CHAPTER X
We ride to Scutari—The Albanian Customs officials—We suffer much from Turkish saddles—Arrival at Scutari, and again pass the Customs—"Buon arrivato"—Scutari and its religious troubles—The town and bazaar—A slight misunderstanding, Yes and No—We return to Rijeka by steamer—The beauties of the trip—Wrong change—The prodigal son's return, when the fatted calf is not killed.
Before we left Dulcigno it was necessary to have our passports viséd by the Turkish Consul, as we intended returning to Podgorica viâ Scutari. We had to go through a lot of tedious formality, though the Consul was a most pleasant man, and laughed at the precautions which his orders forced him to take. But as he supplied us with horses and an escort—for the path is considered somewhat dangerous—we resigned ourselves to the inevitable with a good grace. Our guns and carbines we were forced to send back to Podgorica with Stephan, as the law is very strict against the introduction of firearms into Albania, where, however, even the poorest peasant goes fully armed. But as strangers our weapons would have been confiscated on the border. Verily the ways of the Turk are passing strange.
We made a start at four o'clock one morning just as the sun was appearing above the hills, and the day promised to be extremely hot. Our horses were fairly good, and the man who constituted our guard, an Albanian, seemed a pleasant fellow, which much belied his appearance. A more villainous-looking face, with half his teeth missing, could hardly be imagined. However, the whole way he rolled us cigarettes most industriously, rarely taking one from us. Our saddles were Turkish, and were our first experience of them, and, it is to be hoped, the last.
The high road, or rather path, to Scutari, is considered good for Montenegro. In reality it is a mere track, in places paved with cobblestones atrociously laid. It is odd that many important districts in this country are entirely unconnected by roads with the neighbouring towns, and consequently such things as carriages do not exist. As an instance, the whole of the country lying beyond Rijeka towards the sea, containing two important towns, and in size about an eighth of Montenegro, possesses one short road—from Virpazar to Antivari—and one carriage.
Our path lay for the first three hours through a richly vegetated country, and the scenery at times was quite English, owing to the amount of oak trees which overhang the path. But at nearly every open space was a Turkish graveyard. The indiscriminate way in which the Turks bury their dead is most extraordinary.
We reached the River Bojana, and rode along the bank some time before we came to the ferry. It is a broad and swiftly flowing river of quite imposing size. The heat was now getting tremendous, and a friendly Albanian picking apricots on the roadside gave us many handfuls, which proved very acceptable.
Two Albanians came across in a large barge in answer to our hail, and we and our horses—the latter, by the way, stepping into the barge most unconcernedly—were piloted across. Here we entered Albania, and were examined by a fierce-looking Customs official. He turned our baggage out on to a mat, and evidently meant to overhaul it thoroughly, when a few Daily Graphics caught his eye. After that he dismissed the remainder of our things with a wave of the hand, which our men promptly repacked, and retired into the papers. A lot of other men came up, and we were pleased to afford so much delight with our illustrated journals.