THE GALATA BRIDGE AND THE BAZAARS
An attempt has been made in these pages to conduct the reader over the domains of the Sultan of Turkey, and to introduce him to some of his subjects, but there is perhaps no better place in the world for getting a panoramic view of the various races depicted than on the bridge which spans the Golden Horn, and joins Stamboul with the Galata quarter of Constantinople (see frontispiece). Nor can you find the various products of the Empire exhibited within a more suitable compass than in the bazaars of Stamboul.
It is computed that no less than twenty million persons pass over the bridge in the course of a year—i.e., about 50,000 daily. The races there represented are too numerous to mention. Each wears its distinctive dress, and foot and head gear, and the contrast of design and colour is wonderful, and not limited to women, as in a European crowd. Here comes an Albanian in white petticoats and crimson sash bristling with pistols; there goes an Embassy cavass resplendent in scarlet; there is an Ulema, or high ecclesiastic, with green turban and flowing robes of white, and another dressed in magenta and a white turban; soldiers in khaki or in pale blue come next, and Young Turk officers all spick and span in new uniforms. A Whirling Dervish, with tall, conical, brown head-dress then moves majestically along, followed by a Bedouin, with camel-hair mantle over his shoulders, and silken kerchief over his head. Alongside him is an M.P. from Arabia, with flowing green coat, and white cap with green turban around it, indicating consanguinity with Mahomet. As for representatives of the other sex, you see groups shuffling along in soft yellow boots, and dragging loose overshoes—overshoes which often prove serviceable weapons of attack to any Turkish woman who has been insulted.
The Turkish ladies' dress is frequently bright-coloured, and a white veil is thrown over the head and face, but sometimes the dress itself is used for that purpose. The fashion, however, is prevailing that black should be used, and the women look like silhouettes flitting along.
Should it happen to be a Friday, sounds of military music greet your ear, and you hear the tramp of infantry as the Sultan's soldiers march along to line the streets through which he must pass on his way to mosque.
Nothing can rival the physical appearance, dogged perseverance, and power of endurance of the soldiers streaming before you, and the prancing steeds ridden by the officers excite your admiration.
But another sound, less musical, may disturb your ear, and a horde of half-naked savages appear, carrying on poles what you would call a garden-pump, but which is really a fire-engine. A man carrying the hose-nozzle precedes, and as they tear along, shouting "Sagh ol!" ("Clear out"; literally, "Keep yourself uninjured!"), you imagine a band of maniacs has been let loose.
There is now a regular fire-brigade in Constantinople, available where the streets are wide enough to permit its use, but you will not wonder that under the old system conflagrations sometimes destroyed thousands of houses at a time, and still do so in quarters where the streets are too narrow and the houses of wood.
Ambulating vendors of all sorts are also to be found on the bridge, advertising their goods in loud falsetto notes, or sometimes singing metrical eulogies over them. Hamals, and porters, too, of every description, are there, conveying their burdens, and Turkish sailors, whose duty it is to police the bridge, while at either end are men clad in long white shirts, without pockets, to collect the toll, and not pocket it. And as if to connect the new with the old order of administration, a motorbus, with the words "Progres" emblazoned upon it, traverses the bridge with passengers, while British-built steamers moor on pontoons attached to the bridge, and convey travellers to the villages of the Bosphorus and other suburbs.
Crossing the bridge, you arrive at Stamboul, the Turkish quarter, and enter into a long street, arched over, and with numerous windows. It is called the Missir Tcharchi, or Egyptian Spice Bazaar, owing to the drugs and spices sold in it. It is dark and badly ventilated; its odours overpower you, but you see there a display of drugs and perfumes never dreamt of before, and gathered from all parts of the empire. Each shop within the bazaar is known by its special sign—a ship, a broom, a bird's-cage, the model of a mosque, a flag, bows and arrows, and so on—while its occupant sits, like a spider in his den, inviting you into his parlour.