LYSTRA. KESTEL. MAUGA. MOUT.
_June 16th._—We started for an excursion to Kara Dagh, to visit the
ruins at Maden Shehir, which the people of the country call the “Bin
bir kilissé” (Thousand and one churches), and of which they think very
highly. A zaptieh and a letter from the kaimakam to the Mukhtar of Maden
Shehir were procured, but we could not start till nearly ten o’clock, and
the heat of the day was excessive, though tempered out on the plain by a
fresh breeze. For about five miles from the town the plain was covered
with a luxuriant harvest, and the brilliant hues of the great beds of
flowers in every direction were most beautiful.
On the way our zaptieh, who was a chatty, sociable fellow, told me his
history. He had been obliged to enter the service of the Government as a
zaptieh, because all his property had been lost in the winter of 1873-4.
He had a flock of 150 goats, and to find food for them he had sold little
by little everything he had in the world. But all was of no use, they all
died, and being thus reduced to utter destitution he became a zaptieh. He
had a wife and one child at Koniah, of which he is a native. On leaving
them he had borrowed a few piastres for their support, but he had been
unable to send them anything, as for two months he had received no pay
whatever. When ordered to go with us he told the kaimakam that he could
not, his horse required to be shod, and he had not a piastre to pay for
it; he had not the means even to buy bread on the journey for himself,
and was ashamed to ask me for payment till the end of the journey. After
considerable delay he extracted from the authorities the magnificent sum
of eleven piastres (not quite 2_s._).
This little fact shows to what miserable straits the provincial
Government is reduced.
Our route lay under the bare volcanic precipices of Kara Dagh, and after
about three hours’ ride we halted at the village of Kilbassen. The people
brought us to the “strangers’ room,” and soon the principal villagers
came to visit us. The account they gave of the state of their village
was truly touching. Formerly it contained 206 inhabited houses, now
only 100 are inhabited. Some few of the missing villagers may return,
but they know that most died either at Koniah or Adana. They possessed
48,000 sheep and goats, of which only about 400 are left. Of 500 oxen,
100 are left; of 900 calves, 25 remain; of 400 cows, about the same
number. They feared that before the new harvest became ripe they would
lose yet thirty or forty of their people. There is still a very little
flour left in about a dozen houses, and this is sparingly doled out by
the possessors. The new grain will not be ripe for nearly a month yet,
but the people have already begun to eat the unripe grain. I asked how
the people contrived to support life, and was told that a few cows and
goats still remained; the little milk they produced was used as a soup,
and such herbs and grasses as could be eaten were cooked with it. Of
course many cannot obtain half enough even of this wretched food. They
also made a kind of cake of a little meal, with cooked mallows, wild
artichoke, mountain spinach, and any other edible herbs they could find.
They showed me some of it, and I brought away a specimen. But they suffer
grievously, and many had died of dysentery in consequence. Some poor
little children were brought for me to see, whose faces and limbs were
swollen through this unnatural diet, or from some deleterious herb. Some
of the worst cases had been taken to Karaman, and shown to the governor,
but no assistance had been given.
I left these people what money I could spare from the supply I had taken
for our excursion, and about a year afterwards heard from an English
friend who visited their village that it had been of great service to
them, and had just enabled them to tide over the worst.
Unfortunately the Government has no bowels of compassion for the poor
people. When my friend visited the place in June, 1876, the taxes were
being collected. In prosperous times Kilbassen used to pay about 150,000
piastres per year, and the same amount was still demanded. The villagers
were selling their houses and land, for no remission could be obtained,
and there was present an Armenian, one of those human jackals who follow
the steps of the tax-gatherers. He was always near to offer a miserable
price for the victim’s land or other property. The same process is being
repeated all over this district. The claims of a rapacious and needy
Government, force the impoverished landholder to sell his property; and
unless the head of the village can command some resources, there is no
buyer except such men as this Armenian; and thus it often happens that
an unfortunate debtor is obliged to sell his property at one-fifth its
value. In this way the land is rapidly changing hands, and coming into
the possession of the Greeks and Armenians, who are perfectly aware of
the importance of this fact, and are endeavouring to buy up all the real
property possible.
The zaptieh sent from Karaman had brought an order to the villagers
to pay up all Government claims within twenty-four hours! Under such
a system it is not surprising that the Turkish population diminishes;
in some parts of the province this has occurred to the extent, I was
told, of 60 per cent. of their former numbers, although this terrible
diminution was chiefly caused by the great famine. But when once a
Turkish village is ruined or depopulated, it seems never able to recover;
especially has this been the case during the last ten years. During
the famine year the Muslims throughout the district sold all they had
to obtain food—amongst other things, even their arms—and the Greek and
Armenian usurers often bought these, and the land also, for a trifling
quantity of grain!
We left Kilbassen at about two o’clock, still continuing along the base
of the Kara Dagh. At about half an hour’s distance from the village is
the site of an extensive ancient town, but only heaps of roughly hewn
stones remain. The guide, however, pointed out one on which is rudely
and faintly carved the following:—
[Illustration:
ΑΓΑΘΟϹΑΠΝΕϹΧΑΤΟϹ
ΤωΝΑΒΕΑΔωΝΕΓΕΝΕ
ΤΟΠΡωΤΟϹ
]
“Agathos, the lowest of all, became the first of the Abeadæ.” The
inscription is of some little interest as giving the name of the town.
After passing the ruins of several villages we turned up into the
mountain by a deep ravine on the left. The climate here is quite that
of a yaila; there is rich vegetation, grass, and an infinite variety of
flowers. I observed many English trees and plants, amongst them much
mistletoe growing on the wild pear tree. Birds of many kinds abounded,
and the warbling of the thrush was heard in every direction. Kara Dagh
is only wooded on this portion (the S.E.). The centre of the great plain
east from Kilbassen is occupied by an immense marsh; its outline could
be traced very distinctly, the water in the midst of it being edged with
deep green vegetation; Serpek was plainly visible.
At half-past six we reached Maden Shehir, and the mukhtar, in obedience
to the kaimakam’s letter, received us well, but the villagers are said to
be naturally hospitable. Scarcely were we seated when about half-a-dozen
women came up unveiled, and all in their best dresses. It seems that a
girl of the place was betrothed to a man in another village, and these
women had come to bring her a present, a silken veil, a fine yorghan, and
other things. Some of the women who had come were really good-looking;
one wore a large gold medal at her throat. They did not wear veils, but
simply turned away the head when they observed a stranger looking at
them. Our host’s daughter, a girl of about sixteen years of age, tripped
past several times. She was dressed in wide trousers of deep blue satin,
a jacket of crimson satin, a Syrian sash round her waist, and a yellow
silk kerchief on the head. She wore a quantity of gold coin round her
head and neck; other coins were fastened in the many long plaits of hair
that hung down over her shoulders. Evidently she had got herself up to
do honour to her visitors. Later in the evening the sound of music began
to be heard. Besides the usual shepherd’s pipe, which has a high though
sometimes pleasing note, I heard a deep bass flute, and this was the only
occasion on which I heard it.
It is strange how trifles sometimes remain impressed upon the memory, and
often when thinking of this beautiful country I recall the pleasure with
which I used to hear this rustic music. Often when shepherd and flock
were hardly visible, far up on the green mountain side, the cheerful
notes would float faintly on the air, and the whole flock would begin to
move and follow their master.
Our host was rich and owned much land around the mountain; he seemed a
kind but somewhat rough person, more like an Egyptian fellahh than a
Turk. He told us he had three wives, and twenty-one children had been
born to him, of whom only six were now living. A villager, however rich
he may be, takes a wife merely as a servant to look after his cattle and
his household affairs. She is a toiling slave, and of course many of her
children die. Our host remembered seeing several European travellers.
Usually one visited the place every eight or nine years. He remembered
especially the visit of one, an Englishman. This was many years ago when
he was quite a boy, and from the mukhtar’s age I thought it might have
been Hamilton.
There was the usual tale to be told about the loss of flocks. Out of his
whole flock our host had only twenty left, for although he managed to
provide sufficient food for them, they perished from the intense cold.
One of his neighbours owned 600 goats, but only five survived, and he,
too, had provided food enough. The loss was the greater as the hair of
these goats, though not equal in quality to that of the Angora goat, is
still very fine.
Maden Shehir consists of sixty to seventy houses, scattered about amidst
the wide-spread ruins of the old city, a vast accumulation of loose
blocks of trachyte, almost buried in grass, flowers, and rich vegetation.
Most of the churches and public buildings are built of hewn stones of
red and grey trachyte, from the neighbouring mountain; the materials of
the houses are roughly-shaped blocks, placed together without cement.
The want of wood is in a measure compensated by the rich pasturage and
vegetation which cover the mountain slopes, even thus late in the season.
I remarked here a larger variety of flowers than in any single spot I
had visited, and the number and variety of birds was also remarkable.
The position of the village—facing the north, in a ravine between two
outlying spurs of the mountain, which partially shelter it both from the
rising and setting sun—has much to do with this.
The villagers had suffered from the famine, but not so severely as many
of their neighbours. Fifteen of their number had died of hunger, and many
more of diseases resulting from improper and insufficient diet; dysentery
was still prevailing, and very fatal. But the Government had given them
substantial help. Three kilehs of grain per head had been distributed,
even the children receiving their portion. Seed corn had been given, and
even oxen offered; but they were not needed, as the oxen of the village
had escaped, although the sheep and goats had almost entirely perished.
The people here confirmed the sad account given to us by the poor
villagers of Kilbassen.
We slept on the terrace of our host’s house, and found the night air so
cold that all the coverings we had, scarcely sufficed to keep us warm.
_June 17th._—Rose at daybreak, and started to visit the many ruined
churches in the place. The villagers said there were forty-eight, but I
think the estimate exaggerated. There may be from twenty-five to thirty,
which are evidently churches, of the strangest and most dissimilar style,
although some are of excellent plan and execution. They are in better
preservation than any other ruins I have yet seen in Karamania.
The old city seems to have been a great monastic or ecclesiastic
settlement, and this is very probably the site of Lystra. But I noticed
only one inscription; it was on the wall of one of the churches, and was
illegible, and there did not appear to be a single fragment of marble or
granite in the place, so that more careful investigation than I could
give would be requisite before pronouncing on this point.
I subjoin a description of a few of the more remarkable ruins:—
(1) An octagonal tower, with three projecting chapels and a projecting
ante-chapel or porch. In the upper part of the tower are small arched
windows, one in each side. The arrangement of the windows below is,
three in the vaulted apse at the east, two at the N.W. and S.W. angles
of the octagon. There are three doors, two small on north and south, one
large on the west. The roofs of these chapels and of the tower are stone
cupolas. Below the roof of the tower there had been a false ceiling;
some of its rafters still remain, projecting from the wall inside, in a
circular form. Our guide said that he had once mounted and sawn off one
of them. They were of “ketràn” wood, and the beam he had sawn was still
sound and in good condition. The masonry of this building was excellent,
consisting of large stones closely fitted together with a small quantity
of cement.
The other churches near were of different plan, but of similar materials.
Near it are some masonry tombs, and some sarcophagi. One of the tombs
is built of great hewn stones, measuring 12 feet 3 inches by 2 feet 10½
inches, and in breadth 1 foot 5 inches. The interior has a large shelf
running round it, and is lighted by two windows, very small and narrow
outside and widening within, and it had a small square entrance; the
roof consisted of a series of great slabs, 12 to 14 feet long. In riding
higher up into the mountain to visit another great mass of ruins, we
passed a church of very strange form, built upon an eminence about 400
feet above the village.
It consisted of a stone vaulted apse, having attached to it a pentagonal
screen on arches; outside this is an exterior wall, with small arched
windows, and the space enclosed between this and the interior screen is
in two stories, which have small square windows looking inwards. This
outer wall forms a figure of thirteen sides, the great west door being
in the thirteenth side. There is a small door to the north of the large
door, and just below the cupola of the apse are four small square windows
which give light to the interior. The masonry is very good.
High up upon the lower peak of the mountain are the very considerable
remains of a monastery, and five or six churches attached to it. They
consist of solid masonry vaults, covering the apses, but the arches and
most of the other vaulting have fallen.
They appear to have been in connection with the churches at Maden Shehir,
for at several places in the mountain, along the road, are similar
chapels. I saw no inscription, except one over the apse arch of one of
these churches. It was very roughly cut, with the cross in the centre of
the arch.
[Illustration:
* * * * ΕΥΧΗΙΝ * * * * * *
* * * * * ΕΥΧΗΔΟΜΕΤΙΟΥ
]
At this elevation the air and climate are extremely fine, but Kara Dagh
scarcely contains a single spring, and, like the monks in the olden time,
the inhabitants depend for their supply of water on rain collected in the
old cisterns. These are very large and numerous, many being still in
use. Near the top of the mountain my horse ran away, and narrowly escaped
tumbling into one of these cisterns, the mouth of which was hidden and
almost closed by a mass of herbage and bushes. As we were returning
towards Maden Shehir, two old Turks—brothers, and singularly alike in
feature—came out from a hamlet above the village, and invited me to halt
at their house and drink some “kenger” coffee. This is the roasted berry
of a large species of thistle, which grows wild in the mountains of
Karamania. It forms a tolerable substitute for coffee, and the decoction
made with it has a bitter aromatic flavour. Our two friends wore green
turbans of the old-fashioned style, descending in heavy folds over the
temples, and low down on either side of the face. They showed me a huge
antique vessel of earthenware, which they had found when digging in order
to lay the foundations of their house. They use it as a cistern, and it
must contain a very large quantity of water; for its brim was as high as
my shoulder, and it was of a wide bulbous shape.
We left Maden Shehir at 3 P.M., and reached Kilbassen in two hours and a
half. Here we halted to obtain some grass for our horses; but at first
none of the villagers would take the trouble to bring it; then they
sent two boys to cut some of the unripe barley. We waited an hour and a
half, but nothing was brought. At last, thoroughly disgusted, I caused
the horses to be saddled, and prepared to start. Then, somewhat ashamed
of their inhospitality, several of them went out, and in a few minutes
brought a load of grass. At 8.30 P.M. we started for Karaman. The ride
across the plain by moonlight was very pleasant.
I found the air even cold at night on this elevated plateau, after the
powerful sun in daytime. As before, during our night march from Adana,
I noticed the singing of the birds, especially of larks, during the
moonlight. We reached Karaman a little before midnight.
I was detained at Karaman till July 20th, from want of the means of
transport. It was very difficult to obtain a “souriji,” as nearly
everybody was busied with the harvest, and all the horses were required;
even the police could not help me for some time. At last a man came to
offer his services. He was of extraordinary bodily strength and stature,
but with a voice like a hoarse whisper, in consequence of an illness,
contracted, as he told me, in the following manner:—
Some ten or twelve years ago, he had been employed to drive to Mersina a
number of camels, carrying wheat, which belonged to the Kadi of Karaman.
The season was late autumn, a most treacherous time, for although the
days then are often very fine, and the passes open, no reliance whatever
can be placed upon the weather, and sudden snowstorms are always to be
dreaded in these elevated regions.
He had taken the route of the Dumbelek Pass, and when about half-way
through it a heavy fall of snow came on just before nightfall. With very
great difficulty he had unloaded his camels, and caused them to lie down
together, so as to secure as much warmth and shelter as possible. Then,
all panting and perspiring with his exertions, he had gone to drink at
a spring hard by. But while stooping over the ice-cold water, he became
sensible that his voice had suddenly broken; and though he had, after
long illness, partially recovered it, he was never again so strong as
before.
“Before that time,” he said, proudly, “I should not have feared to
encounter any two men! No three men could have thrown me to the ground!”
We found him a simple, good-natured, and obliging fellow. It seems that
when he heard of the route we intended to take he was anxious to be
engaged, as we should pass by a village where a girl lived whom he was
about to marry.
I was amused at the distrust of us he showed at first, and my interpreter
only secured him by persuading him to give his turban as a pledge that he
would not disappoint me.
I might have been detained many days had not this man come forward.
Peasants are not allowed to go from one vilayet into another without
permission. It was necessary, therefore, to obtain a passport for him, as
the man expressed his willingness to go with us, even to Smyrna, if we
thought fit.
Accordingly, my interpreter called on the kaimakam for that purpose, and
returned to me with news which, for the moment, somewhat troubled me.
He had found the kaimakam’s divan full of an excited crowd of villagers,
come to beg assistance against a band of brigands, who had committed many
depredations, and even several murders, in the country round Bozallah
Dagh, to the west of Karaman. The kaimakam had promised to send a small
detachment of troops, and had given the villagers authority to pursue and
slay the brigands wherever they might find them.
On my sending Nahli again to inquire if it would be safe for me, under
such circumstances, to travel in that direction, the kaimakam replied,
“he had no doubt that in a few days the marauders would be either killed
or obliged to fly the country.” He could not, however, answer absolutely
for my safety, nor could he spare me more than one cavass; but he gave me
an order on the villages in his district, to provide, should I require
it, an armed escort of five or six villagers, from one halting place to
another, whom, of course, I was to pay for their trouble. He warned me
at the same time, that the people thereabouts had a very indifferent
character for hospitality, that they were unruly and lawless, and I must
look sharply after my horses.
To a certain extent I found all this to be the case; indeed, without
the support of a Government cavass, I could scarcely have traversed
that district at all. But the people were certainly better than their
reputation.
_June 20th._—Left Karaman at 9.20 A.M. I had intended to go through the
western portion of ancient Isauria, a part of Karamania almost unknown
and unvisited, and then, after exploring the sites of Isaura, Oroanda,
Pednelissus, Selge, and the other cities in the valley of the Eurymedon,
to pass through Lycia, onwards to Smyrna. The season, it was true, was
far advanced, the heat great, and travelling in the plains difficult, and
even unsafe, on account of the increasing malaria. But once in Lycia, a
district with which I was already acquainted, I could better calculate
how many days would be required to reach Smyrna, and most of the route
would lie through healthy highland districts.
It will be seen that unlooked-for obstacles forced me to abandon the
project, to my extreme regret.
The hills to the south of Karaman are rocky heights of chalk and
limestone, and are almost without vegetation at this season; but the
roads across them are very easy. Far on our left rose the bare conical
summit of Mount Mighail, and a very wide extent of downs, stretching to
the horizon in all directions, lay beneath our eyes when we reached the
highest ridge of hills at 11.45 A.M. Just at this place the road to the
sea-coast by Kara Tash Yaila, branches off on the left towards Mount
Mighail.
At 12.15 P.M. we came suddenly to a deep ravine, a cleft in the limestone
strata. At the bottom of the ravine was a long, winding valley, watered
by a considerable stream, well cultivated, and full of silvery waving
corn, and fruit trees, interspersed with copses of oak, walnut, poplar,
and a kind of willow, sweet-scented and full of long, sharp thorns. It
was one of the usual contrasts, so charming in Asia Minor. The sides of
the ravine were great walls and projecting ledges of limestone rock, of
a deep red, almost vermilion, gradually changing to a crumbling yellow
sandstone, full of caverns. The little side ravines, down which springs
and rivulets flowed from the plateau above, were full of trees and
herbage, and re-echoed with the warbling of the thrush and several other
singing birds.
At 1.30 P.M. we were obliged by a heavy thunderstorm to halt at the
village of Geuèzz, and take shelter in the house of the mukhtar. It is
a curious little place, near the upper end of the ravine, built at the
side of a high precipice of deep red limestone. Its houses are partly
under the beetling brow of the rock, partly formed out of the caves, both
large and numerous, with which the whole rock is honeycombed. We had
passed, a little lower down the ravine, a similar place, but deserted,
which Ali, our souriji, told us had been the stronghold of a rebel Dere
Bey, of some note, about a century before. Geuèzz was probably inhabited,
and its caverns used as a burial place, long before Christian times.
The villagers, however, could give no information as to the site of
any ancient city in the neighbourhood. The labour and cost of hewing
these galleries and chambers in the hard limestone must have been very
great, and we were told that there were several series of chambers,
all connected by galleries. The mukhtar took us through his hareèm,
in order to show us one of the galleries. We were obliged to crawl on
hands and knees for a considerable distance, and then reached a large
chamber, about 10 feet in height, and half full of wheat, from which a
very regularly cut shaft, like a well, ran up perpendicularly through
the solid rock. It had steps, or rather foot-holes, cut in the sides, by
which to ascend and descend, and our guide said he had made the ascent
twice. The shaft was about 150 feet deep, and at its top was another
large system of rock chambers. He said that within his recollection no
European had ever visited this place.
The thunderstorm was so violent that he strongly urged us to remain,
saying that the ravine above the village soon became so narrow as only
to leave space for the water of the stream, and we should find this
unfordable until next morning. Accordingly, we stayed, and found his
house tolerably clean and comfortable. But I was suffering from a slight
attack of fever, and therefore felt very miserable.
Before 1873-4 Geuèzz consisted of about seventy houses, of which only
thirty are now inhabited. Many of the people had died of hunger, many
had emigrated. Their flocks had perished, but not quite so utterly as
in other villages. The Government authorities had given them no help,
although they had sent in several petitions. At last an order came for
the mukhtar to go to Karaman, and receive a grant of a kileh of wheat
per head for the villagers. Unfortunately for himself, he was delayed
a few days by sickness, and upon his arrival at Karaman was charged
by the kaimakam with neglect of duty. No excuse was admitted. He was
imprisoned, and fined T. 1_l._, which he was obliged to borrow from a
friend in the town before he could obtain his discharge. Since that time,
nothing whatever had been done for them. None die now of hunger, for,
being but few in number, they are able to afford each other more help.
But here also the poor starving creatures were obliged to eat grass and
herbs, and for a little time had absolutely no other sustenance, so that
the mortality from disease was naturally very high; and even now the
poorer villagers cannot obtain bread or flour every day. When I heard
the mukhtar’s statement, I could not help thinking of the heap of wheat
I had seen in his rock granary, and desired Nahli to ask him why he did
not distribute some of _that_ to his neighbours, who were in such sore
need; and all the more, as there was a fair prospect of a rich and speedy
harvest. But Nahli was unwilling to put so delicate a question.
I asked for some information about the passes through the mountains, from
the interior to the sea-coast. They mentioned five—the pass of Kulek
Boghaz, by which we had come; the pass over Dumbelek Dagh, impracticable
for more than five months in the year on account of the snow, and
difficult at all times, as it traverses the high mountains;[22] Kara
Tash Yaila Pass, a good level road, closed for three months in the year;
a pass leading directly to Ilamaz (Lamos), near Ayash, also very easy,
and closed for two months; lastly, a pass by Mout, closed only for one
month in the year. This and the Kulek Boghaz pass were the longest; the
Dumbelek Pass shortest and most direct.
_June 21st._—Left Geuèzz at 6 A.M. The site of the village is pretty;
the valley and the sides of the ravine are full of fine trees; the turf
is thick and soft, and dotted with daisies as in England. A little way
beyond the village is a red limestone precipice, 250 to 300 feet in
perpendicular height. The rocks resound with the cry of the cuckoo, but
it differs from the cry of our own cuckoo, and is a quick repetition
of “hŏo-hoŏ, hŏo-hŏo, hŏo-hoŏ,” although in other parts of Karamania I
have heard the note of the cuckoo as at home. Every sound is echoed and
re-echoed in this deep rocky cleft. Yesterday, during the storm, the
echoing thunder peals were terrific, long after the peal had ceased on
the plateau above; and to-day we could hear the voices of the villagers,
and the barking of their dogs, long after the village itself was out of
sight. I may remark _en passant_ that never in any part of the world I
have visited, have I experienced such terrific thunderstorms as in the
mountains of Anatolia and Karamania.[23]
As we mounted towards the head of the ravine, its great rock walls
approached nearer and nearer, till the projecting ridges almost met
overhead. We were obliged to cross the stream continually, and to judge
from the water marks we could not have forded it yesterday. But its
waters rapidly subside, the bare plateaux and treeless mountain slopes
allowing the rain to run off almost as soon as it has fallen. Here, our
guide mentioned the existence of some rock tombs, and carved figures, in
a side valley, and we turned aside to visit them, but they were not worth
the trouble. Ali, our souriji, said that some of the Geuèzz villagers had
excavated the largest in hope of finding in it buried treasure. They had
worked nearly three months, devoting to the undertaking all the time
they could spare, but had discovered nothing. As he told the tale, Ali
laughed heartily at their foolish expectations.
Along the upper course of the stream is a succession of beautiful little
valleys, partly under grain cultivation, but chiefly full of magnificent
pasturage. We rode two hours through dells full of fine grass, but alas!
there are no flocks left to eat it. We saw not a single man or animal!
At length we emerged upon the plateau above the valley of the stream,
crossed a high ridge of hills, that commanded a grand and far-extended
view, and saw in another deep limestone cleft the large and very dirty
village of Geudètt. It was almost deserted, as the inhabitants were
living in their yaila up in the mountains beyond, so without staying we
continued our route, and in an hour, after traversing a steep and narrow
ravine, came to a group of about a dozen cabins and huts. Tired by the
five hours’ ride from Geuèzz, and by the heat of the sun, I lay down to
sleep under the shade of the only tree to be seen, but was soon roused
up to enjoy an excellent lunch sent to us by these kind-hearted people,
and consisting of fried eggs, delicious butter and “yaourt,” and a pilaff
of rice. Ali, who was fond of chaffing our cavass, Hassan, had persuaded
him to go up to the huts and ask for some food. There were none but women
present, but they most hospitably supplied our wants with the utmost
readiness. It seems that these villagers are in good circumstances, their
flocks and herds had escaped starvation, and I saw here large flocks of
goats and sheep, many cows and camels, and a few good horses.
After we had eaten, I desired Nahli to go up to the huts and pay for what
had been sent, but all assured me that payment would not be accepted, and
that the lunch had been given as a matter of course. So after presenting
the servant—a young negro lad—with a “bucksheesh,” in acknowledgment of
their kindness, we left these hospitable people and resumed our journey
at 1.45. The road passed over hills high and rocky, but covered with
abundant pasturage. Every valley contained its little group of Yourouk
tents—these people had come up from the sea-coast to pass the summer
here, and Ali told me that this neighbourhood is a very favourite resort
of the Yourouks and Tchingannis (gipsies)—at one of their encampments we
halted to obtain a draught of “eiràn” (butter-milk).
In about an hour we gained a fine view of several long ranges of
mountains thickly covered with pines—Kestel Dagh was amongst them—over
which we should pass on the way to Mout (Claudiopolis). Heavy
thunder-clouds hung over the highest point, and in front the rain was
falling heavily, but we escaped. As we approached the mountains, we
passed through belts of magnificent forest. The trees are too far from
the sea to pay for the expense of transport, and are therefore mostly
left in a state of nature. Since leaving Kulek Boghaz I have seen no
trees to be compared with these. The whole of this district has at some
period formed the bed of the sea; the number of fossils is very great,
the entire rock being in some places merely a mass of fossil shells.
After passing through a gorge in the forest we entered a long and narrow
plain, full of the most luxuriant pasture, the grass being as green as
in England. Only an extremely small proportion of the soil is under
cultivation, and as winter comes on, the place is deserted, for deep snow
lies here during four months of the year. I passed two trees on whose
branches were perched more than fifty storks, and they were so tame that
they did not take to flight until I was within a distance of twenty yards
from them.
The hills and smaller ranges all round are of extremely soft and
undulating outline, and are covered with pines. This view came more up to
my ideal of Asia Minor scenery than any I had yet beheld.
The village of Kestel, our halting place, was now in sight. It is at
the side of the mountain, about one-fourth of the way up. Above it the
mountain is topped by a range of precipitous cliffs, exactly like the
walls and round towers of some huge castle. To the west of the village
is a vast cleft in the mountain chain, through which a little river
makes its way. The gorge is quite impassable on horseback, and can only
be traversed with very great difficulty on foot. Kestel has only been
established about six years. It is now the principal yaila of Mout, and
possesses magnificent water and pasture.
We found it very difficult to reach, for our cavass lost the way, and we
blundered on in the darkness through a wilderness of rocks. Even when
we had succeeded in finding the village we could obtain no lodging. The
people mistook us for ushirjis (tithe farmers), and would have nothing
to do with us. But on applying to the kaimakam, he sent us to the house
of his secretary, a clean and comfortable lodging, and the owner was
a tolerably enlightened man, although he _did_ ask the usual stupid
question, “Of what use is it to go about searching for antiquities?” &c.,
&c.
_June 22nd._—Rose soon after sunrise, and rambled out to see the village;
it consisted of about twenty houses, nestled at the side of the mountain
amid luxuriant grass, the verdure of which was maintained by a great
number of plentiful springs. Our host’s cottage was a wooden building
of one story, overshadowed by fine walnut trees, and out of the garden
burst one of the many springs referred to. Due north of Kestel is a
difficult mountain pass, Demir Kapou, which we had avoided by passing
a considerable distance to the east. On the N.E., at about two hours’
distance, is a large village, “Ellexi”; to the east another village,
“Tchivi”; a little to west of north another, but not visible, “Geumah.”
The people of Kestel were not hospitable. We had sent our souriji, Ali,
to buy us some eggs and milk for breakfast; on returning I found he had
been unsuccessful. He had tried five or six houses, but had been told
they did not “sell” milk. We sent him again to beg that they would “give”
us some. After another long absence he returned with about a tumblerful.
Upon this we sent him to the kaimakam to complain that the villagers
would neither “sell” nor “give” us what we needed, and he at once ordered
a liberal supply to be sent to us. After breakfast the secretary, the
kadi, and a number of the leading people came to pay us a visit. I
observed that many smoked the “chibouque,” a usage now fast becoming
obsolete both here and in Egypt. The conversation turned upon the usual
subjects—the attitude of Russia, Yakoob Beg of Kashgar, and the state of
their own country. They seemed intensely dissatisfied with the present
condition of things; complained freely of the heavy taxation, none of
which was expended on local wants, and said that an order had just been
received from Constantinople to sell even the forests of the district. I
took the opportunity of telling them through Nahli my opinion concerning
the state of affairs in their country. They listened, patiently enough,
to the hard truths he had to communicate—and he certainly spoke out
freely—and were by no means offended; indeed, as I started, the secretary
shouted out that if I came back that way I must be sure to “come and
stay with him.” Next we paid a visit to the kaimakam, a quiet, polite
man, and far more enlightened than most of the people we met. He gave us
coffee with milk and sugar, saying, aside, to his servant, as he ordered
it, “for they like it thus.” When told of my unfortunate experience at
Adana, he said he did not wonder, for he considered Adana one of the most
unhealthy and dangerous places in the whole empire. I was sorry to hear
afterwards that he had been dismissed; the people did not like him, but I
could not learn why.
We left his house at 10 A.M. accompanied by a cavass, whom he furnished,
a sub-officer of the army. He had been specially chosen, as the kaimakam
again warned us of the difficulties we should have with the peasantry,
and I am convinced had it not been for Hassan’s presence we should have
been obliged to return, even if worse had not befallen us! On the way I
stopped to examine a ruined city which was below the village. It had been
a large Christian town on an older site. The hill on which it was built
is surrounded on three sides by very deep ravines. A line of wall had
been built across the hill from S.E. to N.W., and a wall seems to have
been carried all round the edge of the ravines, and to have enclosed a
strong castle at the side of the hill. Of this four large square towers
remain, but partly ruined. The highest point in the city was occupied by
a church of the usual form, viz. a nave, two aisles, and a stone-vaulted
apse. All the roof except at the apse has fallen in; a line of arches
on either side separated the nave from the aisles. At the sides of the
apse, and inner side walls, are pilasters with Corinthian capitals,
taken from some other building. The west façade has fallen into utter
ruin; there was a wide, open, paved space in front of it. On the north
of the church is a large, square, and roofless building; inserted in its
N.W. corner is a Greek inscription taken from some earlier building, but
utterly illegible. In the ravine on the S.E. are the ruins of a bridge;
some of the arches still remain. The necropolis extended outside the city
from N. to S.E., and the rocks around contain, as usual, a great number
of rock tombs and sarcophagi. I could find only a single inscription
amongst them, and the name of the city nowhere appears. Doubtless the
town was one of those destroyed by the early Mahommedan invaders, and
must have been abandoned long before the time of Karaman Oglou. At
midday we started for Mout, and mounted by a very steep ascent through a
magnificent forest to the lower ridges of Kestel Dagh. The ride across
the top of the mountain was long and rough. Then came a descent through a
most beautiful glen, full of fine trees and pasture, and watered by many
springs. I well remember one very beautiful spring, “Tchatal Tchesmasi”—a
common name for springs in Turkey—which was extremely cold and pure, but
everywhere in this neighbourhood the water is excellent. At the bottom
of the glen we crossed a torrent by a bridge; to the right of this is a
tremendous ravine rent in the mountain chain, through which the stream
flows. High above on the mountain tops were gloomy forests of ketràn,
so dark that even in the bright sunlight they resembled patches of the
deepest indigo.
A long, tedious ascent followed across the shoulder of the mountain in
front. From the top I had the first view of the valley of the Calycadnus
(Gieuk Sou). It is from ten to fifteen miles wide, finely cultivated,
and bordered by high mountain ranges; many smaller ranges rise in the
valley itself. It is a landscape worthy of Cilicia Trachœa! Far off on
the west were ranges of mountains, which rose high above the level on
which we stood, and all around us were precipices of red limestone in
great layers, and the plateaux above them formed so many fresh and green
yailas. They were so numerous that I only noticed one of them, “Keràn
Yailasi,” a little beyond which was a high natural arch of red rock,
sinking down some 1200 feet in rugged precipices to a giddy depth below
us. At 6 P.M. we reached the yaila of Mauga, and, finding a Yourouk
encampment, we determined upon lodging there for the night. These people
received us very hospitably, gave us a tent and a good supper, and as
we sat outside in the cool mountain air, and saw the purple vapours
rising thickly from the river valley below, we could not but congratulate
ourselves on our comfortable quarters. In the middle of the night we were
alarmed by the fierce baying of our hosts’ watch-dogs. These mountains
are full of beasts of prey, and probably a wolf was prowling about the
flocks. The Yourouk dogs are splendid animals, and of great value to
their masters.
_June 23rd._—Left the Yourouk tents at 7.30 A.M. About half a mile from
them we halted to visit the great rock fortress of Mauga. I cannot better
describe it than by comparing it to a gigantic square pillar, cut off
from the rest of the mountain chain in the line of which it stands, by
three tremendous rifts in the rock. On the side towards the valley of the
Calycadnus the rock pillar descends with a sheer depth of more than 2000
feet—(I do not think even 2500 feet an exaggerated estimate!)—and on the
north side it is separated from the rest of the mountain range, by gulfs
and precipitous abysses, the very sight of which is enough to make one
shudder. The only possible means of access is by a narrow ledge of rock
on the S.E. side; and this ledge, which has on either side a profound
gulf, has been cut quite through to a depth of some twenty-five feet, and
thus a kind of outer ditch has been formed, over which the Yourouks have
thrown a slight bridge of trunks of trees covered with brushwood and
stones. They find this a perfectly secure retreat for the flocks from the
attack of wild beasts.
[Illustration: THE ROCK OF MAUGA
Isaurian Mountains in the distance (Sunrise)
_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]
The view of the plain, the junction of the two rivers Ermenek and Gieuk
Sou, and of the mountains on the other side of the river valley, is
strangely grand as seen from the yaila above, through the two great
clefts which separate the rock of Mauga from the rest of the mountain.
The pine-clad hills in the river valley below, although of considerable
elevation, appear like ant-hills when viewed from these heights.
We crossed the bridge, but could find no access to the fort, whose
precipices towered high above, projecting over the gulfs below, and
furrowed by deep rents and caverns, in which the garrison used to live.
The ledge over which we had crossed had once been defended by a wall and
tower, now in ruin, and here was the gateway. But even this only led to a
shelf of rock, a kind of plateau, which ran partly round the rock pillar
to its south side. From the outer edge of this shelf it is possible to
look down almost to the very base, and it is a sight which takes away
the breath, so tremendous is the gulf beneath, and so grand and far
reaching the view. After exploring all the accessible galleries and
passages in a vain attempt to mount to the higher part of the rock, I at
last found the true entrance. It was a gateway in a second tower, behind
the first, and built on a projecting rock above it. This gateway was
about forty feet above the ledge on which we were standing, and the only
means of access was by ropes—the marks of the ropes being still plainly
visible on the stones which formed the sill of the gateway. Even this
gateway is blocked by fallen masonry, so that the place is now utterly
inaccessible. Mauga was probably one of the old Cilician robber holds. At
a later period it seems to have been captured from the Byzantine Greeks
by the Seljouks, for there is an Arabic inscription high up on the face
of the higher tower, but my interpreter, after long and persevering
trial, could only read part of it. It bore the name of Sultan Mohammed,
and the date 586, = about A.D. 1190. Probably this was one of the sultans
of Koniah. Returning to the spot where we had left our horses, far up on
the mountain side—for the path leading to the rock is only practicable
on foot—we resumed our journey, and after passing under a great natural
arch of rock, began the descent of the mountain slope into the valley of
the Calycadnus. It was extremely steep, but the limestone being soft,
and lying in great horizontal layers, the sharply winding path was not
so difficult as it appeared, although it was necessary to dismount and
walk the whole distance. Our cavass, who was a little ahead of us, here
came suddenly upon a chamois (gedìk). The lower slopes of the mountain
are formed of great sheets of smooth white limestone, hard and slippery
as glass, and lying at a steep angle; across these the track passed for
hundreds of yards together, and the horses fell repeatedly. Unlike the
mountains on the side towards Kestel, in which there is abundance of
fossils, and which, it is evident, have been at some time submerged,
there are but few fossils here, and those chiefly “pectens.” But there is
a great variety of conglomerate, with stones of the most brilliant and
varied colours fixed in it.
After a descent of nearly an hour we reached the foot of the mountain,
from which, after a long and tedious ride through the pine forest and
over an execrable road, we arrived at Mout. Looking up to the steep
wall-like heights from which we had descended, we could see the torrents
falling like threads of silver, and the water of the brook at which we
halted was delicious, and cold as ice. One learns to appreciate the value
of water in this burning air!
The night before, as we sat in the clean tent of our Yourouk host at
Mauga, reposing on his best “killim” carpets, with a fire of fragrant
juniper wood burning before us, and looked down upon the broad river
valley far below, full of dense mist and purple fumes, I dreaded the next
day’s heat. Now we were descending into it. Step by step we came down
from the fresh mountain air, through blazing sunshine, into a heat worse
than an Egyptian midsummer. The lonely pine woods through which we rode
resounded at intervals with the shrill whiz of the “cicala,” but there
was no other sign of animated life; not even the note of a bird broke the
otherwise death-like stillness.
About half-way to Mout I stopped under the shade of a mulberry tree, and
whilst the horses ate of the new barley, I sketched the distant view of
the rock of Mauga.
A strong breeze from the north was blowing down the river valley, and it
was exactly like the hot Egyptian “khamseen” wind. The river valley is
bordered and filled with white tufa hills and hills of volcanic sand, and
the wind as it blows across them becomes heated till it resembles the
blast from a furnace. It was nearly ten o’clock before the heat at all
abated.
We halted at the village fountain, the general place of rendezvous, as it
seemed, for the few people left in the place; but only about a dozen came
to take a look at us, for most of the inhabitants are up in their yailas.
All the river valleys and plains of Southern Karamania become extremely
unhealthy when once the hot season has fairly set in, and the lowland
villages, especially those along the sea-coast, are completely deserted
during the hot months. Six or eight other persons, travellers like
ourselves, were bivouacking round the fountain. This is a beautifully
clear and cold spring, which bursts out from under an antique wall in
front of the castle. The stream comes from beneath the castle, but no
one knows whence it is derived. The source, about two feet deep by three
wide, issues from a square aperture, once crowned by a figure in the
stone above it, but the figure has been removed.
All the space in front of the spring had once been paved with hewn blocks
of stone; the carved stone channel of the stream still remained, but all
ruined. A huge ancient fig-tree, gnarled and knotty, and an equally aged
mulberry tree overshadow the spring, and here the people of Mout and the
various wayfarers pass the livelong day. They seem to have no occupation
but to sleep, sit, smoke, talk, and drink the refreshing water. In old
times there must have been a public place in front of the spring, for
portions of several columns still stand _in situ_, perhaps remains of a
porticus. There are four columns on the opposite side of the open space,
and a piece of paved road, too good to be modern.
[Illustration: Ground Plan of the Castle of Mout.]
Mout is a miserable little place, containing only some forty-six houses.
There are a few Christian residents, but most of the Christians who
resort thither are traders from Kaisariyeh. The only buildings worth
notice are the castle, the mosque built by Karaman Oglou, and the two
mausolea in which his two sons are buried. The castle, which appears to
be of the same epoch as the castle of Karaman, is irregular in form,
with towers mostly square, a few round, and one or two polygonal, and
connecting battlemented walls. The stones of the arch over the great
gateway are mortised in the Egyptian style. There is a round keep of
three stories at the upper part of the castle. Its basement wall is 14½
feet in thickness, and it has the staircase inside the masonry; the wall
of the upper stories is 6½ feet in thickness. The whole interior is one
mass of débris and large hewn blocks. The site of the castle is on a
sloping hill above the present town, with steep banks towards the river.
The ruins of the old city are thickly strewn along the heights to S. and
S.W. of the present town, but not a single building remains erect, there
are only fragments of masonry. The necropolis is on the hills to the
S.W. Many fragments of columns may be seen in the town and round it, and
to the south of the castle stand seven columns and the side stones of a
large gateway. This is all that remains of ancient Claudiopolis.
I returned from my explorations utterly exhausted, and it was indeed
delicious to have several basins of the life-giving stream poured over my
head and neck! Most amusing was it to watch the people who come to drink
and those who drew water in the evening. Sometimes quite little toddling
children, not three years old, would come, bringing a little gourd or a
small copper vessel, and it was pleasant to see those a few months older
helping the tiniest; all the while they would continue gazing at me with
that serious tranquil look common to all the children here. There is
something very winning in the little Turkish children!