OLOUKISHLA. PLAIN OF LYCAONIA. EREGLI.
_June 5th._—Rose at sunrise. No wonder this place is unhealthy; there is
a considerable traffic, and all the camel trains halt here for a longer
or shorter time, but of course the litter, &c., is never cleared away,
the only purifiers are the sun and rain.
This is the nearest station to the silver and lead mines of Bulghar
Maden. I did not see them, but extract the following particulars from the
diary of a friend who visited them in 1876:—
“From Tchifteh Khan to Bulghar Maden, about four hours over a dreadful
road; when about half way, halted under a sycamore tree. An old villager
came up and told me of an inscription on a rock in the mountain above;
I went to see it, and copied all I could of it. At Maden, stayed in the
house of the head man, Kantarji Georgi. Visited the mines, and descended
one so narrow that only one man at a time can pass along or work in it.
The system here is that the concessionaire extracts the ore from the
mine, the Government officials carry it to the smelting place, it is
smelted at Government expense, and then purchased; silver at 32 paras
the dram, lead at 32 paras per oke. (The oke = 400 drams; 40 paras =
1 piastre; 106 piastres = 18_s._ English.) The system of smelting is
primitive, indeed everything is badly managed. I was told that the
Government expend about 24,000_l._ per annum, and recover 50,000_l._; but
upon this statement no reliance can be placed. The great profit is made
by cheating the Government in weight of ore, &c., and the head workman is
as rich as Crœsus. Anyone can obtain permission to open a mine.
[Illustration: Inscription on a rock about half-way between Tchifteh Khan
and the silver mines of Bulghar Maden.]
“Georgi says that this is one of the very few places where the ancient
Greek is still spoken.[14] I asked him to pronounce for me a few words
from Homer which I remembered, and the pronunciation was much nearer the
English method than the modern Greek, which seems to confirm what I once
heard on this subject from Mr. Skene, of Aleppo.
“All the fine pine and cypress timber has been cut down in this
neighbourhood for smelting the ore, and none replanted. The people
complain of want of rain, but seem ignorant that destroying all the trees
will much affect the rain supply. Timber for smelting the ore has now to
be brought from a distance of nine hours. Excepting six Turkish families,
all the people here are Greek.”
Left Tchifteh Khan at 9.30 A.M. The route was up ravines, between rounded
hills of lava and trachyte, sparsely covered with stunted trees, chiefly
juniper. It was a dreary ride, but always with noble views of Bulghar
Dagh on our left. At 10.40 A.M. we descended from the highlands to the Ak
Sou, and crossed it by a ford, for the bridge had been long broken down;
near it were the remains of an ancient bridge. At present the stream is
low, but in winter it is often impassable; close by the ford are the mill
and hamlet of Toussoun Ali Khan. We were now in a wide, open valley,
filled with scattered Turkman encampments, and very numerous flocks of
goats; their sheep and cattle, requiring better pasturage, are higher up
in the mountains. Parched by the heat and dust, we stopped at several
of these encampments to buy some milk or yaourt; it seemed, however,
that the supply of milk was only just sufficient for the young animals
and they had not enough to spare for making yaourt. The Turkmans of the
last encampment were evidently in very comfortable circumstances, their
tents were spacious, solidly made of thick camels’-hair cloth, and well
furnished with good carpets and “yorghans.” Both men and women were well
dressed for their station, and many of the women wore a quantity of gold
ornaments, and had several large gold coins hung round the head and at
the temples; they were dressed in home-spun woollen cloth, mostly dyed of
a deep blue colour (indigo), or “kermezy,” “deep red” (madder). Several
of them were extremely good-looking—even handsome—and did not veil
themselves or run away at our approach, but answered our inquiries with a
modest confidence; I can well imagine that they make good wives, for they
are most industrious. Some of them were washing clothes at the brook hard
by, some bread making, others weaving carpets, their lords and masters,
meanwhile, sat, or slept, or smoked; their duty being to look after the
flocks, and beyond this all is left to the women. They are a very good
and hospitable set of people, and had we asked we might have had bread
and coffee gratis. Amongst other little marks of comparative refinement,
I noticed in the chief’s tent a pretty set of “zarfs” and porcelain
“finjans” for coffee.[15]
Higher up the valley is a village surrounded by groups of fine walnut
trees, but cultivation and trees are only found in the valleys, and most
of the hills around are bare even of grass. After a ride of about eight
hours we came to the large village of Oloukishla, inhabited entirely by
Turks. Just at the entrance of the village we met two well-dressed men,
one of whom beckoned to us, and we rode up to him; he asked to what
house we were going? We said we had a recommendation to Berber Oglou,
who was one of the leading people of the place. “I am he,” said our new
acquaintance, and invited us to his house, promising to meet us there
in a few minutes. It turned out, however, that he was the son of Khalil
Aga, another of the notables of the place; he sent a boy to show us the
way to his father’s “salaamlik,” and we were soon seated in the midst
of a curious company, and, which is always unpleasant, with our faces
to the light, while most of the company sat in front of us, having the
windows at their back, and so could inspect us without our being able
to see them in the dim light of a Turkish “salaamlik.” The usual fussy
ceremonial of coffee was gone through, the usual questions asked. Who is
this gentleman? Whence comes he? Whither goes he? What is his business
here? What is he in his own country? Is he rich? &c., &c. In Europe such
questions would seem impertinent, but here they signify nothing; you can
answer them or not as you please, although it is always politic to give
a frank account of yourself. Sometimes I was plainly asked, “What is
your employment?” and “How much pay do you receive per month?” To such
questions I used to return no answer. In general, the “bouyourdi” of
the Governor of Adana, together with such explanations as Nahli thought
fit to give, secured me a civil reception; and the impression usually
produced on the country people was, that I had been specially sent by the
British Government to “go all about Anatolia” on a tour of inspection,
amongst other things to copy the antiquities, inscriptions, &c.
After resting awhile, I went out to see the village; the only thing
in it worthy of notice is the khan. I have seen few such buildings in
Turkey out of Constantinople, and this I should imagine was built by
some Italian architect—perhaps some poor captive of war or piracy, whose
architectural skill had recommended him to his new masters—for the
style is thoroughly Italian, and it has a form and finish such as no
Turk could produce, especially at the time of its construction, which
was probably the early part of the sixteenth century. It consisted of a
very handsome khan, composed of rooms and an arcade of pointed arches
enclosing a spacious square area; attached to it was a mosque, a bath,
and a magnificent bazaar, which was not inferior (except in size) to
the finest bazaars in Constantinople. The whole was built of large hewn
stones, cube and oblong—of trachyte and hard limestone—brought (so the
villagers told me) from quarries six hours distant, and roofed with great
slabs of limestone. Like almost everything else in Turkey, it is fast
falling to ruin, but so solid is its construction that it might still be
thoroughly repaired, and we heard that the Government engineers for the
railways had designed to change it into a great railway station and point
of departure for all this district—supposing, that is, a railway should
ever be constructed beyond Angora. It is entirely deserted and abandoned
now, and the only tenant of the khan was a poor villager, a wayfarer from
Kaisariyeh, sick of typhus fever, who had been placed here, and was in
some measure tended and cared for by public charity.
In former days a large portion of the pilgrims to Mecca went by this
route, and the khan, under those circumstances, would be well frequented,
but now few or none come this way. The villagers could tell me nothing
of its history, but I afterwards heard from the village moollah, “Hadji
Ahmed,” who was a dervish of Beshiktash, and a very intelligent man,
that it was supposed to have been built by Sultan Selim II., and had
been afterwards repaired by a certain Eukeuz Mohammed Pasha, one of the
Memlook Governors of Egypt, but he could give me no date. Hereupon one of
the villagers present said that a few years ago a man died in the village
at the age of one hundred years, but he knew nothing of the history of
the khan, and the old people before him had been unable to give him
any information about it. What a strange difference there is between
Orientals and ourselves on such points! It might have been expected
that tradition would have preserved the date of this really magnificent
construction, and the name of its founder, but although I questioned many
of the people I could obtain no further information. As we returned from
the old khan a shower of rain forced us to take shelter in the house of
a weaver; his wife was at work weaving a kind of thick woollen sash,
commonly worn in this district. The work was solid, but, in my opinion,
displayed little taste. The cost of a sash was from fifty to sixty
piastres (about 10_s._), of which the material cost twenty to twenty-five
piastres; as it occupied fifteen or sixteen days to weave, the labour
seems but poorly paid.
On our return we found the evening meal ready. We were supposed to be
the guests of Khalil Aga, but of course next day I should have to pay
for our accommodation. The son had asked for rice to make a pilaff, and
considerably more than usual had been given. Then Nahli had paid for
eggs, and for butter to cook them and the pilaff; our host’s contribution
was a soup of rice and milk, and a dish of yaourt flavoured with garlic
and served up on spinach. To my surprise, six other persons besides the
master of the house and his son sat down to eat with us; they helped
themselves so quickly and greedily that in a trice all the dishes were
cleared, and I should have fared badly had not Nahli brought me a
separate plate, and helped me first to pilaff before the rest attacked
the dish. Poor fellows! It was not every day they could get such a
supper, and most of it at another’s expense. It was evident we were in a
famine-stricken district.
After supper, in answer to my inquiries, the men told me of their
experience during the years 1873-5. Very sad it was, of a truth! Before
1873, Oloukishla contained 400 inhabited houses; of these about 300 are
now deserted and falling fast to ruin; in every direction we saw empty,
ruinous houses. They had lost 1200 cows and oxen, they had lost 20,000
sheep and goats—of this number only about 1000 were goats, and “if I
chose to walk up a little way into the mountains I could see a ravine
full of their bones.” They had lost about 300 horses and camels, and,
lastly, they estimated the loss of inhabitants at about 1000, of these
a great many died of absolute starvation in and round Oloukishla itself,
but yet more in their flight to Koniah or Adana. The latter city seemed
to have been the general resort of the fugitives from the whole district;
too often they only found a grave there!
It was the destruction of their flocks and herds which ruined the people.
Had this not occurred they might have tided over the bad harvests, but
the loss of their flocks meant utter starvation; “the rich had become
poor, the poor were dead, or had emigrated, or were starving.” There is
still a short period of severe distress to be endured before the new
harvest can be reaped, and the straits to which they are reduced are
shown by the high price of wheat, which at Adana costs 18 piastres per
Stamboul kileh (= 1 English bushel), but here in the interior costs from
thirty to forty piastres.
They said that the prospects of the harvest were very good, but much loss
was caused by the ravages of an animal which they called “sitchan” (a
species of lemur, of which I observed several on the roadside as we came
to Oloukishla, they are of the colour of a squirrel, and have the eye of
a jerboa). When I asked why they did not set to work to destroy them,
“Oh!” they replied, “of what use would it be to try, there are thousands
of them.” “But,” we said, “if everybody killed a dozen or so, and kept on
doing it, that would surely finish them off in the end.” “Well, some had
been killed by a stick placed at the mouth of their holes, in such a way
that when they touched a string, which served as a trigger, the stick
would strike them, but after awhile they became wary, and would lurk in
their hole for days; besides, they came to ravage the fields at night,
when no one could see them.” Such were the excuses made, but the fact is
that the men are a lazy set, and pass their time in smoking and gossip,
leaving “work” to the women.
Amongst the company was a very intelligent man, the moollah of the
village, Hadji Ahmed, a dervish of Beshiktash, who had lived at
Constantinople. He was very handsome, evidently not averse to Europeans,
and spoke Turkish beautifully, a striking contrast to the language
used by the villagers. He conversed a good deal with me, but asked no
impertinent questions, indeed, his manners were really polished. He said
that Bulghar Dagh had many veins of silver and even of gold, but there
were “few seekers” for them (“arayaǹ az”). He spoke of the vast forests
under and around the mountain, but said that the waste and destruction
of forest in all the districts round was very great, especially near
the mine. He seemed greatly interested about the prospect of a railway
through the province. I said I did not think that Europe would advance
more money to the Turkish Government, for they took the money and simply
wasted it. “Yes,” he said, “the walis eat, the mudirs eat, everybody
eats, and so the money disappears.”
_June 6th._—Roused at daybreak by the master of the house, who insisted
on entering before we were astir; and soon a curious crowd collected to
watch the process of washing and dressing, which was not pleasant. A
number of boys were assembled round the door; they were children whose
parents were dead, and who lived on the charity of those in the village
who had still a little property left. One boy was pointed out to us who
was quite alone in the world, not a single relative having survived. “If
you choose, we will give him to you,” said the son of Khalil Aga, in joke.
There is a school in the village; but I suppose it is of the kind usual
in a Turkish community. I asked what the name of the village meant. Some
said it meant “people die here of the winter,” i.e. of cold. But the
mudir of the telegraph at Eregli gave a better explanation, “the great or
perfect barrack,” referring to the great khan. This is the same as the
title of the great mosque at Adana, “Olou Jamaa” (“the perfect mosque”).
We left Oloukishla at 6.45 A.M. Our route was amidst low, rounded hills,
with only a few stunted juniper trees growing on them. On the side
towards Bulghar Dagh there were, first, grassy hills; then high ridges
thickly covered with forest; then a deep valley, very wide and green;
then the steep, towering ridges and peaks of the high mountain chain,
covered with great snow-fields, such as it was at Tchifteh Khan. Another
great range, “Allah Dagh,” was on N.E. by E., but seemed far off, farther
than it is represented in Kiepert’s map.
At 9 A.M. we reached the water-parting, and saw before us the great
Lycaonian Plain, a vast and perfectly level expanse, extending towards
the west till the horizon line faints away in the blue, misty distance.
At various points of the compass, great volcanic mountains rise, grand
and abrupt, from the level surface. On the north was the double cone
of Hassan Dagh, over the site of ancient Nazianzus, covered with snow.
N.W. by W. was the long and jagged chain of Karajah Dagh, of a dull
grey colour. From its south-western extremity extended a long line of
abrupt smaller hills and rocky heights, amongst them two extinct volcanic
cones, of a form so strangely regular that even art itself could scarcely
shape them more evenly and smoothly. Far away to the west rose the great
volcanic mass of Kara Dagh (Parlais). The soil of the plain is almost
entirely chalk, not fitted for agriculture, but supplying plentiful
and excellent pasturage, which, before the terrible winter of 1873-74,
supported innumerable flocks, the property of the various villages. The
water, as well as the pasturage, was very good; the little valley by
which we descended to the plain was full of emerald verdure; and from one
little fountain here, flowed the finest water I drank on my whole journey.
The plain is treeless; far as the eye can reach there is not even a
thicket or a bush; but the number, the variety, and the beauty of
the flowers are truly wonderful. There must have been at least fifty
different species at once in bloom, and mingled with them, all over the
plain, was a great variety of aromatic herbs. I noticed wild thyme,
rosemary, mignonette, and lavender; but the muleteer gathered four or
five other kinds, two then in flower, which I had never before seen.
The road was very solitary, not a living creature could be seen, it was
like the sea in its vast lonesomeness. The great plain was covered with a
thin, blue vapour, through which a few distant villages could be faintly
discerned. The mountains rose from the level surface grand and abrupt,
their bases veiled in mist, their summits bathed in the bright sunlight.
At 10.30 A.M. we came to the village of Tchaian, and halted at the
house of the mukhtar (head man). This village, like all the others in
the district, had suffered horribly from the famine. It once contained
about 2000 inhabitants, but of these more than half are dead or have
disappeared. When the famine became severe many tried to escape to Koniah
and Adana; by far the larger portion of the fugitives perished on the
way, but all who succeeded in reaching Koniah were saved. The fate of the
fugitives who reached Adana was less happy, for typhus and dysentery cut
off nearly all. “We used to find the dead,” said the mukhtar, “lying in
the roads or on the mountains, and how many little children died Allah
only knows!” The village had been inscribed on the Government register
as possessing 10,000 sheep and goats—_all_ are dead. It had about 300
cows and oxen, and as many camels; only some 150 in all are left! There
seems to have been no epidemic; they died principally of hunger, for no
food could be obtained. Owing to the failure of the crops there was no
straw (saman), and the snow lay on the ground four feet deep for nearly
five months; a horse-load of saman cost 60 piastres, 12_s._ The men
used to go out into the mountains to cut what little grass they could
find under the frozen snow, but it was impossible to supply food for
the animals, and so all died. “Formerly I used always to have a horse,”
said our informant, “but I have either lost, or been obliged to sell,
everything, and now I must go afoot.” Many petitions for aid were sent
to the authorities, but in 1874 no help was given; however, by selling
at half their value the household furniture they had, their casseroles,
yorghans, carpets, &c., the villagers contrived to purchase a little
“jundàri” (millet? or rye?). For this they were forced to pay at the rate
of 120 piastres the kileh; the price at Mersina being 5 to 6 piastres!
There was little or no rain at sowing time, but a little fell just in
time, and they sowed the dear-bought grain in all the moist places they
could find, and so obtained a miserable harvest. At last an order came to
give to each head of a family 4½ kilehs of a mixture of wheat and barley,
and they actually received 2½ kilehs of barley, and wheat for sowing, the
latter, however, as a debt to the Government. They had few or no oxen
left, but in the sowing time of 1875 the poor fellows helped each other
by putting their few remaining animals together, and combining to plough
and sow; not half the land, however, could be sowed, but at least that
which is sowed will be productive this year. Of course the villagers
are deeply in debt; they hope, however, to clear off their debt if they
should have two good harvests in succession, but the net proceeds of
this year’s harvest will be required for replacing their oxen, so as to
be ready for the coming season, and they fear that this year’s crop will
hardly suffice even for that. I asked if, under these sad circumstances,
the Government remitted any of the taxes. They replied that last year
the tax farmers took the dîme as usual, even of the miserable crops
of millet and rye; and this year, of course, the dîme and the vergui
(property tax) would be taken. (They called the latter tax “salyan”;
it has different names according to the district.) Already this year
zaptiehs had been sent from Eregli with orders to exact the vergui by
force, if necessary, and about 4000 piastres had been wrung from them.
This amount had been obtained by forcing them to sell the miserable
remnants of their furniture, animals, &c. Some had even been beaten and
roughly treated.
The conscription had gone on as usual, but the conscripts, though chosen,
had not been called out for service; the sum for which the village was
inscribed in the Government register as annual tax was 32,000 piastres.
The village medjlis (council) and the mukhtar apportion the payment of
this sum amongst the villagers, according to their property. Their land
is good, but depends entirely upon rain. In winter the communication with
Koniah and Adana, though difficult and expensive, is still maintained,
but for one month and a half no caravans can pass.
Such is the experience of a Turkish village in time of scarcity, and
sad as the case of Tchaian was, the case of others was very much worse.
As regards the number of animals lost, I may mention that a Government
register of the flocks is kept for the purpose of taxation, so that the
calculation of loss is tolerably exact and not exaggerated; and, indeed,
the whole interior of Asia Minor has suffered so much, that many years
must pass before it can recover its former prosperity.
In the mukhtar’s house I first saw a fire of “zybeel,” dried camel dung
(the “fimus bubulus” of Livy, xxxviii. 18). We are no longer in the
region of pine and oak forests.
We left Tchaian at 1.45 P.M. and crossed the little river and the
cultivated land of the village. On our left were low, rounded hills,
covered with scanty herbage; on our right the great plain, extending
westwards, till the eye could no longer distinguish its boundary lines,
and northwards, to the base of Hassan Dagh, a double, snow-topped cone,
more than 8000 feet high, and to the long, serrated ridge of Karajah
Dagh; but even this wide level is but a small portion of the great
central Lycaonian Plain. The range of Bulghar Dagh still bounded the
horizon on the south, not now so lofty as at Kulek Boghaz, but still
rising far above all the neighbouring mountains.
Very sad and depressing was the strange loneliness of the country. For
some three hours from Tchaian we saw not a living creature, except a few
stray hawks and vultures. The telescope showed some small villages, far
off in the plain, and one considerable village, “Sheikh Ali Keui,” was
near our road, but they were all apparently deserted, and after long and
close examination with the glass we could detect neither men nor animals
in or near them.
All the villages of this district are more or less deserted, some have
not even a single inhabitant left, owing to the famine, and the diseases
consequent upon it. The farther we entered the plain the more remarkable
became the colour, odour, and variety of the flowers and aromatic herbs
with which the ground is covered. But the soil is poor, and from lack
of irrigation only fit for pasturage; so that when the poor villagers
had lost their flocks nothing but ruin and starvation was before them.
Only a small portion of the plain is thus adorned by nature. In summer
nine-tenths of it is an arid waste, bearing salicornia, wormwood, and
similar plants, and broken up by great marshes and wide patches of salt,
while in the winter season inundations cover the whole face of the
country, and extend, irregularly, nearly the whole distance from Koniah
on the west to Tyana on the east, so that sometimes the whole district
is like an inland sea, and perfectly impassable. To this is owing the
extreme unhealthiness of Lycaonia, for the rivers and streams which
descend from the many mountain ranges bordering the plain have no visible
outlet, and as summer advances, and the inundations begin to disappear, a
deadly malaria is generated from the half dry surface of the marshes.
A line of dark green, extending far in front into the plain, marked
the site of Eregli. To compare small things with great, this primitive
little place resembles Damascus in its position, although, of course, the
pretty gardens and orchards of Eregli cannot vie with the magnificent
plain around the Syrian capital. Both cities are at the foot of lofty
mountains, from whose perennial springs rise the rivers which spread
verdure over the soil as far as their life-giving waters reach. Beyond
that limit all is arid desolation, excepting for a brief period in spring
and early summer. The rivers of Eregli rise in the mountains south of
the town, and fall into the lake Ak Göl (pronounced Ghyùl), about three
hours to the west of Eregli. The limits of the lake are constantly
varying, and sometimes in winter its waters extend over the great marshes
on its N.E. side, and thus form one connected sheet of water fully 50
miles in length; but the true lake is only 10 to 12 miles long by 4 to
6 wide. At its S.W. extremity is the only known outlet for the vast
body of water collected in the plain during winter. The people of the
country call it the “Duden.” It is a narrow valley in the hills to the
south, containing a pool or small lake into which a stream from the Ak
Göl flows; from this valley there is no visible exit for the stream,
it is probable, therefore, that the waters make their way thence by
subterraneous passages through the Taurus.
We reached the first branch of the river of Eregli at 5.45 P.M., and,
after crossing two other branches, one a considerable stream, entered
the town. It is a decayed and miserable place, consisting of a number of
straggling houses, widely scattered amid orchards and gardens full of
luxuriant groves of walnut, poplar, willow, and mulberry. The material
of the houses is chiefly unbaked mud-brick and poplar timber. Almost the
only solidly-built edifices in Eregli are the khan, now in ruin, which
resembles the khan of Oloukishla, but is smaller, and a mosque, with
a lofty round minaret; both are of deep red stone. The “Yeni khan” at
which we alighted is an edifice of mud-brick and poplar timber, built
about a large, square court. The accommodation was so bad, being wretched
chambers floored with clay, that we induced the khanji to give us his
own room, which was tolerably clean and comfortable, only the windows had
no shutters, but the nights are not cold now.
In the evening we were visited by two officers of the Ottoman army, both
of whom had served in the Crimea; the elder had seen much service in
other parts of the empire also. I gave them tea, but I think they were
disappointed; they expected, I believe, either Cognac or araki, and did
not honour me with another visit. They said Eregli was a very unhealthy
place, owing to its damp air and the marshes round it, and that many
of the people had died of hunger in the famine time, but I obtained
no particulars. One of them afterwards lent me two breakfast-cups and
saucers, which he said he had brought from Constantinople.
_June 7th._—Two men from a village called Bektik came to see me; they
had heard of our arrival and thought we had come to distribute relief,
as hitherto the assistance in money, seed-corn, &c., sent from England
and America had been dispensed mostly in the neighbourhood of Kaisariyeh
and the country north of it. Bektik is a general name for a number of
villages to the N.W. of Eregli. These men told me that their village
consisted originally of 400 families; of these, about 150 remained in
the village, about 200 families were missing (they did not know with
certainty what had become of them, but probably many of them were
still at Adana or Koniah), 50 families they knew to have perished of
starvation, and no account was taken of the number of little children
who had died. Their village once possessed 30,000 sheep and a few
goats, all of which had perished from want of food during the terrible
winter of 1873-4. They had owned 1100 oxen and 2000 cows; of these only
about 200 remained. They sold the little remaining property they had,
such as carpets, casseroles, and yorghans, &c., to buy seed, and then,
one helping another, they made shift to sow part of their land. This
year they will have a good harvest, but how to live in the meantime?
The Government had given seed to the village, but the rich and more
influential men, having the distribution of it in their hands, had mostly
kept it for themselves. I gave them a little money and sent them away.
It is evident that the people are in great straits to tide over the time
till harvest.
A doctor of the town, Saleh Effendi, a native of Tripoli, in Syria, also
called; he told me that Eregli contained about 650 to 700 houses, and
under 3000 people, of whom only about 150 were (Armenian) Christians. At
prosperous seasons many traders from Kaisariyeh resort to Eregli, but at
present there is no trade, and the place seems deserted; yet, strange
to say, a considerable amount of building is going on, but the style of
architecture is poor, simply a rough stone arch on the street, all the
rest walls of mud-brick. The doctor told us of Ibreez, and various other
places; amongst others, of a perennial fountain of bitter water, two
hours east of Ak Serai, which, “when sweetened, made excellent lemonade.”
He added that near Bektik, about two to three hours from Eregli, at a
place called Koukerdt, there is a strongly petrifying spring, which is
also sulphurous. This spring does not always issue from the same spot,
but sometimes from one place, sometimes from another. The little stone
used for building in Eregli is nearly all brought from this place. The
doctor paid me several visits during my stay.
About midday I paid a visit to the kaimakam. The Government House is a
most picturesque old wooden edifice, with quaintly carved ceilings; the
road to it was through the great cemetery, which contained a prodigious
number of monuments, consisting of upright slabs of unhewn stone; not
one in a hundred bore any inscription. It is the land of oblivion, and
when once an Osmanli has “shuffled off this mortal coil” his memory seems
to be utterly lost. The kaimakam was very courteous, and at my request
sent a zaptieh to show me some of the gardens of the town. We walked
through lanes bordered by high mud walls, and overshadowed by finely
grown trees, but the heat was very great, and on my inquiring if Eregli
was considered healthy, the man said “by no means, that the great marshes
round it spoiled the climate; only the winds from Bulghar Dagh and Hassan
Dagh [i.e. from south and north] were healthy;” all others blow across
marshes, and therefore come laden with malaria. This, combined with the
great dampness of the place from the plenteous supply of water, and the
sudden and extreme changes of temperature between day and night, cause
deadly dysenteries and fevers. “A man loses his strength, and when he
lies down to sleep he does not get up again;” meaning, I suppose, that
a man thoroughly prostrated by fever seldom recovers here. Severe
congestive fevers, _cold_ fevers (or pernicious fevers, as they are
called in Alexandria) are common, and very fatal.[16]
The best garden I saw was that of Hadji Hassan, one of the only two rich
Turks in Eregli. He does not live there, but comes occasionally to take
his “kef” (enjoy himself). The gardener’s residence was a tumbledown
wooden and mud house, but the owner’s “kioschk” (pleasure house) was
very pretty. The garden, too, was well kept, and full of magnificent
walnuts and oaks, like the corner of an English park. I noticed most of
our English fruit trees, and fine vines trained along espaliers; the
clover and turf equalled the finest in England. I was much interested by
the number and tameness of the birds. The garden was literally full of
singing birds, especially the thrush and the nightingale. Eregli is the
paradise of nightingales. And a host of smaller warblers sang amid the
branches, bright-hued woodpeckers flitted from tree to tree, the hoopoe
waved his long-crested top-knot; even the wary magpie alighted close by
us without signs of fear. All the birds are wonderfully tame, but in
this country they are never persecuted, and so have no fear of man; the
gentleness of the Osmanli to animals is a good trait in his character.
I never saw any place in which the swift was so abundant; from our room
we could see hundreds upon hundreds sweeping and screaming through the
air. A large running stream traversed the garden, bordered by rows of
old poplars, which were full of storks’ nests. These grave birds kept up
a continual clapping with their bills, or twined their lithe necks in
amorous fondness as they stood on the mass of sticks that formed their
nest, without taking any notice of the strangers a few yards below them.
The gardener brought us out carpets and cushions and coffee, and we lay
down awhile to repose ourselves. This garden is exactly the kind of
place an Osmanli loves; here, on the soft turf, under the shade of some
wide-spread tree, will the Osmanli lounge, hour after hour, languidly
inhaling the smoke of his narghileh, and fingering his “tesbihh”
(rosary), lulled by the murmur of the babbling stream, and thinking of
“nothing at all;” but should need require it, he can rouse himself with
lightning swiftness from this siren lethargy, and then he will pass at
once from languid repose to fiery action. This is a land of contrasts,
and its sons are like their mother.
We returned to our khan pleased with our visit, but exhausted by
the heat. We were very comfortable, on the whole, in this wretched,
tumbledown old place, miscalled the “Yeni Khan,” the “new” khan. The
khanji was obliging and very attentive to us, and a poor little Turkish
boy of twelve or fourteen years, a veritable treasure, waited upon us. He
brought us bread, milk, eggs, and yaourt from the market, looked after
the horses, lighted our fire, &c., and did all in so nice a way, so
attentively and conscientiously, that I was greatly pleased with him. I
can recall even yet his musical voice and concise replies, “Var,” “Yes,
there is,” or “Yes, it is;” “Boulăneùr,” “Yes, it is to be had, and I
will bring it,” &c. Poor little Osman! He was a native of Bektik, and
belonged to a family of eight brothers, of whom three only remained, two
younger than himself, with their mother; three had died in the famine
time, two, he thought, were in Adana, but he knew nothing of them. He
was allowed to stay at the khan and do any little odd job that offered,
and so get a precarious kind of living from the people who resorted to
the khan. “He would not get much from the Cæsariots,” said Nahli. We
advised him to try and make his way to the sea-coast, not to stay in the
interior, but to avoid Adana, as it is most unhealthy. That little boy
will succeed wherever he goes, his manners are so pleasing, and he is so
willing and obliging. Poor fellow! adversity had come on him very early;
he was very dejected when we left.
Our food at Eregli, though extremely plain, was pure and wholesome;
the bread, milk, eggs, and yaourt were good in quality and remarkably
cheap. But meat could not be obtained, and though we tried fowls twice,
the result was not encouraging, so preternaturally tough were they. In
Karamania no hen is promoted to the honours of the table until after she
has fulfilled her duty by laying a great many eggs.
I recall my brief stay at Eregli with much pleasure.