FROM THE KOORDISH CAMP TO YUZGAT.
>From the Koordish encampment my route leads over a low mountain spur by
easy gradients, and by a winding, unridable trail down into the valley
of the eastern fork of the Delijah Irmak. The road improves as this
valley is reached, and noon finds me the wonder and admiration of another
Koordish camp, where I remain a couple of hours in deference to the
powers of the midday sun. One has no scruples about partaking of the
hospitality of the nomad Koords, for they are the wealthiest people in
the country, their flocks covering the hills in many localities; they
are, as a general thing, fairly well dressed, are cleaner in their cooking
than the villagers, and hospitable to the last degree. Like the rest of
us, however, they have their faults as well as their virtues; they are
born freebooters, and in unsettled times, when the Turkish Government,
being handicapped by weightier considerations, is compelled to relax its
control over them, they seldom fail to promptly respond to their plundering
instincts and make no end of trouble. They still retain their hospitableness,
but after making a traveller their guest for the night, and allowing him
to depart with everything he has, they will intercept him on the road
and rob him. They have some objectionable habits, even in these peaceful
times, which will better appear when we reach their own Koordistan, where
we shall, doubtless, have better opportunities for criticising them.
Whatever their faults or virtues, I leave this camp, hoping that the
termination of the day may find me the guest of another sheikh for the
night An hour after leaving this camp I pass through an area of vineyards,
out of which people come running with as many grapes among them as would
feed a dozen people; the road is ridable, and I hurry along to avoid
their bother. Verily it would seem that I am being hounded down by
retributive justice for sundry evil thoughts and impatient remarks,
associated with my hungry experiences of early morning; then I was
wondering where the next mouthful of food was going to overtake me, this
afternoon finds me pedalling determinedly to prevent being overtaken by
it.
The afternoon is hot and with scarcely a breath of air moving; the little
valley terminates in a region of barren, red hills, on which the sun
glares fiercely; some toughish climbing has to be accomplished in scaling
a ridge, and then. I emerge into an upland lava plateau, where the only
vegetation is sun-dried weeds and thistles. Here a herd of camels are
contentedly browsing, munching the dry, thorny herbage with a satisfaction
that is evident a mile away. From casual observations along the route,
I am inclined to think a camel not far behind a goat in the depravity
of its appetite; a camel will wander uneasily about over a greensward
of moist, succulent grass, scanning his surroundings in search of giant
thistles, frost-bitten tumble-weeds, tough, spriggy camel thorns, and
odds and ends of unpalatable vegetation generally. Of course, the "ship
of the desert" never sinks to such total depravity as to hanker after
old gum overshoes and circus posters, but if permitted to forage around
human habitations for a few generations, I think they would eventually
degenerate to the goat's disreputable level. The expression of utter
astonishment that overspreads the angular countenance of the camels
browsing near the roadside, at my appearance, is one of the most ludicrous
sights imaginable; they seem quite intelligent enough to recognize in a
wheelman and his steed something inexplicable and foreign to their
country, and their look of timid inquiry seems ridiculously unsuited to
their size and the general ungainliness of their appearance, producing
a comical effect that is worth going miles to see. It is approaching
sun-down, when, ascending a ridge overlooking another valley, I am
gratified at seeing it occupied by several Koordish camps, their clusters
of black tents being a conspicuous feature of the landscape. With a fair
prospect of hospitable quarters for the night before me, and there being
no distinguishable signs of a road, I make my way across country toward
one of the camps that seems to be nearest my proper course. I have arrived
within a mile of my objective point, when I observe, at the base of a
mountain about half the distance to my right, a large, white two-storied
building, the most pretentious structure, by long odds, that has been
seen since leaving Angora. My curiosity is, of course, aroused concerning
its probable character; it looks like a bit of civilization that has in
some unaccountable manner found its way to a region where no other human
habitations are visible, save the tents of wild tribesmen, and I at once
shape my course toward it. It turns out to be a rock-salt mine or quarry,
that supplies the whole region for scores of miles around with salt,
rock-salt being the only kind obtainable in the country; it was from
this mine that the donkey party from whom I first obtained bread this
morning fetched their loads. Here I am invited to remain over night, am
provided with a substantial supper, the menu including boiled mutton,
with cucumbers for desert. The managers and employees of the, quarry
make their cucumbers tasteful by rubbing the end with a piece of rock-salt
each time it is cut off or bitten, each person keeping a select little
square for the purpose. The salt is sold at the mine, and owners of
transportation facilities in the shape of pack animals make money by
purchasing it here at six paras an oke, and selling it at a profit in
distant towns.
Two young men seem to have charge of transacting the business; one of
them is inordinately inquisitive, he even wants to try and unstick the
envelope containing a letter of introduction to Mr. Tifticjeeoghlou's
father in Yuzgat, and read it out of pure curiosity to see what it says;
and he offers me a lira for my Waterbury watch, notwithstanding its Alla
Franga face is beyond his Turkish comprehension. The loud, confident
tone in which the Waterbury ticks impresses the natives very favorably
toward it, and the fact of its not opening at the back like other time-
pieces, creates the impression that it is a watch that never gets cranky
and out of order; quite different from the ones they carry, since their
curiosity leads them to be always fooling with the works. American clocks
are found all through Asia Minor, fitted with Oriental faces and there
is little doubt but the Waterbury, with its resonant tick, if similiarly
prepared, would find here a ready market. The other branch of the
managerial staff is a specimen of humanity peculiarly Asiatic Turkish,
a melancholy-faced, contemplative person, who spends nearly the whole
evening in gazing in silent wonder at me and the bicycle; now and then
giving expression to his utter inability to understand how such things
can possibly be by shaking his head and giving utterance to a peculiar
clucking of astonishment. He has heard me mention having come from
Stamboul, which satisfies him to a certain extent; for, like a true Turk,
he believes that at Stamboul all wonderful things originate; whether the
bicycle was made there, or whether it originally came from somewhere
else, doesn't seem to enter into his speculations; the simple knowledge
that I have come from Stamboul is all-sufficient for him; so far as he
is concerned, the bicycle is simply another wonder from Stamboul, another
proof that the earthly paradise of the Mussulman world on the Bosphorus
is all that he has been taught to believe it. When the contemplative
young man ventures away from the dreamy realms of his own imaginations,
and from the society of his inmost thoughts, far enough to make a remark,
it is to ask me something about Stamboul; but being naturally taciturn
and retiring, and moreover, anything but an adept at pantomimic language,
he prefers mainly to draw his own conclusions in silence. He manages to
make me understand, however, that he intends before long making a journey
to see Stamboul for himself; like many another Turk from the barren hills
of the interior, he will visit the Ottoman capital; he will recite from
the Koran under the glorious mosaic dome of St. Sophia; wander about
that wonder of the Orient, the Stamboul bazaar; gaze for hours on the
matchless beauties of the Bosphorus ; ride on one of the steamboats; see
the railway, the tramway, the Sultan's palaces, and the shipping, and
return to his native hills thoroughly convinced that in all the world
there is no place fit to be compared with Stamboul; no place so full of
wonders; no place so beautiful; and wondering how even the land of the
kara ghuz kiz, the material paradise of the Mohammedans, can possibly
be more lovely. The contemplative young man is tall and slender, has
large, dreamy, black eyes, a downy upper lip, a melancholy cast of
countenance, and wears a long print wrapper of neat dotted pattern,
gathered at the waist with a girdle a la dressing-gown.
The inquisitive partner makes me up a comfortable bed of quilts on the
divan of a large room, which is also occupied by several salt traders
remaining over night, and into which their own small private apartments
open. A few minutes after they have retired to their respective rooms,
the contemplative young man reappears with silent tread, and with a
scornful glance at my surroundings, both human and inanimate, gathers
up my loose effects, and bids me bring bicycle and everything into his
room; here, I find, he has already prepared for my reception quite a
downy couch, having contributed, among other comfortable things, his
wolf-skin overcoat; after seeing me comfortably established on a couch
more appropriate to my importance as a person recently from Stamboul
than the other, he takes a lingering look at the bicycle, shakes his
head and clucks, and then extinguishes the light. Sunrise on the following
morning finds me wheeling eastward from the salt quarry, over a trail
well worn by salt caravans, to Yuzgat; the road leads for some distance
down a grassy valley, covered with the flocks of the several Koordish
camps round about; the wild herdsmen come galloping from all directions
across the valley toward me, their uncivilized garb and long swords
giving them more the appearance of a ferocious gang of cut-throats
advancing to the attack than shepherds. Hitherto, nobody has seemed any
way inclined to attack me; I have almost wished somebody would undertake
a little devilment of some kind, for the sake of livening things up a
little, and making my narrative more stirring; after venturing everything,
I have so far nothing to tell but a story of being everywhere treated
with the greatest consideration, and much of the time even petted. I
have met armed men far away from any habitations, whose appearance was
equal to our most ferocious conception of bashi bazouks, and merely from
a disinclination to be bothered, perhaps being in a hurry at the time,
have met their curious inquiries with imperious gestures to be gone; and
have been guilty of really inconsiderate conduct on more than one occasion,
but under no considerations have I yet found them guilty of anything
worse than casting covetous glances at my effects. But there is an
apparent churlishness of manner, and an overbearing demeanor, as of men
chafing under the restraining influences that prevent them gratifying
their natural free-booting instincts, about these Koordish herdsmen whom
I encounter this morning, that forms quite a striking contrast to the
almost childlike harmlessness and universal respect toward me observed
in the disposition of the villagers. It requires no penetrating scrutiny
of these fellows' countenances to ascertain that nothing could be more
uncongenial to them than the state of affairs that prevents them stopping
ine and looting me of everything I possess; a couple of them order me
quite imperatively to make a detour from my road to avoid approaching
too near their flock of sheep, and their general behavior is pretty much
as though seeking to draw me into a quarrel, that would afford them an
opportunity of plundering me. Continuing on the even tenor of my way,
affecting a lofty unconsciousness of their existence, and wondering
whether, in case of being molested, it would be advisable to use my Smith
& Wesson in defending my effects, or taking the advice received in
Constantinople, offer no resistance whatever, and trust to being able
to recover them through the authorities, I finally emerge from their
vicinity. Their behavior simply confirms what I have previously understood
of their character; that while they will invariably extend hospitable
treatment to a stranger visiting their camps, like unreliable explosives,
they require to be handled quite "gingerly" when encountered on the
road, to prevent disagreeable consequences.
Passing through a low, marshy district, peopled with solemn-looking
storks and croaking frogs, I meet a young sheikh and his personal
attendants returning from a morning's outing at their favorite sport of
hawking; they carry their falcons about on small perches, fastened by
the leg with a tiny chain. I try to induce them to make a flight, but
for some reason or other they refuse; an Osmanli Turk would have
accommodated me in a minute. Soon I arrive at another Koordish camp,
fording a stream in order to reach their tents, for I have not yet
breakfasted, and know full well that no better opportunity of obtaining
one will be likely to turn up. Entering the nearest tent, I make no
ceremony of calling for refreshments, knowing well enough that a heaping
dish of pillau will be forthcoming, and that the hospitable Koords will
regard the ordering of it as the most natural thing in the world. The
pillau is of rice, mutton, and green herbs, and is brought in a large
pewter dish; and, together with sheet bread and a bowl of excellent
yaort, is brought on a massive pewter tray, which has possibly belonged
to the tribe for centuries. These tents are divided into several
compartments; one end is a compartment where the men congregate in the
daytime, and the younger men sleep at night, and where guests are received
and entertained; the central space is the commissary and female industrial
department; the others are female and family sleeping places. Each
compartment is partitioned off with a hanging carpet partition; light
portable railing of small, upright willow sticks bound closely together
protects the central compartment from a horde of dogs hungrily nosing
about the camp, and small "coops" of the same material are usually
built inside as a further protection for bowls of milk, yaort, butter,
cheese, and cooked food; they also obtain fowls from the villagers, which
they keep cooped up in a similar manner, until the hapless prisoners are
required to fulfil their destiny in chicken pillau; the capacious covering
over all is strongly woven goats'-hair material of a black or smoky brown
color. In a wealthy tribe, the tent of their sheikh is often a capacious
affair, twenty-five by one hundred feet, containing, among other
compartments, stabling and hay-room for the sheikh's horses in winter.
My breakfast is brought in from the culinary department by a young woman
of most striking appearance, certainly not less than six feet in height;
she is of slender, willowy build, and straight as an arrow; a wealth of
auburn hair is surmounted by a small, gay-colored turban; her complexion
is fairer than common among Koordish woman, and her features are the
queenly features of a Juno; the eyes are brown and lustrous, and, were
the expression but of ordinary gentleness, the picture would be perfect;
but they are the round, wild-looking orbs of a newly-caged panther-
grimalkin eyes, that would, most assuredly, turn green and luminous in
the dark. Other women come to take a look at the stranger, gathering
around and staring at rne, while I eat, with all their eyes - and such
eyes. I never before saw such an array of "wild-animal eyes;" no, not
even in the Zoo. Many of them are magnificent types of womanhood in every
other respect, tall, queenly, and symmetrically perfect; but the eyes-oh,
those wild, tigress eyes. Travellers have told queer, queer stories about
bands of these wild-eyed Koordish women waylaying and capturing them on
the roads through Koordistan, and subjecting them to barbarous treatment.
I have smiled, and thought them merely "travellers' tales;" but I can
see plain enough, this morning, that there is no improbability in the
stories, for, from a dozen pairs of female eyes, behold, there gleams
not one single ray of tenderness: these women are capable of anything
that tigresses are capable of, beyond a doubt. Almost the first question
asked by the men of these camps is whether the English and Muscovs are
fighting; they have either heard of the present (summer of 1885) crisis
over the Afghan boundary question, or they imagine that the English and
Russians maintain a sort of desultory warfare all the time. When I tell
them that the Muscov is fenna (bad) they invariably express their approval
of the sentiment by eagerly calling each other's attention to my expression.
It is singular with what perfect faith and confidence these rude tribesmen
accept any statement I choose to make, and how eagerly they seem to dwell
on simple statements of facts that are known to every school-boy in
Christendom. I entertain them with my map, showing them the position
of Stamboul, Mecca, Erzeroum, and towns in their own Koordistan, which
they recognize joyfully as I call them by name. They are profoundly
impressed at the " extent of my knowledge," and some of the more deeply
impressed stoop down and reverently kiss Stamboul and Mecca, as I point
them out. While thus pleasantly engaged, an aged sheikh comes to the
tent and straightway begins "kicking up a blooming row" about me. It
seems that the others have been guilty of trespassing on the sheikh's
prerogative, in entertaining me themselves, instead of conducting me to
his own tent. After upbraiding them in unmeasured terms, he angrily
orders several of the younger men to make themselves beautifully scarce
forthwith. The culprits - some of them abundantly able to throw the old
fellow over their shoulders - instinctively obey; but they move off at a
snail's pace, with lowering brows, and muttering angry growls that betray
fully their untamed, intractable dispositions.
A two-hours' road experience among the constantly varying slopes of
rolling hills, and then comes a fertile valley, abounding in villages,
wheat-fields, orchards, and melon-gardens. These days I find it incumbent
on me to turn washer-woman occasionally, and, halting at the first little
stream in this valley, I take upon myself the onerous duties of Wall
Lung in Sacramento City, having for an interested and interesting audience
two evil-looking kleptomaniacs, buffalo-herders dressed in next to
nothing, who eye my garments drying on the bushes with lingering
covetousness. It is scarcely necessary to add that I watch them quite
as interestingly myself; for, while I pity the scantiness of their
wardrobe, I have nothing that I could possibly spare among mine. A network
of irrigating ditches, many of them overflowed, render this valley
difficult to traverse with a bicycle, and I reach a large village about
noon, myself and wheel plastered with mud, after traversing a, section
where the normal condition is three inches of dust.
Bread and grapes are obtained here, a light, airy dinner, that is seasoned
and made interesting by the unanimous worrying of the entire population.
Once I make a desperate effort to silence their clamorous importunities,
and obtain a little quiet, by attempting to ride over impossible ground,
and reap the well-merited reward of permitting my equanimity to be thus
disturbed in the shape of a header and a slightly-bent handle-bar. While
I am eating, the gazing-stock of a wondering, commenting crowd, a
respectably dressed man elbows his way through the compact mass of humans
around me, and announces himself as having fought under Osman Pasha at
Plevna. What this has to do with me is a puzzler; but the man himself,
and every Turk of patriotic age in the crowd, is evidently expecting to
see me make some demonstration of approval; so, not knowing what else
to do, I shake the man cordially by the hand, and modestly inform my
attentively listening audience that Osman Pasha and myself are brothers,
that Osman yielded only when the overwhelming numbers of the Muscovs
proved that it was his kismet to do so; and that the Russians would never
be permitted to occupy Constantinople; a statement, that probably makes
my simple auditors feel as though they were inheriting a new lease of
national life; anyhow, they seem not a little gratified at what I am
saying.
After this the people seem to find material for no end of amusement among
themselves, by contrasting the marifet of the bicycle with the marifet
of their creaking arabas, of which there seems to be quite a number in
this valley. They are used chiefly in harvesting, are roughly made, used,
and worn out in these mountain-environed valleys without ever going
beyond the hills that encompass them in on every side. From these villages
the people begin to evince an alarming disposition to follow me out some
distance on donkeys. This undesirable trait of their character is, of
course, easily counteracted by a short spurt, where spurting is possible,
but it is a soul-harrowing thing to trundle along a mile of unridable
road, in company with twenty importuning katir-jees, their diminutive
donkeys filling the air with suffocating clouds of dust. There is nothing
on all this mundane sphere that will so effectually subdue the proud,
haughty spirit of a wheelman, or that will so promptly and completely
snuff out his last flickering ray of dignity; it is one of the pleasantries
of 'cycling through a country where the people have been riding donkeys
and camels since the flood.
A few miles from the village I meet another candidate for medical
treatment; this time it is a woman, among a merry company of donkey-riders,
bound from Yuzgat to the salt-mines; they are laughing, singing, and
otherwise enjoying themselves, after the manner of a New England berrying
party. The woman's affliction, she says, is "fenna ghuz," which, it
appears, is the term used to denote ophthalmia, as well as the "evil-eye;"
but of course, not being a ghuz hakim, I can do nothing more than express
my sympathy. The fertile valley gradually contracts to a narrow, rocky
defile, leading up into a hilly region, and at five o'clock I reach
Tuzgat, a city claiming a population of thirty thousand, that is situated
in a depression among the mountains that can scarcely be called a valley.
I have been three and a half days making the one hundred and thirty miles
from Angora.
Everybody in Yuzgat knows Youvanaki Effendi Tifticjeeoghlou, to whom I
have brought a letter of introduction; and, shortly after reaching town,
I find myself comfortably installed on the cushioned divan of honor in
that worthy old gentleman's large reception room, while half a dozen
serving-men are almost knocking each other over in their anxiety to
furnish me coffee, vishnersu, cigarettes, etc. They seem determined upon
interpreting the slightest motion of my hand or head into some want which
I am unable to explain, and, fancying thus, they are constantly bobbing
up before me with all sorts of surprising things. Tevfik Bey, general
superintendent of the Eegie (a company having the monopoly of the tobacco
trade in Turkey, for which they pay the government a fixed sum per annum),
is also a guest of Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi's hospitable mansion, and he
at once despatches a messenger to his Yuzgat agent, Mr. G. O. Tchetchian,
a vivacious Greek, who speaks English quite fluently. After that gentleman's
arrival, we soon come to a more perfect understanding of each other all
round, and a very pleasant evening is spent in receiving crowds of
visitors in a ceremonious manner, in which I really seem to be holding
a sort of a levee, except that it is evening instead of morning. Open
door is kept for everybody, and mine host's retinue of pages and serving
men are kept pretty busy supplying coffee right and left; beggars in
their rags are even allowed to penetrate into the reception-room, to sip
a cup of coffee and take a curious peep at the Ingilisin and his wonderful
araba, the fame of which has spread like wildfire through the city. Mine
host himself is kept pretty well occupied in returning the salaams of
the more distinguished visitors, besides keeping his eye on the servants,
by way of keeping them well up to their task of dispensing coffee in a
manner satisfactory to his own liberal ideas of hospitality; but he
presides over all with a bearing of easy dignity that it is a pleasure
to witness. The street in front of the Tifticjeeoghlou residence is
swarmed with people next morning; keeping open house is, under the
circumstances, no longer practicable; the entrance gate has to be guarded,
and none permitted to enter but privileged persons. During the forenoon
the Caimacan and several officials call round and ask me to favor them
by riding along a smooth piece of road opposite the municipal konak;
as I intend remaining over here today, I enter no objections, and accompany
them forthwith. The rabble becomes wildly excited at seeing me emerge
with the bicycle, in company with the Caimacan and his staff, for they
know that their curiosity is probably on the eve of being gratified. It
proves no easy task to traverse the streets, for, like in all Oriental
cities, they are narrow, and are now jammed with people. Time and again
the Caimacan is compelled to supplement the exertions of an inadequate
force of zaptiehs with his authoritative voice, to keep down the excitement
and the wild shouts of "Bin bacalem! bin bacalem." (Hide, so that we
can see - an innovation on bin, bin, that has made itself manifest since
crossing the Kizil Irmak Kiver) that are raised, gradually swelling into
the tumultuous howl of a multitude. The uproar is deafening, and, long
before reaching the place, the Caimacan repents having brought me out.
As for myself, I certainly repent having come out, and have still better
reasons for doing so before reaching the safe retreat of Tifticjeeo-ghlou
Effendi's house, an hour afterward. The most that the inadequate squad
of zaptiehs present can do, when we arrive opposite the muncipal konak,
is to keep the crowd from pressing forward and overwhelming me and the
bicycle. They attempt to keep open a narrow passage through the surging
sea of humans blocking the street, for me to ride down; but ten yards
ahead the lane terminates in a mass of fez-crowned heads. Under the
impression that one can mount a bicycle on the stand, like mounting a
horse, the Caimacan asks me to mount, saying that when the people see
me mounted and ready to start, they will themselves yield a passage-way.
Seeing the utter futility of attempting explanations under existing
conditions, amid the defeaning clamor of " Bin bacalem! bin bacalem '"
I mount and slowly pedal along a crooked "fissure" in the compact mass
of people, which the zaptiehs manage to create by frantically flogging
right and left before me. Gaining, at length, more open ground, and the
smooth road continuing on, I speed away from the multitude, and the
Caimacan sends one fleet-footed zaptieh after me, with instructions to
pilot me back to Tifticjeeoghlou's by a roundabout way, so as to avoid
returning through the crowds. The rabble are not to be so easily deceived
and shook off as the Caimacan thinks, however; by taking various short
cuts, they manage to intercept us, and, as though considering the having
detected and overtaken us in attempting to elude them, justifies them
in taking liberties, their "Bin bacalem!" now develops into the imperious
cry of a domineering majority, determined upon doing pretty much as they
please. It is the worst mob I have seen on the journey, so far; excitement
runs high, and their shouts of "Bin bacalem!" can, most assuredly, be
heard for miles. We are enveloped by clouds of dust, raised by the feet
of the multitude; the hot sun glares down savagely upon us; the poor
zaptieh, in heavy top-boots and a brand-new uniform, heavy enough for
winter, works like a beaver to protect the bicycle, until, with perspiration
and dust, his face is streaked and tattooed like a South Sea Islander's.
Unable to proceed, we come to a stand-still, and simply occupy ourselves
in protecting the bicycle from the crush, and reasoning. with the mob;
but the only satisfaction we obtain in reply to anything we say is " Bin
bacalem." One or two pig-headed, obstreperous young men near us, emboldened
by our apparent helplessness, persist in handling the bicycle. After
being pushed away several times, one of them even assumes a menacing
attitude toward me the last time I thrust his meddlesome hand away. Under
such circumstances retributive justice, prompt and impressive, is the
only politic course to pursue; so, leaving the bicycle to the zaptieh a
moment, in the absence of a stick, I feel justified in favoring the
culprit with, a brief, pointed lesson in the noble art of self-defence,
the first boxing lesson ever given in Tuzgat. In a Western mob this would
have been anything but an act of discretion, probably, but with these
people it has a salutary effect; the idea of attempting retaliation is
the farthest of anything from their thoughts, and in all the obstreperous
crowd there is, perhaps, not one but what is quite delighted at either
seeing or hearing of me having thus chastised one of their number, and
involuntarily thanks Allah that it didn't happen to be himself. It would
be useless to attempt a description of how we finally managed, by the
assistance of two more zaptiehs, to get back to Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi's,
both myself and the zaptieh simply unrecognizable from dust and perspiration.
The zaptieh, having first washed the streaks and tattooing off his face,
now presents himself, with the broad, honest smile of one who knows he
well deserves what he is asking for, and says, "Effendi, backsheesh."
There is nothing more certain than that the honest fellow merits backsheesh
from somebody; it is also equally certain that I am the only person from
whom he stands the ghost of a chance of getting any; nevertheless, the
idea of being appealed to for backsheesh, after what I have just undergone,
merely as an act of accommodation, strikes me as just a trifle ridiculous,
and the opportunity of engaging the grinning, good-humored zaptieh in a
little banter concerning the abstract preposterousness of his expectations
is too good to be lost. So, assuming an air of astonishment, I reply:
"Backsheesh! where is my backsheesh. I should think it's me that deserves
backsheesh if anybody does." This argument is entirely beyond the zaplieh's
child-like comprehension, however; he only understands by my manner that
there is a "hitch" somewhere; and never was there a more broadly good-
humored countenance, or a smile more expressive of meritoriousness, nor
an utterance more coaxing in its modulations than his "E-f-fendi,
backsheesh." as he repeats the appeal; the smile and the modulation is
well worth the backsheesh.
In the afternoon, an officer appears with a note saying that the Mutaserif
and a number of gentlemen would like to see me ride inside the municipal
konak grounds. This I very naturally promise to do, only, under conditions
that an adequate force of zaptiehs be provided. This the Mutaserif readily
agrees to, and once more I venture into the streets, trundling along
under a strong escort of zaptiehs who form a hollow square around me.
The people accumulate rapidly, as we progress, and, by the time we arrive
at the konak gate there is a regular crush. In spite of the frantic
exertions of my escort, the mob press determinedly forward, in an attempt
to rush inside when the gate is opened; instantly I find myself and
bicycle wedged in among a struggling mass of natives; a cry of "Sakin
araba! sakin araba!" (Take care! the bicycle!) is raised; the zapliehs
make a supreme effort, the gate is opened, I am fairly carried in, and
the gate is closed. A couple of dozen happy mortals have gained admittance
in the rush. Hundreds of the better class natives are in the inclosure,
and the walls and neighboring house-tops are swarming with an interested
audience. There is a small plat of decently smooth ground, upon which I
circle around for a few minutes, to as delighted an audience as ever
collected in Bamum's circus. After the exhibition, the Mutaserif eyes
the swarming multitude on the roofs and wall, and looks perplexed; some
one suggests that the bicycle be locked up for the present, and, when
the crowds have dispersed, it can be removed without further excitement.
The Mutaserif then places the municipal chamber at my disposal, ordering
an officer to lock it up and give me the key. Later in the afternoon I
am visited by the Armenian pastor of Yuzgat, and another young Armenian,
who can speak a little English, and together we take a strolling peep
at the city. The American missionaries at Kaizarieh have a small book
store here, and the pastor kindly offers me a New Testament to carry
along. We drop in on several Armenian shopkeepers, who are introduced
as converts of the mission. Coffee is supplied wherever we call. While
sitting down a minute in a tailor's stall, a young Armenian peeps in,
smiles, and indulges in the pantomime of rubbing his chin. Asking the
meaning of this, I am informed by the interpreter that the fellow belongs
to the barber shop next door, and is taking this method of reminding me
that I stand in need of his professional attentions, not having shaved
of late. There appears to be a large proportion of Circassians in town;
a group of several wild-looking bipeds, armed a la Anatolia, ragged and
unkempt-haired for Circassians, who are generally respectable in their
personal appearance, approach us, and want me to show them the bicycle,
on the strength of their having fought against the Russians in the late
war. "I think they are liars," says the young Armenian, who speaks
English; "they only say they fought against the Russians because you
are an Englishman, and they think you will show them the bicycle." Some
one comes to me with old coins for sale, another brings a stone with
hieroglyphics on it, and the inevitable genius likewise appears; this
time it is an Armenian; the tremendous ovation I have received has filled
his mind with exaggerated ideas of making a fortune, by purchasing the
bicycle and making a two-piastre show out of it. He wants to know how
much I will take for it. Early daylight finds me astir on the following
morning, for I have found it a desirable thing to escape from town ere
the populace is out to crowd about me. Tifticjeeoghlou Effendi's better
half has kindly risen at an unusually early hour, to see me off, and
provides me with a dozen circular rolls of hard bread-rings the size of
rope quoits aboard an Atlantic steamer, which I string on Igali's cerulean
waist-scarf, and sling over one shoulder. The good lady lets me out of
the gate, and says, "Bin bacalem, Effendi." She hasn't seen me ride yet.
She is a motherly old creature, of Greek extraction, and I naturally
feel like an ingrate of the meanest type, at my inability to grant her
modest request. Stealing along the side streets, I manage to reach ridable
ground, gathering by the way only a small following of worthy early
risers, and two katir-jees, who essay to follow me on their long-eared
chargers; but, the road being smooth and level from the beginning, I at
once discourage them by a short spurt. A half-hour's trundling up a steep
hill, and then comes a coastable descent into lower territory. A
conscription party collected from the neighboring Mussulman villages,
en route to Samsoon, the nearest Black Sea port, is met while riding
down this declivity. In anticipation of the Sultan's new uniforms awaiting
them at Constantinople, they have provided themselves for the journey
with barely enough rags to cover their nakedness. They are in high glee
at their departure for Stamboul, and favor me with considerable good-natured
chaff as I wheel past. "Human nature is everywhere pretty much alike the
world over," I think to myself. There is little difference between this
regiment of ragamuffins chaffing me this morning and the well-dressed
troopers of Kaiser William, bantering me the day I wheeled out of
Strassburg.