LIFE IN ADANA.
_May 15th._—Early this morning a young Syrian entered our room, and
handed me a note. It was from our interpreter Hanna, to say that on the
way to Tarsus he had fallen from his horse, had broken his leg, and
therefore could not come; he had, however, sent back the horse by the
bearer of the note, his brother, and if we pleased to take him instead
as our interpreter, he would be happy to serve us. The young man looked
far too young and inexperienced, and moreover spoke only Arabic. I saw he
would not suit us, so at Mr. Schiffmann’s recommendation I telegraphed
to Mersina for another interpreter, a native of Beyrout, named Michel
Sabbagh, but whom I shall call for the future “Nahli,” which is the
Armenian equivalent for his Christian name “Michel.” He was a man
whose worth I soon discovered, and whom I cannot praise too highly, a
thoroughly good, honest fellow, a capital companion, who knew how to
manage the natives admirably, and with whom I would willingly travel
through any part of Asia Minor. As yet I believed in the truth of Hanna’s
story, but soon afterwards, chancing to walk through the bazaar, I met
the Greek cavass of Mr. Tattarachi, the British Vice-Consul at Mersina,
who had been sent by his master to Adana on some business, and as he had
come through Tarsus, I inquired after Hanna. To my great disgust I found
that Hanna’s story of the broken leg was a fabrication. He had probably
gambled away the money received in advance, and not caring to come back,
had invented this lie to excuse himself. On previous occasions whilst
travelling in the Levant I have had considerable trouble, in consequence
of too readily advancing money for prospective services, and experience
has taught me that, if possible, a traveller in these countries should
always be in debt to the people whom he employs; so long as this is
the case, he is master of the position, but if ever, through too great
complaisance, or from any other reason, the relation is reversed, and he
becomes a creditor, good-bye to all comfort; the tables are then turned,
the servant becomes the master. But I admit that it is difficult, indeed
almost impossible, to avoid becoming the creditor, for the Oriental has
cunning and inveigling ways for extracting money in advance, and the
European is no match for him on that point.
_May 16th._—My poor friend suffering from slight dysentery, and too
unwell to leave his room, but unwilling to admit anything more than a
passing indisposition. Knowing from long experience how insidious and how
dangerous are the special diseases of these lands, I urged him to employ
the treatment usual in Egypt; and above all, to send at once for the
Greek doctor of the vilayet. But he had always hitherto enjoyed the most
robust health, he was a traveller of considerable experience, and could
not be induced to believe himself really ill. By dint of importunity, I
persuaded him to lie up, and submit to something like proper treatment,
but he refused to see the doctor, for he had a very low opinion of the
medical skill to be obtained in Turkey. In this particular instance
he was much mistaken, for when at last he allowed me to bring in Dr.
Parascevopoulo, the governmental doctor of the province, he was treated
with all possible skill, and with the most friendly and unremitting
attention; but, alas! the disease was then too firmly fixed and too
malignant for any human means to combat successfully.
There are at present only three residents in Adana of pure European
descent (for as to the Greeks they are in effect Orientals), amongst
them our friend Mr. Schiffmann, and an Englishwoman married to a Syrian
merchant named Schalfoun. This afternoon I was introduced to the lady;
she is a tall, handsome woman, and speaks English quite grammatically,
but with the same strange accent as the Smyrniote British. She left
England with her parents when only six years old, was educated at Smyrna,
and had ever since lived in Adana or Beyrout. On the way back, I called
at the khan, to take a look at our horses; they seemed starved and
hollow, so I fear that our muleteer, “Kesh,” is stealing their food,
although he is charging exorbitantly for them. He made a clumsy attempt
at imposition by declaring that our interpreter, Hanna, had only given
him on account T. 1_l._ instead of T. 2_l._ as agreed; but when I refused
to pay it, he remembered that Hanna had paid him, but had afterwards
borrowed it of him. But neither did this serve, and at last he came to
say that Hanna’s brother had repaid him. It was a little attempt at
extortion, but the Turks are not so cunning in such matters as the
native Christians. Afterwards he said that two of the horse coverings
were missing, “Hanna had given them to Arslan at Anazarba,” but when I
reminded him that I had seen them all at Keumerdli Keui the night before
we reached Adana, and that if they were missing the price would be
deducted from his pay, he managed to find them.
_May 17th._—In the course of the day my friend’s condition became so much
worse that he allowed us to remove him to the hospitable roof of Mr.
Schiffmann, and we sent for Dr. Parascevopoulo. His diagnosis was most
unfavourable from the first; the disease, very serious in itself, had
been much aggravated by delay, and neglect of proper treatment. He told
us that it was a malarious time, and that there was quite an epidemic of
dysentery both amongst the general population and especially amongst the
Redif (militia) encamped near the town; and he attributed it to the late
unseasonable heavy rain and the damp steaming exhalations from the whole
country caused by it. Rain as heavy as that which fell upon May 13th
is most unusual so late in the season. A few showers in the spring are
enough to secure the crops, and sometimes even these fail, in which case
the harvest is either deficient or almost entirely lost. Heavy rain is
always unhealthy in this malarious plain, because of the damp it causes,
and even in winter, when the cold is sometimes severe, the inundations
of the river, besides doing much material damage, cause great mortality
amongst the inhabitants from fever and dysentery. But the people are
forced to live in a miserable way through their poverty, and the sudden
and violent changes of temperature in spring and autumn tell very
severely upon them.
The residents of Adana say, however, that its air is healthy in spite
of the great heat in summer; it can however, only be so, in comparison
with such places as Tarsus and Mersina. The water of the river (Sarus),
though turbid, is wholesome, unlike the water of the Cydnus. There was a
terrible epidemic of typhus in 1873 and 1874, caused by the immigration
of the poor starving people from the interior; not less than 20,000 came
to Adana last winter, of whom fully one-half died, and typhus is still
prevalent in the town; also, during about eight weeks of last year (1874)
a most fatal outbreak of small-pox occurred; for a considerable time
thirty to forty children of Christians alone died of it daily; as for the
Turks, no account of their losses was taken. About half the population of
Adana is Christian, chiefly Armenians; there are about five hundred Greek
houses, but very few Roman Catholics. The Muslims of Adana are fanatical,
the rich and the higher classes being extremely bigoted, and the poorer
classes of course follow their example. In fact, the society of Adana
is a relic of the old state of things; all the women—not excepting the
Christians—go out veiled up to the eyes, not in the semi-transparent
Stambouli “yashmak”; and even the Christian women never meet strange male
society, but lead a life as retired as that of the Turkish women.
The ignorance of all classes is, of course, intense.
The town is really well paved (I have before related how the improvement
of the place came about, see p. 55), the streets are kept well swept
every night and in some places even lighted; of course much more might
be done; still, all this is creditable. The houses are of brick, set in
clay; much wood is used in their construction; the better kind of houses
have large open galleries in which the people live during summer. The
roofs are flat, and the people are now obliged to sleep out “à la belle
étoile,” in consequence of the heat inside the houses. On the roof of
nearly every house is a crib, or summer bedstead of wood, in which the
inmates sleep, thus securing a cool night’s rest. It is curious to see
the people rising early in the morning, all about you, and tossing off
the mattresses by which they had been covered. The whole family generally
repose together in the same great crib.
The street cries of Adana are very curious, but I can only remember a
few: Dymasoon! (Look out!), Donderma! (Ices!), Kar istyan? (Who wants
snow?). The town is well supplied with frozen snow, which is brought
daily on mules from the high chain of the Taurus, some nine to ten hours
distant. Regularly at about 3 A.M. the muezzin of a neighbouring mosque
used to begin the call to prayer; the chant lasted for about half an
hour; it was extremely beautiful in itself, and the man had a remarkably
fine voice; he always began very softly, and the effect of the sound
coming from the lofty minaret in the deep silence of night was quite
entrancing; the end of the chant was always abrupt and in a high note. My
poor sick friend did not like it, it seemed to disturb him, and he would
mutter, “Those madmen!” but to me the effect was extremely beautiful.
Sometimes another voice could be heard far off in the darkness, from the
minaret of a more distant mosque.
_May 18th._—Market day. A vast number of labourers and villagers entered
the town soon after daybreak. On this day wages are paid, and the rate
of wages for the following week settled, as the hiring is by the week.
The great cultivators fix the rate, others follow their lead. The pay
this week was, for grass cutters, 1½ piastre per day; for reapers, 2½
piastres—equivalent to about 3¼_d._ and 5½_d._ per day, but as the number
of piastre in the mejidieh or silver dollar varies continually, I only
give this as an approximation. Gold is seldom or never seen, except in
the largest cities; even silver, though it has become a little more
plentiful, is scarce; the usual money is a debased coinage of alloy that
had once been silvered over (one of the heritages of the Crimean war).
Endeavours have been made to call it in, and replace it by a silver
coinage, but, like the many other good projects and intentions in Turkey,
the success of this attempt had been very partial.
The food of the labourers is also found by the employer, such as bread,
soup, pilaff of “burghoul” (i.e. pilled wheat), onions, &c., &c.
Sometimes wages are very much higher than now. On one occasion, a few
years back, they were at 10 to 12 piastres a day—a heavy cost to the
farmers. The rate depends upon the number of labourers and the state of
the crops. So great and sudden is the heat, that the whole crop must be
reaped almost all together, otherwise there is great loss by shedding
of the grain. The mortality amongst the labourers is high. These poor
fellows come down from a pure mountain air to the deadly heat of the
Cilician plain; they are exposed all day to the burning sun, often with
very insufficient protection on the head or body, and all night to the
dews and damp, in a climate always more or less malarious, with nothing
but the chance shelter of a tree—and trees are very rare in the plain—or
their own poor clothing, as their covering, so that sunstroke, fever, and
dysentery, are very common and fatal amongst them. A man feels a little
ill, headache and shivering come on, he is obliged to retire, and in an
hour or two he is dead; for though strong and stalwart men enough, they
seem to have no great vital power.
From 50,000 to 70,000 labourers annually come to reap the harvest in the
vilayet of Adana (i.e. the great Cilician plain); of these, about 20,000
are Syrian Arabs, from the districts of Latakia, Tripoli, Antioch, &c.
Some 30,000 to 40,000 are Keurdts (Koords) and men of Marash, Aintab,
Kharpout, or Diàrbekìr. Some even come from Aleppo. In a few weeks all
is finished, and many of these men return to their homes with enough
ready money to keep themselves and their families for several months
in this cheap, because moneyless, country. Most of them probably have
each his own cottage and his little plat of land, and his little flock
of goats or sheep in his native mountain village. Naturally, there is
at times a great deal of bickering amidst this motley multitude; and
on such occasions knives and reaping hooks and clubs are freely used,
but the tranquillity and peaceable demeanour of the great multitude
assembled in Adana on the 18th, certainly not less (so I was told) than
20,000 men, was truly admirable; and at evening, all had gone off to the
country to their work; no riotous, drunken companies remained, “making
night hideous.” By sunset the town was as quiet as if no such assemblage
had taken place. How many countries of civilized Europe could present a
similar spectacle?
It may be unfashionable to say so, but I confess that I see much to
admire in the character of the Osmanli people, as distinct, of course,
from their government and their political system. To an impartial
observer, not without some experience in the matter, the senseless outcry
against them as a people, which prevailed in England in the latter half
of 1876, could hardly fail to appear both cruel and unjust. There are
many points in their character, which it would be well could nations of
higher pretensions than they, imitate and practise.
I saw no reaping hook like our own bill-hook, and very few indeed of the
sickle shape. When engaged in cutting the grain the reaper wears a wooden
defence, like a finger-stall, on several fingers of the left hand. When
not in use, it is usually hung by a thong to his belt.
There were five executions in Adana in the year 1874, all for murder; two
by hanging, three by beheading. The Wali has not the power of life and
death. An order for an execution must come from Constantinople—I believe
from the Sultan himself; and the usual way in which the punishment of
death is inflicted is by beheading, although sometimes criminals are
hanged. A tree on the road to Tarsus was pointed out to me, which in the
old days used to be the gallows. It happened to be in the line of the
new road, and the engineers wished to remove it, but the feeling of the
population was in favour of sparing it, and it was spared accordingly.
Generally, however, the criminal is hung up in any convenient place,
without ceremony; in the bazaar, to a lamp-post, to the projecting eave
of a shop, &c. The usual place of beheading is in the open space at the
entrance of the bridge. A horrid scene took place there last year, on
occasion of the execution of a Persian for murder. Great exertions were
made to induce the wife of the murdered man to accept blood-money. The
Persians of Adana even offered her as much as 300_l._ Turkish (= 260_l._)
to spare the criminal, but she was inexorable, and stood by, all the
time. The executioner, either nervous or wanting in skill, mangled the
poor wretch horribly; he did not, however, stir or cry out, the first
stroke having probably stupified him. The first stroke cut his cheek and
the side of his neck, the second his shoulder; the rest was a horrid
chopping and sawing. The body, with the head under the arm, or, if a
Christian, between the legs, is exposed an hour or so, and then buried.
The wife of the murdered man looked calmly on till all was over, and then
exclaimed, “Now I am satisfied.” In similar cases, when the relatives
of a murdered man have insisted on the utmost penalty of the law being
inflicted, it is no uncommon incident for the nearest relations to take
up with the hand some of the criminal’s blood and smear it on their
faces, thus taking his blood upon themselves. The Persians in this
district give the authorities much trouble. They used formerly to enjoy a
kind of extra-territorial jurisdiction, but this is now much curtailed.
It is only by severity, and keeping a very firm hand, that the Government
maintains order in this turbulent border population.
There are two prisons in Adana, one for debtors, the other for criminals;
debtors to the State are invariably treated with severity, for whatever
may be done in the case of private debts, arrears of taxes, &c., are
exacted, if possible, to the last “para.” The debtor prisoners are
obliged to provide themselves with food through their friends; no bedding
is supplied, each man covers himself as well as he can, and sleeps on
the ground, which in a close prison is very unhealthy. After three
months’ imprisonment, if it is evident that the debtor (private) cannot
pay, he is liberated. Thus a creditor rarely keeps his man in prison
for the whole three months, so as not to lose his right of imprisoning
the man again should there appear any chance of recovering payment
later on. This system, which is apparently humane, is the mainspring of
innumerable abuses, petty tyranny, and corruption. A debtor, if he be
poor and defenceless, is clapped into prison at once, on the demand of
the creditor, if the latter have any influence. The execution of the
law in this respect is scandalous beyond all belief; on the other hand,
it is practically impossible to imprison a rich or powerful debtor; he
is protected from harm, and is the pet of every official, high and low.
False swearing, corruption, and oppression, is the rule throughout; the
meaning of “right” and “wrong” is not understood; no sense of truth seems
to exist in the ruling class, and when such is the case, how can truth be
expected from the governed? True, there are men who would be just if they
dared, but either they yield to intimidation, or if this fail, intrigues
are set on foot for their removal. The Vice-President of the Medjlis told
one of my friends, “I know the law and I know my duty; in the morning I
point out what is the law in a certain case, but before evening I have a
dozen warnings that I must not administer the law! What can I possibly
do?” Criminal prisoners are chained, excepting such as have committed
petty offences. There are, however, various grades of chain according
to the sentence against the man, but these grades are of “term” not of
“weight,” the chains being all of the same weight. The chain is fastened
from leg to leg at the ankle, and another which encircles the waist has
a pendant attached to the centre of the leg chain; the leg chain is
sufficiently long to allow the man to walk. Three-quarters of an oke of
bread (= 300 drams) per day is allowed to each criminal prisoner, and
nothing else, but occasionally charitable people send a “pilaff,” or
food of some kind, to the prisoners. The prisoners of all classes are
obliged to keep the prison clean; the two prisons in Adana are thus swept
regularly, but yet they have a bad odour and must be most unhealthy.
A man who falls sick in the debtors’ prison is taken to the hospital, but
from all I could learn, little or no care is taken of a sick criminal, he
is allowed to live or die as nature decides!
_May 18th to 23rd._—A sad, dreary, monotonous time. I shall remember
Adana to the end of my days. Heat intense, from early morning till
sunset. My time is fully occupied in attending on my sick friend, whose
condition gradually becomes worse in spite of everything that can be
done. Dr. Parascevopoulo proposed a consultation with the doctor who has
charge of the troops. He is a Greek, speaks French, and has a very good
professional reputation in the town. By his advice a change was made in
some of the medicines, and for one day there was a decided improvement
in the patient, but the good effect was only transient. The treatment
pursued was nearly as follows:—No food, except rice soup, rice water,
gum water, a little tea; nothing else did he take, and very little even
of these from 17th to 22nd inclusive. Castor oil, bismuth, and opium,
emulsions and lavements continually; hot cataplasms of linseed meal,
fresh every hour; tinct. opii. and ipecac. pulvis. 21st and 22nd, acetate
of lead and opium; external applications same. 23rd, another change in
the medicines, and symptoms of peritonitis having appeared, vesicatories
were applied.
On 23rd there was an improvement, but he was so weak I begged the
doctors to give him some support in wine and food. After a long
consultation they said his only chance of life was to take nothing
solid or disturbing, they could not, therefore, recommend anything but
the same diet, and although there was but little hope now, even that
little depended on the punctual use of the means they recommended. But
he was rather a refractory patient, and would not always submit to the
treatment prescribed! Already a glacial chill had invaded his hands; he
was easier—alas! it was but the ease that precedes death. On the 24th
the patient was manifestly sinking, and the doctors allowed wine and
a little chicken soup. His mind did not wander in the least, but both
voice and sight began to fail, and he would not now submit to any further
treatment. To-day he fainted twice, the last time as we were carrying him
back from the balcony to his room. We attended him all night. At 8 A.M.
on 25th we took charge of his property. I had before asked him if he was
satisfied with what we had done for him, and he nodded yes! At eleven
coma came on, and at two all was over.
The Armenian Protestant community took charge of the funeral. Their
burial-place is an unenclosed spot just outside of the town, and there,
close to the waving corn, my poor friend was laid. During the funeral a
heavy thunderstorm came on. After all was finished, one of the pupils
of the American Theological College at Marash, who was present and
understood English, came up and remonstrated with me because during the
funeral service I had uttered a short prayer that his sins might be
forgiven. “But he was dead,” said he. To confess the truth, the thought
and words came naturally. It never occurred to me that in this I was
departing from the practice of our Church. It seemed at the time a very
natural thing to do. I turned off the conversation by quoting 1 Timothy
ii. 1. “But,” said he, “_that_ was praying for the dead, and _we_ are
Protestants.” In the evening another came to me, and, speaking through
Mr. Schiffmann, began to say something on the subject; but I declined
to enter upon any discussion with him, and would not converse upon the
matter. Possibly the doctrine of the Reformed Church on this point may be
more orthodox, but the Roman doctrine is more loving and tender. Such was
the end of my poor friend and fellow-traveller. He contributed very much
to his own death by his neglect and imprudence. Had he taken proper and
timely remedies, he would no doubt have still been dangerously sick, but
perhaps his life might have been saved. As it is, the climate of Cilicia,
unhealthy enough assuredly, will have a yet worse reputation.
During all this sad time the only relief was a ride now and then, towards
sunset, through the gardens in the neighbourhood of the town. They were
pretty, but neglected and wild. Some of them were full of fine oak and
ash trees. Grape-vines trailed from tree to tree, and clambered even to
the topmost branches. Sometimes I rode up the west bank of the Sarus.
A line of conglomerate hills here borders the river, and from them the
distant view of Adana, backed by mountains, is very pretty. But our
usual resort was a café on the river side, to which was attached a very
fine garden. Here, under the shade of vines or orange trees, we could
sit and watch the turbid, impetuous Sarus, as it rolled its waters
swiftly past. A glorious panorama of noble mountain ranges surrounded us.
Everywhere the eye rested on some object of beauty. The huge creaking
Persian water-wheels turned by the stream; the floating mills; the tents
of the wandering Turkmans on the opposite side; the cemetery, with its
countless grey stones; the fine groups of trees; the rich foliage of
the gardens; the grand old bridge, with its scores of loungers, and
its long lines of heavily laden camels, bringing in the produce of the
harvest—such were the nearer objects. Higher up the river could be seen
through the arches of the bridge the white tents of the “redif” encamped
on a meadow called the “meidan.” How shall I describe the glorious
mountain scenery, from the graceful ridge over Messis and the hills of
Kara Dagh, all up the long Amanus range, through the distant Giaour Dagh,
and round to the towering, jagged sierra of Kizil Dagh, resplendent with
perpetual snow, and generally shrouded in mist? Once only, on the day
before I left Adana, I saw it distinctly, unveiled by cloud or mist, when
a heavy thunderstorm had cleared the distance.
We used to sit either on the river bank or on a stage in front of
the café overgrown with vine. Sometimes there was music in the
garden—Cypriote music, not unmusical, or the zoorna (Turkish fife), which
if well played is really pleasing, with its wild, high-pitched notes.
An observant traveller might while away half an hour not unprofitably on
the old bridge itself, and he would remark scenes and incidents which he
would not easily forget.
In the clear bright sun, although not a ray of his light is perceptible
to them, sit the blind, propped against the parapets, but always
separately, never in groups. Each member of the fraternity appears to
have one particular spot appropriated to him by common consent; for the
blind are never molested, on the contrary, nearly every passer-by bestows
his mite (and few are rich enough to afford more) on one or other of
these poor sufferers. All respect that misfortune which may some day be
their own; for disease of the eyes is very common, and but little care
is taken by the people themselves to arrest the malady (too often, poor
fellows, the means of doing so are not within their reach), and many
a well-to-do mechanic is suddenly deprived by blindness of the power
to gain his livelihood. A blind man making his way through a crowded
thoroughfare is not at all an uncommon sight, and he has to depend upon
the kindness of others, which is never wanting, to avoid the difficulties
of the road. Amongst the chief of these are the laden camels. This
animal, unlike the horse, never turns aside, but pushes heedlessly
forward, and although the animal himself may pass, his cargo is very
likely to knock the pedestrian down. One of these blind men had trained a
donkey, unbridled, to carry him to and fro between his residence and the
bridge; and one evening, with a true spirit of brotherly feeling, he had
invited a companion in affliction to avail himself of the opportunity,
and to hold on by the donkey’s tail! thus giving an amusing though
pathetic illustration of “the blind leading the blind.”
We often formed part of the groups of loungers on the old bridge, and I
noted many an amusing, many a touching sight too, which, had some of our
“public-meeting” orators of last summer been present, would, I think,
have modified their views concerning the “unspeakable” and “anti-human”
Turk!
Sometimes, again, we used to visit for a change the “Ajemi Kahve,” or
Persian café, which supplied the best coffee and narghilehs in Adana.
This was a tumbledown structure of wood near the bridge; its walls were
adorned with a grotesque series of paintings, in black and the three
primitive colours, representing scenes in the life of Keur Oglou, the
celebrated brigand and poet, who flourished some 300 years ago, but
whose apparition, mounted on his famous grey horse, is said to be no
uncommon sight in the lonely valleys and mountain passes of Cilicia. The
company at the Ajemi Kahve was not very select, but it was curious and
interesting, and never once did I experience anything but true courtesy
and politeness from the guests, whatever might be their rank. Take him
whence you will, the Osmanli is naturally a gentleman—a man who respects
himself, and therefore respects others. My appearance was no doubt
strange enough to them; the majority of them had probably never seen
an European before, but not even an unpolite stare, much less anything
approaching ridicule or amusement, could be discerned on the grave,
and often strikingly handsome faces of the frequenters of the Ajemi
Kahve. It was interesting to observe the different figures and dresses
of the guests, and the people on the bridge and on the river. Sometimes
a large raft of timber would shoot one of the arches of the bridge; it
was brought down from the distant mountains by the woodcutters, and
the stream would sweep it past with great rapidity. Beyond the bridge
the great plain stretched to the mountains which bordered the horizon.
Harvest is in progress everywhere. As the corn is reaped it is piled
up in the field in a great circular heap (“harmàn”), a space is left in
the middle, and the threshing is begun from the _inside_. The grain is
gathered in the open interior space, and so left till the ushirji—the
farmer of the revenue—has come to take the dîme—the Government tax—which
is not a tithe, but 12½ per cent., and as much more as can be wrung from
the cultivator.
[Illustration: THE AJEMI CAFÉ AT ADANA
_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]
I will not attempt to describe the beauty of the heavens. Nothing that
I have ever yet seen can rival the cloud and sunset effects in this
most beautiful but dangerous land. Especially beautiful they were on
the evening before I left Adana. The plain, and the hills above Messis,
were bathed in golden green sunlight, so clear that every ravine and
inequality on their slopes could be distinguished. Kara Dagh and its
hills were of a deep violet tone, which formed a magnificent contrast
with the masses of bright orange and golden clouds above them, illumined
by the setting sun. Far off in the north, heavy thunder-clouds of deep
purple and fleecy white, veiled the towering ridge of Kizil Dagh,[13] and
after the storm had burst, the long outline of the jagged sierra shone
forth, sharply defined in brilliant white against the murky sky beyond it.
_May 26th._—The large public bath at Adana is one of the best I have
ever seen in the East. But it is far inferior to similar establishments
in Europe. I was occupied nearly all day in writing. At sunset we took a
long ride up the Sarus and dined at the river-side café.
_May 27th._—Free trade is not quite the rule in Adana, e.g., the town
council (medjlis) fixes the price of bread and meat, and butchers and
bakers must obey. To-day no bread of the usual shape (a long thick cake)
appeared in the market. On inquiring the reason, I was told that the
bakers had struck, because the medjlis had ordered the price of bread to
be reduced. As the price of wheat had fallen, the price of an oke (2¾
lbs.) of bread was fixed at 36 paras, instead of 40 paras (equivalent
to about 2_d._ for 2¾ lbs. of bread which is generally of very good
quality). The medjlis summons the bakers when it is thought that their
profits are becoming too high; a calculation is made, e.g. so much wheat
will produce so much flour, from that so much bread can be made; the
cost of production being computed, and the legitimate profit added, the
council then informs the bakers at what price they must sell their bread.
The unfortunate fellows vociferate and protest, but all is of no avail.
Sometimes, however, a little incarceration is requisite, in order to
bring them to a fitting state of mind, and they are not released till
they submit. I wonder what our English tradesmen would say to such a
mode of procedure! The same course is pursued with the butchers; e.g.
in February and March, 1875, meat was 5 to 6 piastres per oke; a little
pressure was applied by the medjlis, and it gradually descended to 3½
piastres. In general, however, meat is very cheap. Good mutton in summer
costs 2½ piastres per oke (= a little less than 2_d._ per lb. English);
in winter it costs 5 piastres per oke. But usually in winter only goat’s
meat can be obtained, and it is both bad and dear. In the spring very
few animals are slaughtered, as they are in bad condition, and also on
account of the Greek and Armenian Lenten Fast, which is observed very
strictly by the women, although not by the men. In October and November
about 1500 head of cattle are slaughtered in the vilayet of Adana, and
their flesh made into “Pastourma,” i.e. dried and spiced beef highly
flavoured with garlic. Very little fresh beef is eaten, as the meat is
generally lean and tough, for no care is taken to supply the animals with
good food, and only a little straw is given to them in the stalls; but
in the ploughing season the oxen which do all the ploughing (no horses
being employed), are fed with half an oke to an oke of cotton-seed in
the morning, and again at night, besides straw. If cotton-seed be dear,
barley is given instead. All through the spring and early summer there is
a great abundance of grass. Very few vegetables are grown. Potatoes have
only been introduced within the last year or two. The soil of Adana is
too rich for them, but they flourish in the more sandy soil of the plain
of Mersina. Excepting grapes, nearly all the fruit is poor and wanting
in flavour, but all articles of food, such as bread, sugar, flour, milk,
butter, &c., are pure. Adulteration would be severely punished. The
coffee is seldom of good quality, but as it is bought in the berry and
roasted immediately before being used, it cannot be mixed with inferior
substitutes. Tea is never used, and seems almost unknown, although
it grows wild in many parts of the mountainous interior. Mechanics’
wages are rather high; carpenters, who are very inferior to European
carpenters, are paid 1 mejidieh, = 1 dollar per day. Ironworkers receive
a little less, but should a mechanical engineer be required, his charge
for the least job is T. 1_l._ These men are all European.
Mr. Schiffmann kindly gave me the following particulars concerning the
produce and trade of the province of Adana. I must premise that the
Turkish pound is worth about 18_s._ English, and here contains 106
piastres, but this rate constantly varies in different parts of the
empire. In Syria I have found the £ Turk. worth from 112 to 115 piastres.
A few years back a considerable issue of silver piastres was made; but of
course since the sad events of 1876, paper money has replaced metal.
The kileh of Karamania = an English quarter; or eight Constantinople
kilehs = about 480 English lbs.
In 1873 there was a general failure of the harvest from want of rain,
and a Karamanian kileh of wheat cost 400 piastres = a trifle above
67_s._ per quarter. This high rate lasted till May, 1874; there was
not sufficient grain for the population of the vilayet of Adana, and a
frightful famine had begun in the interior, so that grain was urgently
needed, even for the vilayet of Koniah. But the harvest of 1874 was
extremely abundant; one grain produced from thirty to sixty fold, and
prices would have been very low, only Europe needed grain, and scarcity
still continued throughout the interior of Karamania. Prices therefore
were steady at 200 piastres per kileh on the spot, and 240 piastres at
the seaports, and might even have risen had not the Wali of Adana,
Mahmoud Pasha, afterwards Grand Vizier, prohibited exportation, in the
month of August. This was done with a view of relieving the suffering
districts; but it was evident that what was needed was means of transport
into the interior—had this existed, the famine would have been stayed
long before—and now the Wali’s well-intentioned but mistaken prohibition
caused heavy injury to the cultivators, for the harvest was much above
the average, and not only sufficient for home consumption and the relief
of the interior, but a large surplus would have remained for exportation
to Europe. At present (May, 1875), last year’s wheat of good quality
costs 180 piastres per kileh at the seaports. Cilician wheat makes
excellent bread, but it is not well suited for the English market.
The amount of barley exported is 100,000 to 300,000 quarters, according
to the crop. It is sent principally to England. In this roadless land
transport is a costly matter. In winter the country is well-nigh
impassable, and the only road that can be used is the new road from
Mersina to Adana, which has been finished this year. Already the
Circassians do a good deal of business on it by means of their arabahs,
and the Government proposes to establish a transport company with 2000
shares at T. 5_l._ per share, and to provide forty carriages with the
necessary horses. Several meetings about this matter have been held at
the Commercial Tribunal in Adana, but as yet nothing has been arranged.
Camels hitherto have been the chief means of transport, and the transport
varies from 15 to 35 piastres per kileh of grain, according to the
season and distance from the port. But now the road is opened it is
hoped the tariff will be more regular.
Cotton, barley, sesame seed, and wheat are the staple exports of Cilicia.
About half the cotton crop is usually sent to Smyrna, to which port there
are lines of steamers, and thence exported to Europe. Cilician cotton is
much used by manufacturers in Spain, and their mills have been specially
adapted for it; it is of short staple, though beautifully clean and
white. In 1872-3, the crop was 80,000 bales, of excellent colour and
staple. In 1873-4 the crop was only about 30,000 bales; in 1874-5 owing
to the ravages of the cotton worm, about 20,000 bales. In the last year
its price was from 24 to 27 piastres in Adana or Tarsus, per “batman” of
4 okes = 1600 drams English. Cotton is made up in bales, weighing about
340 to 350 English lbs. each. It is pressed by hydraulic presses, of
which there are six in Adana and two steam presses. There are in Adana
five steam cotton-ginning factories; in Tarsus one steam and two worked
by water power; at Giameli Keui near Messis one steam. The transport
to Mersina, as I have said, varies considerably. It averages 20 to 25
piastres per bale.
Only about 2000 bales of wool are exported, chiefly to Marseilles. Sesame
seed is sold either by the kileh or in okes delivered at Mersina. The
kileh costs in the villages or at Adana, according to distance from the
port, from 240 to 280 piastres. Its price is generally ruled by the price
in Marseilles, to which port most of the crop is sent. The net weight of
the kileh varies extremely according to the cleanness and quality of the
seed, so that it is more convenient for the merchant to buy it by the
oke, the price of which varies from 2½ to 3 piastres, and he can thus
clearly make up his account of cost. In buying by the kileh the buyer
incurs much risk on account of the variations of cost in transport, and
especially from the risk of excessive loss of weight after cleaning.
There is a large import of Manchester goods, chiefly prints and
shirtings. These are mostly imported _viâ_ Beyrout, i.e. the principal
native commission merchants in Adana buy their goods from English and
Syrian houses established in Beyrout. Strange to say, this pays them
better than to import directly from England. The import of woollen cloths
is inconsiderable. About 5000 to 10,000 small bales of cotton, each 50
to 70 okes, are annually sent into the interior for hand weaving, and
the cotton cloth thus produced is a good and durable material. Very few
imports come directly from Europe, but generally from Beyrout, Smyrna, or
Constantinople. Only colonial goods, as coffee, rice, sugar, pepper, &c.,
come directly from Marseilles, often in sailing vessels chartered for
homeward cargoes of grain or sesame seed. English manufactures come from
Beyrout only; small wares chiefly from Constantinople.
Throughout Turkey the legal rate of interest is 12 per cent. per annum,
but in practice it varies from 18 to 24 per cent. The interest paid by
the peasants rises even to 15-20 per cent., for six months’ use, as they
only need money from March or May to September or October, when the
cotton and sesame crops have been sold. Lending money to the villagers
is most hazardous; sometimes the borrower will bring a guarantor, or
will deposit the ornaments of his wife, &c., as a security; but in
effect, the security depends entirely upon the goodness of the harvest,
and bad harvests are by no means uncommon. The Government never forces
a peasant to sell his land or stock, in satisfaction of the debt due to
a money-lender, although inexorably strict in exacting its own taxes,
even at the cost of utter ruin to the debtor. The creditor is therefore
obliged to wait for a good harvest to recover his money, and thus losses
are often heavy. The dîme is nominally 10 per cent., but now that the
internal transit duty of 8 per cent. has been abolished, it has been
12½ per cent. since 1874. Only land transport duty has been abolished.
Strange to say, goods sent by sea are treated as foreign merchandise.
_May 28th._—Life in Adana is not a little monotonous; the heat, and that
a _damp_ heat, is too great for exertion. Thermometer indoors, 32½°
centigrade = 90½ Fahrenheit; in the sun it amounted to 130° or 140°
Fahrenheit, and it is not possible to go out of doors until towards
evening. To-night we had a pleasant break; the head of the telegraph, a
young Armenian, Mr. Boghosian, had been very civil to me, both in helping
to despatch the various messages rendered necessary by my friend’s
death, and in other ways. He had intended inviting my friend, when he
had recovered from his sickness, to a sort of congratulatory feast; and
I discovered that a lamb had been already set aside for the occasion,
but to-night we begged him to become our guest. Most people have read
in the ‘Thousand and One Nights’ of lamb stuffed with pistachio nuts;
this dish was our supper. The lamb is stuffed with rice, raisins, and
pistachio nuts, then roasted whole, and is a very savoury and excellent
dish. The table was spread under the boughs of a fine orange tree, laden
with fragrant blossoms. The evening was lovely, and my friends enjoyed
the entertainment, but not unnaturally I was in somewhat low spirits.
_May 29th._—Occupied in packing and despatching home my late friend’s
property, and writing up my journal and letters.
_May 30th._—Attended the Protestant Armenian chapel: a large room, well
filled. The service was in Turkish. I could understand most of it, the
more so as the preacher gave a plain, extemporaneous discourse containing
many repetitions. Since I left Adana two Armenian Protestants have been
admitted to the medjlis as representatives of the community to which they
belong. It would be interesting and instructive also, could we see how
such religious bodies as the Protestant communities of Adana and Marash
would be treated in holy Russia, or Spain, or Italy, aye, and even in
republican France!
I made some inquiries as to the state of education in Adana; and this,
I think, is a fair sample of education throughout the more civilized
portions of the empire, excepting in North Syria and the Lebanon, which
are far before the rest of the Ottoman empire, owing principally to the
efforts of the various missionary bodies. There are in Adana, of Orthodox
Armenians, from 3200 to 3500 residents, and from 1200 to 1500 only
temporary dwellers there; the number of families is reckoned at 1700,
which, if correct, would give less than four to the family, so that this
estimate cannot be quite relied upon, but I believe the number is nearly
correct. Very many of the Armenians, however, are unmarried. There are
two Armenian churches, with two schools attached, the number of scholars
ranging from 300 to 450, one-third of them girls. The instruction given
comprises reading, writing, arithmetic, and the Armenian language only.
The community is in general very poor. There are also two small Orthodox
Armenian schools, not connected with the churches, but the attendance of
scholars is altogether irregular.
In answer to my inquiry why Turkish was not taught in any of these
schools, the answer was, “Inability to raise sufficient money for the
master’s salary;” but I suspect that there is a dislike to teach it.
Of Protestant Armenians there are about 120 families, in general young
people, and the families small, but it is an increasing community. Their
school has sixty pupils, about a third of them girls, and the instruction
at present is in reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, grammar, and
the Armenian language only. This community is very poor, only five
families being in circumstances at all independent.
From the Greek bishop, the following information was obtained:—There
are in Adana about 250 Greek families; one church; one school, number
of pupils 120 boys, 60 girls; instruction, Greek, French, history,
geography, arithmetic and mathematics, grammar, writing, the Greek Church
Catechism, and sewing for the girls. In one or two smaller towns of the
province there are schools attached to the churches. About 2000 Greek
families reside in the vilayet of Adana.
The commerce of the province is almost entirely in the hands of
the Greeks. The Armenians are generally either retail traders or
agriculturists.
The Turks have schools throughout the country, but the only instruction
given appears to be in reading, writing, and the Turkish language, and
the girls seem to be left without any education whatever. There is,
however, in Adana a government school, supported by the town council of
Adana. The masters were Muslim, but well educated. They taught reading
and writing in Turkish, Persian, and Arabic (but _not_ in Armenian), and
instructed besides in geography, elementary mathematics, and arithmetic.
At first the school was chiefly attended by Muslim children. But both
the town council and the Governor wished to throw the school open to
all, and make it general. Accordingly, a large meeting was held of all
religious persuasions, Muslim, Orthodox and Catholic Armenians, Greeks,
and Protestants, and they decided that the school should be free for all.
However, the Christians preferred their own schools, partly because of
late the government school was not well managed, and for other sufficient
reasons.
It may well be supposed that I was much shocked at the death of my
companion, and for some little time was in doubt whether or not it would
be advisable to give up the idea of travelling alone through a country of
which I knew nothing, and when the season was so far advanced that the
heat would certainly be great. But I reflected that in all probability
the opportunity would never occur again; I had an excellent interpreter,
two good horses, the route would be chiefly in the mountains where
there would not be much malaria, I could endure heat, and therefore I
determined to go at least as far as Karaman, and then to proceed farther,
or to return, according to circumstances.
And now came one of the great troubles of travel in this country, viz.
transport. I should require two baggage horses, as it would be necessary
to take at least six days’ supply of barley for the animals, and the
route lay through a part of the famine-stricken district where no barley
could be had till the new crop was ripe. Accordingly I went to the sheikh
of the sourijis (men who hire out horses) in order to engage through
him a souriji with his two horses as far as Eregli. He received me in a
flippant manner, and made, as I expected, considerable difficulty: “There
were no men nor horses to be had in Adana just now, all were engaged
in the harvest,” &c. However, the promise of a bucksheesh removed that
difficulty, and in the course of the day he came to say that he had found
a man; but when he mentioned the terms, my interpreter declared they were
double the usual rate, and though I was willing to agree to some extra
payment, I could not accept such exorbitant terms; moreover, he insisted
upon my paying a large part beforehand to himself, not to the souriji.
Of course I demurred to this condition also, having regard to my recent
experience of a similar arrangement; whereupon the gentleman was mightily
huffed, and retired unceremoniously.
I saw therefore that it would be necessary to apply to the authorities
for help. The day after my friend’s death the Defterdar (Treasurer) of
the vilayet had sent his secretary to offer assistance. It seems that
Sadik Pasha, then Minister of Finance at Constantinople, informed by
friends there of my companion’s sickness, had sent an order by telegraph
to the Defterdar to help in any way required. The offer, though too
late, was kind; but everything possible had been done for the patient.
Accordingly I called on the Defterdar to thank him, and at the same
time to ask for a “bouyourdi” (passport) from the Governor, and an
order for horses. The Defterdar was a tall, handsome man, said to be
a sad _mangeur_ of the public revenue: this may be only scandal, but
it is a common vice in all Turkish functionaries. He received me most
politely, caused a bouyourdi to be written out, and promised to have the
Governor’s signet set to it. For the horses he sent me to the Prefect of
Police, with an order to him to see that I was provided. Whilst waiting
in the room I was witness to a scene between two of the subordinates,
the sub-treasurer and the cashier. It seems that some defalcation had
been discovered, and each accused the other of the robbery. If a man’s
countenance be any conclusive evidence against him, there could be no
doubt which of the pair was guilty. I have seldom seen a more villanous
expression than upon the face of the cashier. It was the face of an
infuriated cat, a compound at once of fear, anger, and malignity; but
the officials who were inquiring into the matter evidently suspected the
sub-treasurer, a smooth, plausible gentleman, who put on an unctuous air
of injured innocence.
I especially noticed here the cringing obsequiousness of the lower
officials to their superiors.
The Defterdar’s secretary took me to the room of Ali Bey, the Prefect
of Police; a soldier in attendance drew back the curtain at the door
and we entered. It was a huge apartment, with a beautifully-carved
wooden ceiling. On the divans round the room were a number of officers
in the army, and in the middle of the room stood unshod a dozen or
more mountaineers from some out-of-the-way village in the Taurus,
stout, stalwart men of all ages, with huge turbans and dresses of
bright-coloured homespun stuff. After the case was over, the Prefect and
some of the officers began to converse with me. Ali Bey asked the object
of my visit to Karamania, and I observed that he appeared acquainted with
all our movements since we had come to Adana on the former occasion; of
course it was his business to know what two foreigners were about in the
country. He is a tall, muscular, middle-aged man, with the eye and beaked
nose of an eagle; said to be an able prefect of police, but by no means
averse to bucksheesh.
After I had mentioned my wants he began to converse on politics. On
several occasions Turkish officials have asked me about Yakoob Beg of
Kashgar, and seemed much interested in him. I had to explain that just at
present he was in greater danger from the Chinese than from the Russians;
but Ali Bey seemed never to have heard of China or the Chinese. Like all
the Turks, he had a deep dread and hatred of Russia. He complained of
attacks of malarious fever, I recommended certain medicines, and then
asked how it was that “people did not build country houses upon the
hills on the west bank of the Sarus, two or three miles out of Adana, and
live there in an air that would be purer and more free from malaria.”
Whereupon those present smiled a grim smile, and, said Ali Bey, “Ah!
of course you don’t know, but only a year or two back the state of the
vilayet of Adana was so bad that people hardly dared to venture outside
the town. Now all is safe, but even now if people ventured to live in
those solitary places they would run great risk some fine night of having
their throats cut.”
This city is a “colluvies omnium furum,” Persians, Keurdts, Arabs, and
mountaineers of all kinds, &c., and requires a very tight hand.
The sheikh of the sourijis was sent for. He came in with a very bumptious
air, but changed his tone considerably, when told by Ali Bey that he must
find me a souriji who would give me satisfaction, for if I telegraphed
a complaint against him from Eregli, he, the sheikh, would be put in
prison. The price, too, was arranged, high, but considerably less than at
first demanded. After this all went smoothly, and I may here remark that
our souriji behaved well. On the whole these men are good, inoffensive
fellows, and I always managed them easily enough. Talk to them a little,
give them a few cigarettes, and the remainder of your pilaff at night,
and you will not have much trouble with them.
I sent Nahli in the afternoon for my bouyourdi, but the Governor’s
signet had not been set to it, so another day will be lost. What a
procrastinating people these Osmanlis are!