The caique is long and very narrow, and sharp at both
ends--pointed, in fact. It is boarded over at these ends to prevent
shipping seas. These planks are prettily varnished, with gilded rails,
which give the boat a gay look.
The men row vigorously, and the frail skiff skims along the water at
a rate of speed equal to an express-train. But the rushing of the
rippling waters past the boat is the chief indication of the rapidity
of our progress, so smoothly do we glide along. One peculiarity of the
caique is that there are no rowlocks for the oars, which are held by a
loop of leather fastened on the boat.
All the senses are soothed and steeped in Elysium during this rapid
transit. The eye lazily runs over the squat-looking red houses with
flat roofs which line the shore, to rest on the dark cypress trees
which fill the intervening spaces, with the gilded balconies of
some pleasure-palace of sultan or high Turk catching the sight
occasionally. Caiques similar to your own are darting about in all
directions, following, passing or meeting you, until at length you
reach your destination, indicated by the crowd of caiques tied up
there, like cabs on a grand-opera night waiting for their customers.
Those of high Turkish functionaries or foreign ambassadors are very
different from yours--as different as a coach-and-four from a common
cab.
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