CHAPTER XVIII—SYRIA, THE LAND OF THE SUN.—DRAGOMEN, GUIDES, AND COURIERS.
A Rough Night on Shipboard—A Sea-sick Turk—What he said—Rum and Petroleum—Meditations on Turkish Hash—The Camel, his tricks and uses—A Knowing Brute—How he shirks a burden—George Smith, the Assyrian Savan—Beyrout—Its Antiquities and Wonders—Going on Shore—The Dragoman and his office—Eastern Guides and their Character—Travelling on Horseback in Syria—The road to Damascus—An unexpected trouble—Paying fare by Weight—Disadvantages of a heavy “party”—A trial of Wits—Waking up the Judge—Telling White Lies—The “Doubter’s” Predicament.
IT grew rough in the night, after we left Rhodes, and the Tibre tossed about in a very lively way.
There was a Turk in the state room on one side of me, and an Armenian woman in the room on the other side.
The Turk rolled about very uneasily; the springs of his bed were rather noisy, and I could hear them creak every time he turned over. I venture to say that he turned in his bed not far from 243,654 times in the night; not that I counted them, but only guessed. Every time the ship gave a lurch he shouted “Allah!” and between times he cleared his stomach or his conscience of everything that had rested there in the last ten years.
As for the Arménienne, she took out her share in groaning, and she did that so well as to entitle her to the first place at an Irish wake. Had she asked me for a diploma, I could have given her one that would have made her fortune, but she didn’t put in an appearance till she came out to leave the ship at Alexandretta. She wanted to say her prayers, but was too weak to do so, though she shouted “Constantine” as often as the Turk said “Allah.” As for the Turk, he stuck to his employment with most commendable zeal. Between the two, I didn’t get much sleep during the night, and was glad when morning came and the steamer anchored at Mersina.