From New Lands To Old, 1938

[Music] Hallelujah. [Music] [Music] The world is a big place to go driving and most of us are content to take our automobile trips near home, at least in our own country. But here are a couple of happy motorists whose road map is the whole world and whose journeys have taken them to strange faroff places. Mrs. Margaret Thaw Peggy to her friends who is almost as familiar with the jungles and deserts of Africa and Asia as she is with her own home. And Mr. Lawrence Coughley Thaw Larry to his friends organizer of unusual expeditions to extraordinary places. The Thaw's latest trip covered more than 22,000 miles. It was made by motor caravan over every kind of road from paved highways to shifting desert sands all the way from Paris, France to Bombay, India. Well, that's enough for an introduction. Larry, we leave the rest of the story to you. Okay. Here on the wall is a picture of the specially designed motor equipment we use on our trip across Asia. First, a sculpt car with a small trailer to carry our many pieces of photographic equipment, cameras, tripods, and lights. Next, a 40ft deluxe trailer weighing 13 tons. We call this our land yacht. It's a completely furnished house on wheels with parlor, bedroom, and bath, a lighting plant, air conditioning, and radio. In addition, we needed three trucks, for we had to carry 15 tons of camping equipment, food, motor oil, and greases, film, and all the other supplies required for a journey almost as long as the distance around the world. All our equipment was shipped from New York to Paris, official starting point of our expedition. Beside ourselves and Johnny Bole, our director of photography, we were joined here in Paris by six Hindu boys sent by our agents in India to act as our drivers, personal boys, and cook. But took these boys a little time to become familiar with handling camp equipment and the general operation of a motor caravan. We carried with us enough esoter oil and a sodium lubricants to take us as far as India. But when it came to gasoline, we had to depend on regular service stations along the way. So before heading southeast across Europe, we stopped in Paris to load up. Perhaps if we'd known then how precious gasoline was going to be later on, we'd have stopped right there and traded our motor caravan for a caravan on legs, maybe a camel caravan or even some good old Missouri mules. But we didn't know then. So we told the attendant and our very best French to fill them up. It seemed quite familiar to be able to load up in Paris with the same gasoline we used back home, but it was a new experience to have to buy 530 gallons at a time. It was a new experience for the manager of the station, too. No wonder he asked us to come in and see him again sometime. We took Hindu boys with us for a reason. We figured they'd never desert us because no matter what happened, as long as we were headed eastward, they were already on their way back to India. It was the first time in his life that this boy had ever been photographed by a movie camera, and he thought if he moved, he'd spoil the film. So, he just didn't move. Okay, Muhammad, we've got the picture. Get a move on. Add a boy. Needless to say, war had not yet been declared. Paris was gay and busy as usual. As we left the Eiffel Tower behind us, with our caravan flying the Frenchricolor beside the stars and stripes, little did we dream how soon this beautiful city would be filled with grief and suffering under a conquering army. We did know that trouble was brewing, for there was thunder in the air, and we heard ominous rumors of possible war, but we didn't take such rumors too seriously. It wasn't until we started across Germany that we began to feel the sinister, threatening reality of the impending disaster. We'd have liked nothing better than to stop and visit for a while in quaint old towns like this. But the Nazi officials had other ideas. We were given the military motor escort to speed our passage through the country. We were treated courteously. Oh so courteously, but we had to stick close and keep moving. The official attitude was, "We'll be glad when you're gone, you rascals you." They knew that war was coming and they didn't want to be caught with a caravan of assorted Americans and Hindus on their hands. In Vienna, we saw soldiers already on the march, going out through the historic France Ysef Gate, named for that famous emperor of old Austria. By this time, tension in Europe was rising rapidly. The Nazi war machine was beginning to move, and it was a relief to all of us when we crossed the Hungarian border. Here, our escort left us, and the dark clouds of impending war didn't seem so close. In Budapest, on the beautiful Danube River of Song and Story, everything seemed peaceful. But by now, we weren't in a mood to risk a war catching up with us. So, we kept moving. There we go. Headed for Queen Elizabeth Bridge that connects the twin cities of Buddha and Pest. These beautiful old cities used to be two separate towns in every way. But in 1872 they were united into one and called Budapest. One of the most fascinating cities in Europe. Beneath its modern culture is the barbaric tang of the ancient Maguar civilization. A tantalizing blend of the newer Europe and the old. From Hungary we crossed into Yugoslavia where as you can see the roads aren't so hot. But you don't mind bad roads when you have scenery like this to look at. Thousands of acres of brilliant flowers stretching almost as far as the eye can see. And colorful peasant women at work in their midst gathering the seeds. Cultivation of these flowers is one of Yugoslavia's big agricultural industries. There are locks and flocks from pink and white to brilliant red. Well, photographer would have been perfectly happy to use up all the color film we had right in this one spot. And Peggy would have liked to capture the perfume of these flowers in a bottle and bring it home. These girls are working kneedeep in patuniius, a gorgeous living carpet of color and fragrance. [Music] On our way again, the road led us through pleasant valleys with gently rolling fields on every side. Our motor caravan got awfully thirsty for the roads were dry and dusty. So we stopped to load our tanks with water from an old and famous spring. Since prehistoric times, cool, sweet water has bubbled up from the earth at this spot, refreshing man and beast and now motorcars as well. A little supervision from up above. In such quiet pastoral country as this, it seemed to us as if nothing violent could ever happen. In spite of the bloody history of the Balkans, the people themselves are warm-hearted and friendly. Everywhere word of our strange caravan went ahead of us. At Sadova, Bulgaria, the mayor and the board of aldermen were waiting to welcome us. And what a welcome. We couldn't understand the speeches, but we could and did understand the friendly feeling expressed in them. These people know very little about the faroff United States of America, but they treated us as if we were ambassadors or royalty. The whole town turned out in a parade that looked as if it had walked straight out of a musical comedy on Broadway. Brilliant costumes and all. We expected that any minute they'd strike up the band and go into a dance. And sure enough, they did. Right beside our big trailer, all the town's best dancers strutdded their stuff in our honor. This native Bulgarian dance is typical of this part of Europe. Peggy christened it the big apple of the Balkans. [Music] Music was played on four native instruments. Now, if you can name three out of four, you win the quiz contest and the set of the encyclopedias. The little girl is the daughter of the leader of the troop. And can she dance? Those little feet of hers never missed a step. The black wings of war and conquest spreading over Europe have darkened even the lives of these happy people. But as we watched this dance, war still seemed a long way from Bulgaria. And when we left it, it was with music and laughter in our ears. [Music] The next part of our journey was not quite so enjoyable. It was kind of a bucking bronco ride. We decided that the reason the Bulgarians make such tough fighters when they aren't dancing is because they train them on these roads. When our landgoing yacht got into rough seas like this, the Bowzen piped all hands on deck. Your uncle Larry lost at least 10 lbs directing traffic. Incidentally, we were not arrested for speeding in Bulgaria. As we made our way down through the Balkans, we were approaching one of the great strategic crossroads of the world, the straits of the dinels and the Bosphorus and the Sea of Malmur, joining the Black Sea in the Mediterranean. This narrow, easily fortified ribbon separates Europe from Asia. And whoever controls these straits holds the key to Russia's Black Sea in the rich Ukraine, the bread basket of Europe. The attempts of the allies to rest control of the straits from Turkey caused some of the fiercest fighting of the first world war. Here on the Bospus lies the beautiful old city of East Danbul toward which our caravan was headed. Coming into East Anbul, you feel the clash of ancient and modern ways. Now republic, the government of Turkey is determined to transform this ancient land into an upto-date western nation. But it can't be done overnight, for the people still cling to the past. The streets of the old city are still steeped in the deep memories of yesterday. A yesterday of centuries. Probably no city in the world has had a more colorful history than Istanbul. Founded six centuries before Christ, it was then called Bzantium. A thousand years later, the emperor Constantine made it the capital of the Roman Empire. And in his honor, it became Constantinople. and Constantinople it was for 1,600 years. Then in 1929 with the young Turks in power it was recristened given the purely Turkish name of Istanbul. From the hills above the city we looked down on a beautiful and peaceful harbor but a harbor with an amazing past. Jason is said to have sailed here hunting the golden fleece. Here the crusaders lingered on their way to the Holy Land. Pirate galleys swarmed these waters, and Eastern kings paid tribute to the ruling sultans. War after war has swept in bloody violence across these vital strategic straits, separating Turkey and Europe from Turkey and Asia. And now, waring powers are again turning toward Istanbul. Here, the new and the old mingle on every side. Overlooking the blue waters of the Berus is the palace of the last Sultan of Turkey, now used by the president of the republic. The magnificent mosque of Otakoy is only one of the many reminders that we are now in a land of Muslim culture where God is Allah and Muhammad is his prophet. An ancient fortress guards the narrowest part of the Boserus. Here Darius the Persian once built a wooden bridge to throw his conquering armies against the Greeks. There has been a lighthouse here for 2,000 years. First only a blazing bonfire, now a modern electric beacon. Today, the star and crescent of Turkey wave over a land which looks to the west for ways of life that are new. But our caravan is headed east, where the roots of life still dig deep into the past. Leaving East Unbul, we loaded our motor caravan aboard a ferry boat for a 6-hour trip across the Sea of Marura. The pitching and tossing reminded us of some of the roads we'd been over with a difference that this wasn't hard on our tires, just our stomachs. When we rolled off the ferry, we were on another continent, Asia. Although still in Turkish territory, we were glad to be on solid ground again, and were soon on our way to the ancient metropolis of Borsa. Borsa was once a city of great importance in the Muslim world, and until 1453 was the capital of the Ottoman or Turkish Empire. Today it nestles sleepily against the foot of Mount Olympus. Like an old man whose youth is gone, remembering its glory only in tradition and in the faded beauty of ancient mosques and tombs. We were entertained at lunch by a high ranking Turkish official and his beautiful wife, Mr. and Mrs. Bhan Belg. They were fascinated by our modern motor caravan and asked us if we in turn would like to see a real Turkman camel caravan. Of course, we said yes. So, accompanied by them, we headed for southern Turkey in Asia and soon found out that the process of modernizing the country has not yet included the roads. Not this road, anyhow. And the further we went, the worse they got. No, we aren't throwing quartz. We're just putting in enough rock so we can get past this stretch of mud. Probably the repair work we did will have to last that road for the next 50 years. In southern Turkey, our Atlas tires got a real chance to show how tough they were. And believe your uncle Larry. For this kind of work, you need tires that can really take it. From soft mud, we went to dry desert sand. Roads like these are plenty hard on heavy equipment, and we took no chances on being stuck far away from any help. Every thousand miles, regularly, we gave all our equipment a complete lubrication. In this dry desert country where the engine sucked up quantities of gritty dust, we sometimes found it necessary to change oil even more frequently. An ox cart was passing with a Turkish family in it, and Peggy tried to make friends with the baby. The mother was as shy as the youngster. She still wears the veil. None of these modern ways for her. Finally, the lubrication job was finished and the trailer was reconnected. We were on our way again to find that Turkman caravan. And it wasn't long before one appeared, coming slowly across the desert like something brought to life out of the Arabian Knights of old. Father is in the lead, looking for a camping place. And the eldest unmarried daughter has the place of honor leading the first camel, if you call that an honor. Or maybe you've never smelled a camel. The entire life of the nomadic tribes of the east centers around these strange of the desert. Since time in memorial, the camel has carried the wealth of Asia over the vast spaces of the east from China all the way to Africa. The camels wear bells like cowbells, only bigger. We recorded the sound of them as the caravan went by. Listen. [Music] A short time before sunset, the caravan stopped to make camp. We learned that this family of nomads was going to wait here for the coming of the eldest son. He had just been married and he was bringing home his bride. Papa decides on the right place to camp, but the women do most of the work. First, they unload all the caravan luggage, tents, carpets, wearing apparel. Everything the family possesses is compactly rolled, packed so as to take the least possible amount of space. Mrs. Belg translated Peggy's questions into Turkish. [Music] The women very cheerfully and quickly unpacked the rolls and hampers. It looked like an awful mess to us, like moving day back home. Imagine having to do this every day or so. But they didn't seem to mind at all. This is the kind of life they're born to and die in. The first and most important thing apparently is to get the head of the tribe properly settled on a nice soft seat. For the theme song of the desert tribe seems to be everybody works but father. When the old man is comfortably settled, mama takes charge of making camp. We noticed that each hamper was of a different design. That's to show what it contains. After a family consultation during which the tent has been unpacked, it's time for everybody to join in the job of putting it up. Uh-oh. Wait a minute. What's this? Don't tell me the head of the tribe is actually going to help. Maybe he's just showing off for the camera. No, no, he thinks better of it. After all, it's Papa who wears the pants. And I mean pants. The tent is spread out on the ground while the poles and ropes are arranged. It is made of black goats hair and will keep out heat and rain, but not sand. There she goes. A house while you wait. The tools are the same as they used in the stone age. But believe me, these women certainly know the ropes. Bar she goes some more. Mama certainly keeps on the move around here. With the tent completely erected, we left the Turkman family for the night. The next morning, bright and early, we found Mama starting the fire to cook breakfast. Here's the stove. And here's desert bread about to be baked. The dough is made from ground wheat and water. The recipe is simple, but the technique is not. It takes long practice to master that trick of rolling it on a stick to almost paper thinness. The technique of baking it takes a little practice too. [Music] This is really fancy griddle cake juggling. And believe it or not, those oversized flapjacks are really good. Another breakfast item is cheese churned from goats milk. These people are simple and primitive, yet they always seem to be happy and self-sufficient. The girl who isn't helping get breakfast puts in her time making a rug. It is so closely woven that it's almost waterproof, and those colors will never fade. [Music] But what ho, here comes the bride and groom. [Music] Riding horseback is no treat for him. But she'd better make the most of it. Today she rides. Tomorrow she walks. Come on, boy. Bring the gal along to meet your family. She's going to spend the rest of her life with them. She might just as well get used to them now. They respectfully kiss Papa's hand. Parents are still honored by their children in Turkey. Mama welcomes her new daughter-in-law with a kiss and a hug. And why not? This makes one more good, strong gal to help do the chores. Then comes the wedding breakfast with a big platter of steaming hot goats meat eaten in the proper oriental way with fingers only. The groom took photographing in his stride, but the bride didn't find it so easy to face a motion picture camera. Well, maybe she doesn't look like a glamour girl to you, but with that red hair, believe me, she goes over big on the deserts of Turkey. We contributed some Americanmade dress goods to the bride and her new sisters-in-law as a wedding present, and we left them having a great time distributing them. We had to push on. So we said goodbye to our Turkman friends, wishing the bride and groom happy honeymooning. Near the border of Syria, we entered a little native village that looks today as it has for 100 years. We learned that here there was going to be another wedding. This a very fancy one. The bride being the daughter of the headman of the town. She was even then ready to leave her parents house. But she obligingly waited until we set up our cameras. Then she kissed her father's hand and went out of the gate to meet the groom, followed by her sisters and bridesmaids. Here comes the wedding procession headed by dancers who set the tempo for the villagers to follow. Notice the rhythmic grace of the leading dancer. Those who don't take part in the actual ceremonies watch from walls and rooftops. No wedding would be complete without this ceremonial dancing procession. Its strange graceful rhythm goes back to pagan times and it has never been changed. Although its original meaning has long been forgotten, the bride is followed by horses carrying her dowy and household equipment. You can see that even if she weren't good-looking, she's well equipped to be a good homemaker. The lucky groom walks proudly beside his bride while the villagers sing the wedding chant that will ensure happiness. And the rosy cheek bride certainly looks happy now. The procession ended with a dance in the village square. It's a simple dance with no carpet cutting or jitterbugging. Just the same the villagers get worked up as it goes on and on and keep time with clapping hands and stomping feet. [Music] Thus, life goes happily on in this age-old country. Goes on as it has done for generation after generation, still but little affected by changes that are sweeping over the newer lands to the west. And so we left them with the most heartfelt wish that their love story would end. as all love stories should, whether in the new world or the old. And they lived happily ever after. [Music]