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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

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




The Shah impresses one as being more intelligent than the average Persian
of the higher class; and although they are, as a nation, inordinately
inquisitive, no Persian has taken a more lively interest in the bicycle
than His Majesty seems to take, as, through his interpreter, he plys me
with all manner of questions. Among other questions he asks if the Koords
didn't molest me when coming through Koordistan without an escort; and
upon hearing the story of my adventure with the Koordish shepherds between
Ovahjik and Khoi, he seems greatly amused. Another large party of horsemen
arrived with the Shah, swelling the company to perhaps two hundred
attendants. Pedaling alongside the carriage, in the best position for
the Shah to see, we proceed toward Doshan Tepe, the crowd of horsemen
following, some behind and others careering over the stony plain through
which the Doshan Tepe highway leads. After covering about half a mile,
the Shah leaves the carriage and mounts a saddle-horse, in order to the
better "put me through some exercises." First he requests me to give
him an exhibition of speed; then I have to ride a short distance over
the rough stone-strewn plain, to demonstrate the possibility of traversing
a rough country, after which he desires to see me ride at the slowest
pace possible. All this evidently interests him not a little, and he
seems even more amused than interested, laughing quite heartily several
times as he rides alongside the bicycle. After awhile he again exchanges
for the carriage, and at four miles from the city gate we arrive at the
palace garden. Through this garden is a long, smooth walk, and here the
Shah again requests an exhibition of my speeding abilities. The garden
is traversed with a network of irrigating ditches; but I am assured there
is nothing of the kind across the pathway along which he wishes me to
ride as fast as possible. Two hundred yards from the spot where this
solemn assurance is given, it is only by a lightning-like dismount that
I avoid running into the very thing that I was assured did not exist-it
was the narrowest possible escape from what might have proved a serious
accident.

Riding back toward the advancing party, I point out my good fortune in
escaping the tumble. The Shah asks if people ever hurt themselves by
falling off bicycles; and the answer that a fall such as I would have
experienced by running full speed into the irrigating ditch, might
possibly result in broken bones, appeared to strike him as extremely
humorous; from the way he laughed I fancy the sending me flying toward
the irrigating ditch was one of the practical jokes that he is sometimes
not above indulging in. After mounting and forcing my way for a few yards
through deep, loose gravel, to satisfy his curiosity as to what could
be done in loose ground, I trundle along with him to a small menagerie
he keeps at this place. On the way he inquires about the number of
wheelmen there are in England and America; whether I am English or
American; why they don't use iron tires on bicycles instead of rubber,
and many other questions, proving the great interest aroused in him by
the advent of the first bicycle to appear in his Capital. The menagerie
consists of one cage of monkeys, about a dozen lions, and two or three
tigers and leopards. We pass along from cage to cage, and as the keeper
coaxes the animals to the bars, the Shah amuses himself by poking them
with an umbrella. It was arranged in the original programme that I should
accompany them up into their rendezvous in the foot-hills, about a mile
beyond the palace, to take breakfast with the party; but seeing the
difficulty of getting up there with the bicycle, and not caring to spoil
the favorable impression already made, by having to trundle up, I ask
permission to take my leave at this point, The request is granted, and
the interpreter returns with me to the city - thus ends my memorable
bicycle ride with the Shah of Persia.

Soon after my ride with the Shah, the Naib-i-Sultan, the Governor of
Teheran and commander-in-chief of the army, asked me to bring the bicycle
down to the military maidan, and ride for the edification of himself and
officers. Being busy at something or other when the invitation was
received, I excused myself and requested that he make another appointment.
I am in the habit of taking a constitutional spin every morning; by means
of which I have figured as an object of interest, and have been stared
at in blank amazement by full half the wonder-stricken population of the
city. The fame of my journey, the knowledge of my appearance before the
Shah, and my frequent appearance upon the streets, has had the effect
of making me one of the most conspicuous characters in the Persian
Capital; and the people have bestowed upon me the expressive and
distinguishing title of "the aspi Sahib" (horse-of-iron Sahib).

A few mornings after receiving the Naib-i-Sultan's invitation, I happened
to be wheeling past the military maidan, and attracted by the sound of
martial music inside, determined to wheel in and investigate. Perhaps
in all the world there is no finer military parade ground than in Teheran;
it consists of something over one hundred acres of perfectly level ground,
forming a square that is walled completely in by alcoved walls and
barracks, with gaily painted bala-kkanas over the gates. The delighted
guards at the gate make way and present arms, as they see me approaching;
wheeling inside, I am somewhat taken aback at finding a general review
of the whole Teheran garrison in progress; about ten thousand men are
manoeuvring in squads, companies, and regiments over the ground.

Having, from previous experience on smaller occasions, discovered that
my appearance on the incomprehensible "asp-i-awhan" would be pretty
certain to temporarily demoralize the troops and create general disorder
and inattention, I am for a moment undetermined about whether to advance
or retreat. The acclamations of delight and approval from the nearest
troopers at seeing me enter the gate, however, determines me to advance;
and I start off at a rattling pace around the square, and then take a
zig-zag course through the manoeuvring bodies of men.

The sharp-shooters lying prostrate in the dust, mechanically rise up to
gaze; forgetting their discipline, squares of soldiers change into
confused companies of inattentive men; simultaneous confusion takes place
in straight lines of marching troops, and the music of the bands degenerates
into inharmonious toots and discordant squeaks, from the inattention of
the musicians. All along the line the signal runs - not "every Persian
is expected to do his duty," but "the asp-i-awhan Sahib! the asp-i-awhan
Sahib!" the whole army is in direful commotion. In the midst of the
general confusion, up dashes an orderly, who requests that I accompany
him to the presence of the Commander-in-Chief and staff; which, of course,
I readily do, though not without certain misgivings as to my probable
reception under the circumstances. There is no occasion for misgivings,
however; the Naib-i-Sultan, instead of being displeased at the interruption
to the review, is as delighted at the appearance of "the asp-i-anhan,
as is Abdul, the drummer-boy, and he has sent for me to obtain a closer
acquaintance. After riding for their edification, and answering their
multifarious questions, I suggest to the Commander-in-Chief that he ought
to mount the Shah's favorite regiment of Cossacks on bicycles. The
suggestion causes a general laugh among the company, and he replies:
"Yes, asp-i-awhan Cossacks would look very splendid on our dress parade
here in the maidan; but for scouting over our rough Persian mountains"
- and the Naib-i-Sultan finished the sentence with a laugh and a negative
shrug of his shoulders. Two mornings after this I take a spin out on the
Doshan Tepe road, and, upon wheeling through the city gate, I find myself
in the immediate presence of another grand review, again under the
personal inspection of the Naibi-Sultan. Disturbing two grand reviews
within "two days is, of course, more than I bargained for, and I would
gladly have retreated through the gate; but coming full upon them
unexpectedly, I find it impossible to prevent the inevitable result. The
troops are drawn up in line about fifty yards from the road, and are for
the moment standing at ease, awaiting the arrival of the Shah, while the
Commander-in-chief and his staff are indulging in soothing whiffs at the
seductive kalian. The cry of "asp-i-awhan Sahib!" breaks out all along
the line, and scores of soldiers break ranks, and come running helter-skelter
toward the road, regardless of the line-officers, who frantically endeavor
to wave them back. Dashing ahead, I am soon beyond the lines, congratulating
myself that the effects of my disturbing presence is quickly over; but
ere long, I discover that there is no other ridable road back, and am
consequently compelled to pass before them again on returning. Accordingly,
I hasten to return, before the arrival of the Shah. Seeing me returning,
the Naib-i-Sultan and his staff advance to the road, with kalians in
hand, their oval faces wreathed in smiles of approbation; they extend
cordial salutations as I wheel past. The Persians seem to do little more
than play at soldiering; perhaps in no other army in the world could a
lone cycler demoralize a general review twice within two days, and then
be greeted with approving smiles and cordial salutations by the commander
and his entire staff. Through November and the early part of December,
the weather in Teheran continues, on the whole, quite agreeable, and
suitable for short-distance wheeling; but mindful of the long distance
yet before me, and the uncertainty of touching at any point where supplies
could be forwarded, I deem it advisable to take my exercise afoot, and
save my rubber tires for the more serious work of the journey to the
Pacific. There are no green lanes down which to stroll, nor emerald meads
through which to wander about the Persian capital, though what green
things there are, retain much of their greenness until the early winter
months. The fact of the existence of any green thing whatever - and even
to a greater extent, its survival through the scorching summer months -
depending almost wholly on irrigation, enables vegetation to retain its
pristine freshness almost until suddenly pounced upon and surprised by
the frost. There is no springy turf, no velvety greensward in the land
of the Lion and the Sun. No sooner does one get beyond the vegetation,
called into existence by the moisture of an irrigating ditch or a stream,
than the bare, gray surface of the desert crunches beneath one's tread.
There is an avenue leading part way from the city to the summer residence
of the English Minister at Gulaek, that conjures up memories of an English
lane; but the double row of chenars, poplars, and jujubes are kept alive
by irrigation, and all outside is verdureless desert.

Things are valued everywhere for their scarcity, and a patch of greensward
large enough to recline on, a shady tree or shrub, and a rippling rivulet
are appreciated in Persia at their proper value- appreciated more than
broad, green pastures and waving groves of shade-trees in moister climes.
Moreover, there is a peculiar charm in these bright emerald gems, set
in sombre gray, be they never so small and insignificant in themselves,
that is not to be experienced where the contrast is less marked. Scattered
here and there about the stony plain between Teheran and the Elburz foot-
hills, are many beautiful gardens-beautiful for Persia-where a pleasant
hour can be spent wandering beneath the shady avenues and among the
fountains. These gardens are simply patches redeemed from the desert
plain, supplied with irrigating water, and surrounded with a high mud
wall; leading through the garden are gravelled walks, shaded by rows of
graceful chenars. The gardens are planted with fig, pomegranate, almond
or apricot trees, grape-vines, melons, etc.; they are the property of
wealthy Teheranis who derive an income from the sale of the fruit in the
Teheran market. The ample space within the city ramparts includes a
number of these delightful retreats, some of them presenting the additional
charm of historic interest, from having been the property and, peradventure,
the favorite summer residence of a former king. Such a one is an extensive
garden in the northeast quarter of the city, in which was situated one
of the favorite summer palaces of Fatteh-ali Shah, grandfather of Nasree.

It was chiefly to satisfy my curiosity as to the truth of the current
stories regarding that merry monarch, and his. exceedingly novel methods
of entertaining himself, that I accepted the invitation of a friend to
visit this garden one afternoon. My friend is the owner of a pair of
white bull-dogs, who accompany us into the garden. After strolling about
a little, we are shown into the summer palace; into the audience room,
where we are astonished at the beautiful coloring and marvellously life-
like representations in the old Persian frescoing on the walls and
ceiling. Depicted in life-size are Fatteh-ali Shah and his courtiers,
together with the European ambassadors, painted in the days when the
Persian court was a scene of dazzling splendor. The monarch is portrayed
as an exceedingly handsome man with a full, black beard, and is covered
with a blaze of jewels that are so faithfully pictured as to appear
almost like real gems on the walls. It seems strange - almost startling -
to come in from contemplating the bare, unlovely mud walls of the city, and
find one's self amid the life-like scenes of Fatteh-ali Shah's court;
and, amid the scenes to find here and there an English face, an English
figure, dressed in the triangular cockade, the long Hessian pigtail, the
scarlet coat with fold-back tails, the knee-breeches, the yellow stockings,
the low shoes, and the long, slender rapier of a George III. courtier.
>From here we visit other rooms, glittering rooms, all mirror-work and
white stucco. Into rooms we go whose walls consist of myriads of tiny
squares of rich stained glass, worked into intricate patterns and
geometrical designs, but which are now rapidly falling into decay; and
then we go to see the most novel feature of the garden-Fatteh-ali Shah's
marble slide, or shute. Passing along a sloping, arched vault beneath a
roof of massive marble, we find ourselves in a small, subterranean court,
through which a stream of pure spring water is flowing along a white
marble channel, and where the atmosphere must be refreshingly cool even
in the middle of summer. In the centre of the little court is a round
tank about four feet deep, also of white marble, which can be filled at
pleasure with water, clear as crystal, from the running stream. Leading
from an upper chamber, and overlapping the tank, is a smooth-worn marble
slide or shute, about twenty feet long and four broad, which is pitched
at an angle that makes it imperative upon any one trusting themselves
to attempt the descent, to slide helplessly into the tank. Here, on
summer afternoons, with the chastened daylight peeping through a stained-
glass window in the roof, and carpeting the white marble floor with
rainbow hues, with the only entrance to the cool and massive marble
court, guarded by armed retainers, who while guarding it were conscious
of guarding their own precious lives, Fattehali Shah was wont to beguile
the hours away by making merry with the bewitching nymphs of his anderoon,
transforming them for the nonce into naiads.

There are no nymphs nor naiads here now, nothing but the smoothly-worn
marble shute to tell the tale of the merry past; but we obtain a realistic
idea of their sportive games by taking the bulldogs to the upper chamber,
and giving them a start down the slide. As they clutch and claw, and
look scared, and appeal mutely for assistance, only to slide gradually
down, down, down, and fall with a splash into the tank at last, we have
only to imagine the bull-dogs transformed into Fatteh-ali Shah's naiads,
to learn something of the truth of current stories. After we have slid
the dogs down a few times, and they begin to realize that they are not
sliding hopelessly down to destruction, they enjoy the sport as much as
we, or as much as the naiads perhaps did a hundred years ago. That portion
of the Teheran bazaar immediately behind the Shah's winter palace, is
visited almost daily by Europeans, and their presence excites little
comment or attention from the natives; but I had frequently heard the
remark that a Ferenghi couldn't walk through the southern, or more
exclusive native quarters, without being insulted. Determined to
investigate, I sallied forth one afternoon alone, entering the bazaar
on the east side of the palace wall, where I had entered it a dozen times
before.

The streets outside are sloppy with melting snow, and the roofed passages
of the bazaar, being dry underfoot, are crowded with people to an unusual
extent; albeit they are pretty well crowded at any time. Most of the
dervishes in the city have been driven, by the inclemency of the weather,
to seek shelter in the bazaar; these, added to the no small number who
make the place their regular foraging ground, render them a greater
nuisance than ever. They are encountered in such numbers, that no matter
which way I turn, I am confronted by a rag-bedecked mendicant, with a
wild, haggard countenance and grotesque costume, thrusting out his gourd
alms-receiver, and muttering "huk yah huk!" each in his own peculiar
way. The mollahs, with their flowing robes, and huge white turbans,
likewise form no inconsiderable proportion of the moving throng; they
are almost without exception scrupulously neat and clean in appearance,
and their priestly costume and Pharisaical deportment gives them a certain
air of stateliness. They wear the placid expression of men so utterly
puffed up with the notion of their own sanctity, that their self-consciousness
verily scorns to shine through their skins, and to impart to them a
sleek, oily appearance. One finds himself involuntarily speculating on
how they all manage to make a living; the mollah "toils not, neither
does he spin," and almost every other person one meets is a mollah.

The bazaar is a common thoroughfare for anything and everything that can
make its way through. Donkey-riders, horsemen, and long strings of camels
and pack-mules add their disturbing influence to the general confusion;
and although hundreds of stalls are heaped up with every merchantable
thing in the city, scores of donkeys laden with similar products are
meandering about among the crowd, the venders shouting their wares with
lusty lungs. In many places the din is quite deafening, and the odors
anything but agreeable to European nostrils; but the natives are not
over fastidious. The steam issuing from the cook-shops, from coppers of
soup, pillau and sheeps'-trotters, and the less objectionable odors from
places where busy men are roasting bazaar-kabobs for hungry customers
all day long, mingle with the aromatic contributions from the spice and
tobacco shops wedged in between them.

The sleek-looking spice merchant, squatting contentedly beside a pan of
glowing embers, smoking kalian after kalian in dreamy contemplation of
his assistant waiting on customers, and also occasionally waiting on him
to the extent of replenishing the fire on the kalian, is undoubtedly the
happiest of mortals. With a kabob-shop on one hand, a sheeps'-trotter-shop
on the other, and a bakery and a fruit-stand opposite, he indulges in
tid-bits from either when he is hungry. With nothing to do but smoke
kalians amid the fragrant aroma of his own spices, and keep a dreamy eye
on what passes on around him, his Persian notions of a desirable life
cause him to regard himself as blest beyond comparison with those whose
avocations necessitate physical exertion. All the shops are open front
places, like small fruit and cigar stands in an American city, the goods
being arranged on boards or shelving, sloping down to the front, or
otherwise exposed to the best advantage, according to the nature of the
wares; the shops have no windows, but are protected at night by wooden
shutters. The piping notes of the flute, or the sing-song voice of the
troubadour or story-teller is heard behind the screened entrance of the
tchai-khans, and now and then one happens across groups of angry men
quarrelling violently over some trifling difference in a bargain; noise
and confusion everywhere reign supreme. Here the road is blocked up by
a crowd of idlers watching a trio of lutis, or buffoons, jerking a
careless and indifferent-looking baboon about with a chain to make him
dance; and a little farther along is another crowd surveying some more
lutis with a small brown bear. Both the baboon and the bear look better
fed than their owners, the contributions of the onlookers consisting
chiefly of eatables, bestowed upon the animals for the purpose of seeing
them feed. Half a mile, or thereabouts, from the entrance, an inferior
quarter of the bazaar is reached; the crowds are less dense, the noise
is not near so deafening, and the character of the shops undergoes a
change for the worse. A good many of the shops are untenanted, and a
good many others are occupied by artisans manufacturing the ruder articles
of commerce, such as horseshoes, pack-saddles, and the trappings of
camels. Such articles as kalians, che-bouks and other pipes, geivehs,
slippers and leather shoes, hats, jewelry, etc., are generally manufactured
on the premises in the better portions of the bazaar, where they are
sold. Perched in among the rude cells of industry are cook-shops and
tea-drinking establishments of an inferior grade; and the occupants of
these places eye me curiously, and call one another's attention to the
unusual circumstance of a Ferenghi passing through their quarter. After
half a mile of this, my progress is abruptly terminated by a high mud
wall, with a narrow passage leading to the right. I am now at the southern
extremity of the bazaar, and turn to retrace my footsteps. So far I have
encountered no particular disposition to insult anybody; only a little
additional rudeness and simple inquisitive-ness, such as might very
naturally have been expected. But ere I have retraced my way three hundred
yards, I meet a couple of rowdyish young men of the charuadar class; no
sooner have I passed them than one of them wantonly delivers himself of
the promised insult - a peculiar noise with the mouth; they both start off
at a run as though expecting to be pursued and punished. As I turn
partially round to look, an old pomegranate vender stops his donkey, and
with a broad grin of amusement motions me to give chase. When nearing
the more respectable quarter again, I stroll up one of the numerous
ramifications leading toward what looks, like a particularly rough and
dingy quarter. Before going many steps I am halted by a friendly-faced
sugar merchant, with "Sahib," and sundry significant shakes of the head,
signifying, if he were me, he wouldn't go up there. And thus it is in
the Teheran bazaar; where a Ferenghi will get insulted once, he will
find a dozen ready to interpose with friendly officiousness between him
and anything likely to lead to unpleasant consequences. On the whole, a
European fares better than a Persian in his national costume would in
an Occidental city, in spite of the difference between our excellent
police regulations and next to no regulations at all; he fares better
than a Chinaman does in New York. The Teheran bazaar, though nothing to
compare to the world-famous bazaar at Stamboul, is wonderfully extensive.
I was under the impression that I had been pretty much all through it
at different times; but a few days after my visit to the "slummy "
quarters, I follow a party of corpse-bearers down a passage-way hitherto
unexplored, to try and be present at a Persian funeral, and they led the
way past at least a mile of shops I had never yet seen. I followed the
corpse-bearers through the dark passages and narrow alley-ways of the
poorer native quarter, and in spite of the lowering brows of the followers,
penetrated even into the house where they washed the corpses before
burial; but here the officiating mollahs scowled with such unmistakable
displeasure, and refused to proceed in my presence, so that I am forced
to beat a retreat. The poorer native quarter of Teheran is a shapeless
jumble of mud dwellings, and ruins of the same; the streets are narrow
passages describing all manner of crooks and angles in and out among
them. As I emerge from the vaulted bazaar the sun is almost setting, and
the musicians in the bala-khanas of the palace gates are ushering in the
close of another day with discordant blasts from ancient Persian trumpets,
and belaboring hemispherical kettle- drums. These musicians are dressed
in fantastic scarlet uniforms, not unlike the costume of a fifteen century
jester, and every evening at sundown they repair to these balakhanas,
and for the space of an hour dispense the most unearthly music imaginable.
tubes of brass about five feet long, which respond to the efforts of a
strong-winded person, with a diabolical basso-profundo shriek that puts a
Newfoundland fog-horn entirely in the shade. When a dozen of these
instruments are in full blast, without any attempt at harmony, it seems to
shed a depressing shadow of barbarism over the whole city. This sunset
music is, I think, a relic of very old times, and it jars on the nerves
like the despairing howl of ancient Persia, protesting against the
innovation from the pomp and din and glamour of her old pagan glories,
to the present miserable era of mollah rule and feeble dependence for
national existence on the forbearance or jealousy of other nations.
Beneath the musicians' gate, and I emerge into a small square which is half
taken up by a square tank of water; near the tank is a large bronze cannon.
It is a huge, unwieldy piece, and a muzzle-loader, utterly useless to such
a people as the Persians, except for ornament, or perhaps to help impress
the masses with an idea of the Shah's unapproachable greatness.

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