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A WAYFARER IN CHINA
[Illustration: THE LITTLE "FU T'OU" (CARAVAN HEADMAN)]
A WAYFARER IN CHINA
IMPRESSIONS OF A TRIP
ACROSS WEST CHINA AND MONGOLIA
BY ELIZABETH KENDALL
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY ELIZABETH KENDALL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published February 1913_
TO
THE HAPPY MEMORY OF MY MOTHER
THE ONE WHO
ALWAYS UNDERSTOOD
PREFACE
A word of explanation may help to an understanding of this record of a
brief journey in China, in 1911, in the last quiet months before the
revolution.
No one who has ever known the joy of hunting impressions of strange
peoples and strange lands in the out-of-the-way corners of the world can
ever feel quite free again, for he hears always a compelling voice that
"calls him night and day" to go forth on the chase once more. Years ago,
for a beginning, I pursued impressions and experiences in the Far West
on the frontier,--there was a frontier then. And since that time,
whenever chance has offered, that has been my holiday pastime, among the
Kentucky mountains, in the Taurus, in Montenegro, in India. Everywhere
there is interest, for everywhere there is human nature, but whoever has
once come under the spell of the Orient knows that henceforth there is
no choice; footloose, he must always turn eastwards.
But really to see the East one must shun the half-Europeanized town and
the treaty port, must leave behind the comforts of hotel and railway,
and be ready to accept the rough and the smooth of unbeaten trails. But
the compensations are many: changing scenes, long days out of doors,
freedom from the bondage of conventional life, and above all, the
fascination of living among peoples of primitive simplicity and yet of a
civilization so ancient that it makes all that is oldest in the West
seem raw and crude and unfinished. So when two years ago my feet sought
again the "open road," it was towards the East that I naturally turned,
and this time it was China that called me. I did not go in pursuit of
any information in particular, but just to get for myself an impression
of the country and the people. My idea of the Chinese had been derived,
like that of most Americans, from books and chance observation of the
handful of Kwangtung men who are earning their living among us by
washing our clothes. Silent, inscrutable, they flit through the American
scene, alien to the last. What lies behind the riddle of their impassive
faces? Perhaps I could find an answer. Then, too, it was clear, even to
the most unintelligent, that a change was coming over the East, though
few realized how speedily. I longed to see the old China before I made
ready to welcome the new. But not the China of the coast, for there the
West had already left its stamp. So I turned to the interior, to the
western provinces of Yunnan and Szechuan. Wonderful for scenery,
important in commerce and politics, still unspoiled, there I could find
what I wanted.
Of course I was told not to do it, it would not be safe, but that is
what one is always told. A long, solitary summer spent a few years ago
among the Himalayas of Western Tibet, in Ladakh and Baltistan, gave me
heart to face such discouragement, and I found, as I had found before,
that those who knew the country best were most ready to speed me onward.
And as the following pages show, there was nothing to fear. I had no
difficulties, no adventures, hardly enough to make the tale interesting.
It is true, I had some special advantages. I was an American and a
woman, and no longer young. Chinese respect for grey hair is a very real
thing; a woman is not feared as a man may be, and hostility is often
nothing more than fear; and even in remote Szechuan I met men who knew
that the American Government had returned the Boxer indemnity, and who
looked kindly upon me for that reason. If the word of certain foreigners
is to be trusted, I gained in not knowing the language; the people would
not take advantage of my helplessness. That seems rather incredible; if
it is true, the whole Western world has something to learn of China.
But I could not have done what I did without the wise and generous aid
of many whom I met along the way, Europeans and Chinese, officials,
merchants, and above all missionaries, everywhere the pioneers. To them
all I tender here my grateful thanks. And to the representatives of the
Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank wherever I met them, and also to those of
the Russo-Asiatic Bank I would express my gratitude for many courtesies
shown me.
As I look back I know it was worth while, all of it. Half a dozen months
count for little toward the real understanding of a strange
civilization, but it is something to have seen a great people in its
home, to have watched it at work and at play, for you have been forced
once again to realize that although "East is East and West is West," the
thing that most matters is the nature of the man, and that everywhere
human nature is much the same.
THE ORCHARD,
WELLESLEY, MASSACHUSETTS,
November, 1912.
CONTENTS
I. ACROSS TONKING 3
II. DAYS IN YUNNAN-FU 24
III. ACROSS YUNNAN 41
IV. THE CHIEN-CH'ANG 71
V. ON THE MANDARIN ROAD 101
VI. TACHIENLU 123
VII. THE LESSER TRAIL 139
VIII. ACROSS CHENGTU PLAIN 161
IX. OMEI SHAN, THE SACRED 180
X. DOWN THE YANGTSE 202
XI. FROM THE GREAT RIVER TO THE GREAT WALL 221
XII. THE MONGOLIAN GRASSLAND 236
XIII. ACROSS THE DESERT OF GOBI 256
XIV. URGA, THE SACRED CITY 276
XV. NORTH TO THE SIBERIAN RAILWAY 289
XVI. A FEW FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CHINA 308
INDEX 323
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE LITTLE "FU T'OU" (CARAVAN HEADMAN) (p. 6) _Frontispiece_
MAP OF CHINESE EMPIRE 3
A YUNNAN VALLEY 6
OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF YUNNAN-FU 6
MY SEDAN CHAIR AND BEARERS 32
A MEMORIAL ARCH NEAR YUNNAN-FU 32
MAP OF WEST CHINA 42
ON A YUNNAN ROAD: MY CARAVAN--THE MILITARY ESCORT 44
WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE GATEWAY--TEMPLE CORNER 60
LOLO GIRLS 80
"TAME, WILD" LOLOS 80
A MEMORIAL ARCH. SZECHUAN 92
FORTIFIED VILLAGE IN THE CHIEN-CH'ANG VALLEY 92
"MERCURY," MY FLEET COOLIE 106
CARRIER COOLIES 106
A GROUP OF SZECHUAN FARMHOUSES 114
A VIEW OF TACHIENLU 124
TIBETANS 124
LAMA AND DOG AT TACHIENLU 134
THE GATE OF TIBET 134
A WAYSIDE REST-HOUSE 146
A FORTIFIED POST 146
A ROADSIDE TEA-HOUSE 152
TEA COOLIE CROSSING A SUSPENSION BRIDGE 152
A FARMHOUSE IN CHENGTU PLAIN 162
MEMORIAL ARCH TO A "VIRTUOUS WIDOW," CHENGTU PLAIN 168
THE "REJECTION OF THE BODY" (CLIFF A MILE HIGH), MOUNT OMEI,
WEST SZECHUAN 196
IN THE YANGTSE GORGES 218
TARTAR WALL, PEKING 230
CARAVAN OUTSIDE THE TARTAR WALL 230
A POOR MONGOL FAMILY AND YURT 248
JACK AND HIS LAMA FRIEND 258
MY CARAVAN ACROSS MONGOLIA 258
HORSEMEN OF THE DESERT, NORTH MONGOLIA 268
A LAMA BOUND FOR URGA 278
A MONGOL BELLE, URGA 278
MY MONGOL HOSTESS 284
THE MONGOL HOUSE WHERE I STAYED IN URGA 284
LAMA AND HIS "WIFE" 298
My thanks are due to Robert J. Davidson, Esq., of Chengtu, Szechuan, for
kind permission to use the photograph of the Yangtse Gorges. Also to
Messrs. Underwood & Underwood, of New York, for the photographs of the
Tartar Wall, Peking. With these exceptions the illustrations are from
photographs made by myself on the journey. I should like to express here
my appreciation of the care and skill shown by the staff of the Kodak
Agency, Regent Street, West, in handling films often used under very
unfavourable conditions.
E. K.
SUGGESTIONS FOR PRONOUNCING CHINESE NAMES IN THE TEXT
In general vowels are pronounced as in Italian.
_a_ preceded by _w_ and followed by _ng_ is like _a_ in _fall_.
_ue_ like the French _u_.
_ai_ like _i_ in _mine_.
_ao_ like _ou_ in _proud_.
_ei_ like _ey_ in _they_.
_ie_ like _e-e_ in _re-enter_.
_ui_ with vowels distinct.
_ou_ with vowels distinct and stress on _o_.
Of the consonants, _ch_, _k_, _p_, _t_, _ts_ are softer than in English,
approaching respectively _j_, _g_, _b_, _d_, _dz_.
_hs_ is approximately _sh_ (hsien = she-en).
MONEY, WEIGHTS AND MEASURES
Tael, roughly two-thirds of a dollar gold.
Dollar or dollar Mex., about fifty cents gold.
Cash, about the twentieth part of a cent gold.
Li, a scant third of an English mile.
Catty, about one and one-third pounds avoirdupois.
A WAYFARER IN CHINA
_For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay._
[Illustration: CHINESE EMPIRE]
A WAYFARER IN CHINA
CHAPTER I
ACROSS TONKING
Three years ago West China seemed at the back of beyond. To make your
way in you had either to traverse the length of Upper Burma and then
cross the great rivers and ranges of western Yunnan, a weary month-long
journey, or else spend tedious weeks ascending the Yangtse, the monotony
of the trip tempered by occasional shipwreck. To-day, thanks to French
enterprise, you can slip in between mountain and river and find yourself
at Yunnan-fu, the provincial capital, after a railway journey of only
three days and a half from Haiphong, the port of Tonking.
When first planning a visit to West China, I set my heart on going in
from the west, for I had long wished to see the wild, picturesque
country that lies between the Burmese frontier and the Yangtse. Years
before, I had looked across the border and promised myself that some day
I would find out what lay on the other side. But when the time came the
difficulty of securing a Chinese interpreter in Burma forced me to go
to Hong Kong, and once there, lack of time made it necessary that I
should choose the shortest route into West China, and that was by way of
Haiphong and the Red River railway. After all, there were compensations.
Even a fleeting vision from the windows of a railway carriage gives some
idea of what the French are doing in their great Eastern colony.
Moreover, there could be no better starting-point for such a trip as I
had before me than the free port of Hong Kong, and the comfort of
arranging an outfit in a place where East and West meet untrammelled by
custom-houses is not to be despised. As a rule it is a mistake to bring
an elaborate outfit from home. Generally each place has worked out just
the devices that best serve its particular needs, and much of Western
travelling equipment does not fit in with the conditions of Eastern
life. Shoes and saddles the traveller from the West wisely brings with
him, and of course all scientific apparatus is best provided in Europe.
But in the main I found all that I needed, whether of Eastern or Western
manufacture, in Hong Kong, and at surprisingly low prices. Interpreter
and cook I had secured from Shanghai. The former, a Kiangsi man, was the
product of mission schools and a year in an American Western college. He
spoke English fairly well, and was sufficiently at home in the various
forms of Mandarin to get on in Yunnan and Szechuan. The cook had come
down the "Great River" from Chung-king with an English family returning
home, and was glad to work his way back, even though by a roundabout
route. Although he spoke no English, he understood European ways and was
quick to comprehend my wishes. And he proved a faithful, hard-working
fellow, and a very passable cook.
By the end of March my preparations were complete. The boat for Haiphong
was to leave at nine o'clock on the morning of the 29th, and the evening
before two sampans took me and my kit, together with the interpreter and
the cook, out to where she lay at her moorings. My belongings looked
rather formidable as they lay heaped up on the deck of the Sikiang, of
the Est Asiatique Francais line, but, after all, there was only a
moderate supply of stores, such as tea, jam, biscuit, sugar, cereals,
tinned meats and tinned milk, together with a few enamelled iron dishes
and the cook's stew-pans, all packed in wooden boxes. The bedding-roll
and clothing were put in camp-bags of waterproof canvas, while the
necessary maps and cameras and films were carried in suit-cases for
safe-keeping. An English cross saddle brought from Shanghai proved more
satisfactory for the small Yunnan ponies than would have been the
Mexican saddle which I had tried in vain to secure. Acting on a timely
word of warning I bought in Hong Kong a most comfortable sedan-chair,
a well-made bamboo affair fitted with a top and adjustable screens and
curtains to keep out either rain or sun. I had been told that I should
have no use for a tent, but that a camp-bed was a necessity, and so it
proved. The bed I took with me was of American manufacture; compact and
light, and fitted with a mosquito frame, it served me throughout all my
journeyings and was finally left in Urga in North Mongolia, on the
chance that it might serve another traveller a good turn. An important
part of my outfit, a small Irish terrier, arrived from Japan the next
morning, when I had about given him up. He was dropped into my waiting
sampan as his ship, homeward bound to Calcutta from Kobe, came into her
moorings, and we climbed up the side of the Sikiang not fifteen minutes
before she was off. All's well that ends well. We were safe on board,
and I had secured a gay little comrade in my solitary journeying, while
before Jack lay a glorious run of two thousand odd miles.
The mail boat to Haiphong, due to make the trip in fifty-three hours,
had once been a royal Portuguese yacht, but the only remaining traces of
her former glory were the royal monogram, "M.R.P.," conspicuous in glass
and woodwork, and her long, graceful lines, charming to look at, but not
well fitted to contend with the cross-currents of the China Sea. As the
only lady passenger I had very comfortable quarters, and the kindest
attention from French officers and Annamese stewards. The second
afternoon there came a welcome diversion when the boat put into
Kwang-chou-wan, two hundred miles southwest of Hong Kong, to visit the
new free port of Fort Bayard, the commercial and military station which
the French are creating in the cession they secured from China in 1898,
and which, if all goes well, is some day to rival Hong Kong. The Bay of
Kwang-chou is very fine, affording a safe harbour to the two or three
ships that were riding at anchor, or to two or three navies if need
came, but Fort Bayard displays as yet few signs of the prophesied
greatness. To while away the hours of waiting I went on shore and
wandered about the empty, grass-grown roads of the tiny settlement. To
the right as one walked up from the beach stretched a long line of
substantial-looking barracks, and many of the houses were of European
appearance, attractively set in large gardens. Above the whole towered a
rather pretentious two-spired church. The one native and business street
running parallel with the beach showed little life; people did not wake
up even at the coming of the fortnightly mail from Hong Kong, and the
native population seemed no more than sufficient to serve the needs of
the foreign element.
[Illustration: A YUNNAN VALLEY]
[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF YUNNAN-FU]
We were joined here by two or three French officials attended by an
escort of Annamese policemen. These latter had a decidedly ladylike,
genteel air with their hair smoothly brushed and twisted in a low knot
at the back of the neck, the whole bound round with a black kerchief
laid in neat folds. Their uniform was of dark blue woollen set off by
putties of a lighter blue, and their appearance was decidedly shipshape.
I talked with one of the Frenchmen returning from an official visit to
Fort Bayard. He seemed to have little faith in the new settlement,
declaring the Government had poured in money like water, and with no
adequate return.
It is more than a century since France began to interest herself in this
part of the world, dreaming dreams of an Eastern empire to offset the
one she had just lost in America. Then came the French Revolution, and
the dream went the way of many more substantial things, and it was not
until the days of the Second Empire that Napoleon III, looking east and
west, again took up the question. Little by little the French
strengthened their hold upon the Indo-China peninsula, and the final
contest came in the eighties, a part of the universal game of grab then
going on in Africa and Asia. Although China gave up her claim to the
territory a quarter of a century ago, it took many years longer to
pacify the country, and there is still something to be done. The cost in
men and money has been very great, and at one time the whole policy of
colonial expansion became so unpopular that it spelled political ruin
to the man most identified with it, Jules Ferry, "l'homme de Tonking."
The real history of Tonking dates from the administration of M. Doumer,
Governor-General of Indo-China from 1897 to 1902. During these five
years the Parisian printer, turned Radical politician and administrator,
showed what one able and determined man could do. When he arrived in the
East, piracy and brigandage were rife, there was an annual deficit of
some three million francs, and the feeble administration had done
nothing to develop the possibilities of the country. When he left, the
colony was upon its feet, lawlessness had been suppressed, the
administration reformed, and the deficit turned into a substantial
surplus. He had built towns and telegraphs, encouraged the native
industries of rice planting and silk culture, and by offering special
inducements to French enterprise had developed tea, coffee, and rubber
growing.
Nor did the energetic imperialist stop here. Believing that "a nation to
be great should be always striving to be greater," he began to develop a
vigorous forward policy which seemed to have as its goal nothing less
than the control of Yunnan and Southeast China. Colonial expansion was
necessary to the continued existence of France, he declared. In his last
report, looking back to the achievements of a past generation, he
concluded, "We are the same men, but we no longer believe in ourselves.
We act as if we were a vanquished people, and in any case we appear so
to the world. This is the result of our policy of effacement for which
must be substituted at all costs a policy of action which will permit us
to hold our rank."
It is true the forward policy did not originate with M. Doumer, for the
value of Tonking as the key to China had been recognized by French
statesmen before ever he put foot in the colony, but it was his task to
make that policy something more than a pious aspiration. Not only did he
set about making the French possessions the needed commercial and
industrial base for such an undertaking, but he also initiated the next
move in the game, the development of railway systems which would bring
French traders, and if need be French soldiers, into the heart of the
coveted territory. He worked out all the plans, urged them upon the
Government, and did more than any other man to secure the necessary
support of the French financiers; to-day railways linked up with Hanoi
and Haiphong have crossed the Chinese frontier at two points, Dong Dang
and Ho-k'ou.
The colony, to call it by its correct name, of Kwang-chou held an
important place in M. Doumer's scheme, and he predicted for it a
"brilliant future as a port of commerce." Like the rest of his party he
regretted the mistaken moderation of the Government in not acquiring at
the same time a lease of the island of Hainan. Something is being done
now to repair this unfortunate error by industriously developing French
hold upon that territory, and the big consulate and the French
post-office and hospital at Hoi-hou, the chief port, are significant of
future hopes, even if not justified by present conditions.
The following noon, after we left Kwang-chou, we were approaching
Haiphong through muddy red channels between the low-lying meadow lands
which here border the river Cua-Cam, on the right bank of which lies the
chief commercial centre of Tonking. But its days as a shipping port are
said to be numbered, because of the difficult approach. Much money has
been spent in efforts to improve the waterway, but with no satisfactory
results, and now it is proposed to create a new port in the beautiful
Baie d'Along, a little farther east. There was some doubt in my mind as
to the reception awaiting us. We had been told that the customs
inspection was severe, and we had many packages; no Chinese would be
admitted without passports, and I had neglected to provide any for my
men; there was a strict muzzling law on, and Jack had not even a collar.
But the graceful courtesy of the French officials smoothed away every
difficulty. We were bowed out of the custom-house with our packages
unopened. At the police headquarters, where I at once reported myself
with my Chinese men, we were met by one of my fellow passengers from
Kwang-chou who had hurried ahead to explain the situation, and thanks to
his efforts the lack of passports was kindly overlooked. As for Jack, he
was quickly furnished with all the equipment of the civilized
dog--muzzle, collar, chain--at one of the large outfitting-shops, of
which there seemed quite enough for the needs of the place.
Haiphong is an attractive town of some twenty thousand inhabitants, of
whom perhaps one thousand are Europeans. It is planned with an eye to
the future, like all French colonial centres, with broad streets and
imposing public buildings. But a deep calm brooded over everything;
there was no bustle in the thoroughfares, and the shops seemed
unvisited, nor did their proprietors show interest in attracting custom.
In one of the largest I offered a piastre, fifty cents gold, in payment
for a few picture post-cards, but they could not change the coin, and
seemed disinclined to make the effort to do it, so I went without my
cards. The Annamese, who form the bulk of the population, are attractive
in appearance, finer in feature and gentler in manner than the Chinese.
Save for a serious cast of face, they are much like the Burmese. Their
dress is quieter in tone than that of either their Burmese cousins or
their Chinese neighbours, and is severely utilitarian in cut, differing
little for men or women. The working dress of Haiphong was full, long,
square-cut trousers over which fell a sort of prolonged shirt slashed to
the waist. When at work the front panel was tucked up out of the way.
All alike wore huge straw hats tied under the chin.
But I saw little of Haiphong, as I left the same evening, and even less
of Hanoi, the capital, where we arrived at half-past ten, starting off
again before eight o'clock the next morning. I was sorry not to see more
of the latter place, for it is one of the finest cities in the Far East.
But I carried away a vision of a good hotel, an imposing capitol, and a
pretentious station, all set on wide streets lined with European-looking
houses surrounded by real green grass lawns. A twenty-minute run in a
rickshaw soon after dawn showed fine chaussees leading out into the
country and filled, even at this early hour, with crowds of country-folk
bringing their produce to market. I believe there are over one hundred
miles of metalled roads in the capital and the suburbs, all due to
untiring M. Doumer. But his most enduring monument in Hanoi is the fine
exposition buildings. When he went home to raise a second loan of two
hundred million francs for the development of the colony, the men to
whom he appealed naturally asked what were the resources of the country.
His convincing reply was the famous exposition of 1902.
There is one through train daily each way between Haiphong and
Yunnan-fu. The distance is about six hundred miles, and it took three
days and an evening to make the trip. There is no traffic by night, and
this seems to be the rule on these adventurous railways, for I met the
same thing on the Anatolian and Bagdad lines between Constantinople and
Eregli. The corridor trains are equipped with four classes. The first
was inferior to the same class on Continental lines, but that seemed to
matter little, for it was usually empty. As a gay young Englishman in
Yunnan-fu remarked, no one went first-class unless he was travelling at
some one's else expense. The second and third class were very good of
their kind, and the fourth was far and away the most comfortable
arrangement of the sort I had ever seen, with benches along the sides
and large unglazed window openings. Most of the passengers and all the
jollity went in this class. Everywhere there were other than human
travellers; birds, dogs, goats, and pigs were given room, always on
condition of having a ticket. I paid four dollars gold for my dog's
ticket from Haiphong to Yunnan-fu, but having paid, Jack's right in the
carriage was as unquestioned as mine, and I found this true in all my
railway travel in China.
The Tonking-Yunnan railway is a remarkable undertaking, and shows the
seriousness with which the French are attacking the problems of Far
Eastern colonization. The lower half of the line, which here follows up
the Red River valley, presented few serious engineering difficulties,
although calling for at least one hundred and seventy-five bridges on
the section south of Lao-kai, but it was almost impossible to secure
labourers for the construction work. Annamese refused to lend a hand,
and the Chinese died like flies from the malarial conditions. For a time
work was at a standstill, and in the end it had to be suspended during
the summer months. The upper part, on the other hand, especially that
section which runs through the Namti valley, tested to the utmost the
skill of the French engineers. And the cost was correspondingly great.
Even as it is, much of the embanking seems to be of a rather slight
character, and quite unfit to stand the tremendous tropical downpours of
the early summer months. After leaving China I learned that I had passed
over the line just in time, for the rains set in very early in the
summer of 1911, and for weeks traffic was fearfully interrupted by
landslips and broken bridges.
Whether the line will prove a financial success depends on some things
not wholly under control. The present customs regulations certainly tend
to check the development of trade in Tonking, and the transportation
rates are perhaps more than traffic can bear. The French, however, can
change their policy in these respects if they think best. But the
proposed construction by the Chinese Government of a railway connecting
Yunnan-fu and the West River valley would cut the ground out from under
their feet. For the moment, the Revolution has stopped the enterprise,
but it is certain to be taken up again, as there are no insuperable
engineering obstacles in the way, and every economic and political
reason for giving Yunnan an outlet to the sea through Chinese territory.
On leaving Hanoi in the early morning light we struck across a wide
fertile plain, beautifully cultivated; fields of rice alternating with
maize stretched away to a wall of feathery bamboo broken by stately
palms and glossy mangoes. After a little the country became more broken,
rolling near by, mountainous in the distance. The vegetation, dense and
tropical, hemmed in the line on both sides, but here and there charming
trails led away through the jungle to villages on higher land; a
delightful region to pass through, perhaps to live in if one were a
duck, but for human beings the steamy heat must be very depressing. At
Yun Bay the valley narrowed, and we drew nearer the mountains, but there
was no change in the atmosphere, and had not the sky been cloudy, we
should have suffered greatly from the heat.
My fellow travellers were chiefly officials of the civil administration
or connected with the railway, who chatted or slept or quietly drank
away the weary hours; for them there was no novelty in the trip to dull
the feeling of discomfort. At one small station a man who might have
been a planter got in, followed by an attractive-looking Annamese woman
carrying a little child. She cried bitterly as she waved good-bye to a
group of natives on the station platform. The man seemed well known on
the line, and was soon the centre of a group of his fellows who paid no
attention to the woman. After a while the trio went to sleep, the man on
the carriage bench, the woman and child on the floor. She was what is
euphemistically called a "cook" in Tonking; just another name for an
arrangement so often resulting from the lonely life of Europeans among a
slack-fibred dependent alien population. It is the same thing that
confronts the stray visitor to the isolated tea plantations of the Assam
hills, where young English lads are set down by themselves, perhaps a
day's journey from the next European. What wonder that they find it
difficult to hold fast to the standards and principles of the home that
seems so far away, or that if they once ignore their inherited
traditions, no matter in how slight a thing, there seems to be no
natural stopping-place short of the abyss. As once said to me an aged
American missionary, who perhaps had never worn an evening coat a dozen
times in his life, "A nice young fellow, clean in body and soul, comes
out from England, and finds himself shut up for the year on one of these
plantations, no one of his kind within reach. He means well, but the
test is too great. First he stops dressing for dinner. What's the use?
Then he gets careless about his manners. And the end of it all is
black-and-tan babies in the compound." Here in Tonking the woman is
perhaps as well off as in her native hut until the planter goes home or
brings out a European wife, but in some way or another there is usually
an untoward ending. As for the children, they go to swell the class that
is neither here nor there, and their lot is probably happier than that
of the unfortunate Eurasians of India, since race prejudice is far less
strong among the French than with the Anglo-Saxon.
At Lao-kai on the Tonking frontier I stopped over for a day's rest,
having learned that it boasted a comfortable European inn. The little
town is built on the opposite high banks of the Red River near its
junction with the Namti. Just across the latter stream lie China and the
Chinese town of Ho-k'ou. There is a distinct European aspect to Lao-kai,
and as a frontier post it has a good-sized garrison of the Annamese
Tirailleurs and the French Foreign Legion. The latter did not look as
black as they are painted, and it was hard to realize that behind their
friendly, courteous bearing were ruined careers; but the contrast of
their sturdy forms and weather-beaten faces with the slender figures and
delicate features of the Tirailleurs was very striking. I did not wonder
that the French soldiers have dubbed their Annamese companions-in-arms
the "Young Ladies." The inn, which was most efficiently managed by two
Frenchwomen, served as a sort of club for the Europeans of both Lao-kai
and Ho-k'ou, and incidentally also for innumerable dogs and cats. At
dinner each person was the centre of an expectant group of the
four-footed habitues of the inn, and no one seemed to object. Just
another instance of the liking of the most civilized peoples of the West
and the East, English, French, and Chinese, for pet animals.
A small church on the right bank of the river showed white among the
bamboos, and in the early evening the bells rang with a homelike sound.
Crossing by the ferry I found the place empty save for two Annamese
soldiers kneeling quietly and reverently. In going back and forth on the
ferry-boat as I did several times, I had a chance to observe the people.
As in the case of the Burmans the difference between men and women is
not marked; indeed, among the younger ones it is often difficult to tell
them apart. The great palm-leaf hat generally worn took me back to hot
Sunday afternoons in an old church in the Berkshire hills of
Massachusetts, when my restless little mind busied itself with wondering
what palm leaves looked like when they were not fans. I now had a chance
to see, for I was in the land of palms, and the church-going fans of my
childhood seemed to have transformed themselves into a universal
headgear. In shape the Annamese hat resembles a tea-tray with edges
three inches deep, and of the size of a bicycle wheel. In addition to
the band passing under the chin a small crown fits the head snugly, and
helps to keep the huge thing in place. Primarily it is a head-covering,
a protection against sun or rain, but incidentally it serves as a
windbreak, a basket-cover, a tray, or a cradle. Often French soldiers
crossed with me, and I noticed that they usually spoke Annamese
fluently, unlike Tommy Atkins in India, who rarely knows a word of the
vernacular; also they seemed to be on a friendly, not to say familiar
footing with the natives.
After a comfortable week-end's rest, I left Lao-kai in the early
morning, helped on my journey by those courtesies that so often in
strange lands convince one that "less than kin more than kind" quite
understates the truth. An Italian on his way down the river wired the
landlord of the best inn in Yunnan-fu of my coming, that I might be
properly met. That I had already done so myself did not at all take from
his kind thoughtfulness. Still another Italian of the Chinese customs
service joined me as we left Lao-kai, having come over from Ho-k'ou to
escort me across the frontier, that I might have no bother with my
luggage. Yet another of these kind strangers wired ahead to warn the
solitary American on the line of my coming, thus giving the two
compatriots a chance to exchange a few words at the station as the
train went through.
On leaving Lao-kai our way led up the valley of the Namti, a small
mountain river coming in from the east. The scenery was now much wilder,
and as we rose to higher levels the vegetation changed, the pathless
jungle which comes up to the very doors of Lao-kai gave way to sparsely
covered grass slopes, and they in turn to barren, rocky walls. It was
here that the French engineers encountered their most difficult
problems. We wound up the narrow valley in splendid loops and curves,
turning upon our tracks, running through numerous tunnels, and at one
time crossing a chasm so narrow and with sides so steep and precipitous
that it was found necessary to build the bridge in two parts, each
against the face of the cliff, and then gradually lower them until they
met above the river, three hundred and fifty feet below. Finally by an
almost intolerable gradient we topped the divide and found ourselves
overlooking a wonderful, well-watered plain five thousand feet above the
sea, and cultivated as far as the vision could carry with the care and
precision of a market-garden.
That night I spent at A-Mi-chou in a semi-Chinese inn. The cooking was
good, and, thanks to the thoughtfulness of a railway official who wired
ahead, I had one of the two good rooms of the house, the others being
given over to rats. This was truly China, and the European railway with
its Frenchified trains and stations seemed indeed an invasion, a world
apart. The French officials apparently shared this feeling, and had a
nice way of regarding themselves as your hosts and protectors.
All the next day we were crossing the great plateau of Yunnan, now
climbing a pass in the mountain-ranges that tower above the level, now
making our way up a narrow rocky valley, the gray limestone cliffs gay
with bright blue flowers and pink blossoming shrubs. Just what they were
I could not tell as the train rolled by. Mostly the road led through
long stretches of tiny garden-like fields, broken here and there by
prosperous looking villages half concealed in bamboo groves. The scenery
was very fine and varied; above, the rocky hills, below, the green
valleys. The mingling, too, of tropical and temperate vegetation was
striking. We were in latitude 24 deg. and 25 deg., about the same
as Calcutta, but at an elevation of nearly seven thousand feet, and the
combination seemed to work confusion among the growing things, for rice
and wheat were found not far apart, and here at last Heine's palm and
pine had come together.
Late on the second afternoon after leaving Lao-kai we were approaching
Yunnan-fu. Seen across the plain, the capital of the province looked
very imposing as it lay stretched along a low ridge running east and
west. Rice-fields interspersed with ruins, sad reminders of the
terrible Mohammedan rebellion of a generation ago, crowd up to the very
walls on the near side of the town. Outside the South Gate is the
station, and not far distant the Chinese house which an enterprising
French couple had turned into a very comfortable inn, where I stayed the
three days needed for arranging my caravan and seeing the sights of the
place.