper; as he pushes his way through
the crowd and reaches my side, he pronounces it the worst rabble he ever
saw in the streets of Sivas, and he has been stationed here over twelve
years. Once clear of the streets, I mount and soon outdistance the crowd,
though still followed by a number of horsemen. Part way out we wait for
the Vali's state carriage, in which he daily rides between the city and
his residence. "While waiting, a terrific squall of wind and dust comes
howling from the direction we are going, and while it is still blowing
great guns, the Vali and his mounted escort arrive. His Excellency alights
and examines the Columbia with much interest, and then requests me to
ride on immediately in advance of the carriage. The grade is slightly
against me, and the whistling wind seems to be shrieking a defiance; but
by superhuman efforts, almost, I pedal ahead and manage to keep in front
of his horses all the way. The distance from Sivas is four and a quarter
miles by the cyclometer; this is the first time it has ever been measured.
We are ushered into a room quite elegantly furnished, and light refreshments
served. Observing my partiality for vishner-su, the Governor kindly
offers me a flask of the syrup to take along; which I am, however,
reluctantly compelled to refuse, owing to my inability to carry it. Here,
also, we meet Djaved Bey, the Pasha's son, who has recently returned
from Constantinople, and who says he saw me riding at Prinkipo. The Vali
gets down on his hands and knees to examine the route of my journey on
a map of the world which he spreads out on the carpet; he grows quite
enthusiastic, and exclaims, "Wonderful." " Very wonderful!" says Djaved
Bey; "when you get back to America they will-build you a statue." Mr.
Hubbard has mounted a horse and followed us to the Vali's residence, and
at the approach of dusk we take our departure; the wind is favorable for
the return, as is also the gradient; ere my two friends have unhitched
their horses, I mount and am scudding before the gale half a mile away.

"Hi hi-hi-hi! you'll never overtake him." the Vali shouts enthusiastically
to the two horsemen as they start at full gallop after me, and which
they laughingly repeat to me shortly afterward. A very pleasant evening
is spent at Mr. Hubbard's house; after supper the ladies sing "Sweet
Bye and Bye," "Home, Sweet Home," and other melodious reminders of the
land of liberty and song that gave them birth. Everything looks comfortable
and homelike, and they have English ivy inside the dining-room trained
up the walls and partly covering the ceiling, which produces a wonderfully
pleasant effect. The usual extraordinary rumors of my wonderful speeding
ability have circulated about the city during the day and evening, some
of which have happened to come to the ears of the missionaries. One story
is that I came from the port of Samsoon, a distance of nearly three
hundred miles, in six hours, while an imaginative katir-jee, whom I
whisked past on the road, has been telling the Sivas people an exaggerated
story of how a genii had ridden past him with lightning-like speed on a
shining wheel; but whether it was a good or an evil genii he said he
didn't have time to determine, as I went past like a flash and vanished
in the distance. The missionaries have four hundred scholars attending
their school here at Sivas, which would seem to indicate a pretty
flourishing state of affairs. Their recruiting ground is, of I course,
among the Armenians, who, though professedly Christiana really stand in
more need of regeneration than their Mohammedan neighbors. The
characteristic condition of the average Armenian villager's mind is deep,
dense ignorance and moral gloominess; it requires more patience and
perseverance to ingraft a new idea on the unimpressionable trunk of
an Armenian villager's intellect than it does to put up second-hand
stove-pipe; and it is a generally admitted fact - i.e., west of the Missouri
Elver - that anyone capable of setting up three joints of second-hand
stove-pipe without using profane language deserves a seat in Paradise.
"Come in here a minute," says Mr. Hubbard, just before our I departure
for the night, leading the way into an adjoining room.; I "here's shirts,
underclothing, socks, handkerchiefs-everything;.! help yourself to
anything you require; I know something about I travelling through this
country myself. " But not caring to impose too much on good nature, I
content myself with merely pocketing a strong pair of socks, that I
know will come in handy. I leave the bicycle at the mission over night,
and in the morning, at Miss Chamberlain's request, I ride round the
school-house yard a few times for the edification of the scholars. The
greatest difficulty, I am informed, with Armenian pupils is to get them
to take sufficient interest in anything to ask questions; it is mainly
because the bicycle will be certain to awaken interest, and excite the
spirit of inquiry among them, that I am requested to ride for their
benefit. Thus is the bicycle fairly recognized as a valuable aid to
missionary work. Moral: let the American and Episcopal boards provide
their Asia Minor and Persian missionaries with nickel-plated bicycles;
let them wheel their way into the empty wilderness of the Armenian mind,
and. light up the impenetrable moral darkness lurking therein with the
glowing and mist-dispelling orbs of cycle lamps. Messrs. Perry, Hubbard,
and Weakley accompany me out some distance on horseback, and at parting
I am commissioned to carry salaams to the brethren in China. This is the
first opportunity that has ever presented of sending greetings overland
to far-off China, they say, and such rare occasions are not to be lightly
overlooked. They also promise to send word to the Erzeroum mission to
expect me; the chances are, however, that I shall reach Erzeroum before
their letter; there are no lightning mail trains in Asia Minor. The road
eastward from Sivas is an artificial highway, and affords reasonably
good wheeling, but is somewhat inferior to the road from Yennikhau.
Before long I enter a region of low hills, dales, and small lakes, beyond
which the road again descends into the valley of the Kizil Irmak. All
day long the roadway averages better wheeling than I ever expected to
find in Asiatic Turkey; but the prevailing east wind offers strenuous
opposition to my progress every inch of the way along the hundred miles
or so of ridable road from Yennikhan to Zara, a town at which I arrive
near sundown. Zara is situated at the entrance to a narrow passage between
two mountain spurs, and although the road is here a dead level and the
surface smooth, the wind comes roaring from the gorge with such tremendous
pressure that it is only by extraordinary exertions that I am able to
keep the saddle.

Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi was a gentleman of Greek descent. At Zara I have
an opportunity of seeing and experiencing something of what hospitality
is like among the better class Armenians, for I have brought from Sivas
a letter of introduction to Kirkor-agha Tartarian, the most prominent
Armenian gentleman in Zara. I have no difficulty whatever in finding the
house, and am at once installed in the customary position of honor, while
five serving-men hover about, ready to wait on me; some take a hand in
the inevitable ceremony of preparing and serving coffee and lighting
cigarettes, while others stand watchfully by awaiting word or look from
myself or mine host, or from the privileged guests that immediately begin
to arrive. The room is of cedar planking throughout, and is absolutely
without furniture, save the carpeting and the cushioned divan on which
I am seated. Mr. Tartarian sits crossed-legged on the carpet to my left,
smoking a nargileh; his younger brother occupies a similar position on
my right, rolling and smoking cigarettes; while the guests, as they
arrive, squat themselves on the carpet in positions varying in distance
from the divan, according to their respective rank and social importance.
No one ventures to occupy the cushioned divan alongside myself, although
the divan is fifteen feet long, and it makes me feel uncomfortably like
the dog in the manger to occupy its whole length alone. In a farther
corner, and off the slightly raised and carpeted floor on which are
seated the guests, is a small brick fire-place, on which a charcoal fire
is brightly burning, and here Mr. Vartarian's private kahvay-jee is kept
busily employed in brewing tiny cups of strong black coffee; another
servant constantly visits the fire to ferret out pieces of glowing
charcoal with small pipe-lighting tongs, with which he circulates among
the guests, supplying a light to the various smokers of cigarettes. A
third youth is kept pretty tolerably busy performing the same office for
Mr. Vartarian's nargileh, for the gentleman is an inveterate smoker, and
in all Turkey there can scarcely be another nargileh requiring so much
tinkering with as his. All the livelong evening something keeps getting
wrong with that wretched pipe; mine host himself is continually rearranging
the little pile of live coals on top of the dampened tobacco (the tobacco
smoked in a nargileh is dampened, and live coals are placed on top),
taking off the long coiled tube and blowing down it, or prying around
in the tobacco receptacle with an awl-like instrument in his efforts to
make it draw properly, but without making anything like a success; while
his nargileh-boy is constantly hovering over it with a new supply of
live coals. "Job himself could scarcely have been possessed of more
patience," I think at first; but before the evening is over I come to
the conclusion that my worthy host wouldn't exchange that particular
hubble-bubble with its everlasting contrariness for the most perfectly
drawing nargileh in Turkey: like certain devotees of the weed among
ourselves, who never seem to be happier than when running a broom-straw
down the stem of a pipe that chronically refuses to draw, so Kirkor-agha
Vartarian finds his chief amusement in thus tinkering from one week's
end to another with his nargileh. At the supper table mine host and his
brother both lavish attentions upon me; knives and forks of course there
are none, these things being seldom seen in Asia Minor, and to a cycler
who has spent the day in pedalling against a stiff breeze, their absence
is a matter of small moment. I am ravenously hungry, and they both win
my warmest esteem by transferring choice morsels from their own plates
into mine with their fingers. From what I know of strict haut ton Zaran
etiquette, I think they should really pop these tid-bits in my mouth,
and the reason they don't do so is, perhaps, because I fail to open it
in the customary haut ton manner; however, it is a distasteful thing to
be always sticking up for one's individual rights. A pile of quilts and
mattresses, three feet thick, and feather pillows galore are prepared
for me to sleep on. An attendant presents himself with a wonderful night-
shirt, on the ample proportions of which are displayed bewildering colors
and figures; and following the custom of the country, shapes himself for
undressing me and assisting me into bed. This, however, I prefer to do
without assistance, owing to a large stock of native modesty. I never
fell among people more devoted in their attentions; their only thought
during my stay is to make me comfortable; but they are very ceremonious
and great sticklers for etiquette. I had intended making my usual early
start, but mine host receives with open disapproval - I fancy even with a
showing of displeasure - my proposition to depart without first partaking
of refreshments, and it is nearly eight o'clock before I finally get
started. Immediately after rising comes the inevitable coffee and early
morning visitors; later an attendant arrives with breakfast for myself
on a small wooden tray. Mr. Vartarian occupies precisely the same position,
and is engaged in precisely the same occupation as yesterday evening,
as is also his brother. No sooner does the hapless attendant make his
appearance with the eatables than these two persons spring simultaneously
to their feet, apparently in a towering rage, and chase him back out of
the room, meanwhile pursuing him with a torrent of angry words; they
then return to their respective positions and respective occupations.
Ten minutes later the attendant reappears, but this time bringing a
larger tray with an ample spread for three persons; this, it afterward
appears, is not because mine host and his brother intends partaking of
any, but because it is Armenian etiquette to do so, and Armenian etiquette
therefore becomes responsible for the spectacle of a solitary feeder
seated at breakfast with dishes and everything prepared for three, while
of the other two, one is smoking a nargileh, the other cigarettes, and
both of them regarding my evident relish of scrambled eggs and cold fowl
with intense satisfaction.

Having by this time determined to merely drift with the current of mine
host's intentions concerning the time of my departure, I resume my
position on the divan after breakfasting, simply hinting that I would
like to depart as soon as possible. To this Mr. Vartarian complacently
nods assent, and his brother, with equal complacency rolls me a cigarette,
after which a good half-hour is consumed in preparing for me a letter
of introduction to their friend Mudura Ghana in the village of Kachahurda,
which I expect to reach somewhere near noon; mine host dictates while
his brother writes. Visitors continue coming in, and I am beginning to
get a trifle impatient about starting; am beginning in fact to wish all
their nonsensical ceremoniousness at the bottom of tho deep blue sea or
some equally unfathomable quarter, when, at a signal from Mr. Vartarian
himself, his brother and tho whole roomful of visitors rise simultaneously
to their feet, and equally simultaneously put their hands on their
respective stomachs, and, turning toward me, salaam; mine host then
comes forward, shakes hands, gives me the letter to Mudura Ghana, and
permits me to depart. He has provided two zaptiehs to escort me outside
the town, and in a few minutes I find myself bowling briskly along a
beautiful little valley; the pellucid waters of a purling brook dance
merrily alongside an excellent piece of road; birds are singing merrily
in the willow-trees, and dark rocky crags tower skyward immediately
around. The lovely little valley terminates all too soon, for in fifteen
minutes I am footing it up another mountain; but it proves to be the
entrance gate of a region containing grander pine-clad mountain scenery
than anything encountered outside the Sierra Nevadas; in fact the famous
scenery of Cape Horn, California, almost finds its counterpart at one
particular point I traverse this morning; only instead of a Central
Pacific Railway winding around the gray old crags and precipices, the
enterprising Sivas Vali has built an araba road. One can scarce resist
the temptation of wheeling down some of the less precipitous slopes, but
it is sheer indiscretion, for the roadway makes sharp turns at points
where to continue straight ahead a few feet too far would launch one
into eternity; a broken brake, a wild "coast" of a thousand feet through
mid-air into the dark depths of a rocky gorge, and the "tour around the
world" would abruptly terminate. For a dozen miles I traverse a tortuous
road winding its way among wild mountain gorges and dark pine forests;
Circassian horsemen are occasionally encountered: it seems the most
appropriate place imaginable for robbers, and I have again been cautioned
against these freebooting mountaineers at Sivas. They eye me curiously,
and generally halt after they have passed, and watch my progress for
some minutes. Once I am overtaken by a couple of them; they follow close
behind me up a mountain slope; they are heavily armed and look capable
of anything, and I plod along, mentally calculating how to best encompass
their destruction with the Smith & "Wesson, without coming to grief
myself, should their intentions toward me prove criminal. It is not
exactly comfortable or reassuring to have two armed horsemen, of a people
who are regarded with universal fear and mistrust by everybody around
them, following close upon one's heels, with the disadvantage of not
being able to keep an eye on their movements; however, they have little
to say; and as none of them attempt any interference, it is not for me
to make insinuations against them on the barren testimony of their outward
appearance and the voluntary opinions of their neighbors.

My route now leads up a rocky ravine, the road being fairly under cover
of over-arching rocks at times, thence over a billowy region of mountain
summits-an elevated region of pine-clad ridges and rocky peaks-to descend
again into a cultivated country of undulating hills and dales, checkered
with fields of grain. These low rolling hills appear to be in a higher
state of cultivation than any district I have traversed in Asia Minor;
from points of vantage the whole country immediately around looks like
a swelling sea of golden grain; harvesting is going merrily on; men and
women are reaping side by side in the fields, and the songs of the women
come floating through the air from all directions. They are Armenian
peasants, for I am now in Armenia proper; the inhabitants of this
particular locality impress me as a light hearted, industrious people;
they have an abundant harvest, and it is a pleasure to stand and see
them reap, and listen to the singing of the women; moreover they are
more respectably clothed than the lower class natives round about them,
barring, of course, our unfathomable acquaintances, the Circassians.

Toward the eastern extremity of this peaceful, happy scene is the village
of Kachahurda, which I reach soon after noon, and where resides Mfrdura
Ghana, to whom I bring a letter. Picturesquely speaking, Kachahurda is
a disgrace to the neighborhood in which it stands; its mud hovels are
combined cow-pens, chicken-coops, and human habitations, and they are
bunched up together without any pretence to order or regularity; yet the
light-hearted, decently-clad people, whose songs come floating from the
harvest-fields, live contentedly in this and other equally wretched
villages round about. Mudura Ghana provides me with a repast of bread
and yaort, and endeavors to make my brief halt comfortable. While I am
discussing these refreshments, himself and another unwashed, unkempt old
party come to high, angry words about me; but whatever it is about I
haven't the slightest idea. Mine host seems a regular old savage when
angry. He is the happy possessor of a pair of powerful lungs, which are
ably seconded by a foghorn voice, and he howls at the other man like an
enraged bull. The other man doesn't seem to mind it, though, and keeps
up his end of the controversy - or whatever it is - in a comparatively cool
and aggravating manner, that seems to feed Mudura Ghana's righteous
wrath, until I quite expect to see that outraged person reach down one
of the swords off the wall and hack his opponent into sausage-meat. Once
I venture to inquire, as far as one can inquire by pantomime, what they
are quarrelling so violently about me for, being really inquisitive to
find out They both immediately cease hostilities to assure me that it
is nothing for which I am in any way personally responsible; and then
they straightway fall to glaring savagely at each other again, and renew
their vocal warfare more vigorously, if anything, from having just drawn
a peaceful breath. Mine host of Kachahurda can scarcely be called a very
civilized or refined individual; he has neither the gentle kindliness
of Kirkoragha Vartarian, nor the dignified, gentlemanly bearing of
Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi; but he grabs a club, and roaring like the hoarse
whistle of a Mississippi steamboat, chases a crowd of villagers out of
the room who venture to come in on purpose to stare rudely at his guest;
and for this charitable action alone he deserves much credit; nothing
is so annoying as to have these unwashed crowds standing gazing and
commenting while one is eating. A man is sent with me to direct me aright
where the road forks, a mile or so from the village; from the forks it
is a newly made road, in fact, unfinished; it resembles a ploughed field
for looseness and I depth; and when, in addition to this, one has to
climb a gradient of twenty metres to the hundred, a bicycle is anything
but a comforting thing to possess. The country becomes broken and more
mountainous than ever, and the road winds about fearfully. Often a part
of the road that is but a mile away as the crow flies requires an hour's
steady going to reach it; but the mountain scenery is glorious. Occasionally
I round a point, or reach a summit, from whence a magnificent and
comprehensive view bursts upon the vision, and it really requires an
effort to tear one's self away, realizing that in all probability I shall
never see it again. At one point I seem to be overlooking a vast
amphitheatre which encompasses within itself the physical geography of
a continent. It is traversed by whole mountain-ranges of lesser degree;
it contains tracts of stony desert and fertile valley, lakes, and a
river, not excepting even the completing element of a fine forest, and
encompassing it round about, like an impenetrable palisade protecting
it against invasion, are scores of grand old mountains - grim sentinels
that nothing can overcome. The road, though still among the mountains,
is now descending in a general way from the elevated divide, down toward
Enderes and the valley of the Gevmeili Chai River; and toward evening I
enter an Armenian village.

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