We ride to Scutari--The Albanian Customs officials--We suffer much
from Turkish saddles--Arrival at Scutari, and again pass the
Customs--"Buon arrivato"--Scutari and its religious troubles--The town
and bazaar--A slight misunderstanding, Yes and No--We return to Rijeka
by steamer--The beauties of the trip--Wrong change--The prodigal son's
return, when the fatted calf is _not_ killed.
Before we left Dulcigno it was necessary to have our passports vised
by the Turkish Consul, as we intended returning to Podgorica _via_
Scutari. We had to go through a lot of tedious formality, though the
Consul was a most pleasant man, and laughed at the precautions which
his orders forced him to take. But as he supplied us with horses and
an escort--for the path is considered somewhat dangerous--we resigned
ourselves to the inevitable with a good grace. Our guns and carbines
we were forced to send back to Podgorica with Stephan, as the law is
very strict against the introduction of firearms into Albania, where,
however, even the poorest peasant goes fully armed. But as strangers
our weapons would have been confiscated on the border. Verily the ways
of the Turk are passing strange.
We made a start at four o'clock one morning just as the sun was
appearing above the hills, and the day promised to be extremely hot.
Our horses were fairly good, and the man who constituted our guard, an
Albanian, seemed a pleasant fellow, which much belied his appearance.
A more villainous-looking face, with half his teeth missing, could
hardly be imagined. However, the whole way he rolled us cigarettes
most industriously, rarely taking one from us. Our saddles were
Turkish, and were our first experience of them, and, it is to be
hoped, the last.
The high road, or rather path, to Scutari, is considered good for
Montenegro. In reality it is a mere track, in places paved with
cobblestones atrociously laid. It is odd that many important districts
in this country are entirely unconnected by roads with the
neighbouring towns, and consequently such things as carriages do not
exist. As an instance, the whole of the country lying beyond Rijeka
towards the sea, containing two important towns, and in size about an
eighth of Montenegro, possesses one short road--from Virpazar to
Antivari--and one carriage.
Our path lay for the first three hours through a richly vegetated
country, and the scenery at times was quite English, owing to the
amount of oak trees which overhang the path. But at nearly every open
space was a Turkish graveyard. The indiscriminate way in which the
Turks bury their dead is most extraordinary.
We reached the River Bojana, and rode along the bank some time before
we came to the ferry. It is a broad and swiftly flowing river of quite
imposing size. The heat was now getting tremendous, and a friendly
Albanian picking apricots on the roadside gave us many handfuls, which
proved very acceptable.
Two Albanians came across in a large barge in answer to our hail, and
we and our horses--the latter, by the way, stepping into the barge
most unconcernedly--were piloted across. Here we entered Albania, and
were examined by a fierce-looking Customs official. He turned our
baggage out on to a mat, and evidently meant to overhaul it
thoroughly, when a few _Daily Graphics_ caught his eye. After that he
dismissed the remainder of our things with a wave of the hand, which
our men promptly repacked, and retired into the papers. A lot of other
men came up, and we were pleased to afford so much delight with our
illustrated journals.
As we were drinking coffee in the very primitive inn, a heavy
thunderstorm came on, and deluges of rain, keeping us here for about
an hour, when it cleared up sufficiently to proceed. Our landlord at
Dulcigno had packed us up a meal with a bottle or two of wine at our
orders, and we, now being hungry, inspected the basket. It was, to put
it mildly, distinctly disappointing, and not fit to eat or drink.
Added to this, my hunting knife was stolen, and we were very glad to
get on again.
The rest of the ride was the reverse of monotonous. The path was now
as slippery as grease, and our horses floundered at every other step,
and at times we plashed through quagmires, and became bespattered from
head to foot. Several men passed us with rifles slung over their
shoulders, but interchanged salutations with our guard. With the
exception of one small revolver, we were unarmed and practically
helpless. A short time after our ride through this district, a
stranger was killed. It is very unfair to refuse foreigners the
permission to carry any arms through such dangerous parts, when it is
considered a disgrace to go unarmed by the inhabitants. Our saddles,
too, were beginning to cause us much discomfort. After the first few
hours on a Turkish saddle, every movement of the horse becomes agony.
We reached the outskirts of Scutari about seven hours after our start,
and the town is entered by a great bridge. But before coming to the
bridge we rode through a great assembly of Albanians, judging from
their different costumes, from every part of the country, with their
flocks and herds for the market. The men were lying about singly or in
groups, sometimes under a rough tent, while the women attended to
their wants and to the flocks. Each man was heavily armed with rifle
and revolver, and turned lazily as we passed, with no friendly looks,
plainly intimating that we were intruders. Still they were fine,
fierce-looking men, though their expression is not nearly so
prepossessing as that of the Montenegrin. It was a strange scene of
life, but only one of many that abound in and about the capital of
Albania.
At the bridge we had to dismount and cross on foot, and a very painful
operation it proved after so many hours in the saddle.
The custom-house was situated immediately at the other end of the
bridge, and here we entered. In the guard-house, full of
disreputable-looking Turkish soldiers, were hung rifles and revolvers
on nails in great number and variety, which the mountaineers have to
leave on entering the town precincts. The custom-house official was
peacefully sleeping when we came in, and had to be awakened. We were
led to a divan, and cigarettes and coffee promptly brought to us while
our passports were examined. In a quarter of an hour we were allowed
to proceed, but a man came running after us saying that our baggage
had not been examined. He gently hinted that he had no wish to examine
it all if ..., and we understood. We forced a handful of backsheesh in
his seemingly unwilling hand, and slowly, with many muttered
exclamations, climbed into the saddles. We even did not scorn the
friendly aid of a low wall, so painfully stiff were we.
A short ride round the once mighty and historical fortress of Scutari,
past a ruined building liberally painted with white crosses, said to
have been once the Cathedral, and where we had noticed that Christian
Albanians piously crossed themselves on passing, led us to the famous
bazaar.
It was not our first visit to Scutari (we had visited the town by
steamer from Montenegro on several previous occasions), but as we
clattered through the evil-smelling alleys filled with a surging mass
of more or less unclean humanity, we were struck more forcibly than
ever with the picture. At times our passage was blocked by the crowds,
and misshapen figures and hideous faces would peer out of doors and
shop windows at us, and swaggering Albanians would jostle each other,
their belts for the most part empty, though many were armed in spite
of the stringent rules to the contrary. Slowly we forged our way
through this seething crowd, and emerged on the open road beyond,
leading to the town proper, which lies about half-an-hour's distance
away.
At the hotel we dismissed the man (and the horses), who remarked with
a certain grimness, in Italian, "Buon arrivato," and we staggered into
a meal which our eight-hour fast and torture had rendered extremely
necessary.
[Illustration: THE CONSULAR QUARTERS, SCUTARI]
Though Scutari, strictly speaking, does not belong to this account of
Montenegro, it is still so interesting, being in former days part
of Montenegro, that it deserves some mention.
The actual town is Mahometan, three-quarters of the inhabitants
belonging to that faith; but as the surrounding mountains are all
Christian, and it is the seat of the Roman Catholic Bishopric of
Albania, religious feuds are common. The Christian Albanian belongs
literally to the "Church Militant," and emphasises his feelings
occasionally by throwing a dead pig into a mosque. On other occasions
playful Albanians have been known to tie white cloths round a fez,
thereby imitating the headgear of a Mahometan priest, and so parade
through the town. Very naturally the Mahometans object to it, and
trouble ensues. About a year ago Scutari was in a state of siege, and
closed to trade for a fortnight.[3]
The consular quarter of the town is really quite fine, and here all
the rich merchants, of whom there are very many, live in large houses
often beautifully fitted up and surrounded by a formidable wall. A
street where such houses are situated is externally very gloomy,
nothing to be seen but high walls pierced by massive gates. Behind
those walls, however, are lovely gardens and imposing houses.
[Footnote 3: This has again happened since writing the above.]
The consulates are very much in evidence, with guards of
splendid-looking Albanian kavasses. Politically only Austria and Italy
are vitally interested in Albania, and these countries have large
consular staffs and fine buildings and post offices.
Owing to the absence of the British Consul, we went to see the acting
Vice-Consul, who is a Scutarine, and a very courteous gentleman. Like
all the rich merchants of Scutari, he spoke Italian fluently, and
through him we got an insight into the merchant houses. An extremely
aged kavass, in the long white skirt or kirtle worn largely in
Scutari, and with the British Arms emblazoned on his fez, respectfully
kissed our hands, and we were told that he had been in English service
for over forty years. But he could not speak a word of any language
except Albanian.
The Vice-Consul placed another kavass at our disposal to accompany us
on our explorations of the town, and gave him further permission to
attend us on our proposed ride to Podgorica. This latter idea we were
forced to give up ultimately, as the roads were considered too
dangerous. As a matter of fact, a big shooting affray took place in
the district through which we should have traversed a few days
afterwards.
Quite one of the sights is Mr. Paget's house (of Paget's Horse fame),
situated in the heart of the town. The clock tower affords a fine
view, though the time that it keeps is startling to the new-comer. As
is known, the Turks have a time of their own, which has a difference
of four hours and a half to our time. It is misleading to get up at
an early hour, say six o'clock, and find that it is already half-past
ten. And again you feel you ought to be sleeping at one o'clock at
night, till you remember that it is really only about eight o'clock.
In the bazaar of Scutari representatives of every clan in Albania can
be seen, and each tribe has his distinctive dress, so that the variety
of national costumes to be seen there can be imagined. The Scutarines
are of course very much in evidence, clad in a jaunty sleeveless and
magnificently-embroidered jacket, silk shirt, and enormous baggy
breeches of black, and heavily pleated. How heavily pleated they are
can be gathered when twenty to twenty-five yards of a kind of black
alpaca are used for one pair of knee-breeches. White stockings and a
red skull-cap--not the high Turkish fez--with a huge blue silk tassel
reaching to the waist, complete the attire. Their women-folk look
picturesque in a large scarlet cloak, with a hood half covering the
face.
The student of Albanian costumes can make a complete study of the
subject in Scutari, rendering a journey into the vast country beyond
almost unnecessary.
We always took a camera with us, but with very poor results. It is
against the Mahometan religion to be photographed, neither are
photographers looked upon with pleasure. We did once plant our camera
in the main street of the bazaar, to the great anger of a policeman
who ordered us off, luckily after we had secured a picture.
When we were quite new to Scutari, it happened we were waiting for a
boat to take us off to the steamer, when we were struck with a
particularly fine old Scutariner in red fez and long flowing skirt.
Through the medium of an interpreter, I politely asked the permission
to take his picture. He solemnly nodded his head backwards, and I,
rejoiced at so good a subject, hurriedly erected the stand. When I
next glanced at him, his face was purple with rage, and he made a
threatening movement. For a moment I was quite at a loss to understand
the why and wherefore, until our interpreter hastily explained that it
was against the old man's religion.
"But he said 'yes,'" I expostulated. "At least he nodded."
"That means 'no,'" said the interpreter.
"What does?" I demanded. "Saying 'yes,' or nodding it."
Then the man explained to me at some length, as I repacked my camera,
that in the Orient to shake the head means "yes," and a nod--a quick
elevation of the chin accompanied by a click of the tongue--is
negative. This custom is largely adopted in Montenegro, particularly
amongst the peasants, but even then we never quite knew if a shake of
the head was meant in the Turkish or European sense. It is a
confusing and irritating habit, and takes months to get accustomed to.
Visitors to Montenegro usually spend a day in Scutari, for the route
by steamer is the only perfectly safe way of entering the town.
Passengers by the steamer are not required to have their passports
vised, if they state their intention to the official, who promptly
boards the steamer on its arrival, to return by it next day. But names
and particulars are carefully noted and laid before the Governor.
During this particular visit, we were already well known to the
Turkish officer in charge of this department, a pleasant little
fellow, inordinately proud of his French which he had just learnt; but
still he worried us greatly, calling daily and even sending obvious
spies to find out how long we really meant to stay and our object. We
tried to impress upon him that we had no base intentions on the town,
and were really quite harmless individuals, but he remained friendlily
suspicious till he bade farewell to us on board the little steamer
_Danitza_.
It is about four hours to Plavnica, and the trip across the lake is
very fine, surrounded as it is by magnificent mountains and dotted
with tiny wooded islands along its northern bank. We did not disembark
at Plavnica, the nearest point for Podgorica, but proceeded _via_
Virpazar up the river to Rijeka, the final station of the steamer and
connecting link with Cetinje. The voyage up to Rijeka is delightful,
as the boat threads her way through a narrow channel between lofty
green hills. It is a picture of as true sylvan beauty, peace and
quiet, as can be found on many of the upper reaches of the Thames.
At Rijeka we waited in an inn for the carriage, which we had ordered
by telegraph from Cetinje to take us back to Podgorica, and were
startled to hear a revolver-shot fired in the village. Everyone was
running excitedly to a certain small "dugan," or shop, and thither we
also directed our steps and found a bleeding Montenegrin standing over
a prostrate and insensible Turk.
What had happened was as follows. The Montenegrin had bought some
tobacco from the Turk, and claimed to have been given two kreutzers
(under a halfpenny) short in change, whereupon the Turk accused the
other of having hidden it.
"Thou art a liar!" promptly cried the Montenegrin, and received a
bullet in the thigh as an answer from the enraged Turk. Not seriously
hurt, the Montenegrin, equally quickly, drew his revolver and, using
it as a club, knocked the Turk insensible; in fact, he was thought to
be dead. However, we afterwards heard that he had recovered.
Shortly afterwards we were spending a few days in Cetinje, and were
again witnesses of the final act of another small drama which was
enacted about this time.
One morning we saw about twenty Montenegrins brought into the town
heavily chained, and on inquiry we were told the following story.
A young man, whom we will call Andreas to prevent confusion, had been
for some time in Austria, and not finding work he returned to his
village, named Ljubotin, half-way between Rijeka and Cetinje, or, to
be more correct, just below the Bella Vista in the hollow. He arrived
in the night, penniless and in a desperate condition, and waited
outside his widowed mother's house till he saw that all the men, his
relations, had left and gone to work in the fields. Entering the house
he demanded money of his aged mother, who indignantly refused him--he
seems to have been a bad lot altogether--and as he threatened to take
it by force, she hurriedly called in the village kmet, or mayor, to
protect her. But the kmet was also aged and infirm, and brought a
young man with him. This young man remonstrated with Andreas, who was
breaking open the chest, and said--
"Give me thy revolver."
"Thus I give it thee," answered Andreas, and drawing his revolver he
shot the man dead.
Andreas then fled out of the house into the fields, and the murdered
man's relations speedily gathered together and pursued him. They
espied the fugitive running and fired at him, whereupon Andreas threw
up his arms and fell to the ground. His pursuers thinking him dead,
left him. Andreas was in reality shamming, and crawling through the
bushes saw his uncle at work and promptly fired at _him_.
This time he met his deserts, for his uncle, unhurt, returned the
compliment and shot him through the head.
These shots brought the original pursuers to the spot, and seeing
Andreas dead, and shot by his uncle and not by them, they began
abusing the old man for taking their lawful prey from them.
He bared his chest dramatically, saying that as he knew that the
vendetta must continue, they should shoot him then and there and end
the matter. But they would not, and going further found another
relation of Andreas; this time a young man, and the pride of the
family. They shot and wounded him slightly. He fired and mortally
wounded one of his attackers, which was as far as they got.
The gendarmes had come and arrested them all, and these were the men
of both sides, which we had seen that morning.
As we knew several of them personally, we were doubly interested.