When I arrived in May 1909, affairs were bad. Our caravan had excited the greatest interest by reason of its having been able to get through from Kirkuk whole, and news was eagerly sought of all who arrived, particularly regarding any possible amelioration of the situation. However, worse was to come, for no other caravans came through. I had taken a room in the caravanserai of Ghafur Agha--who was then the Mayor--and found there no other residents save an old Arab gentleman, a native of Tripoli of Africa, who held a post of “mudir” or petty governor of a village, whither he could not proceed, as the village in question had not hitherto possessed such an official, and the Kurdish inhabitants would have slain any one bold enough to attempt to establish himself there as their ruler. My neighbour, Mustafa Beg, was a courteous and well-educated old man, whose life had been spent in the Mediterranean ports and consulates at Malta, Trieste, and such places. He spoke Arabic and Turkish perfectly, but knew no word of Kurdish; nor could his well-bred and gentle nature at all cope with the rough manners he met in Sulaimania. A more complete example of the absurd disregard of suitability of man for post could not have been seen. Failing the opportunity of assuming his duties, the old man lived alone in a miserable room in the caravanserai. He possessed no covering for his floor; his only furniture was a couple of boxes containing his clothing, a coffee-boiler, an old spirit stove, one coffee cup, and some bedding. He slept at nights in a disused palanquin whose owner had been killed, and it was partly owing to this habit that he met his ghastly death some months later. In the entrance to the caravanserai a merchant, half-owner of the place, had an office, and some Jewish pedlars stored their wares in two rooms. The rest remained empty, their bare walls testifying to the condition of Sulaimania. The courtyard lay deep in dust and scraps of paper, and a stagnant pool stank in its midst. Desolation was near it, and by the shaikhs’ agency eventually lay upon it. I arrived at about half an hour to sunset, and being foodless, locked my door--that slid like a shutter, up and down--and went out to find something. Bread was naturally the first thing needful, and this I found of two kinds, one very thin flaps and the other thick round cakes, each being sold for two “pul”--the pul being a copper coin of Persia worth about a seventh of a penny. Three flaps (or a pennyworth) was enough for my needs, and this, with two lettuces--at a farthing each--a sticky lump of dates, very dear in this cold country, and a bowl full of watered curds, or “du,” made an excellent dinner. [Sidenote: SULAIMANIA CURRENCY]