CHAPTER XIII.
BEY BAZAAR, ANGORA, AND EASTWARD.
A Trundle of half an hour up the steep slopes leading out of another of those narrow valleys in which all these towns are situated, and then comes a gentle declivity extending with but little interruption for several miles, winding in and out among the inequalities of an elevated table-land. The mountain-breezes blow cool and exhilarating, and just before descending into the little Charkhan Valley I pass some interesting cliffs of castellated rocks, the sight of which immediately wafts my memory back across the thousands of miles of land and water to what they are almost a counterpart of the famous castellated rocks of Green River, Wyo. Ter. Another scary youth takes to his heels as I descend into the valley and halt at the village of Charkhan, a mere shapeless cluster of mud-hovels. Before one of these a ragged agriculturist solemnly presides over a small heap of what I unfortunately mistake at the time for pumpkins. I say "unfortunately," because after-knowledge makes it highly probable that they were the celebrated Charhkan musk-melons, famous far and wide for their exquisite flavor; the variety can be grown elsewhere, but, strange to say, the peculiar, delicate flavor which makes them so celebrated is absent when they vegetate anywhere outside this particular locality. It is supposed to be owing to some peculiar mineral properties of the soil. The Charkhan Valley is a wild, weird-looking region, looking as if it were habitually subjected to destructive downpourings of rain, that have washed the grand old mountains out of all resemblance to neighboring ranges round about. They are of a soft, shaly composition, and are worn by the elements into all manner of queer, fantastic shapes; this, together with the same variegated colors observed yesterday afternoon, gives them a distinctive appearance not easily forgotten. They are " grand, gloomy, and peculiar; " especially are they peculiar. The soil of the valley itself seems to be drift-mud from the surrounding hills; a stream furnishes water sufficient to irrigate a number of rice- fields, whose brilliant emerald hue loses none of its brightness from being surrounded by a framework of barren hills.
Ascending from this interesting locality my road now traverses a dreary, monotonous district of whitish, sun-blistered hills, water-less and verdureless for fourteen miles. The cool, refreshing breezes of early morning have been dissipated by the growing heat of the sun; the road continues fairly good, and while riding I am unconscious of oppressive heat; but the fierce rays of the sun blisters my neck and the backs of my hands, turning them red and causing the skin to peel off a few days afterward, besides ruining a section of my gossamer coat exposed on top of the Lamson carrier. The air is dry and thirst-creating, there is considerable hill-climbing to be done, and long ere the fourteen miles are covered I become sufficiently warm and thirsty to have little thought of anything else but reaching the means of quenching thirst. Away off in the distance ahead is observed a dark object, whose character is indistinct through the shimmering radiation from the heated hills, but which, upon a nearer approach, proves to be a jujube-tree, a welcome sentinel in those arid regions, beckoning the thirsty traveller to a never-failing supply of water. At the jujube-tree I find a most magnificent fountain, pouring forth at least twenty gallons of delicious cold water to the minute. The spring has been walled up and a marble spout inserted, which gushes forth a round, crystal column, as though endeavoring to compensate for the prevailing aridness and to apologize to the thirsty wayfarer for the inhospitableness of its surroundings. Miles away to the northward, perched high up among the ravines of a sun-baked mountain-spur, one can see a circumscribed area of luxuriant foliage. This conspicuous oasis in the desert marks the source of the beautiful road-side fountain, which traverses a natural subterranean passage-way between these two distant points. These little isolated clumps of waving trees, rearing their green heads conspicuously above the surrounding barrenness, are an unerring indication of both water and human habitations. Often one sees them suddenly when least expected, nestling in a little depression high up some mountain-slope far away, the little dark-green area looking almost black in contrast with the whitish color of the hills. These are literally "oases in the desert," on a small scale, and although from a distance no sign of human habitations appeal, since they are but mud- hovels corresponding in color to the hills themselves, a closer examination invariably reveals well-worn donkey-trails leading from different directions to the spot, and perchance a white-turbaned donkey-rider slowly wending his way along a trail.
The heat becomes almost unbearable; the region of treeless, shelterless hills continues to characterize my way, and when, at two o'clock P.M., I reach the town of Bey Bazaar, I conclude that the thirty-nine miles already covered is the limit of discretion to-day, considering the oppressive heat, and seek the friendly accommodation of a khan. There I find that while shelter from the fierce heat of the sun is obtainable, peace and quiet are altogether out of the question. Bey Bazaar is a place of eight thousand inhabitants, and the khan at once becomes the objective point of, it seems to me, half the population. I put the machine up on a barricaded yattack-divan, and climb up after it; here I am out of the meddlesome reach of the " madding crowd," but there is no escaping from the bedlam-like clamor of their voices, and not a few, yielding to their uncontrollable curiosity, undertake to invade my retreat; these invariably "skedaddle" respectfully at my request, but new-comers are continually intruding. The tumult is quite deafening, and I should certainly not be surprised to have the khan-jee request me to leave the place, on the reasonable ground that my presence is, under the circumstances, detrimental to his interests, since the crush is so great that transacting business is out of the question. The khan-jee, however, proves to be a speculative individual, and quite contrary thoughts are occupying his mind. His subordinate, the kahvay-jee, presents himself with mournful countenance and humble attitude, points with a perplexed air to the surging mass of fezzes, turbans, and upturned Turkish faces, and explains - what needs no explanation other than the evidence of one's own eyes - that he cannot transact his business of making coffee.
"This is your khan," I reply; "why not turn them out." "Mashallah, effendi. I would, but for everyone I turned out, two others would come in-the sons of burnt fathers." he says, casting a reproachful look down at the straggling crowd of his fellow-countrymen.
"What do you propose doing, then?" I inquire. "Katch para, effendi," he answers, smiling approvingly at his own suggestion.
The enterprising kahvay-jee advocates charging them an admission fee of five paras (half a cent) each as a measure of protection, both for himself and me, proposing to make a "divvy" of the proceeds. Naturally enough the idea of making a farthing show of either myself or the bicycle is anything but an agreeable proposition, but it is plainly the only way of protecting the kahvay-jee and his khan from being mobbed all the afternoon and far into the night by a surging mass of inquisitive people; so I reluctantly give him permission to do whatever he pleases to protect himself. I have no idea of the financial outcome of the speculative khan- jee's expedient, but the arrangement secures me to some extent from the rabble, though not to any appreciable extent from being worried. The people nearly drive me out of my seven senses with their peculiar ideas of making themselves agreeable, and honoring me; they offer me cigarettes, coffee, mastic, cognac, fruit, raw cucumbers, melons, everything, in fact, but the one thing I should really appreciate - a few minutes quiet, undisturbed, enjoyment of my own company; this is not to be secured by locking one's self in a room, nor by any other expedient I have yet tried in Asia. After examining the bicycle, they want to see my "Alla Franga" watch and my revolver; then they want to know how much each thing costs, and scores of other things that appeal strongly to their excessively inquisitive natures.
One old fellow, yearning for a closer acquaintance, asks me if I ever saw the wonderful "chu, chu, chu! chemin defer at Stamboul," adding that he has seen it and intends some day to ride on it; another hands me a Crimean medal, and says he fought against the Muscovs with the "Ingilis," while a third one solemnly introduces himself as a "makinis " (machinist), fancying, I suppose, that there is some fraternal connection between himself and me, on account of the bicycle being a makina.
I begin to feel uncomfortably like a curiosity in a dime museum - a position not exactly congenial to my nature; so, after enduring this sort of thing for an hour, I appoint the kahvay-jee custodian of the bicycle and sally forth to meander about the bazaar a while, where I can at least have the advantage of being able to move about. Upon returning to the khan, an hour later, I find there a man whom I remember passing on the road; he was riding a donkey, the road was all that could be desired, and I swept past him at racing speed, purely on the impulse of the moment, in order to treat him to the abstract sensation of blank amazement. This impromptu action of mine is now bearing its legitimate fruit, for, surrounded by a most attentive audience, the wonder-struck donkey-rider is endeavoring, by word and gesture, to impress upon them some idea of the speed at which I swept past him and vanished round a bend. The kahvay-jee now approaches me, puffing his cheeks out like a penny balloon and jerking his thumb in the direction of the street door. Seeing that I don't quite comprehend the meaning of this mysterious facial contortion, he whispers confidentially aside, "pasha," and again goes through the highly interesting performance of puffing out his cheeks and winking in a knowing manner; he then says-also confidentially and aside - "lira," winking even more significantly than before. By all this theatrical by-play, the kahvay-jee means that the pasha - a man of extraordinary social, political, and, above all, financial importance - has expressed a wish to see the bicycle, and is now outside; and the kahvay-jee, with many significant winks and mysterious hints of " lira," advises me to take the machine outside and ride it for the pasha's special benefit. A portion of the street near by is " ridable under difficulties; " so I conclude to act on the kahvay-jee's suggestion, simply to see what comes of it. Nothing particular comes of it, whereupon the kahvay-jee and his patrons all express themselves as disgusted beyond measure because the Pasha failed-to give me a present. Shortly after this I find myself hobnobbing with a small company of ex-Mecca pilgrims, holy personages with huge green turbans and flowing gowns; one of them is evidently very holy indeed, almost too holy for human associations one would imagine, for in addition to his green turban he wears a broad green kammer bund and a green undergarment; he is in fact very green indeed. Then a crazy person pushes his way forward and wants me to cure him of his mental infirmity; at all events I cannot imagine what else he wants; the man is crazy as a loon, he cannot even give utterance to his own mother-tongue, but tries to express himself in a series of disjointed grunts beside which the soul-harrowing efforts of a broken-winded donkey are quite melodious. Someone has probably told him that I am a hakim, or a wonderful person on general principles, and the fellow is sufficiently conscious of his own condition to come forward and endeavor to grunt himself into my favorable consideration.