The Balkan Trail

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

We washed at the tap of the inevitable petroleum tin in the stable, and the proprietor’s son brought us clean but exceedingly rough towels. After our ablutions we repaired to the front of the house, where a dozen or more Turkish officers sat sipping coffee. The ranking man among them, an Albanian, rose as we appeared, and addressed us in French. A Turk would not have spoken without some substantial motive. The Albanian asked where we had come from, where going, how old we were, whether married or not, as rapidly as he could put the questions—which is polite in Turkey. We both understood that this was all in good taste, as was also the noise the other officers made drinking coffee. It was difficult for the Englishman, however, bound by the heavy fetters of British restraint, to reply to this interrogatory readily and with any marked show of pleasure, and quite impossible for him to sip his coffee in the manner of the company. But, having come in contact with many queer people in the course of my travels, I was experienced in such a situation, and not only answered all the Albanian’s questions with alacrity, but put them straight back to him, and while he was speaking I sucked coffee and sighed heavily after each mouthful as though in the height of bliss. This display of good manners met with a cordial reception by the Turks, and they invited us to dine with them at the officers’ mess—an exceptional invitation.

We went with them to their quarters in a clean Turkish house, off a narrow street half covered by the extended second storey. We climbed a bare, ladder-like staircase and entered a small, unpainted room with many rugs on the rough boards. There was a long, covered thing like a mattress on one side, stretching from end to end of the floor, and a high divan, likewise stretching the length of the wall, on the other side. I was weary, and the long cushion offered more excuse for reclining, so I dropped myself upon it; but the other man got upon the divan and let his feet hang. We looked foreign to the place, I know; for when the officers were seated there were many pairs of shoes on the floor, but ours were the only feet to be seen, and ours were the only bare heads. Once in a while a Turk would remove his fez and rub his head, but generally the red cap sat somewhere on the skull of its owner.

A strong native drink, which changed colour like absinthe when water was added—mastica it is called—was served by a Bulgarian boy, who shed his shoes at the door and entered in stocking feet. One of the officers made the boy tell us what good masters the Turks are. Radishes, sliced apple, roasted monkey-nuts, and a delightful little Turkish nut were served and left in the room an hour before dinner. The Englishman and I ate heartily of these, for we were ravenous, and it was well that we did. When the meal came on we all drew around a small wooden table. Six of us sat in so many chairs, and the others stood around behind us, and reached over our heads for their food. We were each supplied with a hunk of bread, a fork, a spoon, and a towel, but no plates were distributed. One dish at a time was placed in the centre of the table, and removed when it was empty. The meal varied from stewed lamb to little squares of lamb toasted on sticks, going through five courses of lamb. Then there was fruit and coffee. There was wine, and five of the Turks drank it; devout Mohamedans do not.

At this meal I failed in Turkish manners, even as the Englishman had done previously. We were all required to stick our forks and spoons into the single dish and dig for ourselves, and when the meat was gone to sop our bread in the gravy. But we were both continually withdrawing our forks as another man advanced his, which the Turks did not understand. Of the first few courses we got very little, but then the Albanian caused the officers to give us a two minutes’ handicap at the succeeding dishes.

After dinner there was Turkish music—which was not pleasant. The reed flute played in the Turkish street harmonises with the character of the country, and is not unattractive; but in a close room its monotony is inclined to put the weary travellers to sleep. The low wail of a Mohamedan priest calling the ‘faithful’ from a minaret is ‘like the sighing of the pines,’ but the whine of a Turk at close quarters, accompanied by the facial contortions necessary to his nasal chant, is conducive to bad dreams. We had our revenge; the other man retaliated with ‘Alice, Ben Bolt.’

Several of the officers escorted us back to the khan through the silent street, answering the challenges of the night patrols.

Two dark figures, which followed us from the officers’ quarters, entered the khan behind us and stretched themselves on the floor before the door of the general sleeping-room. There we found them when we emerged in the morning; they proved to be two soldiers to whom the authorities had assigned the duty of ‘shadowing’ us. They told us, with much amusement, of how they had lost us the night before. Arriving at the khan about nine o’clock, they were informed that we had ‘disappeared’; the khanji had not seen us leave with the Turkish officers. This alarmed the soldiers, and they started on a search for us. They were about to report our disappearance to headquarters, when, coming to the Turkish quarter, they heard strange sounds never before perpetrated in Veles. This was the song of ‘Sweet Alice.’

In the morning a negro merchant arrived at the khan from Istip and told us of a fight ‘in progress’ at Garbintzi, a little village about eight hours’ ride to the east. We had intended to take the train that afternoon for Uskub, but the chance of seeing a fight caused us to change our plans. We gathered as much hurried information as we could about the route, hired a Turkish guide, and set off for Garbintzi before noon. We planned to go unescorted, but this was not to be. Our guide, in pursuance of police orders, had informed the Konak of our sudden change of destination, and the kaimakam despatched four Zaptiehs to accompany us. We were surprised that they permitted us to proceed.

Being anxious to reach the scene of the combat as quickly as possible, we rode rapidly over the mountains, and came to Istip about six o’clock.

An officer came up as we entered the town and greeted us like long-lost brothers. He was a Turk, and had a mission to perform. He informed us that the kaimakam had received a telegram from Veles advising him of our approach, and instructing him to see that we were treated in a manner befitting our exalted positions. The only place they could offer such worthy guests, who had so honoured Istip with a visit, was the kaimakam’s own house. The kaimakam, I may explain, lived above the gaol.