1883
Oscar Baumann:
From Tuzi to Scutari
Oscar Baumann (1864-1899) was an Austrian explorer and cartographer,
remembered in particular for his travels in German East Africa. He was the first
European to visit Rwanda, explored the source of the Nile and served briefly as
Austro-Hungarian consul in Zanzibar, before dying of an infection at the age of
thirty-five. Baumann was raised in Vienna where he studied geography and natural
history. Before he achieved fame as an explorer on the “dark continent,” he explored
the equally little known regions of Montenegro and northern Albania. The following
is an account of a journey he undertook on foot, at the age of nineteen, from Tuzi
(south of Podgorica in Montenegro) to Scutari (now Shkodra in northern Albania) in
August 1883.
Heavy grey clouds covered the heavens as I set off across the broad, tawny
plain of Crmnica at the Montenegrin-Turkish border in early August 1883. In
front of me walked my guide, Jakub, humming a Serbian folksong as we
proceeded across the arid land with hardly a blade of grass on it. He was a
Muslim. On his bare head he wore a white Mirdita cap and around his thighs
swirled his pleated fustanella, specially washed that day for the feast of
Bayram.
Behind us vanished the green groves of the town of Podgorica and the
rugged mountains of Crnagora [Montenegro] gradually dissipated in the
azure distance. In exchange, we could now see the foothills of Mirdita land.
To the southeast was Mount Dechich [Dečić/Deçiq], the site of recent fighting
between the Hoti and the Turkish military. My guide’s eyes lit up as he told
me how the Hoti had taken their first heads behind such-and-such a tree and
how they had driven the Turks back on such-and-such a hillock. The latter
would never have won if Hafiz Pasha had not taken control of the mountain
peak during the ceasefire. Now the mountain was crowned with a fort and
we could see the road winding its way up to it in endless serpentines. Next to
Dechich was Mount Shipchanik [Šipćanik/Shipqanik] where the Turks had
built fortifications.
The Cijevna or Cem River in Montenegro that once formed the border between Montenegro and
Ottoman Albania (photo: Robert Elsie, May 2013).
We had now reached a stone bridge. Jakub said it was the granica (border),
and I realised that we were in the process of crossing over from Montenegro
to Albania. The bridge led over a long, narrow expanse of terribly jagged
rocks cleft in the middle by a deep ravine. Down at the bottom of it flowed,
or rather trickled the crystal-clear, light-green water of the Cijevna [Cem]
River, in which the projecting cliffs on both sides reflected. On the Turkish
side crouched a man with a Martini rifle and in the faded uniform of a guard.
The sombre expression on his face betrayed keen displeasure. Perhaps he
was longing for his distant homeland in Asia, but it seemed more likely that
he was not thinking of anything at all. The desolate and monotonous plain
stretched out before us. In the far distance to the west gleamed Lake Scutari
[Shkodra/Skadar], like a thin blue line.
Having passed Shipchanik, we reached our destination, Tuzi. Anyone who
read the cables from Albania last year will have seen this place name almost
daily. The reader will probably have imagined a town or at least a larger
village, but this is far from the case. Around a central square of grass were
about thirty wooded huts, like the stalls of a fair. They offered passers-by
fruit, coffee and, most of all, raki (liquor). The authorities were
accommodated in a little stone building with large barn doors and a Turkish
flag. Jakub took me to the inn, in front of which several Turkish officers were
sitting and eating watermelon. The moment they saw me, suspicious
foreigner that I was, they bombarded me with questions. As I understood no
Turkish, all I could do was to show them my passport. Now it was they who
understood nothing, least of all the visa of the Ottoman Consulate General in
Vienna, written in French. There was total confusion. They had no idea what
to do with me, so after much discussion, they decided to take me to the
kaymakam, the local political authority. I was led through one of the barn
doors and up a rickety staircase strewn with rotten food. We were told to be
seated on a long wooden bench at one end of the sparsely furnished room.
On a divan in the middle of the room lounged the kaymakam, a Muslim
Albanian wearing a fustanella and a huge red fez. His expressionless face
gave no rise to apprehension.
The Ottoman-Albanian village of Tuzi, now in Montenegro (photo: Alexandre Baschmakoff,
8 September 1908).
What did give me an uncanny feeling initially were the Hercules-sized
figures around him, all staring at me. These were malissori [Highlanders],
men from the Catholic tribes of Hoti and Gruda. Their muscular legs were
wrapped in tight trousers of sallow sheep wool, and on their feet they wore
the sandal-like opankas that gave their movements something inaudibly
elastic. Their colossal, tanned chests were covered by short vests of the same
material and seemed to burst open at the front. Their clothes were
embroidered with black piping, characteristic of each tribe. The colourful
shawls wrapped not only around their heads but also around their chins and
necks gave them a wild look, as did their black moustaches and aquiline
noses, a look that was enhanced all the more by the infamously frigid stare
of the Albanian. Despite the fact that they were Christians, their heads were
clean-shaven, with the exception of a tuft of hair at the back. Around their
waists were broad sashes in which they stuffed their revolvers, sabres and
pistols, and I noticed that they kept their right hands on the triggers. The
small Turks in European uniforms looked quite curious by contrast.
The malissori stared at me in silence for quite some time and then one of
them, a six-foot Gruda man, made the sign of the cross ceremoniously.
I swiftly copied his movements to show that I, too, was a Christian because
I felt much more intimidated by these fellows than by their enemies, the
Turks. One of the men then sauntered over to me and whispered that I was
not to be afraid because I was now under their protection, their besa.
Encouraged by the presence of what were now my bodyguards, I called out
to a dragoman [interpreter] as I did not know very much Albanian. He turned
up in the form of the Italian-speaking Pietro Mileti of Scutari [Shkodra], who
was the telegraph agent. He explained to the kaymakam what my passport
was all about. The document was then returned to me and I was allowed to
go my way.
View of the plains of Tuzi in Montenegro (photo: Robert Elsie, March 2014).
In the company of Pietro and my bodyguards, I then went out to have a look
around Tuzi. The first thing I noticed were the malissori women who stood
out like poppies in a field of grain with their tight, cherry-red-and-black-
striped garments made of the same material as those of the men. In actual
fact, they had little to do with blossoms because only the old ones came
down to Tuzi to serve as porters. The young ones were wisely left at home.
There were many nizams [Turkish infantrymen] standing around the
drinking stalls, mostly short, sturdy men in shabby uniforms with opankas on
their feet and Martini rifles hanging from their shoulders. A crowd formed as
we were sitting in front of a hut drinking coffee and there was suddenly
much shouting. “What is going on?” I asked Pietro. “Nothing particular,
a Gruda man has just been killed in a blood feud,” he replied. They had just
found his body lying in a field.
Everything was soon forgotten and the malissori decided to have a race.
Everyone hastened out to the fields and about thirty of the young men ran
for about three-quarters of an hour until they disappeared in the distance.
At the finishing point stood a rich Hoti man in a gold embroidered costume.
Together with a Turkish officer he was holding a sack in which there were a
few piastres for the winner. Suddenly they all sprang to their feet and began
shouting. The runners had reappeared on the horizon. The spectators all
went wild, screaming, running out towards the competitors and cheering
their friends and fellow tribesmen on. Shots were fired into the air from
revolvers, pistols and even from rifles. The runners approached, dressed in
nothing but a sheet around their thighs. Their ponytails flapped wildly in the
wind as the sturdy bronze-coloured figures advanced swiftly towards us.
First among them were a fellow from Hoti and another from Gruda, each
trying to overcome the other. But only one of them could take the prize and
have the honour. They ran side by side right to the end. Then the many Hoti
spectators let out a frightening holler. Their man made one last effort,
advancing a metre in front of his rival, and hurled the sack triumphantly into
the air. Then he fainted and collapsed. The uproar continued. The Hoti were
of course in ecstasy and fired into the air. They raised their hero off the
ground and carried him back to Tuzi in victory. The shouting soon ceased, as
did the cursing of the losers. All that remained on the silent plain were the
rays of the setting sun and the figures of praying Turks.
I went back to the inn with Pietro where we were served pilav and sour wine.
As we were eating, crowds of malissori dressed in black and white pushed
their way through the entrance until there was no room left in the place.
Silent and unmoved they stood around our table with their weapons
gleaming dark red in the reflection of the little furnace. Then the questions
began. Their eyes flashed as their leader spoke out in the hissing sounds of
the Albanian language. Their requests made it clear to me that they had
completely misunderstood the motive of my journey, which was entirely
scholarly. They had expected of me things that I was not able to do for them.
It was embarrassing for me to explain to them that they were mistaken. I was
relieved when I finally got to the door, yet I was overcome with emotion as
these sons of nature kindly shook my hand and, in deep voices, sang for me
one of those Albanian songs that sound odd but are somehow beautiful. It
was dark outside. Only the jackal-like dogs were out prowling around in
search of scraps of meat left over. The stars twinkled serenely and the clear
southern skies stretched over the land.
And yet things were boiling in this land. Here there lived a people with an
unconscious longing in their breasts to lift themselves out of the night of
savagery and to achieve the same level of civilisation as peoples in other
nations, the nations that are currently looking down on these “Albanian
sheep thieves” in contempt.
When I got up the next morning in my room at the telegraph office, I went
over to the window and saw before me a handsome young highland lad with
two revolvers and a Martini rifle. He greeted me kindly and presented
himself as my zaptieh (gendarme) whom the kaymakam had ordered to escort
me to Scutari, or as he said politely, to accompany me. He had my passport
with him. I was initially rather confused by the forthcoming attitude of the
authorities towards me, but I
resigned myself to my fate
since from then on, the
government would be taking
over responsibility for my
journey as well as for my food
and shelter. We had coffee
together and then set off. The
zaptieh walked in front of me,
carrying in his hands two live
ducks that he was to take to
Scutari with him as well. Pietro
accompanied me as far as Hun
[Hum].
We hiked over the plain in a
southeasterly direction. The
monotony of the landscape
was only interrupted by the
occasional hill. Almost all of
the hills were fortified and
trumpets echoed from them,
giving false signals. Soon we
could see Lake Scutari before us, its surface and the mountains on the other
side being enveloped with a slight mist. We passed around the hill of Hun
because we wanted to catch a boat to take us from the arm of the lake that
stretched here deep into the mountains, the Liqeni Hoti [Lake Hoti] and
Liqeni Kastrati [Lake Kastrati], to get out into the main body of the lake. The
surroundings were bleak. Instead of villages only piles of blackened ruins
rose into the air. A detachment of Turkish cavalrymen passed by to the clip-
clop of their horses. At 7 o’clock we reached Han Hun [The Inn of Hum],
where there was a wretched little coffeehouse amidst the ruins. It swarmed
with officers, nizams and malissori. Pietro said farewell and a few Hoti men
yanked me immediately into the smoke-filled café. The swarthy Syrian
soldiers stared at us, touched and smelled my cane, my hiking boots and my
body. The atmosphere was oppressive and, to make things worse, the Hoti
and my zaptieh insisted that I try the dreadful beverage they were drinking.
I eventually managed to escape their kind attention and went outside to sit
with my bodyguard. You could really tell in this settlement that the “Turks
had been here.” They had done their best to burn down and destroy all the
houses. I was obliged to wait there for an hour and a quarter before we could
move on.
There was a vast marshland that began at Hun and filled the whole area out
to Lake Scutari. A few stones had been placed in the black morass and, after
jumping from one to another, we soon found ourselves amidst metre-high
rushes. The stones were as slippery as ice because of all the opankas that had
stepped on them, and I fell into the mud again and again. It was thus with
great relief that we reached the drier Samabor area where a londra [caïque]
was waiting at anchor. This large flatboat was coated in pitch inside and out
and was put into motion, almost unnoticeably, by an oarsman and a
helmsman. The vessel that we took belonged to the Turkish Government and
ensured the connection between Hun and Scutari. On it, huddled together,
standing and crouching, were nizams, malissori and their wives, as well as
sacks and heaps of dead fish that lay around. Since the floor of the boat was
covered in a yellowish swill and the owners of the sacks shouted the moment
anyone tried to sit down on them, there was nothing for me to do but to take
refuge at the bow which was dry because it was slanted. The londradji
[boatman] pulled the stone what he used as an anchor up out of the mud
and we set off.
The channel used by the boats was narrow. The water on both sides was
shallow and its surface was of a sallow-greyish colour. In the water were
reeds and the gnarled roots of willow trees. We could hear choirs of frogs
croaking around us and watched the silver seagulls gliding swiftly and
deftly over the rushes. From time to time we approached the barren, reddish
hills of the northern bank, most of which had guard posts, below which
nizams were standing waiting for a ride. When the boat stopped, the nizams
would spring into the water, wading up to their knees and then up to their
waists to reach it. They then heaved themselves into the londra, spraying us
with mud. When the sun is shining, clothes dry quickly, but when it is
raining, everyone gets drenched, so there is really no need for a wharf.
It took us some time to reach the Liqeni Hoti Arm, at the end of which was
a green field and a chain of rugged hills in Hoti territory. Behind the hills to
the east were lofty mountain peaks. We sailed slowly towards the other bank,
part of the red jagged promontories of the Kastrati hills. Amidst the cliffs
shone a group of white tents.
We landed a few steps away from the mouth of a river of ice-cold water and
the passengers made a lot of noise as they disembarked. I preferred to stay
with a Hercules-sized Hoti warrior, though I was quite indifferent as to what
he was doing. His sabre brushed dangerously against the tents and then he
brandished it to pronounce some solemn oath or curse, the meaning of which
I could not fathom. However, the others did not leave me in peace for long.
My zaptieh was soon at me and insisted that I follow him. A Turkish major
and several officers were sitting on the ground in one of the tents. He spoke
to me at length in Turkish but eventually realised that he was wasting his
time. The major then informed me in his rudimentary Albanian that I would
not be able to continue my journey that day because he wished to carry out a
full search. I was not too amused to hear this but there was nothing to be
done. At that moment, a French-speaking military physician turned up and
insisted energetically that I be released at once. I stuck to this very nice
young man until the londra departed. He had had quite enough of life in the
Albanian mountains and, to the amazement of the Turks, was considering
emigrating to Australia. In the end, he brought out a violin and in no time,
the hills of Kastrati were alive with the sound of waltzes from The Merry
War.
We continued down the arm of the Liqeni Hoti to a narrows where it divides
from the Liqeni Kastrati, and thus entered the lower arm which was directly
linked to the main body of Lake Scutari. The banks of the Liqeni Kastrati are
dull and marshy. The sun burned its imprint onto the filthy grey surface of
the water. A silvery fish jumped out of the water from time to time, but
everything else was monotonous – the rhythmic lapping of the oars and the
singing of the nizams. As such, it is no wonder that I soon fell asleep.
When I woke up, we were already in the middle of the lake. To our north
stretched the plains, covered in bushes and groves of trees, over the greenery
of which the white walls of villages rose. Behind the plains there were abrupt
mountains rising to an extraordinary height. The lake stretched southwards
to the Rumija mountain range in the distant mist. On our side of the lake and
indeed on the little islands, we could see larger and smaller settlements, and
to the southwest we could now see our goal, the fortress of Scutari on the hill.
The surface of the water was ruffled as a slight head wind rose, forcing the
oarsmen to put more effort into their movements. The wind gradually
transformed itself into a storm that rose to such an extent towards evening
that the boatmen declared they could go no further. We would have to
continue our journey on foot.
As such, we landed and all jumped out of the boat in wild commotion, the
nizams and the zaptieh with them. We hastened forth over the sandbanks into
which our feet sank and then through the dense fragrant bushes. When we
reached an open meadow, we came across a group of men from Koplik who,
with their women, had set up a bazaar to sell wood.
It was night now and my zaptieh told me that he did not want to carry on to
Scutari for several hours in the dark. I am not sure whether he was afraid that
I might escape and continue on my own, but he turned with me and we
walked in the direction of some houses in the village of Amaranj or Omar
[Omaraj]. We then entered the home of a Muslim who greeted us with a loud
“as-salamu aleykum.” He relieved us of our backpacks and invited us in as his
guests. We took our shoes off and sat, in oriental manner, on a plank in the
back of the room. There was already a young hodja sitting there in a white
turban and two Muslims in clean pleated fustenellas. They were making
themselves cigarettes. They had taken advantage of the feast of Bayram to
visit their friend in the countryside. Our host’s wife and his young daughter,
who was unveiled and dressed in light white garments down to her knees,
stoked the fire. A young gypsy boy in rags was invited in and stared
mindlessly at the glowing coals that reflected the nuances of his Hindu-
looking face. The airy cottage made of wood and straw, the now blazing fire,
and the supplies of milk and coffee on the wall gave the place a rural charm,
a cozy atmosphere that one would hardly have expected in the huts of the
malessori. The dinner, consisting of eggs and pilav, was more than satisfactory,
though, in my opinion, my companions at table made rather too ample use of
their hands. Thereafter all the Muslims in our company said their evening
prayers and we lay down to sleep. My zaptieh and his rifle were right beside
me. I had no complaints to make about him. He was a pleasant lad of the
Gruda tribe who only asked me for baksheesh once. In the morning, our host,
who had staunchly refused any payment for our stay, loaded his mules with
watermelons and we set off.
We passed many caravans led by heavily armed malissori walking behind
their heavily loaded womenfolk. Some of the women took the easy way out
and mounted the horses to gallop over the plains as the men did, with their
hair fluttering in the wind. Two hours later we reached the outskirts of
Scutari, but we had to walk for some time between the high garden walls to
get into the town itself.
The Marsh of Hum (Humsko Blato/Këneta e Humit) in Lake Hoti, an arm of Lake Shkodra at the
Montenegrin-Albanian border (photo: Robert Elsie, May 2013).
I immediately asked to be taken to the Austro-Hungarian Consulate General.
My gendarme replied in the friendliest possible way that this was not
possible because I would soon have the pleasure of being given an audience
with His Excellency, Mustapha Asim Pasha, the Governor of Scutari. As such,
we made our way across the dusty square to the government building. It had
nothing imposing about it and could only be recognised as an official
building by the present of the lazy watchmen in a corner. One enters the
offices directly from the street. A red divan stretched along the wall. Several
officers were sitting and lounging on it and without delay they inquired
about me in Turkish, refusing to believe that I did not understand their
language. One of them then led me outside and up a staircase to the upper
floor where we entered a rather long hallway. My initial impression was that
it was a sort of storage room or prison. Spiders had spun their webs in all the
corners of the filthy brown walls. The windows had never been cleaned and
some of the panes were broken. The ceiling looked as if it were about to
collapse. To the left was the doorless entrance to a sombre, smoke-blackened
kitchen in which two unwashed lads were preparing food on the fire, all of
which smelled unpleasant. To the right was a curtained hallway that
separated us from the reception room of Asim Pasha. This was, so to speak,
the antechamber, and the two unpleasant-smelling lads were his cooks. What
a coming and going there was in the hallway! A couple of dark Sudanese
negroes held watch at the door through which a hunchbacked hodja in a
huge turban was making his way. Next to him was the more imposing figure
of the Catholic Bishop of Pulat [Pult]. I advanced, but tripped over a couple
of gypsies lying on the floor and stumbled into a giant malissor who
happened to be caught up in a hefty discussion with some sleek Scutari men.
In addition to these were some Syrian nizams who were vociferously
demanding that they be let in. Doors led into offices in which officials were
frantically busy, i.e. drinking coffee and rolling themselves cigarettes.
Finally I was led in to see the Pasha who turned out to be a friendly blond
gentleman in a European uniform. I was relieved when he inspected my
passport, found that everything was in order, and sent me on my way.
However, it took another three hours of waiting around for the commander
of the gendarmerie to inform me through his interpreter that I could wander
around Scutari as much as I liked but that I was not to leave the town
without permission. This brought my Turkish stint and my journey from
Tuzi to Scutari to an abrupt end.
When I look back on Albania and think of the grandiose spectacle of the
snow-covered Albanian Alps that I had so often gazed at from the towers of
Montenegro, and when I reflect on the wild and robust Albanians, I cannot
help but wonder why scientific research and practical endeavour have
ignored this wonderful country bordering on civilized nations and have left
it unexplored, at a time when many lives and so much money are being spent
on exploring distant Africa.
[Oscar Baumann, “Über Tuzi nach Scutari,” in: Globus, Illustrierte Zeitschrift
für Länder- und Völkerkunde, 45 (1884), p. 106 - 119. Translated from the
German by Robert Elsie.]
Oscar Baumann (1864-1899).
Tombstone in Vuksanlekaj, south of Tuzi in Montenegro
(photo: Robert Elsie, May 2016).