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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




The Turkish consul-general, a corpulent gentleman whose avoirdupois I
mentally jot down at four hundred pounds, comes around with several
others to see me take a farewell spin on the bricked pavements of the
consulate garden. Like all persons of four hundred pounds weight, the
Effendi is a good-natured, jocose individual, and causes no end of
merriment by pretending to be anxious to take a spin on the bicycle
himself, whereas it requires no inconsiderable exertion on his part to
waddle from his own residence hard by into the consulate. Three soldiers
are detailed from the consulate staff to escort me through the city; en
route through the streets the pressure of the rabble forces one unlucky
individual into one of the dangerous narrow holes that abound in the
streets, up to his neck; the crowd yell with delight at seeing him tumble
in, and nobody stops to render him any assistance or to ascertain whether
he is seriously hurt. Soon a poor old ryot on a donkey, happens amid
the confusion to cross immediately in front of the bicycle; whack! whack!
whack! come the ready staves of the zealous and vigilant soldiers across
the shoulders of the offender; the crowd howls with renewed delight at
this, and several hilarious hobble-de-hoys endeavor to shove one of their
companions in the place vacated by the belabored ryot, in the hope that
he likewise will come in for the visitation of the soldiers' o'er- willing
staves. The broad suburban road, where the people have been fondly
expecting to see the bicycle light out in earnest for Teheran at a
marvellous rate of speed, is found to be nothing less than a bed of loose
sand and stones, churned up by the narrow hoofs of multitudinous donkeys.
Quite a number of better class Persians accompany me some distance further
on horseback; when taking their departure, a gentleman on a splendid
Arab charger, shakes hands and says: "Good-by, my dear," which apparently
is all the English he knows. He has evidently kept his eyes and ears
open when happening about the English consulate, and the happy thought
striking him at the moment, he repeats, parrot-like, this term of
endearment, all unsuspicious of the ridiculousness of its application
in the present case.

For several miles the road winds tortuously over a range of low, stony
hills, the surface being generally loose and unridable. The water-supply
of Tabreez is conducted from these hills by an ancient system of kanaats
or underground water-ditches; occasionally one comes to a sloping cavern
leading down to the water; on descending to the depth of from twenty to
forty feet, a small, rapidly-coursing stream of delicious cold water is
found, well rewarding the thirsty traveller for his trouble; sometimes
these cavernous openings are simply sloping, bricked archways, provided
with steps. The course of these subterranean water-ways can always be
traced their entire length by uniform mounds of earth, piled up at short
intervals on the surface; each mound represents the excavations from a
perpendicular shaft, at the bottom of which the crystal water can be
seen coursing along toward the city; they are merely man-holes for the
purpose of readily cleaning out the channel of the kanaat. The water is
conducted underground, chiefly to avoid the waste by evaporation and
absorption in surface ditches. These kanaats are very extensive affairs
in many places; the long rows of surface mounds are visible, stretching
for mile after mile across the plain as far as eye can penetrate, or
until losing themselves among the foot-hills of some distant mountain
chain; they were excavated in the palmy days of the Persian Empire to
bring pure mountain streams to the city fountains and to irrigate the
thirsty plain; it is in the interest of self-preservation that the
Persians now keep them from falling into decay. At noon, while seated
on a grassy knoll discussing the before-mentioned contents of my pockets,
I am favored with a free exhibition of what a physical misunderstanding
is like among the Persian ryots. Two companies of katir-jees happen to
get into an altercation about something, and from words it gradually
develops into blows; not blows of the fist, for they know nothing of
fisticuffs, but they belabor each other vigorously with their long, thick
donkey persuaders, sticks that are anything but small and willowy; it
is an amusing spectacle, and seated on the commanding knoll nibbling
"drum-sticks" and wish-bones, I can almost fancy myself a Roman of old,
eating peanuts and watching a gladiatorial contest in the amphitheatre.
The similitude, however, is not at all striking, for thick as are their
quarter-staffs the Persian ryots don't punish each other very severely.
Whenever one of them works himself up to a fighting-pitch, he commences
belaboring one of the others on the back, apparently always striking so
that the blow produces a maximum of noise with a minimum of punishment;
the person thus attacked never ventures to strike back, but retreats
under the blows until his assailant's rage becomes spent and he desists.
Meanwhile the war of words goes merrily forward; perchance in a few
minutes the person recently attacked suddenly becomes possessed of a
certain amount of rage-inspired courage, and he in turn commences a
vigorous assault upon somebody, probably his late assailant; this worthy,
having become a little cooler, has mysteriously lost his late pugnacity,
and now likewise retreats without once attempting to raise his own stick
in self-defence. The lower and commercial class Persians are pretty
quarrelsome among themselves, but they quarrel chiefly with their tongues;
when they fight without sticks it is an ear-pulling, clothes-tugging,
wrestling sort of a scuffle, which continues without greater injury than
a torn garment until they become exhausted if pretty evenly matched, or
until separated by bystanders; they never, never hurt each other unless
they are intoxicated, when they sometimes use their short swords; there
is no intoxication, except in private drinking-parties.






CHAPTER XX.




TABREEZ TO TEHERAN.

The wheeling improves in the afternoon, and alongside my road runs a bit
of civilization in the shape of the splendid iron poles of the Indo-European
Telegraph Company. Half a dozen times this afternoon I become the imaginary
enemy of a couple of cavalrymen travelling in the same direction as
myself; they swoop down upon me from the rear at a charging gallop,
valiantly whooping and brandishing their Martini-Henrys; when they arrive
within a few yards of my rear wheel they swerve off on either side and
rein their fiery chargers up, allowing me to forge ahead; they amuse
themselves by repeating this interesting performance over and over again.
Being usually a good rider, the dash and courage of the Persian cavalryman
is something extraordinary in time of peace; no more brilliant and
intrepid cavalry charge on a small scale could be well imagined than I
have witnessed several times this afternoon. But upon the outbreak of
serious hostilities the average warrior in the Shah's service suddenly
becomes filled with a wild, pathetic yearning after the peaceful and
honorable calling of a katir-jee, an uncontrollable desire to become a
humble, contented tiller of the soil, or handy-man about a tchaikhan,
anything, in fact, of a strictly peaceful character. Were I a hostile
trooper with a red jacket, and a general warlike appearance, and the
bicycle a machine gun, though our whooping, charging cavalrymen were
twenty instead of two, they would only charge once, and that would be
with their horses' crimson-dyed tails streaming in the breeze toward me.
The Shah's soldiers are gentle, unwarlike creatures at heart; there are
probably no soldiers in the whole world that would acquit themselves
less creditably in a pitched battle; they are, nevertheless, not without
certain soldierly qualities, well adapted to their country; the cavalrymen
are very good riders, and although the infantry does not present a very
encouraging appearance on the parade-ground, they would meander across
five hundred miles of country on half rations of blotting-paper ekmek
without any vigorous remonstrance, and wait uncomplainingly for their
pay until the middle of next year. About five o'clock I arrive at Hadji
Agha, a large village forty miles from Tabreez; here, as soon as it is
ascertained that I intend remaining over night, I am actually beset by
rival khan-jees, who commence jabbering and gesticulating about the
merits of their respective establishments, like hotel-runners in the
United States; of course they are several degrees less rude and boisterous,
and more considerate of one's personal inclinations than their prototypes
in America, but they furnish yet another proof that there is nothing new
under the sun. Hadji Agha is a village of seyuds, or descendants of the
Prophet, these and the mollahs being the most bigoted class in Persia;
when I drop into the tchai-khan for a glass or two of tea, the sanctimonious
old joker with henna-tinted beard and finger-nails, presiding over the
samovar, rolls up his eyes in holy horror at the thoughts of waiting
upon an unhallowed Ferenghi, and it requires considerable pressure from
the younger and less fanatical men to overcome his disinclination; he
probably breaks the glass I drank from after my departure.

About dusk the Valiat and his courtiers arrive on horseback from Tabreez;
the Prince immediately seeks my quarters at the khan, and, after examining
the bicycle, wants me to take it out and ride; it is getting rather dark,
however, so I put him off till morning; he remains and smokes cigarettes
with me for half an hour, and then retires to the residence of the local
Khan for the night. The Prince seems an amiable, easy-going sort of a
person; while in my company his countenance is wreathed in a pleasant
smile continually, and I fancy he habitually wears that same expression.
His youthful courtiers seem frivolous young bloods, putting in most of
the half-hour in showing me their accomplishments in the way of making
floating rings of their cigarette smoke. Later in the evening I stroll
around to the tchai-khan again; it is the gossiping-place of the village,
and I find our sanctimonious seyuds indulging in uncomplimentary comments
regarding the Yaliat's conduct in hobnobbing with the Ferenghi; how
bigoted these Persians are, and yet how utterly destitute of principle
and moral character. In the morning the Prince sends me an invitation
to come and drink tea with them before starting out; he bears the same
perennial smile as yesterday evening. Although he is generally understood
to be completely under the influence of the fanatical and bigoted seyuds
and mollahs, who are strictly opposed to the Ferenghi and the Fereughi's
ideas of progress and civilization, he seems withal an amiable, well-disposed
young man, whom one could scarce help liking personally, arid feeling
sorry at the troubles in store for him ahead. He has an elder brother,
the Zil-es-Sultan, now governor of the Southern Provinces; but not being
the son of a royal princess, the Shah has nominated Ameer-i-Nazan as his
successor to the throne. The Zil-es-Sultan, although of a somewhat cruel
disposition, has proved himself a far more capable and energetic person
than the Valiat, and makes no secret of the fact that he intends disputing
the succession with his brother, by force of arms if necessary, at the
Shah's demise. He has, so at least it is currently reported, had his
sword-blade engraved with the grim inscription, "This is for the Valiat's
head," and has jocularly notified his inoffensive brother of the fact.
The Zil-es-Sultau belongs to the party of progress; recks little of the
opinions of priests and fanatics, is fond of Englishmen and European
improvements, and keeps a kennel of English bull dogs. Should he become
Shah of Persia, Baron Reuter's grand scheme of railways and commercial
regeneration, which was foiled by the fanaticism of the seyuds and mollahs
soon after the Shah's visit to England, may yet come to something, and
the railroad rails now rusting in the swamps of the Caspian littoral
may, after all, form part of a railway between the seaboard and the
capital. The road for a short distance east of Hadji Agha is splendid
wheeling, and the Prince and his courtiers accompany me for some two
miles, finding much amusement in racing with me whenever the road permits
of spurting. The country now develops into undulating upland, uncultivated
and stone-strewn, except where an occasional stream, affording irrigating
facilities, has rendered possible the permanent maintenance of a mud
village and a circumscribed area of wheat-fields, melon-gardens, and
vineyards. No sooner does one find himself launched upon the comparatively
well-travelled post-route than a difference becomes manifest in the
character of the people. Commercially speaking, the Persian is considerably
more of a Jew than the Jew himself, and along a route frequented by
travellers, the person possessing some little knowledge of the thievish
ways of the country and of current prices, besides having plenty of small
change, finds these advantages a matter for congratulation almost every
hour of the day. The proprietor of a wretched little mud hovel, solemnly
presiding over a few thin sheets of bread, a jar of rancid, hirsute
butter, and a dozen half-ripe melons, affects a glum, sorrowful expression
to think that he should happen to be without small change, and consequently
obliged to accept the Hamsherri's fifty kopec piece for provisions of
one-tenth the value; but the mysterious frequency of this same state of
affairs and accompanying sorrowful expression, taken in connection with
the actual plenitude of small change in Persia, awakens suspicions even
in the mind of the most confiding and uninitiated person. A peculiar
system of commercial mendicancy obtains among the proprietors of melon
and cucumber gardens alongside the road of this particular part of the
country; observing a likely-looking traveller approaching, they come
running to him with a melon or cucumber that they know to be utterly
worthless, and beg the traveller to accept it as a present; delighted,
perhaps with their apparent simple-hearted hospitality, and, moreover,
sufficiently thirsty to appreciate the gift of a melon, the unsuspecting
wayfarer tenders the crafty proprietor of the garden a suitable present
of money in return and accepts the proffered gift; upon cutting it open
he finds the melon unfit for anything, and it gradually dawns upon him
that he has just grown a trifle wiser concerning the inbred cunningness
and utter dishonesty of the Persians than he was before. Ere the day is
ended the same game will probably be attempted a dozen times. In addition
to these artful customers, one occasionally comes across small colonies
of lepers, who, being compelled to isolate themselves from their fellows,
have taken up their abode in rude hovels or caves by the road-side, and
sally forth in all their hideousness to beset the traveller with piteous
cries for assistance. Some of these poor lepers are loathsome in appearance
to the last degree; their scanty coverings of rags and tatters conceals
nothing of the ravages of their dread disease; some sit at the entrance
to their hovels, stretching out their hands and piteously appealing for
alms; others drop down exhausted in the road while endeavoring to run
and overtake the passer-by; there is nothing deceptive about these
wretched outcasts, their condition is only too glaringly apparent. Toward
sundown I arrive at Turcomanchai, a large village, where in 1828, was
drawn up the Treaty of Peace between Persia and Russia, which transferred
the remaining Persian territory of the Caucasus into the capacious maw
of the Northern Bear. It is currently reported that after depriving the
Persians of their rights to the navigation of the Caspian Sea the Czar
coolly gave his amiable friend the Shah a practical lesson concerning
the irony of fortune by presenting him with a yacht. Seeking the guidance
of a native to the caravanserai, this quick-witted individual leads the
way through tortuous alleyways to the other end of the village and pilots
me to the camp of a tea caravan, pitched on the outskirts, thinking I
had requested to be guided to a caravan; the caravan men direct me to
the chapar-khana, where accommodations of the usual rude nature are
provided. Sending into the village for eggs, sugar, and tea, the chapar-
khana keeper and stablemen produce a battered samovar, and after frying
my supper, they prepare tea; they are poor, ragged fellows, but they
seem light-hearted and contented; the siren song of the steaming samovar
seems to a waken in their semi-civilized breasts a sympathetic response,
and they fall to singing and making merry over tiny glasses of sweetened
tea quite as naturally as sailors in a seaport groggery, or Germans over
a keg of lager. Jolly, happy-go-lucky fellows though they outwardly
appear, they prove no exception, however, to the general run of their
countrymen in the matter of petty dishonesty; although I gave them money
enough to purchase twice the quantity of provisions they brought back,
besides promising them the customary small present before leaving, in
the morning they make a further attempt on my purse under pretence of
purchasing more butter to cook the remainder of the eggs. These are
trifling matters to discuss, but they serve to show the wide difference
between the character of the peasant classes in Persia and Turkey. The
chapar-khana usually consists of a walled enclosure containing stabling
for a large number of horses and quarters for the stablemen and station-
keeper. The quickest mode of travelling in Persia is by chapar, or, in
other words, on horseback, obtaining fresh horses at each chapar-khana.
The country east of Turcomanchai consists of rough, uninteresting upland,
with nothing to vary the monotony of the journey, until noon, when after
wheeling five farsakhs I reach the town of Miana, celebrated throughout
the Shah's dominions for a certain poisonous bug which inhabits the mud
walls of the houses, and is reputed to bite the inhabitants while they
are sleeping. The bite is said to produce violent and prolonged fever,
and to be even, dangerous to life. It is customary to warn travellers
against remaining over night at Miana, and, of course, I have not by any
means been forgotten. Like most of these alleged dreadful things, it is
found upon close investigation to be a big bogey with just sufficient
truthfulness about it to play upon the imaginative minds of the people.
The "Miana bug-bear" would, I think, be a more appropriate name than
Miana bug. The people here seem inclined to be rather rowdyish in their
reception of a Ferenghi without an escort. While trundling through the
bazaar toward the telegraph station I become the unhappy target for
covertly thrown melon-rinds and other unwelcome missiles, for which there
appears no remedy except the friendly shelter of the station. This is
just outside the town, and before the gate is reached, stones are exchanged
for melon-rinds, but fortunately without any serious damage being done.
Mr. F--, a young German operator, has charge of the control-station here,
and welcomes me most cordially to share his comfortable quarters, urging
me to remain with him several days. I gladly accept his hospitality till
tomorrow morning. Mr. F-- has a brother who has recently become a
Mussulman, and married a couple of Persian wives; he is also residing
temporarily at Miana. He soon comes around to the telegraph station,
and turns out to be a wild harum-skarum sort of a person, who regards
his transformation into a Mussulman and the setting up of a harem of his
own as anything but a serious affair. As a reward for embracing the
Mohammedan religion and becoming a Persian subject the Shah has given
him a sum of money and a position in the Tabreez mint, besides bestowing
upon him the sounding title of Mirza Ab-dul Karim Khan. It seems that
inducements of a like substantial nature are held out to any Ferenghi
of known respectability who formally embraces the Shiite branch of the
Mohammedan religion, and becomes a Persian subject - a rare chance for
chronic ne'er-do-wells among ourselves, one would think.

This novel and festive convert to Islam readily gives me a mental peep
behind the scenes of Persian domestic life, and would unhesitatingly
have granted me a peep in person had such a thing been possible. Imagine
the ordinary costume of an opera-bouffe artist, shorn of all regard for
the difference between real indecency and the suggestiveness of indelicacy
permissible behind the footlights, and we have the every-day costume of
the Persian harem. In the dreamy eventide the lord of the harem usually
betakes himself to that characteristic institution of the East and
proceeds to drive dull care away by smoking the kalian and watching an
exhibition of the terpsichorean talent of his wives or slaves. This does
not consist of dancing, such as we are accustomed to understand the art,
but of graceful posturing and bodily contortions, spinning round like a
coryphee, with hand aloft, and snapping their fingers or clashing tiny
brass cymbals; standing with feet motionless and wriggling the joints,
or bending backward until their loose, flowing tresses touch the ground.
Persians able to afford the luxury have their womens' apartment walled
with mirrors, placed at appropriate angles, so that when enjoying these
exhibitions of his wives' abilities he finds himself not merely in the
presence of three or six wives, as the case may be, but surrounded on
all sides by scores of airy-fairy nymphs, and amid the dreamy fumes and
soothing bubble-bubbling of his kalian can imagine himself the happy - or
one would naturally think, unhappy - possessor of a hundred. The effect
of this mirror-work arrangement can be better imagined than described.

"You haven't got one of those mirrored rooms, have you?" I inquire,
beginning to get a trifle inquisitive, and perhaps rather impertinent.
"You couldn't manage to smuggle a fellow inside, disguised as a seyud
or--" "Nicht," replies Mirza Abdul Kaiim Khan, laughing, "I have not
bothered about a mirror chamber yet, because I only remain here for
another month; but if you happen to come to Tabreez any time after I get
settled down there, look me up, and I'll-hello! here comes Prince
Assabdulla to see your velocipede!" Fatteh - Ali Shah, the grandfather of
the present monarch, had some seventy-two sons, besides no lack of
daughters. As the son of a prince inherits his father's title in Persia,
the numerous descendants of Fatteh-Ali Shah are scattered all over the
empire, and royal princes bob serenely up in every town of any consequence
in the country. They are frequently found occupying some snug, but not
always lucrative, post under the Government. Prince Assabdulla has learned
telegraphy, and has charge of the government control-station here, drawing
a salary considerably less than the agent of the English company's line.
The Persian Government telegraph line consists of one wire strung on
tumble-down wooden poles. It is erected alongside the splendid English
line of triple wires and substantial iron poles, and the control-stations
are built adjacent to the English stations, as though the Persians were
rather timid about their own abilities as telegraphists, and preferred
to nestle, as it were, under the protecting shadow of the English line.
Prince Assabdulla has an elder brother who is Governor of Miana, and who
comes around to see the bicycle during the afternoon; they both seem
pleasant and agreeable fellows. "When the heat of the day has given place
to cooler eventide, and the moon comes peeping over the lofty Koflan
Koo Mountains, near-by to the eastward, we proceed to a large fruit-garden
on the outskirts of the town, and, sitting on the roof of a building,
indulge in luscious purple grapes as large as walnuts, and pears that
melt away in the mouth. Mirza Abdul Karim Khan plays a German accordeon,
and Prince Assabdulla sings a Persian love-song; the leafy branches of
poplar groves are whispering in response to a gentle breeze, and playing
hide-and-seek across the golden face of the moon, and the mountains have
assumed a shadowy, indistinct appearance. It is a scene of transcendental
loveliness, characteristic of a Persian moonlight night.

Afterward we repair to Mirza Abdul Kiirim Khan's house to smoke the
kalian and drink tea. His favorite wife, whom he has taught to respond
to the purely Frangistan name of " Eosie," replenishes and lights the
kalian-giving it a few preliminary puffs herself by way of getting it
under headway before handing it to her husband-and then serves us with
glasses of sweetened tea from the samovar. In deference to her Ferenghi
brother-in-law and myself, Eosie has donned a gauzy shroud over the
above-mentioned in-door costume of the Persian female. "She is a beautiful
dancer," says her husband, admiringly, "I wish it were possible for you
to see her dance this evening; bat it isn't; Eosie herself wouldn't mind,
but it would be pretty certain to leak out, and Miana being a rather
fanatical place, my life wouldn't be worth that much," and the Khan
carelessly snapped his fingers. Supper is brought up to the telegraph
station. Prince Assabdulla is invited, and comes round with his servant
bearing a number of cucumbers and a bottle of arrack; the Prince, being
a genuine Mohammedan, is forbidden by his religion to indulge; consequently
he consumes the fiery arrack in preference to some light and harmless
native wine; such is the perversity of human nature.

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