ON THROUGH ASIA.
Early dawn on Tuesday morning finds me already astir and groping about
the hotel in search of some of the slumbering employees to let me out.
Pocketing a cold lunch in lieu of eating breakfast, I mount and wheel
down the long street leading out of the eastern end of town. On the way
out I pass a party of caravan-teamsters who have just arrived with a
cargo of mohair from Angora; their pack-mules are fairly festooned with
strings of bells of all sizes, from a tiny sleigh-bell to a solemn-voiced
sheet-iron affair the size of a two-gallon jar. These bells make an awful
din; the men are unpacking the weary animals, shouting both at the mules
and at each other, as if their chief object were to create as much noise
as possible; but as I wheel noiselessly past, they cease their unpacking
and their shouting, as if by common consent, and greet me with that
silent stare of wonder that men might be supposed to accord to an
apparition from another world. For some few miles a rough macadam road
affords a somewhat choppy but nevertheless ridable surface, and further
inland it develops into a fairly good roadway, where a dismount is
unnecessary for several miles. The road leads along a depression between
a continuation of the mountain-chains that inclose the Ismidt gulf, which
now run parallel with my road on either hand at the distance of a couple
of miles, some of the spurs on the south range rising to quite an imposing
height. For four miles out of Ismidt the country is flat and swampy;
beyond that it changes to higher ground; and the swampy flat, the higher
ground, and the mountain-slopes are all covered with timber and a dense
growth of underbrush, in which wild-fig shrubs and the homely but beautiful
ferns of the English commons, the Missouri Valley woods, and the California
foot-hills, mingle their respective charms, and hob-nob with scrub-oak,
chestnut, walnut, and scores of others. The whole face of the country
is covered with this dense thicket, and the first little hamlet I pass
on the road is nearly hidden in it, the roofs of the houses being barely
visible above the green sea of vegetation. Orchards and little patches
of ground that have been cleared and cultivated are hidden entirely, and
one cannot help thinking that if this interminable forest of brushwood
were once to get fairly ablaze, nothing could prevent it from destroying
everything these villagers possess.
A foretaste of what awaits me farther in the interior is obtained even
within the first few hours of the morning, when a couple of horsemen
canter at my heels for miles; they seem delighted beyond measure, and
their solicitude for my health and general welfare is quite affecting.
When I halt to pluck some blackberries, they solemnly pat their stomachs
and shake their heads in chorus, to make me understand that blackberries
are not good things to eat; and by gestures they notify me of bad places
in the road which are yet out of sight ahead. Eude mehanax, now called
khans, occupy little clearings by the roadside, at intervals of a few
miles; and among the habitues congregated there I notice several of the
Circassian refugees on whose account friends at Ismidt and Constantinople
have shown themselves so concerned for my safety.
They are dressed in the long Cossack coats of dark cloth peculiar to the
inhabitants of the Caucasus; two rows of bone or metal cartridge-cases
adorn their breast, being fitted into flutes or pockets made for them;
they wear either top boots or top bootlegs, and the counterpart of my
own moccasins; and their headdress is a tall black lamb's-wool turban,
similar to the national headgear of the Persians. They are by far the
best-dressed and most respectable-looking men one sees among the groups;
for while the majority of the natives are both ragged and barefooted, I
don't remember ever seeing Circassians either. To all outward appearances
they are the most trustworthy men of them all; but there is really more
deviltry concealed beneath the smiling exterior of one of these homeless
mountaineers from Circassia than in a whole village of the less likely-
looking natives here, whose general cutthroat appearance - an effect
produced, more than anything else, by the universal custom of wearing
all the old swords, knives, anil pistols they can get hold of-really
counts for nothing. In picturesqueness of attire some of these khan
loafers leave nothing to be desired; and although I am this morning
wearing Igali's cerulean scarf as a sash, the tri-colored pencil string
of Servia around my neck, and a handsome pair of Circassian moccasins,
I ain absolutely nowhere by the side of many a native here whose entire
wardrobe wouldn't fetch half a mcdjedie in a Galata auction-room. The
great light of Central Asian hospitality casts a glimmer even up into
this out-of-the-way northwestern corner of the continent, though it seems
to partake more of the Nevada interpretation of the word than farther
in the interior. Thrice during the forenoon I am accosted with the
invitation "mastic? cogniac? coffee." by road-side klian-jees or their
customers who wish me to stop and let them satisfy their consuming
curiosity at my novel bagar (horse), as many of them jokingly allude to
it. Beyond these three beverages and the inevitable nargileh, these
wayside khans provide nothing; vishner syrup (a pleasant extract of the
vishner cherry; a spoonful in a tumbler of water makes a most agreeable
and refreshing sherbet), which is my favorite beverage on the road, being
an inoffensive, non-intoxicating drink, is not in sufficient demand among
the patrons of the khans to justify keeping it in stock. An ancient
bowlder causeway traverses the route I am following, hut the blocks of
stone composing it have long since become misplaced and scattered about
in confusion, making it impassable for wheeled vehicles; and the natural
dirt-road alongside it is covered with several inches of dust which is
continually being churned up by mule-caravans bringing mohair from Angora
and miscellaneous merchandise from Ismidt. Camel-caravans make smooth
tracks, but they seldom venture to Ismidt at this time of the year, I
am told, on account of the bellicose character of the mosquitoes that
inhabit this particular region; their special mode of attack being to
invade the camels' sensitive nostrils, which drives these patient beasts
of burden to the last verge of distraction, sometimes even worrying them
to death. Stopping for dinner at the village of Sabanja, the scenes
familiar in connection with a halt for refreshments in the Balkan Peninsula
are enacted; though for bland and childlike assurance there is no
comparison between the European Turk and his brother in Asia Minor. More
than one villager approaches me during the few minutes I am engaged in
eating dinner, and blandly asks me to quit eating and let him see me
ride; one of them, with a view of putting it out of my power to refuse,
supplements his request with a few green apples which no European could
eat without bringing on an attack of cholera morbus, but which Asiatics
consume with impunity. After dinner I request the proprietor to save me
from the madding crowd long enough to round up a few notes, which he
attempts to do by locking me in a room over the stable. In less than ten
minutes the door is unlocked, and in walks the headman of the village,
making a most solemn and profound salaam as he enters. He has searched
out a man who fought with the English in the Crimea, according to his
- the man's-own explanation, and who knows a few words of Frank language
and has brought him along to interpret. Without the slightest hesitation
he asks me to leave off writing and come down and ride, in order that
he may see the performance, and - he continues, artfully - that he may judge
of the comparative merits of a horse and a bicycle.
This peculiar trait of the Asiatic character is further illustrated
during the afternoon in the case of a caravan leader whom I meet on an
unridable stretch of road. "Bin! bin!" says this person, as soon as
his mental faculties grasp the idea that the bicycle is something to
ride on. "Mimlcin, deyil; fenna yole; duz yolo lazim " (impossible; bad
road; good road necessary), I reply, airing my limited stock of Turkish.
Nothing daunted by this answer, the man blandly requests me to turn about
and follow his caravan until ridable road is reached - a good mile - in
order that he may be enlightened. It is, perhaps, superfluous to add
that, so far as I know, this particular individual's ideas of 'cycling
are as hazy and undefined to-day as they ever were.
The principal occupation of the Sabanjans seems to be killing time; or
perhaps waiting for something to turn up. Apple and pear-orchards are
scattered about among the brush, looking utterly neglected; they are old
trees mostly, and were planted by the more enterprising ancestors of the
present owners, who would appear to be altogether unworthy of their
sires, since they evidently do nothing in the way of trimming and pruning,
but merely accept such blessings as unaided nature vouchsafes to bestow
upon them. Moss-grown gravestones are visible here and there amid the
thickets; the graveyards are neither protected by fence nor shorn of
brush; in short, this aggressive undergrowth appears to be altogether
too much for the energies of the Sabanjans; it seems to be encroaching
upon them from every direction, ruthlessly pursuing them even to their
very door-sills; like Banquo's ghost, it will not down, and the people
have evidently retired discouraged from the contest. Higher up on the
mountain-slopes the underbrush gives place to heavier timber, and small
clearings abound, around which the unsubdued forest stands like a solid
wall of green, the scene reminding one quite forcibly of backwoods
clearings in Ohio; and were it not for the ancient appearance of the
Sabanja minarets, the old bowlder causeway, and other evidences of
declining years, one might easily imagine himself in a new country instead
of the cradle of our race.
At Sabanja the wagon-road terminates, and my way becomes execrable beyond
anything I ever encountered; it leads over a low mountain-pass, following
the track of the ancient roadway, that on the acclivity of the mountain
has been torn up and washed about, and the stone blocks scattered here
and piled up there by the torrents of centuries, until it would seem to
have been the sport and plaything of a hundred Kansas cyclones. Bound
about and among this disorganized mass, caravans have picked their way
over the pass from the first dawn of commercial intercourse; following
the same trail year after year, the stepping-places have come to resemble
the steps of a rude stairway. From the summit of the pass is obtained a
comprehensive view of the verdure-clad valley; here and there white
minarets are seen protruding above the verdant area, like lighthouses
from a green sea; villages dot the lower slopes of the mountains, while
a lake, covering half the width of the valley for a dozen miles, glimmers
in the mid-day sun, making altogether a scene that in some countries
would long since have been immortalized on canvas or in verse. The descent
is even rougher, if anything, than the western side, but it leads down
into a tiny valley that, if situated near a large city, would resound
with the voices of merry-makers the whole summer long. The undergrowth
of this morning's observations has entirely disappeared; wide-spreading
chestnut and grand old sycamore trees shade a circumscribed area of
velvety greensward and isolated rocks; a tiny stream, a tributary of the
Sackaria, meanders along its rocky bed, and forest-clad mountains tower
almost perpendicularly around the charming little vale save one narrow
outlet to the east. There is not a human being in sight, nor a sound to
break the silence save the murmuring of the brook, as I fairly clamber
down into this little sylvan retreat; but a wreath of smoke curling above
the trees some distance from the road betrays the presence of man. The
whole scene vividly calls to mind one of those marvellous mountain-retreats
in which writers of banditti stories are wont to pitch their heroes'
silken tent - no more appropriate rendezvous for a band of story-book
free-booters could well be imagined.
Short stretches of ridable mule-paths are found along this valley as I
follow the course of the little stream eastward; they are by no means
continuous, by reason of the eccentric wanderings of the rivulet; but
after climbing the rough pass one feels thankful for even small favors,
and I plod along, now riding, now walking, occasionally passing little
clusters of mud huts and meeting with pack animals en route to Ismidt
with the season's shearing of mohair. "Alia Franga!" is the greeting I
am now favored with, instead of the "Ah, I'Anglais." of Europe, as I
pass people on the road; and the bicycle is referred to as an araba, the
name the natives give their rude carts, and a name which they seem to
think is quite appropriate for anything with wheels.
Following the course of the little tributary for several miles, crossing
and recrossing it a number of times, I finally emerge with it into the
valley of Sackaria. There are some very good roads down this valley,
which is narrow, and in places contracts to but little more than a mere
neck between the mountains. At one of the narrowest points the mountains
present an almost perpendicular face of rock and here are the remnants
of an ancient stonewall reputed to have been built by the Greeks, somewhere
about the twelfth century in anticipation of an invasion of the Turks
from the south. The wall stretches across the valley from mountain to
river, and is quite a massive affair; an archway has been cut through
it for the passage of caravans. Soon after passing through this opening
I am favored with the company of a horseman, who follows me for three
or four miles, and thoughtfully takes upon himself the office of telling
me when to bin and when not to bin, according as he thinks the road
suitable for 'cycling or not, until he discovers that his gratuitous
advice produces no visible effect on my movements, when he desists and
follows along behind in silence like a sensible fellow. About five o'clock
in the afternoon I cross the Sackaria on an old stone bridge, and half
an hour later roll into Geiveh, a large village situated in the middle
of a triangular valley about seven miles in width. My cyclometer shows
a trifle over forty miles from Ismidt; it has been a variable forty
miles; I shall never forget the pass over the old causeway, the view of
the Sabanja Valley from the summit, nor the lovely little retreat on the
eastern side.
Trundling through the town in quest of a khan, I am soon surrounded by
a clamorous crowd; and passing the house or office of the mudir or headman
of the place, that person sallies forth, and, after ascertaining the
cause of the commotion, begs me to favor the crowd and himself by riding
round a vacant piece of ground hard by. After this performance, a
respectable-looking man beckons me to follow him, and he takes me - not
to his own house to be his guest, for Geiveh is too near Europe for this
sort of thing - to a khan kept by a Greek with a mote in one eye, where a
"shake down" on the floor, a cup of coffee or a glass of vishner is
obtainable, and opposite which another Greek keeps an eating-house. There
is no separate kitchen in this latter establishment as in the one at
Isrnidt; one room answers for cooking, eating, nargileh-smoking, coffee-
sipping, and gossiping; and while I am eating, a curious crowd watches
my every movement with intense interest. Here, as at Ismidt, I am requested
to examine for myself the contents of several pots. Most of them contain
a greasy mixture of chopped meat and tomatoes stewed together, with no
visible difference between them save in the sizes of the pieces of meat;
but one vessel contains pillau, and of this and some inferior red wine
I make my supper. Prices for eatables are ridiculously low; I hand him
a cherik for the supper; he beckons me out of the back door, and there,
with none save ourselves to witness the transaction, he counts me out
two piastres change, which left him ten centa for the supper. He has
probably been guilty of the awful crime of charging me about three
farthings over the regular price, and was afraid to venture upon so
iniquitous a proceeding in the public room lest the Turks should perchance
detect him in cheating an Englishman, and revenge the wrong by making
him feed me for nothing. It rains quite heavily during the night, and
while waiting for it to dry up a little in the morning, the Geivehites
voluntarily tender me much advice concerning the state of the road ahead,
being governed in their ideas according to their knowledge of a 'cycler's
mountain-climbing ability. By a round dozen of men, who penetrate into
my room in a body ere I am fairly dressed, and who, after solemnly
salaaming in chorus, commence delivering themselves of expressive pantomime
and gesticulations, I am led to understand that the road from Geiveh to
Tereklu is something fearful for a bicycle. One fat old Turk, undertaking
to explain it more fully, after the others have exhausted their knowledge
of sign language, swells himself up like an inflated toad and imitates
the labored respiration of a broken-winded horse in order to duly impress
upon my mind the physical exertion I may expect to put forth in "riding"-he
also paws the air with his right foot-over the mountain-range that looms
up like an impassable barrier three miles east of the town. The Turks
as a nation have the reputation of being solemn-visaged, imperturbable
people, yet one occasionally finds them quite animated and "Frenchy"
in their behavior - the bicycle may, however, be in a measure responsible
for this. The soil around Geiveh is a red clay that, after a shower,
clings to the rubber tires of the bicycle as though the mere resemblance
in color tended to establish a bond of sympathy between them that nothing
could overcome, I pass the time until ten o'clock in avoiding the crowd
that has swarmed the khan since early dawn, and has been awaiting with
Asiatic patience ever since. At ten o'clock I win the gratitude of a
thousand hearts by deciding to start, the happy crowd deserting half-smoked
nargilehs, rapidly swallowing tiny cups of scalding-hot coffee in their
anxiety lest I vault into the saddle at the door of the khan and whisk
out of their sight in a moment - an idea that is flitting through the
imaginative mind of more than one Turk present, as a natural result of
the stories his wife has heard from his neighbor's wife, whose sister,
from the roof of her house, saw me ride around the vacant space at the
mudir's request yesterday. The Oriental imagination of scores of wondering
villagers has been drawn upon to magnify that modest performance into a
feat that fills the hundreds who didn't see it with the liveliest
anticipations, and a murmuring undercurrent of excitement thrills the
crowd as the word goes round that I am about to start. A minority of the
people learned yesterday that I wouldn't ride across the stones, water-
ditches, and mud-holes of the village streets, and these at once lead
the way, taking upon themselves the office of conducting me to the road
leading to the Kara Su Pass; while the less enlightened majority press
on behind, the more restless spirits worrying me to ride, those of more
patient disposition maintaining a respectful silence, but wondering why
on earth I am walking.
The road they conduct me to is another of those ancient stone causeways
that traverse this section of Asia Minor in all directions. This one and
several others I happen to come across are but about three feet wide,
and were evidently built for military purposes by the more enterprising
people who occupied Constantinople and the adjacent country before the
Turks-narrow stone pathways built to facilitate the marching of armies
during the rainy season when the natural ground hereabout is all but
impassable. These stone roads were probably built during the Byzantine
occupation. Fairly smooth mule-paths lead along-side this relic of
departed greatness and energy, and the warm sun having dried the surface,
I mount and speed away from the wondering crowd, and in four miles reach
the foot of the Kara Su Pass. From this spot I can observe a small
caravan, slowly picking its way down the mountain; the animals are
sometimes entirely hidden behind rocks, as they follow the windings and
twistings of the trail down the rugged slope which the old Turk this
morning thought would make me puff to climb.
A little stream called the Kara Su, or black water, comes dancing out
of a rocky avenue near by; and while I am removing my foot-gear to ford
it, I am joined by several herdsmen who are tending flocks of the
celebrated Angora goats and the peculiar fat-tailed sheep of the East,
which are grazing on neighboring knolls. These gentle shepherds are not
overburdened with clothing, their nakedness being but barely covered;
but they wear long sword-knives and old flint-lock, bell-mouthed horse-
pistols that give them a ferocious appearance that seems strangely at
variance with their peaceful occupation. They gather about me with a
familiarity that impresses me anything but favorably toward them; they
critically examine my clothing from helmet to moccasins, eying my various
belongings wistfully, tapping my leather case, and pinching the rear
package to try and ascertain the nature of its contents. I gather from
their remarks about "para " (a term used in a general sense for money,
as well as for the small coin of that name), as they regard the leather
case with a covetous eye, that they are inclined to the opinion that it
contains money; and there is no telling the fabulous wealth their untutored
minds are associating with the supposed treasure-chest of a Frank who
rides a silver "araba." Evidently these fellows have never heard of the
tenth commandment; or, having heard of it, they have failed to read,
mark, learn, and inwardly digest it for the improvement of their moral
natures; for covetousness beams forth from every lineament of their faces
and every motion of their hands. Seeing this, I endeavor to win them
from the moral shackles of their own gloomy minds by pointing out the
beautiful mechanism of my machine; I twirl the pedals and show them how
perfect are the bearings of the rear wheel; I pinch the rubber tire to
show them that it is neither iron nor wood, and call their attention to
the brake, fully expecting in this usually winsome manner to fill them
with gratitude and admiration, and make them forget all about my baggage
and clothes. But these fellows seem to differ from those of their
countrymen I left but a short time ago; my other effects interest them
far more than the wheel does, and one of them, after wistfully eying my
moccasins, a handsomer pair, perhaps, than he ever saw before, points
ruefully down to his own rude sandals of thong-bound raw-hide, and casts
a look upon his comrades that says far more eloquently than words, "What
a shame that such lovely moccasins should grace the feet of a Frank and
an unbeliever - ashes on his head - while a true follower of the Prophet
like myself should go about almost barefooted!" There is no mistaking
the natural bent of these gentle shepherds' inclinations, and as, in the
absence of a rusty sword and a seventeenth-century horse pistol, they
doubtless think I am unarmed, my impression from their bearing is that
they would, at least, have tried to frighten me into making them a present
of my moccasins and perhaps a few other things. In the innocence of their
unsophisticated natures, they wist not of the compact little weapon
reposing beneath my coat that is as superior to their entire armament
as is a modern gunboat to the wooden walls of the last century. Whatever
their intentions may be, however, they are doomed never to be carried
out, for their attention is now attracted by the caravan, whose approach
is heralded by the jingle of a thousand bells.
The next two hours find me engaged in the laborious task of climbing a
mere bridle-path up the rugged mountain slope, along which no wheeled
vehicle has certainly ever been before. There is in some places barely
room for pack animals to pass between the masses of rocks, and at others,
but a narrow ledge between a perpendicular rock and a sheer precipice.
The steepest portions are worn into rude stone stairways by the feet of
pack animals that toiled over this pass just as they toiled before America
was discovered and have been toiling ever since; and for hundreds of
yards at a stretch I am compelled to push the bicycle ahead, rear wheel
aloft, in the well-known manner of going up-stairs. While climbing up a
rather awkward place, I meet a lone Arab youth, leading his horse by the
bridle, and come near causing a serious accident. It was at the turning
of a sharp corner that I met this swarthy-faced youth face to face, and
the sudden appearance of what both he and the horse thought was a being
from a far more distant sphere than the western half of our own so
frightened them both that I expected every minute to see them go toppling
over the precipice. Reassuring the boy by speaking a word or two of
Turkish, and seeing the impossibility of either passing him or of his
horse being able to turn around, I turn about and retreat a short distance,
to where there is more room. He is not quite assured of my terrestrial
character even yet; he is too frightened to speak, and he trembles visibly
as he goes past, greeting me with a leer of mingled fear and suspicion;
at the same time making a brave but very sickly effort to ward off any
evil designs I might be meditating against him by a pitiful propitiatory
smile which will haunt my memory for weeks; though I hope by plenty of
exercise to escape an attack of the nightmare.
This is the worst mountain climbing I have done with a bicycle; all the
way across the Rockies there is nothing approaching this pass for
steepness; although on foot or horseback it would of course not appear
so formidable. When part way up, a bank of low hanging clouds come rolling
down to meet me, enveloping the mountain in fog, and bringing on a
disagreeable drizzle which scarcely improves the situation.
Five miles from the bottom of the pass and three hours from Geiveh I
reach a small postaya-khan, occupied by one zaptieh and the station-keeper,
where I halt for a half hour and get the zaptieh to brew me a cup of
coffee, feeling the need of a, little refreshment after the stiff tugging
of the last two hours. Coffee is the only refreshment obtainable here,
and, though the weather looks anything but propitious, I push ahead
toward a regular roadside khan, which I am told I shall come to at the
distance of another hour - the natives of Asia Minor know nothing of miles
or kilometres, but reckon the distance from point to point by the number
of hours it usually takes to go on horseback. Reaching this khan at three
o'clock, I call for something to satisfy the cravings of hunger, and am
forthwith confronted with a loaf of black bread, villanously heavy, and
given a preliminary peep into a large jar of a crumbly white substance
as villanously odoriferous as the bread is heavy, and which I think the
proprietor expects me to look upon as cheese. This native product seems
to be valued by the people here in proportion as it is rancid, being
regarded by them with more than affection when it has reached a degree
of rancidness and odoriferousness that would drive a European - barring
perhaps, a Limburger - out of the house. These two delicacies, and the
inevitable tiny cups of black bitter coffee make up all the edibles the
khan affords; so seeing the absence of any alternative, I order bread
and coffee, prepared to make the most of circumstances. The proprietor
being a kindly individual, and thinking perhaps that limited means forbid
my indulgence in such luxuries as the substance in the earthenware jar,
in the kindness of his heart toward a lone stranger, scoops out a small
portion with his unwashed hand, puts it in a bowl of water and stirs it
about a little by way of washing it, drains the water off through his
fingers, and places it before me. While engaged in the discussion of
this delectable meal, a caravan of mules arrives in charge of seven
rough-looking Turks, who halt to procure a feed of barley for their
animals, the supplying of which appears to be the chief business of the
klian-jee. No sooner have these men alighted and ascertained the use of
the bicycle, than I am assailed with the usual importunities to ride for
their further edification. It would be quite as reasonable to ask a man
to fly as to ride a bicycle anywhere near the khan; but in the innocence
of their hearts and the dulness of their Oriental understandings they
think differently. They regard my objections as the result of a perverse
and contrary disposition, and my explanation of mimkin deyil" as but
a groundless excuse born of my unwillingness to oblige. One old gray-beard,
after examining the bicycle, eyes me meditatively for a moment, and then
comes forward with a humorous twinkle in his eye, and pokes me playfully
in the ribs, and makes a peculiar noise with the mouth: " q-u-e-e-k,"
in an effort to tickle me into good-humor and compliance with their
wishes; in addition to which, the artful old dodger, thinking thus to
work on my vanity, calls me "Pasha Effendi." Finding that toward their
entreaties I give but the same reply, one of the younger men coolly
advocates the use of force to coerce me into giving them an exhibition
of my skill on the araba. As far as I am able to interpret, this bold
visionary's argument is: "Behold, we are seven; Effendi is only one; we
are good Mussulmans - peace be with us - he is but a Frank - ashes on his
head- let us make him bin."