THE PORT OF THE WILDERNESS
Although it is ninety miles by railway from navigable water, Damascus
partakes of the characteristics of a seaport. It is, in fact, the port
of the wilderness. Just to the east of its fertile “garden” is the
Syrian desert, across which slow caravans have always been coming and
going—traveling from the rich river-bottoms of Mesopotamia, from Persia
and India, and even from far distant China, to bring the riches of Asia
to the overflowing warehouses of Damascus. The lands from which the
city derives its prosperity cannot compete with European industries,
and so only a small proportion of their products is now sent westward
across the Mediterranean. Yet Damascus remains still the metropolis of
the desert peoples. From the viewpoint of the peasant or Bedouin Arab,
it is a very modern place; and to the stranger who can see beneath the
alluring glamour of its Orientalism, its chief characteristics are
abounding prosperity and noisy activity. This oldest of cities is no
mere interesting ruin or historical pageant. Even in the fast-month of
Ramadan, its streets are as crowded as the most congested shopping
district of London or New York or Paris.[28]
The most characteristic feature of the bazaar is its smell—that peculiar,
inescapable blending of licorice and annis and pungent spices and heavy
perfumes, combined with a vague odor of age and staleness which pervades
the dust-laden air, and sometimes with an odor not at all vague which
arises from the filth of unswept streets. It is not when I “hear the East
a-callin’” but when I _smell_ the East that the waves of homesickness
sweep deepest over me. I love the scent of the bazaar. Sometimes I catch
a whiff of it through the open door of a little basement store in the
Syrian Quarter of New York; and in a moment my thoughts are five thousand
miles away among the old familiar scenes.
The next most vivid impression of the bazaar is its weird combination of
bright coloring and gloom. The narrow, winding street is guarded from the
glaring sun by striped awnings and old carpets which reach across from
house to house. Some few of the chief thoroughfares, like the “Street
called Straight,” are enclosed by great cylindrical roofs of corrugated
iron. You are indoors and yet out-of-doors. The light is dim; but it
is daylight, and you feel that all the while the sun is shining very
brightly overhead. Along the fronts of the shops and hanging on ropes
which stretch across the street, are shining brasses and pieces of inlaid
woodwork and cloths of the most gorgeous orient hues; but the rear of
these same shops is usually wrapped in impenetrable gloom. Sometimes
there is visible only a square black hole surrounded by a frame of gaudy
silks. When you pass a blacksmith’s forge, with shadowy figures moving
among the sparks at the back of the inky darkness, it seems like a
glimpse into inferno.
Most of the shops are tiny affairs only six or eight feet square, which
open on the street for their entire width and have the floor raised to
about the height of the customer’s waist. The resemblance of a bazaar to
a long double row of pigeon-holes is increased by the manner in which
the box-like recesses follow continuously one after the other, with no
doorways between, as the entrance to their upper stories is by ladders in
the rear.
In the middle of his diminutive emporium, the typical Damascus merchant
sits all day cross-legged, smoking his water-pipe, reading from a
Koran placed before him on a little wooden book-rest, and eternally
fondling his beard. Frequently he says his prayers. Sometimes he varies
the monotony of a dull day by chatting with a fellow-merchant in a
neighboring shop fully ten feet away. The Jews and Christians of the
city may be annoyingly importunate; but the Moslems, who form the large
majority, seem insolently careless as to whether the passing stranger
pauses to examine their goods or not. Over their places of business they
hang gilded invocations to “the One who giveth sustenance,” and then
leave matters entirely in His hands. If nothing is sold all day, it is
the will of Allah: if a customer does come, it is the will of Allah—that
he shall be overcharged as much as possible.
Shopping in Damascus is not an operation to be hurried through with
careless levity. If you appear a promising customer, the merchant will
set coffee before you and, while you and he are drinking together, will
talk about anything under the sun except business. When you ask him
the price of an article, he may tell you to keep it for nothing, just
as did Ephron the Hittite when Abraham was bargaining for the Cave of
Machpelah.[29]
If, however, you offer a fair amount for that same “gift,” he will
protest that to accept such a paltry sum would necessitate his children’s
going hungry and naked. So he names a price about double what he expects
to get, and you suggest a sum equal to half what you are willing to pay.
Then follow vociferous exclamations, indignant gesticulations, and
sacred oaths, while his price slowly comes down and yours slowly goes up,
until at last they almost, though not quite, meet. Neither will change
his “last word” by a single piaster. Negotiations are at an end. You
turn scornfully to leave the shop of the extortioner, while the merchant
commends his business to God and resignedly begins to wrap up the goods
and return them to their shelves. He does this very deliberately,
however, and just then—because you two are such good friends, whose
appreciation of noble character finds its ideal each in the other’s
life—you decide to split the difference, the purchase is completed, and
you part with mutual protestations that only a deep, fraternal regard
forces you—and him—to conclude the bargain at such a ruinous figure.
“It is bad, it is bad, saith the buyer;
But when he is gone his way, then he boasteth.”[30]
Perhaps the shop-keeper will still, however, detain you for a glass of
sherbet. If he does, then you have probably paid too much, after all.
A friend of mine was obliged to spend no less than two weeks in
purchasing a single Persian rug; but during those two weeks the price
went down ninety dollars. One winter I had occasion to buy, at different
times, several small picture frames. They were all exactly the same
size, shape and material, were obtained from the same salesman at the
same shop, and in the end I paid for them the same price to a piaster.
Yet the purchase of each one necessitated a half-hour of excited
bargaining.
It should be understood, however, that there is really nothing dishonest
about such a procedure as that described above; for neither party is
misled in the least by the other’s protestations, and neither believes
that he is deceiving the other. It is just the leisurely, intensely
personal Oriental way of doing business. After you once become used to
it, bargaining in the bazaars is far more full of excitement and human
interest than buying something in the West, where fixed prices are
distinctly marked. If you are so crude as to ask a Moslem merchant to
tell under oath what he paid for an article, he will often speak the
exact truth. But be sure to swear him by a formula which he considers
binding. Every detail of a Syrian business transaction is embellished
by one or more of the fervent oaths of the East. The traveler from the
Occident, however, needs only one: the “word of an Englishman”[31] is
still accepted at face value. Indeed, a generation ago, Moslems who
would unblushingly call upon almighty God to witness to the most patent
falsehoods, could be trusted to speak the exact truth when they swore by
the beard of a certain upright English merchant of Beirut.
[Illustration: One of the more modern avenues of Damascus]
[Illustration: A typical Syrian Café]
No picture can ever adequately represent the bazaar, not even a moving
picture; for besides the unending kaleidoscopic changes of coloring, as
brightly dressed peddlers and purchasers move hither and thither, there
is a ceaseless, deafening, indescribable and untranslatable tumult of
sound. Yet to one who understands Arabic, this is more than noise: it is
music, poetry and romance. The hawker of each commodity uses a peculiarly
worded appeal which, in eloquent circumlocution, extols the virtues of
his wares. These calls are usually rhyming; often they include one of the
ninety-nine sacred titles of Allah, and frequently they are sung to a set
tune. Back and forth through the perilously crowded streets they go—boys
with great trays of sweetmeats on their heads, men with tubs of pickled
vegetables, peasants bearing heavy loads of fresh figs, water-carriers
stooping low under their goatskin bottles, peddlers of cakes and nuts
and sherbets and the nosegays which the Syrian gentleman loves to
hold—literally under his nose—as he strolls through the city. All are
shouting their wares. “Oh, thirsty one!” “Oh, father of a family!” “Oh,
Thou who givest food!” “Allay the heat!” “Rest for the throat!” When
Abraham passed through Damascus he doubtless heard these same cries.
If we are driving, as is possible in the wider bazaars, our gallant
coachman adds to the din as he proudly snaps his long whip, toots the
strident automobile horn which is now affixed to all Damascus carriages
and, in courteous gentleness or bawling rage or sighing relief, keeps up
an unintermitting flow of Arabic adjuration to the passers-by whom he
almost, but never quite, runs down. “Look out for your back! Hurry up,
uncle! Your back, your back!—may your house be destroyed! Your right,
lady! Your left, sir! Slowly, oh, inmates of the harem! Oh, pilgrim,
your back! Child, beware! Your back, my friend! _Your back!_ YOUR BACK!
E-e-eh! A-a-ah!”
High above the other calls rises now and then the shrill, nasal song of
the vender of sweetened bread, _Allah er-Razeek!_—“God is the Nourisher!”
A half-naked beggar changes his pathetic whine to a lusty curse as he
slinks out of the way of a galloping, shouting horseman. Any one who
feels in the mood kneels down anywhere he happens to be and prays aloud.
As a kind of accompaniment to the vociferous chorus there sounds the
continuous tinkling of the brass bowls which are rattled against each
other by the lemonade-sellers. And—very frequently in Damascus—there
pierces through the deafening tumult the thin, penetrating chant of
the muezzin who, from his lofty minaret or from the mosque door in the
crowded, narrow street, calls to the greedy bazaar to think on the
things that are unseen and eternal.
The great conflagration of 1911 destroyed the heart of the business
district by the Omayyade Mosque, and those who knew the city of a few
years ago find it sadly strange to climb over the heaps of dusty rubbish
which cover once familiar streets. But during the rebuilding, which is
progressing rapidly, there is no appreciable diminution of business, and
the intricate maze of the bazaars still presents scenes of marvelous
variety and endless fascination. There is the Water-pipe Bazaar, where
_narghileh_ bowls are made out of cocoanuts ornamented with gold and
silver, the Draper’s Bazaar filled with shoddy European stuffs, the
Saddle Bazaar with its brightly covered Arabic saddles and gorgeous
accouterments, the almost forsaken Bazaar of the Booksellers, where
now hardly a half-dozen poorly stocked booths hint at the intellectual
conquests of the Damascus of centuries gone by, and the Spice Market,
whose long rows of bottles scent the air with their essences and attars.
The Silk Bazaar is the most brilliant, and its gaudiest patterns are hung
out for the inspection of admiring Bedouin visitors. The Second-hand
Bazaar of the auctioneers is commonly known as the Louse Market, not
because of the uncomplimentary suspicion which first suggests itself, but
from a very small and agile coin known by that name, which is frequently
used in increasing the bids.
As we pass along one street after another, we see open-front bakers’
shops where paper-like loaves are sold, still hot from the oven, and
confectioners’ booths filled with all manner of sherbets and jellies
and delicious preserved fruits and the infinite variety of sweet,
indigestible pastry in which the Syrians delight. In one little square
there are great piles of thin apricot paste which look exactly like
bundles of brown paper. The merchant offers us a sample to taste, but
we are not quite sure as to the quality of the dust that has been
settling upon it all the morning. A long towel hung over yonder doorway
indicates that it is the entrance to a _hammâm_ or public bath, within
whose steaming court we can see brown, half-naked forms reclining on
dingy divans. The intricate lattice-work of overhanging balconies guards
the harems of the merchants from the vulgar gaze of the crowds below.
This little gate, curtained by a hanging rug and edged with a line of
slippers, leads from the deafening tumult of the bazaar to the solemn
quiet of a cool, spacious mosque.
From time immemorial the merchant-artisans of Damascus have been united
in powerful associations. There is even a guild of beggars, though, to
do them justice, these are neither so numerous nor so importunate as
in most Syrian cities. On the other hand, the curs which infest the
busiest streets are innumerable and are disgusting in appearance beyond
any other dogs I have ever seen. Yet these sore, starved racks of bones,
with hardly the energy to get out of the way of a passing carriage,
have organizations of their own. At any rate, they recognize definite
boundaries; and a dog who ventures outside the territory occupied by his
own clan does so at peril of his life. One evening a friend of mine, who
is a good mimic, was so unwise as to bark lustily just as he entered our
hotel. In a moment every cur in the district was giving voice; and far
into the night, as unhappily was all too strongly impressed upon us, they
kept up their vociferous search for the unknown intruder.
But it is never quiet in Damascus. Most Orientals go to bed very early.
Jerusalem is like a city of the dead by half-past eight in the evening.
The Damascenes, however, seem to need no sleep, and the noises of the
streets never cease. The only noticeable change in their volume is that,
when the shops close, just before sunset, the tumult suddenly increases.
Then, hour after hour, you can hear the heavy murmur of the multitude,
broken occasionally by the voice of someone singing, or by a chorus of
loud cheers. An interminable succession of songs and marches, all of them
fortissimo and in a strident minor key, shatter what ought to be the
midnight stillness as they rattle from phonographs whose Arabic records
are prepared by the German subsidiary of an American talking-machine
company. Very far off, a dog lifts up his voice in a faint howl which
starts a pandemonium of barks and growls and yelps all over the
neighborhood. The freshening breeze rustles among the orchards; then
it slams a window shut. The bell of a tram-car rings sharply; carriage
horns give loud double toots which just fail of forming any known musical
interval, and always there is the sound of water—rushing, purling,
rippling, splashing—the eternal anthem of Damascus’ greatness.
So when his second day in this noisy city draws to a close, the wise
traveler decides that, as there is no use trying to get to sleep early,
he will go out and himself share in the midnight enjoyments. I do not
know how many cafés there are in Damascus: I should be quite ready to
believe anyone who told me that there were ten thousand. They are said to
be the finest in Syria. Indeed, the Damascenes boast that the first of
all coffee-shops was established in their city, and also that sherbet was
invented here.
The best cafés are situated beside the main branch of the Barada. Those
near St. Thomas’ Gate have very attractive shaded gardens, where the
tables are set out under spreading trees and are surrounded by tiny
streams of running water. An evening visit to one of these riverside
resorts is a memorable experience, and it is quite safe; for, unless
corrupted by European influence, no Moslem ever touches alcoholic
beverages, and one need therefore fear none of the drunken roughness
which is associated with the “cafés”— which of course are not cafés at
all—of Christian America. The Damascene seeks his recreation amid an
atmosphere of ease and leisure and refined enjoyment. If a patron wishes
to dream away the whole evening over one cup of coffee or a five-cent
_narghileh_, there is no one to object. Itinerant musicians beguile the
hours of darkness with plaintive minor ditties sung to the accompaniment
of the guitar or zither; story-tellers spin endless fairy tales to
circles of breathless listeners, and—alas!—the tireless phonograph roars
its brassy songs. Many of the regular habitués of the place are absorbed
in interminable games of backgammon. Coffee, fruit syrups, pastry,
candy, nuts, cool water-pipes and mild cigarettes—such are the favorite
refreshments of the fierce, fanatical Moslem!
As the cups in which the coffee is served are tiny, handleless things,
hardly larger than a walnut, they are usually set in holders of filigree
work. These are, as a rule, made of brass, but in homes of wealth they
may be silver or even gold. The liquor is often flavored with rose-water
and is very thick and sweet, though it will be prepared _murr_ if anyone
has such an outlandish taste as to prefer it “bitter.” The unpalatable
sediment which fills a good third of the cup must on no account be
stirred up. Many a stranger has found to his cost that the coffee is
served exceedingly hot; and it is a necessity as well as a sign of good
breeding to keep the lips from quite touching the surface and to suck up
the drink with a loud hissing noise. In a private house, this formality
should by no means be neglected, even if the coffee has become cooled, as
the omission would be equivalent to a criticism of the host.
Around the coffee-pot centers the social life of the Moslem world. It has
an important place in every kind of ceremonial and festive occasion, from
the circumcision of the child to the funeral of the old man. The merchant
offers it to his prospective customer. The desert sheikh starts his
women grinding the beans in a large wooden mortar as soon as a stranger
enters his tent. Not to give coffee to a guest would signify that he was
unwelcome.[32] It is invariably served at the beginning of a call. Later
on, sherbet is brought in, and then the visitor knows that it is time for
him to leave.
Coffee sometimes plays a more serious part in Eastern affairs. Its heavy
sweetness disguises varied and deadly poisons. The bacilli of typhoid
fever are said, in this scientific generation, to be drunk unsuspectingly
by many a venturesome meddler in affairs of state. The death penalty
is seldom inflicted in the Turkish Empire. Deposed ministers and
irrepressible busybodies and troublesome reformers are merely imprisoned
or exiled. Often they are sent to Damascus. Then, shortly, they die of
indigestion or heart failure.