I travel along for some time after nightfall, in hopes of reaching a village, but none appearing, I finally decide to camp out. Choosing a position behind a convenient knoll, I pitch the tent where it will bo invisible from the road, using stones in lieu of tent-pegs; and inhabiting for the first time this unique contrivance, I sup off the grapes remaining over from the bountiful feast at noon-and, being without any covering, stretch myself without undressing beside the upturned bicycle; notwithstanding the gentle reminders of unsatisfied hunger, I am enjoying the legitimate reward of constant exercise in the open air ten minutes after pitching the tent.

Soon after midnight I am awakened by the chilly influence of the "wee sma' hours," and recognizing the likelihood of the tent proving more beneficial as a coverlet than a roof, in the absence of rain, I take it down and roll myself up in it; the thin, oiled cambric is far from being a blanket, however, and at daybreak the bicycle and everything is drenched with one of the heavy dews of the country.

Ten miles over an indifferent road is traversed next morning; the comfortless reflection that anything like a "square meal" seems out of the question anywhere between the larger towns scarcely tends to exert a soothing influence on the ravenous attacks of a most awful appetite; and I am beginning to think seriously of making a detour of several miles to reach a mountain village, when I meet a party of three horsemen, a Turkish Bey - with an escort of two zaptiehs. I am trundling at the time, and without a moment's hesitancy I make a dead set at the Bey, with the single object of satisfying to some extent my gastronomic requirements.

"Bey Effendi, have you any ekmek?" I ask, pointing inquiringly to his saddle-bags on a zaptieh's horse, and at the same time giving him to understand by impressive pantomime the uncontrollable condition of my appetite. With what seems to me, under the circumstances, simply cold- blooded indifference to human suffering; the Bey ignores my inquiry altogether, and concentrating his whole attention on the bicycle, asks, "What is that?" "An Americanish araba, Effendi; have you any ekmek ?" toying suggestively with the tell-tale slack of my revolver belt.

"Where have you come from?" "Stamboul; have you ekmek in the saddle- bags, Effendi." this time boldly beckoning the zaplieh with the Bey's effects to approach nearer.

"Where are you going?" "Yuzgat! ekmek! ekmek!" tapping the saddle-bags in quite an imperative manner. This does not make any outward impression upon the Bey's aggravating imperturbability, however; he is not so indifferent to my side of the question as he pretends; aware of his inability to supply my want, and afraid that a negative answer would hasten my departure before he has fully satisfied his curiosity concerning me, he is playing a. little game of diplomacy in his own interests.

"What is it for." he now asks, with soul-harrowing indifference to all my counter inquiries." To bin," I reply, desperately, curt and indifferent, beginning to see through his game. " Bin, bin! bacalem." he says; supplementing the request with a coaxing smile. At the same moment my long-suffering digestive apparatus favors me with an unusually savage reminder, and nettled beyond the point where forbearance ceases to be any longer a virtue, I return an answer not exactly complimentary to the Bey's ancestors, and continue my hungry way down the valley.

A couple of miles after leaving the Bey, I intercept a party of peasants traversing a cross-country trail, with a number of pack-donkeys loaded with rock-salt, from whom I am fortunately able to obtain several thin sheets of ekmek, which I sit down and devour immediately, without even water to moisten the repast; it seems one of the most tasteful and soul-satisfying breakfasts I ever ate.

Table of contents    Previous    Next

Adapted from Thomas Stevens, Around the World on a Bicycle