“In the Steps of St. Paul.”

Kaikoura Star, Volume LVI, Issue 85, 29 October 1936, Page 4

“In the Steps of St. Paul.”

A SERIES OF ARTICLES BY

H. V. MORTON.

ARTICLE No. 28

All that day the train pounded across Turkey. I became weary looking out of the window on the same featureless plains; the greenish, brown expanse of land running to distant hills and enlivened only by horsemen on the move or enormous flocks of sheep. The shepherds in their square-should ered felt cloaks would pause to watch the daily train go past, sometimes waving their sticks. The big white dogs would bare their teeth and stand on the defensive, and, as they lifted their necks, I could see the massive collars with three-inch iron spikes sticking out of them, which all sheep dogs in Asia Minor wear as a protection against wolves. It was much colder on the Turkish uplands than it had been in Cyprus or on the Cilician Plain. Spring comes to the sea-coast plains of Turkey weeks before she visits the interior. And, as the monotonous landscape slipped past the window, I thought whlat an empty country it is. One travels for hour after hour, seeing nothing but a small village crouched on a hill or straggling over the flat land. Then the sight of a man driving a primitive four-wheeled cart over a .bumpy mud track indicates that one is approaching a town; for where there is a cart there must be a town.

Sure enough, the train comes to rest with a weary sigh in a neat station full of ragged loungers, who walk two by two 'along the lines gazing with interest into the carriages.

Soldiers in loose-fitting putty-col-oured uniforms patrol the line, their rifles slung on their backs. Police with red tabs and red bands round their caps come out of the station office and gaze curiously in search of their prey.

To each revolver holster is tied a whistle on a lanyard, so that one never looks at a Turkish policeman without visualising him in some desperate situation, firing his revolver and blowing hard for help.

But who among these sad-looking, ragged people in their dreadful travesty of European clothes would dare to oppose the supreme authority of such smart, soldierly, well-fed men? Travelling in Turkey is a prolonged picnic. It is only on the crack trains that run from the new capital of Ancyra that one finds such luxuries as sleeping and restaurant cars.

Therefore, as the train draws into a station, one forages for food. Some stations specialise in kebab, which is meat cut into slices and' fried on a skewer. Small boys come along selling this, shouting it along the corridor. When you buy some they will come into the carriage, put their fingers at the top of the skeiver an 5, withdrawing it, shoot the blobs of roasted meat into a piece of newspaper. Sometimes there are oranges or (apples or bags of roast chestnuts, and, always, there are those delicious rings of bread covered with sesame seed, called simit; and always there are little hot cups of sweet coffee. But on this journey to Konya I did not need to buy food. My guide—whom I will call Mustafa—had brought with him a largo basket containing a roast chiciken, several slabs of cheese and a quantity of bread. Our fellow passenger was also a model of courtesy and hospitality. He was a young infantry officer returning home from leave. Ho had with him a bowl containing five gold-fish.

Every now and then he would take a tumbler and empty out water from the bowl which he would throw through the lavatory at the end of the co?.ch 'and return with fresh water, which he would pour into the bowl. His mother had given him enough food to feed the regiment. He had a large round tin full of every kind of Turkish delicacy, including excellent dolmas, a kind of rice savoury wrapped round with vine leaves. These he handed round to us. We offered hii.u a piece of our chicken, but he opened another tin and showed us tUat he had a whole chicken to himself.

He unpacked his bag and broughtout of it a bottle of scented water called “Kemal Lotion,’’ with which he’ refreshed his hands and his face. Hethen produced a bottle of the excellent sweet white wine which Turkey is now" manufacturing, contrary to all the ancient Moslem traditions. So the hours wore on, and the endloss brown plains slipped past the window. Mustafa, who had taken part in. the Revolution, seemed to have fought cavalry actions all over the country.. He would suddenly lean forward, point to a hill and say: “I was over there with my troops. The enemy were behind that Jiill. I

sent out. a scout. . . on so on. I never knew —’and always had to ask if the enemy were Greeks or his own people. Sometimes I discovered that they had been Greeks, sometimes Turks. “Making war on the Greeks I do not mind,” he said. “What are Greeks for? But civil war! That is terrible, terrible—brother fighting brother! I have seen it. There is no war so bad as that.” The young officer, who could not understand English, asked from time to time what Mustafa was saying, and after it had been translated he would nod his head in approval and offer me <a drop of “Kemal Lotion” or a drink of Demi-see. And so the hours wore on, and the sun crossed the sky. . . . The officer removed his tunic and, placing his gold-fish out of the sun, went to sleep. Mustafa, becoming weary of his sanguinary hillocks, pillowed his head on an overcoat and also slept. ***** I looked out of the window, thinking that St. Piiul had a much easier time travelling across Asia Minor than I had imagined. I had always thought of him trudging up-hill in savage mountain country. This country from the Taurus westward was more like Salisbury Plain. It was wider, on a larger scale; but that is what it looked like. In Paul’s day excellent Roman roads crossed it to all the great centres of population. Towns existed in every place to which wlater could be brought. Asia Minor was in his day what Europe became in the Middle Ages: a great country of thriving cities all sharing the same civilisation, all bound together by the same ties and animated by the same ideas. St. Paul walked, or rode, to these towns along wide, firm roads over flat plains. When he left the main roads he w*as, of course, a solitary traveller in danger of floods and in peril of robbers. But his peril of robbers was, perhaps, not so great, as long as he kept to the main roads of Asia Minor. He was on the highways of the world’s commerce. The railway that runs over the Taurus to Iconium, which is now Konya, roughly follows the great trade .to Ephesus. And this is the route that Paul took more than once. I cannot believe that he always walked, as tradition pictures him. I think he rode a horse or a mule when he could get one, just like any other sensible traveller. And on the main roads he was certainly not often alone. He would find himself with caravans of merchants, bodies of Roman troops and local militia, bands of travelling jugglers and actors, passing from town to town, schools of gladiators touring the theatres of the province. And in the inns and rest-houses which dotted this road he would hear the gossip and the rumour of a dozen countries. He would sec the Imperial post service in action, takings news back to Rome from the most remote corners of the Empire and speeding out with orders from Caesar to provincial

governors and to commanders of armies. Special horses were kept for this post service along all the great roads. The speed of the Imperial Post averaged five miles an hour. The distance between Byzantium (Constantinople) and Antioch’, in Syria, 750 miles, w r as covered in less than six days. The reservation of this service of post-horses for accredited Imperial messengers was closely guarded. Only those bearing a “diploma,” or a folding tablet, signed and dated ,by the reigning emperor, could avail themselves of the service. Therefore it is wrong to think of Paul travelling with the Gospel into the wilderness. Ho took his message into the highways. The busy, varied life of the Roman Empire was round him day and night. (Article 29 will appear in our next issue).