CHAPTER II.
Departure from Trebizond.—A rough Road.—Turkish Pack-horses.—Value of Tea.—The Pipe in the East.—Mountain Riding.—Instinct of the Horse.—A Caravan overwhelmed by an Avalanche.—Mountain of Hoshabounar.—A Ride down the Mountain.—Arrival at Erzeroom.
At last we were ready; the Russian commissioner traveled with us, and we sallied out of the town in a straggling line up the hill, along the only road known in this part of the world. This wonder and miracle of art extends one mile, to the top of a little hill. It is said to have cost £19,000. It ascends the mountain side in defiance of all obstacles, and is more convenient for rolling down than climbing up, as it is nearly as steep as a ladder in some places. When you get to the top you are safe, for there is no more road as far as Tabriz. A glorious view rewards the traveler for his loss of breath in accomplishing the ascent. From hence the road is a track, wide enough for one loaded horse, passing through streams and mud, over rocks, mountains, and precipices, such as I should hardly have imagined a goat could travel upon; certainly no sensible animal would ever try to do so, unless upon urgent business. Pleasure and amusement must be sought on broader ways; here danger and difficulty occur at every step; nevertheless, the horses are so well used to climbing, and hopping, and floundering along, that the obstacles are gradually overcome. In looking back occasionally, you wonder how in the world you ever got to the spot you are standing on. The sure-footedness of the horses was marvelous; we often galloped for half an hour along the dry course of a mountain torrent, for these we considered our best places, over round stones as big as a man’s head, with larger ones occasionally for a change; but the riding-horses hardly ever fell. The baggage-horses, encumbered with their loads, tumbled in all directions, but these unlucky animals were always kicked up again by the efforts of a posse of hard-fisted, hard-hearted muleteers, and were soon plodding on under the burdens which it seems it was their lot to bear for the remainder of their lives. If this should meet the eye of any London cab-horse—for what may we not expect in these days of march of intellect and national education?—let him thank his lucky star that he is not a Turkish pack-horse, made to carry something nearly as heavy as a cab up and down rocks as inaccessible as those immortalized in the famous verse—
“Commodore Rogers was a man
Exceedingly brave—particular;
And he climb’d up very high rocks,
Exceedingly high—perpendicular.”
Thus saith the poet; what Commodore Rogers would have said if he had been of our party, I don’t know. Those ladies and gentlemen who, leaning back in easy carriages, bowl along the great roads of the Simplon, may imagine what traveling there may have been over the Alps before the roads were made, while the nature of the ground is such, in two or three places, that, unless at an incredible expense in engineering, and a prodigious daily outlay to keep them clear of snow, no road ever could be made; yet this is the only line of communication between Constantinople and Persia. Through these awful chasms and precipices all the merchandise is carried which passes between these two great nations. The quiet Manchester stuffs, accustomed to the broad-wheel wagons of Europe, and the rail-ways and canals of England, must feel dreadfully jolted when they arrive at this portion of their journey. How the crockery bears it is easily understood by those who open the packages of this kind of ware at the end of the journey, when cups and saucers take the appearance of small geological specimens, though some do survive, notwithstanding the regular custom of the muleteers to set down their loads every evening by the summary process of untying with a jerk a certain cunning knot in the rope which holds the bales in their places on each side of the pack-horse: these immediately come down with a crash upon the ground, from whence they are rolled along and built up into a wall, on the lee side of which a fire is lit and the muleteers sleep when there is no khan to retire to for the night.
On this journey I for the first time learned the true value of tea. One of the kawasses of the Russian commissioners had a curious little box, covered with cowskin, tied behind his saddle; about twice a day he galloped off like mad, his arms and stirrups, &c., making a noise as he started like that of upsetting all the fire-irons in a room at home. In about half an hour we came up with him again, discovering his whereabouts by seeing his panting horse led up and down by some small boy before a hovel, into which we immediately dived. There we found the kawass kneeling by a blazing fire, with the cowskin box open on the ground beside him, from whence he presently produced glass tumblers of delicious caravan tea,[1] sweetened with sugar-candy, and a thin slice of lemon floating on the top of each cup. This is the real way to drink tea, only one can not always get caravan tea, and, when you can, it costs a guinea a pound, more or less; but its refreshing, calming, and invigorating powers are truly remarkable.
In former days, in many a long and weary march, I found a pipe of great service in quieting the tired and excited nerves; having no love for smoking under ordinary circumstances, these were the only occasions when a long chibouk did seem to be grateful and comforting. That this is pretty universally acknowledged I gather from the habit of all the solemn old Turks in Egypt and hot climates during the fast of Ramadan, who invariably take a good whiff from their pipes the moment that sunset is announced by the firing of a gun in cities, or on the disappearance of its rays toward the west in the country. Supper does not appear to be looked forward to with the same impatience as the first puff from the chibouk. No pipe, however, possesses the agreeable qualities of a cup of hot good tea made in this way; no other beverage or contrivance that I know of produces so soothing an effect, and that in so short a time. In a few minutes the glasses, and the little teapot, and two canisters for tea and sugar-candy, retired into the recesses of the cowskin box; the poor horses, who had had no tea, were again mounted, and on we rode over the rocks and stones, one after the other, in a long line, the regular tramp, tramp, tramp, interrupted every now and then by the crash of one of our boxes against a rock, and the exclamations of the katergis as its bearer wallowed into a hole or tumbled over some horrible place, from whence it seemed impossible that he should ever be got up again. However, he always was, and at last we hardly took notice of one of these little accidents, and notwithstanding which we generally got through the mountains at the rate of about thirty miles a day.