HIGHLANDS OF CILICIA. THE CILICIAN GATES. PASS OF BOZANTI.
_June 1st._—Still no seal to my bouyourdi. Are we to lose yet another
day in this dreadful city? Nahli had to run about nearly all the morning
in the overpowering heat, for we could obtain nothing; the Governor’s
secretary had not given in our bouyourdi to be sealed, and no souriji
appeared.
I was obliged to go again to Ali Bey, and after much trouble and vexation
everything was at last arranged. The bouyourdi was not only a passport
for the vilayet of Adana, but it contained also a recommendation of me
to the officials of any other vilayet through which I might pass, and it
was well I waited for it, as I am certain that I could not have gone on
without it. In this part of Asia Minor it would be very difficult, indeed
almost impossible, to travel without official assistance.
The heat of the plain is now so intense that no one who can avoid
it travels by day, even the camel trains only work at night. It was
therefore arranged that we should start in the evening; we should thus
reach by sunrise a little village, Kazouk Bash, near the edge of the
mountains, where we could rest till the afternoon, and so enter the
mountains at the close of the day. Accordingly, at 7 P.M., Nahli and I
started. Crowds of people were coming into town from the country, in
order to attend market next day. By the side of the road a sick man was
lying. Two friends were bringing him into Adana. He was suffering from
sunstroke, and appeared very ill, though able now and then to walk on a
little with the help of his friends. The night soon closed in—a still,
dark, starry night, without a breath of wind. Fireflies sparkled in all
directions; not a sound broke the deep silence, except that now and then
a troop of jackals would open out their long, wailing cry, sometimes
close at hand; then another troop in the distance would take up the
weird chorus. Everywhere the smell of the marshes—that damp, deadly,
indescribable odour—was clearly perceptible. We passed several companies
of labourers lying down on the roadside to sleep, without any covering.
No wonder so many die, poor fellows! The intense sun by day is succeeded
by the chill night with its deadly dews, and they have no proper
protection against either.
I had taken a zaptieh (mounted policeman) to act as guard (!) and guide,
and wherever it was possible on the journey I always engaged one. Some of
them give great assistance; but of course, in case of a serious attack,
they would be of but little use. Our present zaptieh was quite a young
fellow, and though both he and the souriji knew the country well, they
managed to lose the way, and after long wandering about, floundering
through mud and water, and into and out of fields, we came back again to
the Tarsus road, almost at the spot where we had left it! At last the
zaptieh impressed into the service a man we found on the road, and for
fear he should escape made him mount behind himself on the horse. He put
us in the right direction, and I dismissed him well pleased with a little
bucksheesh.
We turned off the road again northwards, at a village called Zeyteen. The
people of the village were sick of marsh fever, and we could actually
“hear” the shivering and groans of the poor patients, many of whom were
lying at their doors.
The darkness had now begun to pass away a little; but at least an hour
before the first peep of dawn the larks and other birds were astir, and
even beginning to warble. At 2.30 A.M. we halted in a corn-field, and
our horses were turned in to graze, which they did with a will. If only
the proprietor had seen them! But all my people assured me that the
cultivators are very indulgent, provided their kindness is not abused.
The men all lay down to sleep, but I did not care to do so, for both air
and ground were very damp.
We reached our destination at 3.15 A.M., just before sunrise, and a few
minutes after our arrival the moon rose in a bright silver crescent.
It was a beautiful sight to see the thin line of silver rise above the
horizon, till the resplendent colours of dawn effaced it.
The village was a miserable collection of mud-built houses. We chose a
kind of open portico to rest in, but the flies and fleas prevented me
from sleeping. There was an open-air sleeping place on a large scale
(like the cribs at Adana) not far from the house, but some women and
children were occupying it. These sleeping stages, raised a few feet
above the ground, are a slight defence against malaria. The sun became
very hot towards 8 A.M., so we removed to the shade of a large fig tree,
but even there the flies and fleas prevented sleep.
_June 2nd._—Left Kazouk Bash at 1 P.M. The ascent to higher ground
commences here, and as we mounted upwards from the plain the heat began
at once to diminish. Our route lay amid low, rounded hills, parched and
dry. Tarsus was in sight at a distance of about two hours, and the whole
breadth of the plain, green, brown, and yellow with its magnificent
crops, lay outspread before us. At frequent intervals we passed extensive
cemeteries, which I have observed in every well-frequented mountain pass
in Asia Minor. This pass is very much used, as being the chief passage to
and from the interior. Immensely long strings of camels or donkeys passed
to and fro; those coming down from the interior are mostly unladen, those
going up carry loads of grain for the famine-stricken districts round
Nigdeh and Kaisariyeh. There are many encampments of Turkmans throughout
this district. Their tents, unlike the Yourouks, are of lattice work
covered with thick felt cloths, and afford protection against the
severest weather. They spend the winter on the plains, and gradually, as
summer advances, make their way up into the mountains. Large flocks of
their sheep and goats were pasturing along the hill-sides; each flock
followed its shepherd wherever he led the way, and the melodious notes of
the shepherd’s pipe fell pleasantly upon the ear.
After passing through a region of chalky hills we came to the village
of Melemendji, a settlement belonging to a rich Armenian of Adana. Near
it, in a valley to the right, is a church much visited by Armenian
pilgrims. At 3.30 we reached a very pretty little spot, Yaramiz Chèshmé,
where a fountain pours forth a slender, trickling stream, and forms,
in consequence, one of the chief halting places on the passage through
the mountains. Several tents were pitched here, belonging to a wealthy
Muslim of Adana, and President of the Tribunal of Commerce there, named
Abd-el-Kader, a native of Bagdad. He and his family were on their way
to their summer quarters in the mountain above Kulek Boghaz. I had
met him in the room of the Prefect of Police a few days before, and
when he heard at what place I intended remaining that night he kindly
sent me a large leg of mutton as a present, for he said I should “find
nothing but stones there.” Unfortunately the meat was very tough, but
the zaptiehs nevertheless fully appreciated it. I have heard since that
he met with great trouble in 1876, having been accused, with a dozen
or more of the chief Muslims of Adana, by the Wali, of conspiring to
get up a massacre of the Christians. Abd-el-Kader was imprisoned, but
managed to send a letter to the principal Europeans in Mersina, in which
he implored their help. “You know,” he wrote in it, “that I am and have
been always friendlily disposed to you and other Christians.” They sent
up a memorial in his favour to the Governor, who reluctantly released
his prey, not however, in all probability, till he had wrung money from
the prisoner. There may have been some suspicious circumstances which
led to this arrest, for most of these men were pounced upon by the Wali
in secret conclave, and at night. Soon afterwards several of the richest
Armenians in Adana were arrested on a charge of conspiracy against
the Government; but this time the object of the arrest was evidently
to extort money, and the Mersina Europeans sent a respectful but very
firm memorial to the Governor, in which they said that, unless such
proceedings were abandoned, they should feel it their duty to send a
formal complaint against him to Constantinople, which no doubt, under
present circumstances, would lead to his recall, whereupon the unlucky
prisoners were released only half shorn. It is very creditable that a
little body of Europeans should show so good a spirit as this.
Left Yaramiz Chèshmé at about 5 P.M., road still very good, through bare
rounded hills and along a valley full of splendid fields of standing
corn; large gangs of men were at work reaping, generally under the eye of
the proprietor. In this district women do not labour in the fields as in
Anatolia. The place at which we should halt for the night was in sight
(Geuzlük Khan), but it was much farther off than it seemed. About half
an hour out of our road was one of the old border fortresses, “Dorak”;
we could not visit it, and, indeed, the whole of this district is full
of similar forts. After riding along the course of a stream bordered by
thickets of oleander in full blossom, we began the ascent of the Great
Pass; by this time night had come on, it was too dark to see either the
country round or the road, the latter was here very bad, being formed
of great blocks of marble or dolomite, smooth and slippery as ice; but
in some parts of the roadway the great blocks, not having been set in
cement, had been washed up by the torrents. We had to trust entirely to
our animals, and my good little horse carried me safely through it all.
The khan is a complete ruin and roofless, so we lodged at the zaptieh
station close by, and, as Abd-el-Kader had told me, the place supplied
nothing but water, firewood, and a share of a long wooden bench to sleep
on. It was really laughable to receive the reply “Yōk! Yōk!” (No! No!) to
every inquiry, and the zaptiehs themselves at last burst out laughing as
they gave it. The night was windy and bracing, very different from the
dull, enervating, sultry nights of the plain, but not unpleasantly cold.
The pass is here a deep ravine, cleft in the limestone mountain, and all
travellers must pass this spot, so that the zaptiehs know everything that
goes on in the passage of the mountains. The ride from Kazouk Bash had
occupied us nearly seven and a half hours, but we had come very leisurely.
_June 3rd._—Rose extremely tired, after only about three hours’ sleep;
the loud talking of the people, and the burning rays of the morning sun,
beating upon me as I lay upon my bench, soon roused me up. None but those
who have travelled in these regions during summer can know the power of
the sun’s rays soon after he rises above the horizon; it is during these
early hours of the morning that a sunstroke is most to be dreaded; when
the sun is in the zenith the danger is much less. Breakfasted under a
fine mulberry tree; some boys climbed it to shake down some fruit for
me, but I found it of very poor quality. Left Geuzlük Khan at 8.30 A.M.
The road, though now and then rough, is on the whole very good. As I
have before said, it passes up a valley, itself a huge cleft in the
limestone mountain, hedged in by deep rock precipices, and all its slopes
finely wooded. Although the heat of the sun is intense, the air is light
and bracing, and I could feel that I was breathing mountain air. At 10
A.M. we reached the water-parting, and from it I had the first clear
view of the central chain of Bulghar Dagh, its higher summits covered
with an unbroken sheet of snow, resplendent in the clear sunshine with
a dazzling whiteness, such as I have never before beheld; huge ribs of
rocky heights, themselves great mountains, run out at right angles with
the central chain. At 10.30 A.M. we reached two fine springs, “Tchatal
Cheshmasi;” a great crowd of camels were drinking at the first, and in
the café close by sat Abd-el-Kader, waiting for his family; we had passed
two “taktrovans” (horse litters) containing the ladies and children. His
young son rode ahead, and kept up an occasional fire with his pistol to
let the father know they were coming. As the heat had been great, and no
water was to be had on the road from Geuzlük Khan, the pure, cold water
of these springs was very grateful. All the mountains round are finely
wooded. At 11.30 we reached Sarichek Khan, situated at the bottom of a
deep valley; here also was a noble fountain of ice-cold water. We halted
at a little roadside café kept by a Greek, and were fortunate enough to
obtain a luncheon of fried eggs; I noticed that his price for bread is
only a trifle higher than the price at Adana, but we had not yet entered
the famine district. A little rill of water ran through the garden, and
we sat by it and smoked nargilehs, whose bottles rested in the running
stream. The cafeji seemed to be doing a good business, and we noticed
a number of scattered tobacco plants in his compound, grown for home
consumption, and which no doubt he hoped would escape the notice of the
Tobacco Regie officials. After lunch I enjoyed a sound sleep on a bench
by the side of the rill, the first “sound” sleep for three days. The
zaptieh who had been our escort from Kazouk Bash began to tell us of his
life; it seemed hard enough. The cavasses receive from the Government
only 160 piastres per month (equal to about 24_s._) and food for a horse,
but they must provide their own horse; most of those we met complained
much, and this man said that he would quit his present service if he
could find any other way of making a livelihood. Several of the men took
a great fancy to my horse, and one offered to give me his own horse and
T. 4_l._ besides to exchange; but I suspect the poor fellow had never
possessed as much as T. 4_l._, at a time, in his life.
From Sarichek Khan begins the ravine of the Pylæ Ciliciæ (Kulek Boghaz);
the road, which is well kept, follows the course of a small river; up
the ravine on both sides are lofty walls of rock, their sides and tops
thickly covered with fine forest trees; here and there they receded, and
left a little plain at the bottom; in many places they came close up to
the stream, leaving only room for a narrow path; at intervals were sheer
precipices, sometimes quite overhanging, some 800 to 1000 feet high;
everywhere the scenery is very grand. At about 3.20 we came to a large
khan on the right-hand side of the stream, and my interpreter entered
it to inquire if they knew anything of an European who was living, as
we heard, in that neighbourhood; the people said he was a “chichekji,”
a “florist” (i.e. botanist), and the khanji pointed to a little village
high up on the mountain side, which he called Tchukour Bagh, and said
“the man lived there, and we should find him at home; it would take us
about half an hour to reach the village.” As we ascended the side of the
mountain I could not help observing the number and beauty of the flowers,
but the season is already so far advanced that many varieties are no
longer in bloom. The village consists of thirty to forty huts, embosomed
in groves of fruit trees, and the village fountain is surrounded by
a number of huge walnut trees; some of the women who had come for
water directed us to the house of the European, a Mr. Haberhauer, an
entomologist employed by the Imperial Museum of Vienna. He lived in the
very house occupied about twenty years ago by the Austrian botanist
Kotchy, and the man who had been servant to Kotchy was also his servant.
He had just returned from an excursion, and was occupied in arranging the
insects he had found. He received me very cordially, offered “schnapps,”
coffee, and tobacco, and we sat down for a long conversation; he had
been a great traveller, having explored Persia, Russia, the Caucasus,
part of Siberia, and a large part of Asiatic Turkey; he could not speak
French, but spoke and wrote Russian, and speaks fluently Turkish and
Persian. He had a beautiful collection of beetles and butterflies, all
from this district, and intended to stay about two months longer. He
apologized for the roughness of his room, “But what could a man do
in such a position? Such a life was only endurable when occupied, as
he was, _all_ day. Life was hard in Turkey, but it was much worse in
Persia; here, at least, one might always reckon on finding water, but in
Persia, even that was often not to be had. In a few weeks, however, the
Adaniots would come up to their country houses, and then supplies could
be obtained at Kulek Bazaar.” Then, speaking in Turkish, “At present the
only thing the village afforded was ‘water,’ good and plentiful it is
true, but to inquiries for anything else the invariable reply was ‘Yōk!
Yōk! Yōk!’ (No! No!),” at which the villagers present laughed. After a
long and interesting conversation I rose to go, and he came out to show
me the view. It was indeed magnificent. We were at least 5000 feet above
the sea, and could see all down the rock ravine to Sarichek; far beyond
it spread the great Cilician plain, of a dull, greenish grey, and still
farther, the sea, a dull, bluish grey expanse; all round us were the rock
precipices of the pass, reaching their greatest height in Hadjin Dagh,
just above the Boghaz itself. The village is very pretty, every house
has a garden with fruit trees and walnuts, but the cultivated ground is
scanty and unproductive, and the villagers, though they look healthy
enough, are wretchedly poor, and can only afford to eat rye bread.
Mr. Haberhauer complained that he could find nothing, not even the
commonest necessaries of life, in the village; even for his bread he
was obliged to send down to the khan. He spoke of the indifferent,
procrastinating, careless spirit of the people; of the bad government;
predicted the overthrow of the empire by the Russians; mentioned their
great preparations on every frontier of the land which he had visited;
asked if I did not think they had designs on India, a question, by the
way, put to me many times during my journey. Ali Bey of Adana asked it,
and all the better-informed officials seemed to think an attack on India
very probable. It is curious how Herr Haberhauer’s opinions have been
confirmed by the course of events in 1876. The revolt in Herzegovina had
not yet commenced.
After bidding our friend adieu, we ascended to the top of the ridge
above Tchukour. On our right, upon a towering peak which overhangs the
narrowest part of the pass, is an old Genoese fortress; from this, on
the side opposite to us, one immense, unbroken precipice descends sheer
down to the narrow cleft of the Pylæ Ciliciæ. At the top of the ridge,
above Tchukour Bagh, and at the foot of the peak on the side towards
us, are a number of pretty little country houses, built within the last
few years by residents of Tarsus and Adana, who escape every summer to
this pure and healthy air from the heat and malaria of the plain. Just
over the brow of the ridge is another small village, Kulek Bazaar. From
this point, the whole of the central chain, with its great projecting
offshoots, is visible; and on the left (the west), far as the eye
could reach, stretches a long extent of mountain pastures, green and
fresh, the domain of the wandering Turkmans. From the top of the ridge
a steep descent leads through magnificent pine woods to the khan and
the zaptieh station, which are only about ten minutes distant from the
Pylæ themselves. The khan was so filthy that we claimed the hospitality
of the zaptiehs. The chief cavass, a young and smart officer, received
me most courteously, and advised me to sleep on the roof of the house,
as the interior swarmed with fleas. Wood and water were brought; Nahli
made a pilaff; but they had no lanthorn, so we were obliged to eat it by
firelight. The night was clear but cold (this pass being more than 3800
feet above the sea), the smoke from the fragrant cedar was pungent, and
the fleas tormenting, so that I did not enjoy much sleep. Before lying
down I had a long conversation with the chief cavass, and some of the
others who were off guard. They mentioned that the people of the district
still spoke highly of Ibrahim Pasha’s rule, though they did not like
the Arab soldiery. There is a great deal of discontent with the present
government (I have since heard that the despatch of the redif (militia)
to the war has greatly increased it), and the people perhaps attribute to
the Egyptian rule more virtues than it deserved. The head cavass said,
that excepting a pass over Dumbelek Dagh (far to the west of this, and
only practicable about five months in the year), absolutely the only way
of passing from the interior to the coast is by the Kulek Boghaz, and
the side passage over the ridge above Tchukour, by which we had come.
Ibrahim Pasha’s engineers had quite destroyed all the other routes, so
that even for foot passengers they were well-nigh impassable, and for
animals utterly impracticable. This had been done for a distance of many
days’ journey to the east and west of Kulek Boghaz; even the foot-paths
and mule-paths over the higher ridges had been carefully obstructed by
blowing up portions of the cliff at the most difficult points. A guard
of zaptiehs held the Boghaz itself, and there was another guard at the
descent from Tchukour Bagh, so that no one could pass without their
knowledge, and this contributed very much to the safety of the route. He
said that a great many of Ibrahim Pasha’s cannon were still lying in the
forts above the pass, though the most serviceable had been removed at the
time of the Crimean war; those that remained were of all descriptions. In
the middle of our conversation a cavass came up, said a few words to him
in a low tone, and he hastily mounted his horse and rode off. I suppose
some suspicious passengers had been arrested, and that his presence was
needed.
_June 4th._—Rose at daybreak. After breakfast I mounted the hillside
above the police station, and made a sketch of the pass. Afterwards we
rode back through it; the rocky sides of the ravine, which had extended
all along the route from Sarichek Khan, here almost touch. The Pylæ
itself is formed by two immense rock precipices, 700 to 800 feet in
height, which here, for the distance of about 120 yards, approach so
closely that certainly not more than three carriages could be driven
abreast between them. But this is only the bottom of the pass. On either
side the mountains rise far above. By the eye, I judged the passage to be
in places about 25 feet wide, in others, 30 to 45 feet, nowhere more, and
the passage through is not straight but winding. The vast rock, on which
is the old Genoese fort, towers high above all, and the side towards the
pass presents an almost precipitous scarp of 1500 to 1800 feet—like a
wall. A little river ripples along through this deep cleft, over a bed
of rounded pebbles of dolomite, and black marble veined with white. Huge
blocks and masses of rock obstruct the road on the south of the Pylæ; on
the north of it the valley opens wider out, but the same rock walls, only
far higher than in the ravine above Sarichek, still border it on the east
side. In a place so interesting, and so full of historical associations,
one naturally expects to find inscriptions. But nothing remains,
excepting, at the south entrance of the Pylæ, on the west side, a tablet,
and a pillar by the side of it, roughly hewn in the rock. Both had once
been covered with inscriptions, now utterly obliterated. (I thought this
pillar might perhaps have been the milestone on which was once carved the
distance of this spot from the great milestone in the Capitol at Rome?)
On an isolated rock, which lies in the middle of the passage at the
northern entrance of the pass, and a little beyond its narrowest part,
is a similar tablet. The inscription upon this also is almost entirely
obliterated. I could, however, decipher two or three letters, enough to
show that the inscription had been in Latin; it was impossible to make
out more. Doubtless Assyrian and Egyptian hosts must have passed through
this defile, but no record of them remains; and if ever any memorial of
such an event existed, it has perished in the lapse of time.
[Illustration: THE PYLÆ CILICIÆ
(Sunset)
_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]
Left the police station at 9.30 A.M. The road leads up the course of the
torrent, which passes through the Boghaz, and the valley opens out.
About half an hour from the pass are the forts and entrenchments of
Ibrahim Pasha. The valley is here about two miles wide; on either side of
it are mountain plateaux, quite inaccessible except from Kulek Boghaz,
and the works of the Egyptian army extend all across it; so strong are
they, that it would be almost impossible for an army from the north to
force the passage if properly held. At present they are falling into
decay, but the strong masonry batteries and entrenchments are still in
good condition. The ground rises on either side from the middle of the
valley up to the mountain precipices in successive plateaux, and the
line of works is terminated on either end by a strong fortress with
high round towers. Being on higher ground than the other works, these
forts could command with their guns the whole front of the line, and an
army advancing from the north would have been exposed to a direct and
cross fire from more than 120 pieces of cannon and mortars, with which
the works were originally armed. Many of the cannon are still lying in
their places, and our guide pointed to a high peak above the fort at the
west end of the works, and said that Ibrahim had even mounted a cannon
there after immense difficulty, and that the piece was still there. Even
to an unmilitary eye the immense strength of this position is evident.
No serious attempt was ever made upon it by the Sultan’s army, and it
secured to the Egyptians the unmolested possession of Cilicia. The
engineer who planned these formidable works was a Polish colonel named
Schultze (Youssouf Aga), the same engineer who fortified S. Jean d’Acre
for Mehemet Ali. The road passes through the centre of the works, and
the ruins of Ibrahim Pasha’s house, and long lines of ruined buildings,
magazines, &c., are still to be seen.
The great feature in the landscape here, is the tremendous front of
Hadjin Dagh, on the east side of the valley. For many miles an unbroken,
rocky wall, of the most brilliant red or grey, borders the valley, with
precipices varying from 800 to 2000 feet in height. The plateau above is
crowned with magnificent pines, cedars, and cypresses. The Lebanon cedar
grows in some places in great groves, and on the highest declivities are
deep green (almost black) forests of “ketràn” (pitch pine). In only one
or two other spots did I see, during my entire journey, forests that
could be compared with the noble woods round Kulek Boghaz. In front of
us the view towards the N.E. was closed by a snow mountain, which our
guide called Bulderoòhh, but which is part of the great range of Allah
Dagh. Everywhere the landscape is of a grandeur and beauty that cannot be
surpassed.
A short distance beyond the Egyptian entrenchments is the water-parting.
From it the road descends into the valley of a little river called the
“Haiwaabeh”; deep, sloping banks of red and grey earth border the stream,
and in these the trees grow to an enormous size. At 11.15 A.M. we came to
a mill, and two bridges over the river. Opposite to this, and high up on
the mountain side, under the precipices of Hadjin, is the yaila of our
acquaintance Abd-el-Kader. It must be a delightful place at this season!
We could still hear the echoes of the boy’s pistol shots as the cavalcade
made its way through beautiful groves of forest trees (as I could see by
the glass), high up the mountain side, to their pleasant summer home.
The number of baggage animals, mostly camels and donkeys, that were going
through the pass was very great; we must have passed in two days several
thousands of them. At about 12.30 P.M. we came to an extensive cemetery,
and rested under one of the cypress trees in it, and I began to draw
another fine mountain in front, of a strange shape, but an approaching
thunderstorm forced us to resume our journey. It appeared to be the
crater of an enormous extinct volcano. The precipices on its inner edge
are of vast depth, not less, I should imagine, than 2500 to 3000 feet,
sinking abruptly down from the topmost ridge. Our guide called it Bel
Amalik Dagh.
A little beyond the cemetery the road turns sharply to the left, and at
about 1 P.M. we came to Bozanti Khan, just in time to escape one of the
violent thunderstorms so common in the mountains at this season. The khan
supplied nothing but bad water and a few live coals for our narghileh,
but after awhile the servant of the khan procured for us a little bread,
and some “petmez” (grape treacle), nasty and dear, for which he charged
7 piastres, and for the three little loaves of bread another 7 piastres,
altogether about 2_s._ 6_d._ The bread is half of barley flour, but not
unpalatable; it costs more than twice as much as at Adana, but we are now
on the edge of the famine district. The people of the khan are Armenians,
certainly not the least smart in a sharp, smart generation; they supplied
us with very little and charged exorbitantly for it. Not content with the
bucksheesh which custom obliged us to give in addition to their high
charge, the servant continued to pester me for more, till I was obliged
to speak very sharply to him, on which he slunk off; and the khanji came
to try if he could pump some information about me from my interpreter.
But the extravagant replies he received made me roar with laughter, till
the man, seeing he was only being made game of, followed his servant.
A little beyond Bozanti Khan the road reaches the Ak Sou, one of the head
waters of the Sarus, and follows up the course of the river, which runs
through a broad, open valley bordered by extensive oak groves, not yet in
leaf. A quarter of an hour beyond the khan are the ruins of a bridge and
some heaps of débris, marking the site of Podandus. And here one comes
suddenly upon a bit of macadamized road, the work, we were told, of a
former Wali of Adana, Taki ed-Deen Pasha, but it only extends for a short
distance, and is practically useless; an excellent illustration of the
aimless, purposeless way in which public works are often carried on in
Turkey.
At about an hour’s distance from Bozanti Khan begins another pass, which
almost equals the Pylæ Ciliciæ in grandeur and difficulty. It commences
at Ak Keupri, a good bridge of one large pointed arch over the Ak Sou,
which is the division between the vilayets of Adana and Koniah. At this
place the sides of the mountain on the west comes sheer down from a very
great height to the river, like so many walls, and the road is only
a narrow causeway at their foot. Just in front of the bridge a great
source issues from the mountain side and bursts out into the river in a
considerable volume. Its waters, perfectly clear but _dark_ in colour,
contrast strongly with the turbid Ak Sou. Just beyond the bridge, on the
left side of the stream, another very much larger source issues with
tremendous force from beneath the mighty rock wall of the mountain,
which rises sheer above it 800 to 900 feet, straight as a plumb line,
and perhaps some thousands more above that in a very steep, though not
perpendicular, ascent. This source bursts forth with a mighty jet and
loud roar, casting its foaming waters high up into the air. The waters
of this source also are clear but dark, and it is long before they blend
thoroughly with the white river water. The Turks, who are very choice as
to the water they drink, call all such springs “Kara Sou” (black water),
and declare that they cause fever and many other kinds of disease. Beyond
the bridge is a spot much resembling the Kulek Boghaz, but neither so
long nor on so large a scale. The valley is sometimes a few hundred yards
wide, at others only just wide enough for the river to pass between the
mountain sides. The whole pass is full of the grandest mountain scenery;
high precipices and peaks, on which human foot has never trodden, and
never probably will tread, rise far above the valley, and are covered
with forests of pitch pine, which appear from below of the blackest hue,
while lower down the mountain sides are covered with dark pines, and with
cypresses of a yet darker green. Here and there are a few oak forests;
all the lower slopes and accessible spots have been bared of wood, cut in
the usual wasteful way; the great timber rafts I had seen at Adana are
brought down from this district, but much wood is left to decay on the
spot. The pine-wood timber is most solid, and of excellent quality.
At several places galleries had been quarried in the rock—apparently
ancient work—as the river did not admit a passage. In general the road
was very good, but occasionally there were difficult and even dangerous
places, where the roadway is merely the native rock. By dint of traffic
these places had become slippery as ice, and it was truly a nervous
business to ride over them, especially where they were on an incline.
The horses were obliged to slip from one hole to another, just large
enough for the leg to enter, the stone ringing like metal under their
hoofs. Happily the animals are very sure-footed and cautious, for a
fall would be fatal. There were many such spots, but on the whole the
road was very good. The geological formation is most varied, sandstone
of various colours, red conglomerate, cream-grey limestone, and a great
variety of trachyte occur. There are only two or three houses in the
whole pass, and very few Turkman encampments, but a great number of
passengers with laden animals were carrying corn to the famine-stricken
districts of the interior; the animals bound towards the coast were
mostly unladen. At about 4 P.M. we crossed the Ak Sou by a wooden bridge
called “Tahta Keupri,” its supports are fixed on stone piers in the bed
of the river, and consist of rows of beams rising one above the other,
and each row projecting a little beyond the row below it; close by it
are the ruins of four piers, part of an ancient bridge. Some distance
beyond the bridge, in a ravine on the right, about ten minutes from the
road, is a hot mineral spring; a bath of Roman construction stands over
it, with vaulted roofs of masonry. This is somewhat ruined, and the cut
stones with which it was once cased have nearly all disappeared; but it
is still serviceable and much employed by the people of the country,
families even from Adana resorting to it. The water of the spring is at
about 105° Fahrenheit. It enters at a corner of the chief room, a large,
vaulted hall, with a soft and gentle current, and flows into an oblong
basin about 40 feet by 25, and about 6 feet deep. There seems to be no
deposit from the water, and it had no bad taste or smell, it resembled
the springs of Aix-la-Chapelle. The rocks here are thrown up in vertical
layers, and present a variety of deep and rich colours. About half an
hour from the bath is Tchifteh Khan, at which we were to halt for the
night; we reached it after having been about seven hours in the saddle.
It is situated at the junction of a stream which flows along the north
front of Bulghar Dagh and falls into the Ak Sou. The highest peaks of the
main chain that we had seen from Kulek Boghaz, streaked with snow, and
having wide snow-fields in their ravines and on the flatter portions,
here sink down, steep as a wall, some 4000 to 5000 feet into the valley
of this little river. There must be a vast quantity of snow on this north
side throughout the year. All the base of the mountain is thickly wooded,
and great projecting ridges of rock, like huge and long walls, run up
from the hills at Tchifteh Khan to the base of the precipices. Tchifteh
Khan is a miserable and most unhealthy place. As usual, the khanji could
supply nothing. There was plenty of milk and yaourt according to his
account, but when we asked for it we found that we should be obliged to
send to villages several miles distant. A man who travels in this country
without supplies, and trusting to such chance resources as he can find,
runs great risk of fasting very often. Our room was utterly comfortless,
but, thanks to the liberal use of flea powder, I enjoyed a refreshing
sleep, which I much needed.