On a morning early in April the little steamer conveying us across from
Stamboul touched the wharf at Haider Pasha. Amid the rabble of Greeks,
Armenians, Turks, and Italians we trundled our bicycles across the
gang-plank, which for us was the threshold of Asia, the beginning of an
inland journey of seven thousand miles from the Bosporus to the Pacific.
Through the morning fog which enveloped the shipping in the Golden Horn,
the “stars and stripes” at a single masthead were waving farewell to two
American students fresh from college who had nerved themselves for nearly
two years of separation from the comforts of western civilization.
Our guide to the road to Ismid was the little twelve-year-old son of an
Armenian doctor, whose guests we had been during our sojourn in Stamboul.
He trotted for some distance by our side, and then, pressing our hands in
both of his, he said with childlike sincerity: “I hope God will take care
of you”; for he was possessed with the thought popular among Armenians, of
pillages and massacres by marauding brigands.
The idea of a trip around the world had been conceived by us as a
practical finish to a theoretical education; and the bicycle feature was
adopted merely as a means to that end. On reaching London we had formed
the plan of penetrating the heart of the Asiatic continent, instead of
skirting its more civilized coast-line. For a passport and other
credentials necessary in journeying through Russia and Central Asia we had
been advised to make application to the Czar’s representative on our
arrival at Teheran, as we would enter the Russian dominions from Persia;
and to that end the Russian minister in London had provided us with a
letter of introduction. In London the secretary of the Chinese legation, a
Scotchman, had assisted us in mapping out a possible route across the
Celestial empire, although he endeavored, from the very start, to dissuade
us from our purpose. Application had then been made to the Chinese
minister himself for the necessary passport. The reply we received, though
courteous, smacked strongly of reproof. “Western China,” he said, “is
overrun with lawless bands, and the people themselves are very much averse
to foreigners. Your extraordinary mode of locomotion would subject you to
annoyance, if not to positive danger, at the hands of a people who are
naturally curious and superstitious. However,” he added, after some
reflection, “if your minister makes a request for a passport we will see
what can be done. The most I can do will be to ask for you the protection
and assistance of the officials only; for the people themselves I cannot
answer. If you go into that country you do so at your own risk.” Minister
Lincoln was sitting in his private office when we called the next morning
at the American legation. He listened to the recital of our plans, got
down the huge atlas from his bookcase, and went over with us the route we
proposed to follow. He did not regard the undertaking as feasible, and
apprehended that, if he should give his official assistance, he would, in
a measure, be responsible for the result if it should prove unhappy. When
assured of the consent of our parents, and of our determination to make
the attempt at all hazards, he picked up his pen and began a letter to the
Chinese minister, remarking as he finished reading it to us, “I would much
rather not have written it.” The documents received from the Chinese
minister in response to Mr. Lincoln’s letter proved to be indispensable
when, a year and a half later, we left the last outpost of western
civilization and plunged into the Gobi desert. When we had paid a final
visit to the Persian minister in London, who had asked to see our bicycles
and their baggage equipments, he signified his intention of writing in our
behalf to friends in Teheran; and to that capital, after cycling through
Europe, we were now actually _en route_.
Since the opening of the Trans-Bosporus Railway, the wagon-road to Ismid,
and even the Angora military highway beyond, have fallen rapidly into
disrepair. In April they were almost impassable for the wheel, so that for
the greater part of the way we were obliged to take to the track. Like the
railway skirting the Italian Riviera, and the Patras-Athens line along the
Saronic Gulf, this Trans-Bosporus road for a great distance scarps and
tunnels the cliffs along the Gulf of Ismid, and sometimes runs so close to
the water’s edge that the puffing of the _kara vapor_ or “land steamer,”
as the Turks call it, is drowned by the roaring breakers. The country
between Scutari and Ismid surpasses in agricultural advantages any part of
Asiatic Turkey through which we passed. Its fertile soil, and the
luxuriant vegetation it supports, are, as we afterward learned, in
striking contrast with the sterile plateaus and mountains of the interior,
many parts of which are as desolate as the deserts of Arabia. In area,
Asia Minor equals France, but the water-supply of its rivers is only one
third.
[Illustration: BICYCLE ROUTE OF Messrs. Allen & Sachtleben ACROSS
ASIA.]
One of the principal agents in the work of transforming Asia Minor is the
railroad, to which the natives have taken with unusual readiness. The
locomotive is already competing with the hundred and sixty thousand camels
employed in the peninsula caravan-trade. At Geiveh, the last station on
the Trans-Bosporus Railway, where we left the track to follow the Angora
highway, the “ships of the desert” are beginning to transfer their cargoes
to the “land steamer,” instead of continuing on as in former days to the
Bosporus.
[Illustration: THE DONKEY BOYS INSPECT THE “DEVIL’S CARRIAGE.”]
The Trans-Bosporus line, in the year of our visit, was being built and
operated by a German company, under the direct patronage of the Sultan. We
ventured to ask some natives if they thought the Sultan had sufficient
funds to consummate so gigantic a scheme, and they replied, with the
deepest reverence: “God has given the Padishah much property and power,
and certainly he must give him enough money to utilize it.”
A week’s cycling from the Bosporus brought us beyond the Allah Dagh
mountains, among the barren, variegated hills that skirt the Angora
plateau. We had already passed through Ismid, the ancient Nicomedia and
capital of Diocletian; and had left behind us the heavily timbered valley
of the Sakaria, upon whose banks the “Freebooter of the Bithynian hills”
settled with his four hundred tents and laid the foundation of the Ottoman
empire. Since leaving Geiveh we had been attended by a mounted guard, or
_zaptieh_, who was sometimes forced upon us by the authorities in their
anxiety to carry out the wishes expressed in the letters of the Grand
Vizir. On emerging from the door of an inn we frequently found this
unexpected guard waiting with a Winchester rifle swung over his shoulder,
and a fleet steed standing by his side. Immediately on our appearance he
would swing into the saddle and charge through the assembled rabble. Away
we would go at a rapid pace down the streets of the town or village, to
the utter amazement of the natives and the great satisfaction of our
vainglorious zaptieh. As long as his horse was fresh, or until we were out
of sight of the village, he would urge us on with cries of “Gellcha-buk”
(“Come on, ride fast”). When a bad piece of road or a steep ascent forced
us to dismount he would bring his horse to a walk, roll a cigarette, and
draw invidious comparisons between our steeds. His tone, however, changed
when we reached a decline or long stretch of reasonably good road. Then he
would cut across country to head us off, or shout after us at the top of
his voice, “Yavash-yavash” (“Slowly, slowly”). On the whole we found them
good-natured and companionable fellows, notwithstanding their interest in
_baksheesh_ which we were compelled at last, in self-defense, to fix at
one piaster an hour. We frequently shared with them our frugal, and even
scanty meals; and in turn they assisted us in our purchases and
arrangements for lodgings, for their word, we found, was with the common
people an almost unwritten law. Then, too, they were of great assistance
in crossing streams where the depth would have necessitated the stripping
of garments; although their fiery little steeds sometimes objected to
having an extra rider astride their haunches, and a bicycle across their
shoulders. They seized every opportunity to impress us with the necessity
of being accompanied by a government representative. In some lonely
portion of the road, or in the suggestive stillness of an evening
twilight, our Turkish Don Quixote would sometimes cast mysterious glances
around him, take his Winchester from his shoulder, and throwing it across
the pommel of his saddle, charge ahead to meet the imaginary enemy. But we
were more harmful than harmed, for, despite our most vigilant care, the
bicycles were sometimes the occasion of a stampede or runaway among the
caravans and teams along the highway, and we frequently assisted in
replacing the loads thus upset. On such occasions our pretentious cavalier
would remain on his horse, smoking his cigarette and smiling disdainfully.
[Illustration: HELPING A TURK WHOSE HORSES RAN AWAY AT SIGHT OF OUR
BICYCLES.]
It was in the company of one of these military champions that we emerged
on the morning of April 12 upon the plateau of Angora. On the spring
pasture were feeding several flocks of the famous Angora goats, and the
_karamanli_ or fat-tailed sheep, tended by the Yurak shepherds and their
half-wild and monstrous collies, whose half-savage nature fits them to
cope with the jackals which infest the country. The shepherds did not
check their sudden onslaught upon us until we were pressed to very close
quarters, and had drawn our revolvers in self-defense. These Yuraks are
the nomadic portion of the Turkish peasantry. They live in caves or rudely
constructed huts, shifting their habitation at will, or upon the
exhaustion of the pasturage. Their costume is most primitive both in style
and material; the trousers and caps being made of sheepskin and the tunic
of plaited wheat-straw. In contradistinction to the Yuraks the settled
inhabitants of the country are called Turks. That term, however, which
means rustic or clown, is never used by the Turks themselves except in
derision or disdain; they always speak of themselves as “Osmanli.”
[Illustration: AN ANGORA SHEPHERD.]
The great length of the Angora fleece, which sometimes reaches eight
inches, is due solely to the peculiar climate of the locality. The same
goats taken elsewhere have not thriven. Even the Angora dogs and cats are
remarkable for the extraordinary length of their fleecy covering. On
nearing Angora itself, we raced at high speed over the undulating plateau.
Our zaptieh on his jaded horse faded away in the dim distance, and we saw
him no more. This was our last guard for many weeks to come, as we decided
to dispense with an escort that really retarded us. But on reaching
Erzerum, the Vali refused us permission to enter the district of Alashgerd
without a guard, so we were forced to take one.
[Illustration: 1, THE ENGLISH CONSUL AT ANGORA FEEDING HIS PETS; 2,
PASSING A CARAVAN OF CAMELS; 3, PLOWING IN ASIA MINOR.]
We were now on historic ground. To our right, on the Owas, a tributary of
the Sakaria, was the little village of Istanas, where stood the ancient
seat of Midas, the Phrygian king, and where Alexander the Great cut with
his sword the Gordian knot to prove his right to the rulership of the
world. On the plain, over which we were now skimming, the great Tatar,
Timur, fought the memorable battle with Bajazet I., which resulted in the
capture of the Ottoman conqueror. Since the time that the title of Asia
applied to the small coast-province of Lydia, this country has been the
theater for the grandest events in human history.
[Illustration: A CONTRAST.]
The old mud-houses of modern Angora, as we rolled into the city,
contrasted strongly with the cyclopean walls of its ancient fortress.
After two days in Angora we diverged from the direct route to Sivas
through Yüzgat, so as to visit the city of Kaisarieh. Through the efforts
of the progressive Vali at Angora, a macadamized road was in the course of
construction to this point, a part of which—to the town of Kirshehr—was
already completed. Although surrounded by unusual fertility and luxuriance
for an interior town, the low mud-houses and treeless streets give
Kirshehr that same thirsty and painfully uniform appearance which
characterizes every village or city in Asiatic Turkey. The mud buildings
of Babylon, and not the marble edifices of Nineveh, have served as models
for the Turkish architect. We have seen the Turks, when making the
mud-straw bricks used in house-building, scratch dirt for the purpose from
between the marble slabs and boulders that lay in profusion over the
ground. A few of the government buildings and some of the larger private
residences are improved by a coat of whitewash, and now and then the warm
spring showers bring out on the mud roofs a relieving verdure, that
frequently serves as pasture for the family goat. Everything is low and
contracted, especially the doorways. When a foreigner bumps his head, and
demands the reason for such stupid architecture, he is met with that
decisive answer, “Adet”—custom, the most powerful of all influences in
Turkey and the East.
[Illustration: A TURKISH FLOUR-MILL.]
Our entry into Kirshehr was typical of our reception everywhere. When we
were seen approaching, several horsemen came out to get a first look at
our strange horses. They challenged us to a race, and set a spanking pace
down into the streets of the town. Before we reached the _khan_, or inn,
we were obliged to dismount. “Bin! bin!” (“Ride! ride!”) went up in a
shout. “Nimkin deyil” (“It is impossible”), we explained, in such a jam;
and the crowd opened up three or four feet ahead of us. “Bin bocale”
(“Ride, so that we can see”), they shouted again; and some of them rushed
up to hold our steeds for us to mount. With the greatest difficulty we
impressed upon our persistent assistants that they could not help us. By
the time we reached the khan the crowd had become almost a mob, pushing
and tumbling over one another, and yelling to every one in sight that “the
devil’s carts have come.” The inn-keeper came out, and we had to assure
him that the mob was actuated only by curiosity. As soon as the bicycles
were over the threshold, the doors were bolted and braced. The crowds
swarmed to the windows. While the khanji prepared coffee we sat down to
watch the amusing by-play and repartee going on around us. Those who by
virtue of their friendship with the khanji were admitted to the room with
us began a tirade against the boyish curiosity of their less fortunate
brethren on the outside. Their own curiosity assumed tangible shape. Our
clothing, and even our hair and faces, were critically examined. When we
attempted to jot down the day’s events in our note-books they crowded
closer than ever. Our fountain-pen was an additional puzzle to them. It
was passed around, and explained and commented on at length.
Our camera was a “mysterious” black box. Some said it was a telescope,
about which they had only a vague idea; others, that it was a box
containing our money. But our map of Asiatic Turkey was to them the most
curious thing of all. They spread it on the floor, and hovered over it,
while we pointed to the towns and cities. How could we tell where the
places were until we had been there? How did we even know their names? It
was wonderful—wonderful! We traced for them our own journey, where we had
been and where we were going, and then endeavored to show them how, by
starting from our homes and continuing always in an easterly direction, we
could at last reach our starting-point from the west. The more intelligent
of them grasped the idea. “Around the world,” they repeated again and
again, with a mystified expression.
Relief came at last, in the person of a messenger from Osman Beg, the
inspector-general of agriculture of the Angora vilayet, bearing an
invitation to supper. He stated that he had already heard of our
undertaking through the Constantinople press, and desired to make our
acquaintance. His note, which was written in French, showed him to be a
man of European education; and on shaking hands with him a half-hour
later, we found him to be a man of European origin—an Albanian Greek, and
a cousin of the Vali at Angora. He said a report had gone out that two
devils were passing through the country. The dinner was one of those
incongruous Turkish mixtures of sweet and sour, which was by no means
relieved by the harrowing Turkish music which our host ground out from an
antiquated hand-organ.
[Illustration: MILL IN ASIA MINOR.]
Although it was late when we returned to the khan, we found everybody
still up. The room in which we were to sleep (there was only one room) was
filled with a crowd of loiterers, and tobacco smoke. Some were playing
games similar to our chess and backgammon, while others were looking on,
and smoking the gurgling narghile, or water-pipe. The bicycles had been
put away under lock and key, and the crowd gradually dispersed. We lay
down in our clothes, and tried to lose consciousness; but the Turkish
supper, the tobacco smoke, and the noise of the quarreling gamesters, put
sleep out of the question. At midnight the sudden boom of a cannon
reminded us that we were in the midst of the Turkish Ramadan. The sound of
tramping feet, the beating of a bass drum, and the whining tones of a
Turkish bagpipe, came over the midnight air. Nearer it came, and louder
grew the sound, till it reached the inn door, where it remained for some
time. The fast of Ramadan commemorates the revelation of the Koran to the
prophet Mohammed. It lasts through the four phases of the moon. From
daylight, or, as the Koran reads, “from the time you can distinguish a
white thread from a black one,” no good Mussulman will eat, drink, or
smoke. At midnight the mosques are illuminated, and bands of music go
about the streets all night, making a tremendous uproar. One cannon is
fired at dusk, to announce the time to break the fast by eating supper,
another at midnight to arouse the people for the preparation of breakfast,
and still another at daylight as a signal for resuming the fast. This, of
course, is very hard on the poor man who has to work during the day. As a
precaution against oversleeping, a watchman goes about just before
daybreak, and makes a rousing clatter at the gate of every Mussulman’s
house to warn him that if he wants anything to eat he must get it
instanter. Our roommates evidently intended to make an “all night” of it,
for they forthwith commenced the preparation of their morning meal. How it
was despatched we do not know, for we fell asleep, and were only awakened
by the muezzin on a neighboring minaret, calling to morning prayer.
[Illustration: GIPSIES OF ASIA MINOR.]
Our morning ablutions were usually made _à la_ Turk: by having water
poured upon the hands from a spouted vessel. Cleanliness is, with the
Turk, perhaps, more than ourselves, the next thing to godliness. But his
ideas are based upon a very different theory. Although he uses no soap for
washing either his person or his clothes, yet he considers himself much
cleaner than the giaour, for the reason that he uses running water
exclusively, never allowing the same particles to touch him the second
time. A Turk believes that all water is purified after running six feet.
As a test of his faith we have often seen him lading up drinking-water
from a stream where the women were washing clothes just a few yards above.
[Illustration: SCENE AT A GREEK INN.]
As all cooking and eating had stopped at the sound of the morning cannon,
we found great difficulty in gathering together even a cold breakfast of
_ekmek_, _yaourt_, and raisins. Ekmek is a cooked bran-flour paste, which
has the thinness, consistency, and almost the taste of blotting-paper.
This is the Turkish peasant’s staff of life. He carries it with him
everywhere; so did we. As it was made in huge circular sheets, we would
often punch a hole in the middle, and slip it up over our arms. This we
found the handiest and most serviceable mode of transportation, being
handy to eat without removing our hands from the handle-bars, and also
answering the purpose of sails in case of a favoring wind. Yaourt, another
almost universal food, is milk curdled with rennet. This, as well as all
foods that are not liquid, they scoop up with a roll of ekmek, a part of
the scoop being taken with every mouthful. Raisins here, as well as in
many other parts of the country, are very cheap. We paid two piasters
(about nine cents) for an _oche_ (two and a half pounds), but we soon made
the discovery that a Turkish oche contained a great many “stones”—which of
course was purely accidental. Eggs, also, we found exceedingly cheap. On
one occasion, twenty-five were set before us, in response to our call for
eggs to the value of one piaster—four and a half cents. In Asiatic Turkey
we had some extraordinary dishes served to us, including daintily prepared
leeches. But the worst mixture, perhaps, was the “Bairam soup,” which
contains over a dozen ingredients, including peas, prunes, walnuts,
cherries, dates, white and black beans, apricots, cracked wheat, raisins,
etc.—all mixed in cold water. Bairam is the period of feasting after the
Ramadan fast.
[Illustration: EATING KAISERICHEN (EKMEK) OR BREAD.]
On preparing to leave Kirshehr after our frugal breakfast we found that
Turkish curiosity had extended even to the contents of our baggage, which
fitted in the frames of the machines. There was nothing missing, however:
and we did not lose so much as a button during our sojourn among them.
Thieving is not one of their faults, but they take much latitude in
helping themselves. Many a time an inn-keeper would “help us out” by
disposing of one third of a chicken that we had paid him a high price to
prepare.
When we were ready to start the chief of police cleared a riding space
through the streets, which for an hour had been filled with people. As we
passed among them they shouted “Oorooglar olsun” (“May good fortune attend
you”). “Inshallah” (“If it please God”), we replied, and waved our helmets
in acknowledgment.
[Illustration: GRINDING WHEAT.]
[Illustration: A TURKISH (HAMAAL) OR CARRIER.]
At the village of Topakle, on the following night, our reception was not
so innocent and good-natured. It was already dusk when we reached the
outskirts of the village, where we were at once spied by a young man who
was driving in the lowing herd. The alarm was given, and the people
swarmed like so many rats from a corn-bin. We could see from their costume
and features that they were not pure-blooded Turks. We asked if we could
get food and lodging, to which they replied, “Evet, evet” (“Yes, yes”),
but when we asked them where, they simply pointed ahead, and shouted,
“Bin, bin!” We did not “bin” this time, because it was too dark, and the
streets were bad. We walked, or rather were pushed along by the impatient
rabble, and almost deafened by their shouts of “Bin, bin!” At the end of
the village we repeated our question of where. Again they pointed ahead,
and shouted, “Bin!” Finally an old man led us to what seemed to be a
private residence, where we had to drag our bicycles up a dark narrow
stairway to the second story. The crowd soon filled the room to
suffocation, and were not disposed to heed our request to be left alone.
One stalwart youth showed such a spirit of opposition that we were obliged
to eject him upon a crowded stairway, causing the mob to go down like a
row of tenpins. Then the owner of the house came in, and in an agitated
manner declared he could not allow us to remain in his house overnight.
Our reappearance caused a jeering shout to go up from the crowd; but no
violence was attempted beyond the catching hold of the rear wheel when our
backs were turned, and the throwing of clods of earth. They followed us,
_en masse_, to the edge of the village, and there stopped short, to watch
us till we disappeared in the darkness. The nights at this high altitude
were chilly. We had no blankets, and not enough clothing to warrant a camp
among the rocks. There was not a twig on the whole plateau with which to
build a fire. We were alone, however, and that was rest in itself. After
walking an hour, perhaps, we saw a light gleaming from a group of mudhuts
a short distance off the road. From the numerous flocks around it, we took
it to be a shepherds’ village. Everything was quiet except the restless
sheep, whose silky fleece glistened in the light of the rising moon.
Supper was not yet over, for we caught a whiff of its savory odor. Leaving
our wheels outside, we entered the first door we came to, and, following
along a narrow passageway, emerged into a room where four rather
rough-looking shepherds were ladling the soup from a huge bowl in their
midst. Before they were aware of our presence, we uttered the usual
salutation “Sabala khayr olsun.” This startled some little boys who were
playing in the corner, who yelled, and ran into the haremlük, or women’s
apartment. This brought to the door the female occupants, who also uttered
a shriek, and sunk back as if in a swoon. It was evident that the visits
of giaours to this place had been few and far between. The shepherds
returned our salutation with some hesitation, while their ladles dropped
into the soup, and their gaze became fixed on our huge helmets, our
dogskin top-coats, and abbreviated nether garments. The women by this time
had sufficiently recovered from their nervous shock to give scope to their
usual curiosity through the cracks in the partition. Confidence now being
inspired by our own composure, we were invited to sit down and participate
in the evening meal. Although it was only a gruel of sour milk and rice,
we managed to make a meal off it. Meantime the wheels had been discovered
by some passing neighbor. The news was spread throughout the village, and
soon an excited throng came in with our bicycles borne upon the shoulders
of two powerful Turks. Again we were besieged with entreaties to ride,
and, hoping that this would gain for us a comfortable night’s rest, we
yielded, and, amid peals of laughter from a crowd of Turkish peasants,
gave an exhibition in the moonlight. Our only reward, when we returned to
our quarters, was two greasy pillows and a filthy carpet for a coverlet.
But the much needed rest we did not secure, for the suspicions aroused by
the first glance at our bed-cover proved to be well grounded.
[Illustration: TURKISH WOMEN GOING TO PRAYERS IN KAISARIEH.]
About noon on April 20, our road turned abruptly into the broad caravan
trail that runs between Smyrna and Kaisarieh, about ten miles west of the
latter city. A long caravan of camels was moving majestically up the road,
headed by a little donkey, which the _devedejee_ (camel-driver) was riding
with his feet dangling almost to the ground. That proverbially stubborn
creature moved not a muscle until we came alongside, when all at once he
gave one of his characteristic side lurches, and precipitated the rider to
the ground. The first camel, with a protesting grunt, began to sidle off,
and the broadside movement continued down the line till the whole caravan
stood at an angle of about forty-five degrees to the road. The camel of
Asia Minor does not share that antipathy for the equine species which is
so general among their Asiatic cousins; but steel horses were more than
even they could endure.
[Illustration: THE “FLIRTING TOWER” IN SIVAS.]
A sudden turn in the road now brought us in sight of old Arjish Dagh,
which towers 13,000 feet above the city of Kaisarieh, and whose head and
shoulders were covered with snow. Native tradition tells us that against
this lofty summit the ark of Noah struck in the rising flood; and for this
reason Noah cursed it, and prayed that it might ever be covered with snow.
It was in connection with this very mountain that we first conceived the
idea of making the ascent of Ararat. Here and there, on some of the most
prominent peaks, we could distinguish little mounds of earth, the ruined
watch-towers of the prehistoric Hittites.
[Illustration: HOUSE OF THE AMERICAN CONSUL IN SIVAS.]
Kaisarieh (ancient Cæsarea) is filled with the ruins and the monuments of
the fourteenth-century Seljuks. Arrowheads and other relics are every day
unearthed there, to serve as toys for the street urchins. Since the
development of steam-communication around the coast, it is no longer the
caravan center that it used to be; but even now its _charshi_, or inclosed
bazaars, are among the finest in Turkey, being far superior in appearance
to those of Constantinople. These _charshi_ are nothing more than narrow
streets, inclosed by brick arches, and lined on either side with booths.
It was through one of these that our only route to the khan lay—and yet we
felt that in such contracted quarters, and in such an excited mob as had
gathered around us, disaster was sure to follow. Our only salvation was to
keep ahead of the jam, and get through as soon as possible. We started on
the spurt; and the race began. The unsuspecting merchants and their
customers were suddenly distracted from their thoughts of gain as we
whirled by; the crowd close behind sweeping everything before it. The
falling of barrels and boxes, the rattling of tin cans, the crashing of
crockery, the howling of the vagrant dogs that were trampled under foot,
only added to the general tumult.
Through the courtesy of Mr. Peet of the American Bible House at
Constantinople, we were provided with letters of introduction to the
missionaries at Kaisarieh, as well as elsewhere along our route through
Asiatic Turkey, and upon them we also had drafts to the amount of our
deposit made at the Bible House before starting. Besides, we owed much to
the hospitality and kindness of these people. The most striking feature of
the missionary work at Kaisarieh is the education of the Armenian women,
whose social position seems to be even more degraded than that of their
Turkish sisters. With the native Armenians, as with the Turks, fleshiness
adds much to the price of a wife. The wife of a missionary is to them an
object both of wonderment and contempt. As she walks along the street,
they will whisper to one another: “There goes a woman who knows all her
husband’s business; and who can manage just as well as himself.” This will
generally be followed in an undertone by the expression, “Madana satana,”
which means, in common parlance, “a female devil.” At first it was a
struggle to overcome this ignorant prejudice, and to get girls to come to
the school free of charge; now it is hard to find room for them even when
they are asked to pay for their tuition.
The costume of the Armenian woman is generally of some bright-colored
cloth, prettily trimmed. Her coiffure, always elaborate, sometimes
includes a string of gold coins, encircling the head, or strung down the
plait. A silver belt incloses the waist, and a necklace of coins calls
attention to her pretty neck. When washing clothes by the stream, they
frequently show a gold ring encircling an ankle.
In the simplicity of their costumes, as well as in the fact that they do
not expose the face, the Turkish women stand in strong contrast to the
Armenian. Baggy trousers _à la_ Bloomer, a loose robe skirt opening at the
sides, and a voluminous shawl-like girdle around the waist and body,
constitute the main features of the Turkish indoor costume. On the street
a shroud-like robe called yashmak, usually white, but sometimes crimson,
purple, or black, covers them from head to foot. When we would meet a bevy
of these creatures on the road in the dusk of evening, their white,
fluttering garments would give them the appearance of winged celestials.
The Turkish women are generally timorous of men, and especially so of
foreigners. Those of the rural districts, however, are not so shy as their
city cousins. We frequently met them at work in groups about the villages
or in the open fields, and would sometimes ask for a drink of water. If
they were a party of maidens, as was often the case, they would draw back
and hide behind one another. We would offer one of them a ride on our
“very nice horses.” This would cause a general giggle among her
companions, and a drawing of the yashmak closer about the neck and face.
[Illustration: ARABS CONVERSING WITH A TURK.]
The road scenes in the interior provinces are but little varied. One of
the most characteristic features of the Anatolian landscape are the
storks, which come in flocks of thousands from their winter quarters in
Egypt and build summer nests, unmolested, on the village housetops. These,
like the crows, magpies, and swallows, prove valuable allies to the
husbandmen in their war against the locust. A still more serviceable
friend in this direction is the _smarmar_, a pink thrush with black wings.
Besides the various caravan trains of camels, donkeys, horses, and mules,
the road is frequently dotted with ox-carts, run on solid wooden wheels
without tires, and drawn by that peculiar bovine species, the buffalo.
With their distended necks, elevated snouts, and hog-like bristles, these
animals present an ugly appearance, especially when wallowing in mud
puddles.
Now and then in the villages we passed by a primitive flour-mill moved by
a small stream playing upon a horizontal wheel beneath the floor; or, more
primitive still, by a blindfolded donkey plodding ceaselessly around in
his circular path. In the streets we frequently encountered boys and old
men gathering manure for their winter fuel; and now and then a cripple or
invalid would accost us as “Hakim” (“Doctor”), for the medical work of the
missionaries has given these simple-minded folk the impression that all
foreigners are physicians. Coming up and extending a hand for us to feel
the pulse they would ask us to do something for the disease, which we
could see was rapidly carrying them to the grave.
[Illustration: A KADI EXPOUNDING THE KORAN.]
Our first view of Sivas was obtained from the top of Mount Yildiz, on
which still stands the ruined castle of Mithridates, the Pontine monarch,
whom Lucullus many times defeated, but never conquered. From this point we
made a very rapid descent, crossed the Kizil Irmak for the third time by
an old ruined bridge, and half an hour later saw the “stars and stripes”
flying above the U. S. consulate. In the society of our representative,
Mr. Henry M. Jewett, we were destined to spend several weeks; for a day or
two after our arrival, one of us was taken with a slight attack of typhoid
fever, supposed to have been contracted by drinking from the roadside
streams. No better place could have been chosen for such a mishap; for
recovery was speedy in such comfortable quarters, under the care of the
missionary ladies.
The comparative size and prosperity of Sivas, in the midst of rather
barren surroundings, are explained by the fact that it lies at the
converging point of the chief caravan routes between the Euxine,
Euphrates, and Mediterranean. Besides being the capital of Rumili, the
former Seljuk province of Cappadocia, it is the place of residence for a
French and American consular representative, and an agent of the Russian
government for the collection of the war indemnity, stipulated in the
treaty of ’78. The dignity of office is here upheld with something of the
pomp and splendor of the East, even by the representative of democratic
America. In our tours with Mr. Jewett we were escorted at the head by a
Circassian _cavass_ (Turkish police), clothed in a long black coat, with a
huge dagger dangling from a belt of cartridges. Another native cavass,
with a broadsword dragging at his side, usually brought up the rear. At
night he was the one to carry the huge lantern, which, according to the
number of candles, is the insignia of rank. “I must give the Turks what
they want,” said the consul, with a twinkle in his eye—“form and red tape.
I would not be a consul in their eyes, if I didn’t.” To illustrate the
formality of Turkish etiquette he told this story: “A Turk was once
engaged in saving furniture from his burning home, when he noticed that a
bystander was rolling a cigarette. He immediately stopped in his hurry,
struck a match, and offered a light.”
[Illustration: EVENING HALT IN A VILLAGE.]
The most flagrant example of Turkish formality that came to our notice was
the following address on an official document to the Sultan:
“The Arbiter; the Absolute; the Soul and Body of the Universe; the
Father of all the sovereigns of the earth; His Excellency, the
Eagle Monarch; the Cause of the never-changing order of things;
the Source of all honor; the Son of the Sultan of Sultans, under
whose feet we are dust, whose awful shadow protects us; Abdul
Hamid II., Son of Abdul Medjid, whose residence is in Paradise;
our glorious Lord, to whose sacred body be given health, and
strength, and endless days; whom Allah keeps in his palace, and on
his throne with joy and glory, forever. Amen.”
[Illustration: PRIMITIVE WEAVING.]
This is not the flattery of a cringing subordinate, for the same spirit is
revealed in an address by the Sultan himself to his Grand Vizir:
“Most honored Vizir; Maintainer of the good order of the World;
Director of public affairs with wisdom and judgment; Accomplisher
of the important transactions of mankind with intelligence and
good sense; Consolidator of the edifice of Empire and of Glory;
endowed by the Most High with abundant gifts; and ‘Monshir,’ at
this time, of my Gate of Felicity; my Vizir Mehmed Pasha, may God
be pleased to preserve him long in exalted dignity.”
Though the Turks cannot be called lazy, yet they like to take their time.
Patience, they say, belongs to God; hurry, to the devil. Nowhere is this
so well illustrated as in the manner of shopping in Turkey. This was
brought particularly to our notice when we visited the Sivas bazaars to
examine some inlaid silverware, for which the place is celebrated. The
customer stands in the street inspecting the articles on exhibition; the
merchant sits on his heels on the booth floor. If the customer is of some
position in life, he climbs up and sits down on a level with the merchant.
If he is a foreigner, the merchant is quite deferential. A merchant is not
a merchant at all, but a host entertaining a guest. Coffee is served; then
a cigarette rolled up and handed to the “guest,” while the various social
and other local topics are freely discussed. After coffee and smoking the
question of purchase is gradually approached; not abruptly, as that would
involve a loss of dignity; but circumspectly, as if the buying of anything
were a mere afterthought. Maybe, after half an hour, the customer has
indicated what he wants, and after discussing the quality of the goods,
the customer asks the price in an off-hand way, as though he were not
particularly interested. The merchant replies, “Oh, whatever your highness
pleases,” or, “I shall be proud if your highness will do me the honor to
accept it as a gift.” This means nothing whatever, and is merely the
introduction to the haggling which is sure to follow. The seller, with
silken manners and brazen countenance, will always name a price four times
as large as it should be. Then the real business begins. The buyer offers
one half or one fourth of what he finally expects to pay; and a war of
words, in a blustering tone, leads up to the close of this every-day
farce.
The superstition of the Turks is nowhere so apparent as in their fear of
the “evil eye.” Jugs placed around the edge of the roof, or an old shoe
filled with garlic and blue beets (blue glass balls or rings) are a sure
guard against this illusion. Whenever a pretty child is playing upon the
street the passers-by will say: “Oh, what an ugly child!” for fear of
inciting the evil spirit against its beauty. The peasant classes in Turkey
are of course the most superstitious because they are the most ignorant.
They have no education whatever, and can neither read nor write. Stamboul
is the only great city of which they know. Paris is a term signifying the
whole outside world. An American missionary was once asked: “In what part
of Paris is America?” Yet it can be said that they are generally honest,
and always patient. They earn from about six to eight cents a day. This
will furnish them with ekmek and pilaff, and that is all they expect. They
eat meat only on feast-days, and then only mutton. The tax-gatherer is
their only grievance; they look upon him as a necessary evil. They have no
idea of being ground down under the oppressor’s iron heel. Yet they are
happy because they are contented, and have no envy. The poorer, the more
ignorant, a Turk is, the better he seems to be. As he gets money and
power, and becomes “contaminated” by western civilization, he
deteriorates. A resident of twenty years’ experience said: “In the lowest
classes I have sometimes found truth, honesty, and gratitude; in the
middle classes, seldom; in the highest, never.” The corruptibility of the
Turkish official is almost proverbial; but such is to be expected in the
land where “the public treasury” is regarded as a “sea,” and “who does not
drink of it, as a pig.” Peculation and malversation are fully expected in
the public official. They are necessary evils—_adet_ (custom) has made
them so. Offices are sold to the highest bidder. The Turkish official is
one of the politest and most agreeable of men. He is profuse in his
compliments, but he has no conscience as to bribes, and little regard for
virtue as its own reward. We are glad to be able to record a brilliant,
though perhaps theoretical, exception to this general rule. At
Koch-Hissar, on our way from Sivas to Kara Hissar, a delay was caused by a
rather serious break in one of our bicycles. In the interval we were the
invited guests of a district kadi, a venerable-looking and genial old
gentleman whose acquaintance we had made in an official visit on the
previous day, as he was then the acting _caimacam_ (mayor). His house was
situated in a neighboring valley in the shadow of a towering bluff. We
were ushered into the _selamlük_, or guest apartment, in company with an
Armenian friend who had been educated as a doctor in America, and who had
consented to act as interpreter for the occasion.
The kadi entered with a smile on his countenance, and made the usual
picturesque form of salutation by describing the figure 3 with his right
hand from the floor to his forehead. Perhaps it was because he wanted to
be polite that he said he had enjoyed our company on the previous day, and
had determined, if possible, to have a more extended conversation. With
the usual coffee and cigarettes, the kadi became informal and chatty. He
was evidently a firm believer in predestination, as he remarked that God
had foreordained our trip to that country, even the food we were to eat,
and the invention of the extraordinary “cart” on which we were to ride.
The idea of such a journey, in such a peculiar way, was not to be
accredited to the ingenuity of man. There was a purpose in it all. When we
ventured to thank him for his hospitality toward two strangers, and even
foreigners, he said that this world occupied so small a space in God’s
dominion, that we could well afford to be brothers, one to another, in
spite of our individual beliefs and opinions. “We may have different
religious beliefs,” said he, “but we all belong to the same great father
of humanity; just as children of different complexions, dispositions, and
intellects may belong to one common parent. We should exercise reason
always, and have charity for other people’s opinions.”
From charity the conversation naturally turned to justice. We were much
interested in his opinion on this subject, as that of a Turkish judge, and
rather high official. “Justice,” said he, “should be administered to the
humblest person; though a king should be the offending party, all alike
must yield to the sacred law of justice. We must account to God for our
acts, and not to men.”
The regular route from Sivas to Erzerum passes through Erzinjan. From
this, however, we diverged at Zara, in order to visit the city of Kara
Hissar, and the neighboring Lidjissy mines, which had been pioneered by
the Genoese explorers, and were now being worked by a party of Englishmen.
This divergence on to unbeaten paths was made at a very inopportune
season; for the rainy spell set in, which lasted, with scarcely any
intermission, for over a fortnight. At the base of Kosse Dagh, which
stands upon the watershed between the two largest rivers of Asia Minor,
the Kizil Irmak and Yeshil Irmak, our road was blocked by a mountain
freshet, which at its height washed everything before it. We spent a day
and night on its bank, in a primitive flour-mill, which was so far removed
from domestic life that we had to send three miles up in the mountains to
get something to eat. The Yeshil Irmak, which we crossed just before
reaching Kara Hissar, was above our shoulders as we waded through, holding
our bicycles and baggage over our heads; while the swift current rolled
the small boulders against us, and almost knocked us off our feet. There
were no bridges in this part of the country. With horses and wagons the
rivers were usually fordable; and what more would you want? With the Turk,
as with all Asiatics, it is not a question of what is better, but what
will do. Long before we reached a stream, the inhabitants of a certain
town or village would gather round, and with troubled countenances say,
“Christian gentlemen—there is no bridge,” pointing to the river beyond,
and graphically describing that it was over our horses’ heads. That would
settle it, they thought; it never occurred to them that a “Christian
gentleman” could take off his clothes and wade. Sometimes, as we walked
along in the mud, the wheels of our bicycles would become so clogged that
we could not even push them before us. In such a case we would take the
nearest shelter, whatever it might be. The night before reaching Kara
Hissar, we entered an abandoned stable, from which everything had fled
except the fleas. Another night was spent in the pine-forests just on the
border between Asia Minor and Armenia, which were said to be the haunts of
the border robbers. Our surroundings could not be relieved by a fire for
fear of attracting their attention.
[Illustration: A FERRY IN ASIA MINOR.]
When at last we reached the Trebizond-Erzerum highway at Baiboot, the
contrast was so great that the scaling of Kop Dagh, on its comparatively
smooth surface, was a mere breakfast spell. From here we looked down for
the first time into the valley of the historic Euphrates, and a few hours
later we were skimming over its bottom lands toward the embattled heights
of Erzerum.
As we neared the city, some Turkish peasants in the fields caught sight of
us, and shouted to their companions: “Russians! Russians! There they are!
Two of them!” This was not the first time we had been taken for the
subjects of the Czar; the whole country seemed to be in dread of them.
Erzerum is the capital of that district which Russia will no doubt demand,
if the stipulated war indemnity is not paid.
The entrance into the city was made to twist and turn among the ramparts,
so as to avoid a rush in case of an attack. But this was no proof against
a surprise in the case of the noiseless wheel. In we dashed with a roaring
wind, past the affrighted guards, and were fifty yards away before they
could collect their scattered senses. Then suddenly it dawned upon them
that we were human beings, and foreigners besides—perhaps even the dreaded
Russian spies. They took after us at full speed, but it was too late.
Before they reached us we were in the house of the commandant pasha, the
military governor, to whom we had a letter of introduction from our consul
at Sivas. That gentleman we found extremely good-natured; he laughed
heartily at our escapade with the guards. Nothing would do but we must
visit the Vali, the civil governor, who was also a pasha of considerable
reputation and influence.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE SCENE.]
We had intended, but not so soon, to pay an official visit to the Vali to
present our letter from the Grand Vizir, and to ask his permission to
proceed to Bayazid, whence we had planned to attempt the ascent of Mount
Ararat, an experience which will be described in the next chapter. A few
days before, we heard, a similar application had been made by an English
traveler from Bagdad, but owing to certain suspicions the permission was
refused. It was with no little concern, therefore, that we approached the
Vali’s private office in company with his French interpreter.
Circumstances augured ill at the very start. The Vali was evidently in a
bad humor, for we overheard him storming in a high key at some one in the
room with him. As we passed under the heavy matted curtains the two
attendants who were holding them up cast a rather horrified glance at our
dusty shoes and unconventional costume. The Vali was sitting in a large
arm-chair in front of a very small desk, placed at the far end of a
vacant-looking room. After the usual salaams, he motioned to a seat on the
divan, and proceeded at once to examine our credentials while we sipped at
our coffee, and whiffed the small cigarettes which were immediately
served. This furnished the Vali an opportunity to regain his usual
composure. He was evidently an autocrat of the severest type; if we
pleased him, it would be all right; if we did not, it would be all wrong.
We showed him everything we had, from our Chinese passport to the little
photographic camera, and related some of the most amusing incidents of our
journey through his country. From the numerous questions he asked we felt
certain of his genuine interest, and were more than pleased to see an
occasional broad smile on his countenance. “Well,” said he, as we rose to
take leave, “your passports will be ready any time after to-morrow; in the
mean time I shall be pleased to have your horses quartered and fed at
government expense.” This was a big joke for a Turk, and assured us of his
good-will.
A bicycle exhibition which the Vali had requested was given the morning of
our departure for Bayazid, on a level stretch of road just outside the
city. Several missionaries and members of the consulates had gone out in
carriages, and formed a little group by themselves. We rode up with the
“stars and stripes” and “star and crescent” fluttering side by side from
the handle-bars. It was always our custom, especially on diplomatic
occasions, to have a little flag of the country associated with that of
our own. This little arrangement evoked a smile from the Vali, who, when
the exhibition was finished, stepped forward and said, “I am satisfied, I
am pleased.” His richly caparisoned white charger was now brought up.
Leaping into the saddle, he waved us good-by, and moved away with his
suite toward the city. We ourselves remained for a few moments to bid
good-by to our hospitable friends, and then, once more, continued our
journey toward the east.
[Illustration]