WANDERING IN THE NEAR EAST
PALESTINE is the most barren, desolate and forsaken country--outside
of a desert--that I have ever seen. Many people, in their religious
enthusiasm, work themselves into a state where they imagine that its
stony hills are thickly wooded; that its arid valleys are spots of
beauty and its dull plains are fertile fields. I have heard tourists
indulge in a series of platitudes in praise of some dreary hillside
and vale which, in America, would not be fit for even post-holes. To
speak in such a way about the Holy Land may seem sacrilegious. However,
I would rather write the truth and run the chance of profaning this
sacred country.
With our pack-mule and guide Richardson and I slowly crawled away from
Jerusalem and our horses picked their course over the dismal plains
towards the north. We drew near to the little village of Sha'fat, the
ancient Nob. Not a soul was stirring. The place looked like a group of
deserted and decrepit tombs. Bethel, the scene of many events recorded
in the Old Testament, stood before us on a hill. Every village stands
on a hill, is surrounded by cactus and stones and is inhabited by
a lot of poor unfortunates who have sore eyes and are filthy and
ignorant. A dozen loathsome and mangy dogs usually received us with
their sickly-sounding barks. The simple people congregated and shouted
_bakshish_. We rode through the rubbish-ridden streets, along the
vile-smelling alleys and out into the open again. We didn't stop.
Along the road-side we saw occasional olive trees, two thousand years
old,--if one was to believe what was said about them and if their
appearance indicated anything. Sometimes a number of women and children
would be gathering the fruit. In the plains a flock of sheep would be
grazing. What they found to eat--unless it was the cobble stones--was a
puzzle to me. We would pass a man on a donkey with his wife strutting
along a few paces behind on foot. Or again we would be startled by
actually seeing a live tree on the hillside.
Our destination for the first night was Nablus, the ancient Shechem and
at one time the capital of Palestine. We came to Jacob's well, one of
the most venerated spots in the Holy Land, and in a few minutes were
in the town, an enterprising community of Jews, Moslems and a handful
of Christians. Richardson, with grim inversion, described the place
as the town where the dogs throw stones at you and the boys bite you
in the leg. We were met at the city's gates by the usual reception
committee of barking and snapping dogs and a score of Moslem youngsters
who greeted the vile Christians by pelting us with rocks. To be the
recipient of a cloud of precious stones from the skilful arms of youths
who daily indulge in such a pastime was anything but comfortable. One
lad planted a huge board with all his might across the tail of my
horse. This sudden and violent stroke, together with the hailstorm
of boulders, put a streak of life into an animal which had been
practically dead ever since I had made his acquaintance.
We rode up to a French monastery, conducted by the Latin Church, and
there we put up for the night. Richardson and I sat at the long dining
table with a dozen monks and ate a simple but good meal and drank our
share of wine. It was almost impossible to incite these old fellows to
speech and our dinner was as silent as a religious retreat. Our bedroom
was as well furnished and as comfortable as in an American home.
We made an early start in the morning. We soon came to Samaria, which
is now nothing but a small unsanitary village surrounded by a cactus
hedge and half in ruins. We reached the summit of a hill and, before
us, stretched the Plain of Esdraelon, and the mountains of Tabor and
Carmel stood in the distance like huge monuments. There was nothing
beautiful about the scene.
Riding along quietly we were startled by the sudden appearance over a
hill of two Bedouins on horseback. These men, with their head-dress of
white cloth and a double coil of goat's hair, their hard faces and
guns over their shoulders, were a treacherous-looking pair. They stared
at us, exchanged a few words with our guide and passed on. Many a
Christian has been robbed and killed by Bedouins in the vicinity of the
River Jordan. Our guide must have told them that we were poor men, for
we were never disturbed.
Our stopping place for the second night was a small settlement called
Jenin. We obtained accommodations in a tiny hotel. On leaving we had a
row with the proprietor who demanded more money than he had agreed upon
the evening before. We refused to pay and he followed us for a mile out
of the town, wrangling with us over the matter.
We spent the morning crawling across the Plain of Esdraelon and, about
noon, began ascending the hill to Nazareth. It was a long winding climb
over a road which had never seen a grader. Nazareth is situated on a
sort of plateau. It is a town of about ten thousand people and has
several substantial school buildings and hospitals erected by various
churches. Here are found many places venerated for their Biblical
associations. The Church of the Annunciation is supposed to be erected
on the site of Mary's house and the scene of the annunciation. In the
Moslem quarter of the town the Latin Church has possession of the
"Workshop of Joseph" and the "Table of Christ" upon which he dined
with his disciples before and after the resurrection. The Mount of
Precipitation, where the people sought to cast Christ down, is plainly
visible from Nazareth and on its summit is a Latin church.
We left Nazareth at four o'clock in the morning. We recrossed the Plain
of Esdraelon and arrived at Afuleh where we missed our train--the only
one that day--for Damascus. Turkish trains run on peculiar schedules.
This train is supposed to leave Haifa for Damascus each day at sun
rise. Occasionally the conductor--or some one--decides to start an hour
or more earlier. This is done without any notice to the public. Such
was evidently the case on the morning we tried to catch the train, for
we arrived on time at Afuleh only to find that we were too late.
We dismissed our guide, who returned to Jerusalem with the two horses
and pack-mule. It looked as though we were doomed to spend a day and
a night at Afuleh, a station and a native shop--and nothing more. A
Syrian lace merchant and a young New York Jew, a commercial traveller,
were also left behind. We telegraphed the director of the railroad and
obtained his permission to go by freight train to Damascus. We declined
this route, however, when the freight conductor consigned us to an open
car exposed to a steady down-pour of rain.
[Illustration: OUR START FOR NAZARETH]
We spent the day walking the ties in front of the station and went to
Haifa for the night on the train from Damascus late in the afternoon.
We had landed in Haifa when we first arrived in Palestine, and our
second coming completed a small circuit. The next day we took the train
that leaves at sun rise for Damascus. The only thing a Turkish train
has in the way of accommodation is plenty of time. It hasn't a single
convenience I can think of. I actually saw one train stop to allow
two ducks to cross the track. One conductor threatened to beat me up
because I made fun of his little engine and cars by running backwards
beside his train and winning the race into the station.
The Sea of Galilee is a glassy, stagnant-looking body of water, and
when we saw it was as calm as a plate of soup. It was so peaceful that
one could hardly realise that it was capable of the storms described
in the Bible. I was told that these storms take place on it to-day.
Tiberias, the most vermin-ridden settlement in the world, stands on its
shores. The River Jordan, which looks like a Southern California "wash"
in winter, has its source in the sea. Richardson and I walked down to
the banks of this mad-rushing little stream and filled a bottle with a
sample of its water. This fluid looks and tastes like that of any water
company in America. I have done nothing but give portions of my sample
away ever since.
Beyond the Jordan the railroad crosses a vast plain which produces
nothing but rocks. I don't think I ever saw so many boulders before. I
didn't see a suggestion of vegetation or a sign of life in the entire
distance from the Jordan to Damascus. We travelled across this weary
expanse of nothing with a Greek priest, who spoke English, and a female
missionary of the Church of England who had spent many years of her
life converting natives in a village east of the Jordan.
Damascus is the oldest city in the world. It is the city in which Saint
Paul became a Christian. It is larger than Pittsburgh, having over half
a million inhabitants. It is famous for its picturesque markets and
bazaars, which are the focal point for all the products of the interior
of Syria.
Richardson and I took in the sights of this city without a guide, as
was our custom. The Reverend Mr. Hanamar, of the English Church, told
us how to get about most profitably. He is an authority on the Holy
Land and Syria and had the task of revising Thomas Cook and Son's
Handbook on Palestine and Syria. We walked the length of the "Street
Called Straight." If it were not for the fact that every one who sees
this street makes the same remark, I would here state that it is not
straight. However, it is an interesting thoroughfare. With its wooden
roof, its hundreds of picturesque shops and its hordes of humanity it
is unique among the streets of the world.
The Great Mosque, which at one time was a Christian Church, is said to
contain the head of Saint John the Baptist. I understand that a half
dozen churches throughout Europe also claim this distinction. At any
rate, it is interesting to note--and strange to think--that the Moslems
have allowed the following inscription on the walls of the Great Mosque
to remain: "Thy Kingdom, O Christ, is a kingdom of all ages, and Thy
dominion lasts throughout all generations."
Our train from Damascus to Beirut travelled at the rate of six miles
an hour. A man can nearly beat this walking. But out of justice to
this train I should say that in a distance of eighty miles we had to
rise three thousand feet to the ridge of the Lebanon Mountains. From
the summit of these mountains a beautiful picture was suddenly spread
before us. Directly beneath us was Beirut--its houses crowded in among
the jungle of trees--and stretching out beyond to the horizon was the
expanse of the blue and white-capped Mediterranean. Bobbing up and down
on the waves was a small steamer flying the Stars and Stripes. It was
the first American flag Richardson and I had seen since we left Manila.
We decided to investigate it on our arrival in Beirut.
We were the guests of Professor and Mrs. Brown, who were connected
with the Syrian Protestant College, one of the leading institutions of
learning in the Near East. Beirut is a great educational centre, having
forty schools for boys and twenty-five for girls.
The Syrian lace merchant, whom we met at Afuleh while waiting for our
train, entertained us at dinner. After the meal we drank several cups
of muddy-looking Turkish coffee with its inch of sediment in the bottom
of the cup, and smoked a _narghile_, or hubble-bubble pipe. From our
Syrian friend we learned that the little steamer with the American
flag was the _Virginia_ of the Archipelago-American Steamship Company.
This concern was incorporated under the laws of the United States and
carried the Stars and Stripes, although its capital and management were
largely Greek. This arrangement was to serve as a means of protection
against Turkey.
Richardson and I concluded that here was our chance for a free ride.
We would go to the steamship company's office, announce that we were
Americans, act important and demand passage to Constantinople.
"When does the _Virginia_ leave for Constantinople?" I asked a man in
the company's office after introducing Richardson and myself.
"In a few days, as soon as her cargo is loaded. She doesn't run on any
schedule," was his reply.
"Mr. Richardson and I are studying conditions in Syria for an American
newspaper syndicate and we want to get passage on your boat to
Constantinople. We are paying special attention to the commerce and
shipping of this section of the world and we wish to make a favourable
report. We noticed that your steamer flies the American flag." There
had been considerable criticism of the policy of permitting foreign
concerns such as the Archipelago-American Steamship Company to fly
American colours on their ships. The officials of this company were
aware of this and when we gave the newspaper talk they imagined that
we might make it a point to use their company as an example in our
write-ups.
"But the _Virginia_ is only a freight boat. She hasn't any
accommodations for passengers. But----"
"We can put up with the crew," interrupted Richardson. "In fact we
would rather travel in that way. We can get the sailor's point of view."
"Can you drop in again this afternoon? I will see what I can do," the
man concluded after a moment's reflection.
"Rich, if we don't land that boat to Constantinople I will walk there,"
I said, as we sauntered along the waterfront from the steamship office.
Two nights later we were nicely settled in a stateroom on the
_Virginia_ adjoining the captain's. It was one of the most comfortable
cabins we had been in. Across the way was a young Greek governess,
a friend of the skipper's. She was also getting a free ride to
Constantinople.
The scheduled time for the regular passenger steamers from Beirut to
Constantinople is three days. The little _Virginia_ see-sawed up and
down the coast of Asia Minor, discharging and taking on freight, for
two weeks. Richardson and I didn't care if it took six months for the
journey or if she went to South America for a cargo.
We anchored off the shore of Tripoli but were unable to land on account
of the city's being under quarantine for cholera. The little steamer
continued on to Alexandretta. Richardson and I went ashore here and
wandered in and out among the markets. It is a town of thirty thousand
people and possesses nothing of extraordinary interest. The _Virginia_
received orders to go to Bayas, a small port to the north, for several
thousand boxes of oranges to be brought to Alexandretta.
Morning found us off the coast of Bayas. During the day a number of
Greeks with their wives and daughters came on board. They were orange
growers of Syria. Their presence meant jam for breakfast, a delicacy
we didn't otherwise get. Richardson nearly disgraced America by the
amount he ate. The steamer returned to Alexandretta that evening and
discharged her cargo of fruit.
Mersina, a city of about fifty thousand people, was the next place
on our itinerary. The night's trip proved a rough one. A strong wind
stirred up a very heavy sea. The little boat was tossed about as though
it had no weight. The waves broke over the ship and water mysteriously
came in our cabin in spite of the fact that the portholes were securely
closed. It was one of the wettest nights of my life. It seemed as
though some one was emptying a tub of water in our room every minute.
Everything was literally swimming in water. It was foot deep in our
stateroom in the morning. Richardson and I waded out of the cabin as
wet as two oysters and dressed in the saloon.
[Illustration: THE PORT OF DEDEAGATCH]
The night had been a wet one and a long one to us. But to the poor
Greek governess in the adjoining stateroom it was one of continual
distress. The gruesome and appalling shrieks and groans which
emanated from this unfortunate creature indicated that she was in the
last stages of sea-sickness. I have seen thousands of people suffering
with this ailment but I never heard one perform as this young Greek
did. All night she gasped for breath, coughed and choked. She gave vent
to the most heart-rending whoops which penetrated to all parts of the
ship. We thought the poor girl would strangle to death.
During the following night the steamer put into Rhodes. Much to our
regret we were off before morning and there was no opportunity to land.
A short stop was made at Khios, a small town on an island of the same
name off the coast of Asia Minor.
We steamed into the beautiful bay of Smyrna with the city clinging
snugly to a hundred hills clothed in a garment of evergreen. Every
section of the world seems to have its Paris, and Smyrna has this
distinction for the Near East. There are many French people among its
half million inhabitants and the city is gay with cafés, theatres and
places of amusement. We only had a short time to go about while the
steamer discharged a small consignment of freight.
Two hundred Turks were driven up the gangway to go as deck passengers
to Dedeagatch, a little seaport in Southern Bulgaria. It was a motley
crowd of human freight that huddled in bunches on the forward deck.
The men with red fezzes or soiled turbans and unkempt straggly beards
were an unattractive lot. The women with their black dresses covering
shapeless figures and with their veiled faces didn't look like human
beings. They had the appearance of walking pyramids.
As Richardson and I wandered about the deck to look them over, the
women would turn their faces or quickly veil themselves. It was
immodest to expose this part of their anatomy to a man and especially
to a foreigner. What a strange thing custom is! The women of America
go clothed to the limit except in the ballroom, on the stage or in the
water. The women of Japan are indifferent as to when or where they
disrobe. The women of Turkey hide their faces on the approach of man. I
was told that when Milady of Turkey is caught unaware in the bath she
makes haste to cover only her face. Some of the faces I chanced to see
look better behind their black curtains. It might be wise to introduce
such facial disguises in America. I know instances where they would
serve a laudable purpose.
Life on the _Virginia_ was getting monotonous. The food had taken a
slump from its fairly good beginning. We had little to do and time
began to drag. We had read all the books on board. The steamer didn't
remain at the various ports long enough for us to acquaint ourselves
with the towns and cities--still less with the commerce and shipping
interests of the country. We looked forward to Constantinople and some
diversity.
We only remained at Dedeagatch a sufficient time to dump the human
cargo of Turks, and then set out for Constantinople. We sailed through
the Hellespont, passed the small town of Dardanelles, steamed across
the Sea of Marmora and entered the Bosporus.