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FILTHY TURKHAL 101
no explanation of how the woman came to be so
dressed.
I hastened to get a photograph of the couple,
thinking I could do so unnoticed. But the man
watched my movements, apparently having some
idea of what I was about, and as his suspicions
grew, placed himself in front of his wife and angrily
told me to stop. Thinking this protest insufficient,
he picked up a clod and made to throw it. With
that I turned away, and when the harrowing was
resumed, managed to get a photograph of the pair
when their backs were turned.
Following the pedestrian stages of the road my
proper stopping-place this night was Turkhal, and
it had a very bad name.
" Don't stop at Turkhal," was advice that had been
given me variously in Constantinople, in Marsovan,
and in Amasia. Every one who had passed through
Turkhal agreed that at best it was the vilest town on
the whole length of road between Samstin and Sivas.
Sometimes the explanation had been given that it was
Turkish, filthy, and fanatical.
As one committed for a time to living with the
humblest, I thought it would be strange if I could
not endure Turkhal for a single night. Wherever a
native could sleep I could do likewise, I argued. It
became almost a point of honour with me at last to
put up in Turkhal and nowhere else.
Turkhal lies in a little green plain surrounded by
hills and mountains, with several great isolated rocks
standing in the midst of the plain like islands. The
road by which I entered had water on either side,
and beyond the water rich green meadows, in vivid
contrast to the brown countryside I had just passed
through. On an island rock beside the town, rising
high above the houses, was a picturesque castle. I
thought that Turkhal had been strangely slandered.
But any favourable impression due to distance fell
away immediately I entered the main street. I had
been in dirty Turkish towns before—Vizier Keupru,