When I handed her my rubber hot-bottle, she apparently supposed I did not care to use the jug which already stood on the table, and filled it with cold water! When she understood that the water must be hot, she brought it back to me to wait and watch what I would do with it. The idea of putting it in my bed made her laugh heartily; and then she decided to sit down and see whatever would happen next!
But I was tired, and, with none to interpret, began to wonder how I could send her away. My phrase-book, as usual, did not provide the clue, so I merely pointed to the door, saying kapou (a door), which luckily had the desired effect. But she was back again as soon as she dared in the morning, to enjoy more laughter at the sight of the hot-bottle by my side.
The principal road from the station to “Holy Angora” is wide enough for three or four carts to pass.
Here are two-horse carriages, their primitive harness decorated with turquoise beads, driven by picturesque, shabby Arabaje (i.e., coachmen) in turbans of many colours. Also the yaili, so called from their springs, and the famous Anatolian log-carriages, drawn by bullocks. By the side of the road, sunk in the snow or mud, are the heavy carts drawn by buffaloes and driven by women, who wear the large, baggy, Anatolian trousers, and conceal their hair beneath a scarf. Their clothes, poor souls, are so nearly covered with patches that some of them seem “all patch.” The men all wear kalpaks, and we see the peasants (men and women) riding their laden donkeys or trudging along beside beasts as patient as themselves. They look as though they had walked straight out of the Bible.
The main road passes the Grand National Assembly on the way to the few shops. The restaurants make a fair show of Turkish delicacies, like your ekmek-kadaïf, and kébab. We pass two hans (i.e., inns) as primitive in comfort as appearance, built of mud in which large holes can be seen, and full of danger to the unwary on their rickety staircases. The “commercials” in their yailis, on camels or donkeys, however, can find no other or better accommodation. There are pictures of Ghazi Pasha all over the town, and in one or two bookshops you can also buy his principal colleagues, patriotic postcards, and other “Nationalist” pictures in gaudy colours.
At quaint little booths in the market-place we find a tempting array of fruit, vegetables, and meat, bread and cheese, raisins, nuts, and boots!
And, finally, we reach a few dwelling-houses of wood, stone, or mud that do not seem to have been built on any plan, and now look more irregular than ever because of the huge “gap” on the hillside caused, of course, by the usual fire!
The Market-place at Angora.
The weatherbeaten mud and thatch dwellings are whitewashed inside, and have plain wooden doors with handsome knockers and quaint, huge locks. They are mostly heated by mangals of burning charcoal that give out poisonous fumes. However, the wood-stoves are not much better, as they quickly produce an intense heat and then die down as quickly, besides the danger of setting the whole place on fire.