In true Eastern
fashion we squatted down round the basin and dug into the rice with our
fingers. At first I was rather upset by this sort of table manners, and
for some time I ate with my eyes fixed on my own portion, to avoid
seeing the Arabs, who fill the palms of their hands with rice, pat it
into a ball and cram it into their mouths just so, the bolus making a
great lump in their lean throats as it reluctantly descends.
In the course of that same morning we were allotted our uniforms. The
Turkish uniform, under indirect German influence, has been greatly
modified during the past five years. It is of khaki--a greener khaki
than that of the British army, and of conventional European cut. Spiral
puttees and good boots are provided; the only peculiar feature is the
headgear--a curious, uncouth-looking combination of the turban and the
German helmet, devised by Enver Pasha to combine religion and
practicality, and called in his honor _enverieh_. (With commendable
thrift, Enver patented his invention, and it is rumored that he has
drawn a comfortable fortune from its sale.) An excellent uniform it is,
on the whole; but, to our disgust, we found that in the great olive-drab
pile to which we were led, there was not a single new one. All were old,
discarded, and dirty, and the mere thought of putting on the clothes of
some unknown Arab legionary, who, perhaps, had died of cholera at Mecca
or Yemen, made me shudder.
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