ACROSS YUNNAN
My departure was set for the 8th of April, and by half-past four of that
morning the coolies, marshalled by the hong man, were at the door; but
it was after nine before we were really under way. It is always a
triumphant moment when one's caravan actually starts; there have been so
many times when starting at all seemed doubtful. Mine looked quite
imposing as it moved off, headed by Mr. Stevenson on his sturdy pony, I
following in my chair, while servants and coolies straggled on behind,
but, as usual, something was missing. This time it was one of the two
soldiers detailed by the Foreign Office to accompany me the first stages
of my journey. We were told he would join us farther on. Fortunately Mr.
Stevenson was up to the wiles of the native, and he at once scented the
favourite device for two to take the travelling allowance, and then, by
some amicable arrangement, for only one to go. So messengers were sent
in haste to look up the recreant, who finally joined us with cheerful
face at the West Gate, which we reached by a rough path outside the
north wall.
[Illustration: WEST CHINA]
Here I bade Mr. Stevenson good-bye, and turned my face away from the
city. Once more I was on the "open road." Above me shone the bright sun
of Yunnan, before me lay the long trail leading into the unknown. Seven
hundred miles of wild mountainous country, six weeks of steady
travelling lay between me and Chengtu, the great western capital. The
road I planned to follow would lead nearly due north at first,
traversing the famous Chien-ch'ang valley after crossing the Yangtse.
But at Fulin on the Ta Tu I intended to make a detour to the west as far
as Tachienlu, that I might see a little of the Tibetans even though I
could not enter Tibet. I did not fear trouble of any sort in spite of a
last letter of warning received at Hong Kong from our Peking Legation,
but there was just enough of a touch of adventure to the trip to make
the roughnesses of the way endurable. Days would pass before I could
again talk with my own kind, but I was not afraid of being lonely. "The
scene was savage, but the scene was new," and the hours would be filled
full with the constantly changing interests of the road, and as I looked
at my men I felt already the comradeship that would come with long days
of effort and hardship passed together. These men of the East--Turk,
Indian, Chinese, Mongol--are much of a muchness, it seems to me; pay
them fairly, treat them considerately, laugh instead of storm at the
inevitable mishaps of the way, and generally they will give you
faithful, willing service. It is only when they have been spoiled by
overpayment, or by bullying of a sort they do not understand, that the
foreigner finds them exacting and untrustworthy. And the Chinese is an
eminently reasonable man. He does not expect reward without work, and he
works easily and cheerfully. But as yet he was to me an unknown
quantity, and I looked over my group of coolies with some interest and a
little uncertainty. They were mostly strong, sound-looking men; two or
three were middle-aged, the rest young. No one looked unequal to the
work, and no one proved so. All wore the inevitable blue cotton of the
Chinese, varying with wear and patching from blue-black to bluish-white,
and the fashion of the dress was always the same; short, full trousers,
square-cut, topped by a belted shirt with long sleeves falling over the
hands or rolled up to the elbow according to the weather. About their
heads they generally twisted a strip of cotton, save when blazing sun or
pouring rain called for the protection of their wide straw hats covered
with oiled cotton. Generally they wore the queue tucked into the girdle
to keep it out of the way, but occasionally it was put to use, as, for
example, if a man's hat was not at hand to ward off the glare of the
sun, he would deftly arrange a thatch of leaves over his eyes, binding
it firm with his long braid of black hair. On their feet they wore the
inevitable straw sandal of these parts. Comfortable for those who know
how to wear them, cheap even though not durable (they cost only four
cents Mexican the pair), and a great safeguard against slipping, they
seemed as satisfactory footwear as the ordinary shoes of the
better-class Chinese seemed unsatisfactory. Throughout the East it is
only the barefooted peasant or the sandalled mountaineer who does not
seem encumbered by his feet. The felt shoe of the Chinese gentleman and
the flapping, heelless slipper of the Indian are alike uncomfortable and
hampering. Nor have Asiatics learned as yet to wear proper European
shoes, or to wear them properly, for they stub along in badly cut,
ill-fitting things too short for their feet. Why does not the shoemaker
of the West, if he wishes to secure an Eastern market, study the foot of
the native, and make him shoes suited to his need?
Our order of march through Yunnan varied little from day to day. We all
had breakfast before starting at about seven, and we all had much the
same thing, tea and rice, but mine came from the coast; the coolies
bought theirs by the way. At intervals during the forenoon we stopped at
one of the many tea-houses along the road to give the men a chance to
rest and smoke and drink tea. Sometimes I stayed in my chair by the
roadside; more often I escaped from the noise and dirt of the village to
some spot outside, among the rice- and bean-fields, where the pony could
gather a few scant mouthfuls of grass while I sat hard-by on a turf
balk and enjoyed the quiet and clean air. Of course I was often found
out and followed by the village-folk, but their curiosity was not very
offensive. Generally they squatted down in a semi-circle about me,
settling themselves deliberately to gaze their fill. If they came too
near I laughed and waved them back, and they always complied
good-naturedly. The little children were often really quite charming
under the dirt, but until they had learned to wash their faces and wipe
their noses I must confess I liked them best at a distance.
[Illustration: ON A YUNNAN ROAD: MY CARAVAN]
[Illustration: ON A YUNNAN ROAD: THE MILITARY ESCORT]
At noon we stopped at a handy inn or tea-house for tiffin and a long
rest. I was ordinarily served at the back of the big eating-room open to
the street in as dignified seclusion as my cook could achieve. Rice
again, with perhaps stewed fowl or tinned beef, and a dessert of jam and
biscuit, usually formed my luncheon, and dinner was like unto it, save
that occasionally we succeeded in securing some onions or potatoes. The
setting-forth of my table with clean cloth and changes of plates was of
never-failing interest to the crowds that darkened the front of the
eating-house, and excitement reached a climax when the coolie, whom my
cook had installed as helper,--there is no Chinese too poor to lack some
one to do his bidding,--served Jack his midday meal of rice in his own
dish. Then men stood on tiptoe and children climbed on each other's
shoulders to see a dog fed like--the Chinese equivalent of Christian.
They never seemed to begrudge him his food; on the contrary, they often
smiled approvingly. We were thousands of miles away from the
famine-stricken regions of eastern China, and through much of the
country where I journeyed I saw almost no beggars or hungry-looking
folk. In the afternoon we stopped as before at short intervals at some
roadside tea-house, for the coolies generally expect to rest every hour.
Our day's stage usually ended in a good-sized town. I should have
preferred it otherwise, for there is more quiet and freedom in the
villages. But my coolies would have it so; they liked the stir and
better fare of the towns, and the regular stages are arranged
accordingly. Our entrance was noisy and imposing. My coming seemed
always expected, for as by magic the narrow streets filled with staring
crowds. Through them the soldiers fought a way for my chair, borne at
smart pace by the coolies all shouting at the top of their voices. I
tried to cultivate the superior impassiveness of the Chinese official,
but generally the delighted shrieks of the children at the sight of Jack
at my feet, and his gay yelps in response, "upset the apple cart." There
was a rush to see the "foreign dog." I gripped him tighter and only
breathed freely when with a sharp turn to right or left my chair was
lifted high over a threshold and borne through the inn door into the
courtyard, the crowd in no wise baffled swarming at our heels,
sometimes not even stopping at the entrance to the inner court, sacred
(more or less) to the so-called mandarin rooms, the best rooms of the
place. I could not but sympathize with the innkeeper, the order of his
establishment thus upset, but he took it in good part; perhaps the
turmoil had its value in making known to the whole world that the
wandering foreigner had bestowed her patronage upon his house. I am sure
he had some reward in the many cups of tea drunk while the crowd
lingered on the chance of another sight of the unusual visitor. Anyway
we were always made welcome, and no objections were offered when my men
took possession of the place in very unceremonious fashion, as it seemed
to me, filling the court with their din, blocking the ways with the
chairs and baskets, seeking the best room for me, and then testing the
door and putting things to rights after a fashion, while the owner
looked on in helpless wonder.
In the villages one stepped directly from the road into a large
living-room, kitchen, and dining-room in one, and out of this opened the
places for sleeping. The inns in the towns are built more or less after
one and the same pattern. Entrance is through a large restaurant open to
the street, and filled with tables occupied at all hours save early dawn
with men sipping and smoking. From the restaurant one passes into a
stone-paved court surrounded usually by low, one-story buildings,
although occasionally there is a second story opening into a gallery.
Here are kitchens and sleeping-rooms, while store-rooms and stables are
tucked in anywhere. In the largest inns there is often an inner court
into which open the better rooms.
While the cook bustled about to get hot water, and the head coolie saw
to the setting-up of my bed, I generally went with the "ma-fu," or horse
boy, to see that the pony was properly cared for. Usually he was handy,
sometimes tethered by my door, often just under my room, once overhead.
Meanwhile the coolies were freshening themselves up a bit after the
day's work. Sitting about the court they rinsed chest and head and legs
with the unfailing supply of hot water which is the one luxury of a
Chinese inn. I can speak authoritatively on the cleanliness of the
Chinese coolie, for I had the chance daily to see my men scrub
themselves. Their cotton clothing loosely cut was well ventilated, even
though infrequently cleansed, and there hung about them nothing of the
odour of the great unwashed of the Western world. I wish one could say
as much for the inns, but alas, they were foul-smelling, one and all,
and occasionally the room offered me was so filthy that I refused to
occupy it, and went on the war-path for myself, followed by a crowd of
perplexed servants and coolies. Almost always I found a loft or a
stable-yard that had at least the advantage of plenty of fresh air, and
without demur my innkeeper made me free of it, although I expect it cut
him to the heart to have his best room so flouted.
Generally I went to bed soon after dinner; there was nothing else to do,
for the dim lantern light made reading difficult, and anyway my books
were few. But while the nights were none too long for me, the Chinese,
like most Asiatics, make little distinction between day and night. They
sleep if there is nothing else to do, they wake when work or pleasure
calls, and it was long after midnight when the inn settled itself to
rest, and by four o'clock it was again awake, and before seven we were
once more on the road.
In Yunnan, or "South of the Clouds," as the word signifies, you are in a
land of sunshine, of wild grandeur and beauty, of unfailing interest.
Its one hundred and fifty-five thousand square miles are pretty much on
end; no matter which way you cross the country you are always going up
or going down, and the contrasts of vegetation and lack of it are just
as emphatic; barren snow-topped mountains overhang tiny valleys,
veritable gems of tropical beauty; you pass with one step from a waste
of rock and sand to a garden-like oasis of soft green and rippling
waters. Yunnan's chequered history is revealed in the varied peoples
that inhabit the deep valleys and narrow river banks. Nominally annexed
to the empire by Kublai Khan, the Mongol, in the thirteenth century,
ever since the Chinese people have been at work peacefully and
irresistibly making the conquest real, and now they are found all over
the province, as a matter of course occupying the best places. But they
have not exterminated the aborigines, nor have they assimilated them to
any degree. To-day the tribes constitute more than one half the
population, and an ethnological map of Yunnan is a wonderful patchwork,
for side by side and yet quite distinct, you find scattered about
settlements of Chinese, Shans, Lolos, Miaos, Losus, and just what some
of these are is still an unsolved riddle. To add to the confusion there
is a division of religions hardly known elsewhere, for out of the
population of twelve millions it is estimated that three or four
millions are Mohammedans. To be sure, they seem much like the others,
and generally all get on together very well, for Moslem pride of
religion does not find much response with the practical Chinese, and the
Buddhist is as tolerant here as elsewhere. But the Mohammedan rebellion
of half a century ago has left terrible memories; then add to that the
ill-feeling between the Chinese and the tribesmen, and the general
discontent at the prohibition of poppy-growing, and it is plain that
Yunnan offers a fine field for long-continued civil disorder with all
the possibility of foreign interference.
The early hours of our first day's march led us along the great western
trade route, and we met scores of people hurrying towards the capital,
mostly coolies carrying on their backs, or slung from a bamboo pole
across their shoulders, great loads of wood, charcoal, fowls, rice,
vegetables. Every one was afoot or astride a pony, for there was nothing
on wheels, not even a barrow. The crowd lacked the variety in colour and
cut of dress of a Hindu gathering; all had black hair and all wore blue
clothes, and one realized at once how much China loses in not having a
picturesque and significant head covering like the Indian turban. But
the faces showed more diversity both in hue and in feature than I had
looked for. In America we come in contact chiefly with Chinese of one
class, and usually from the one province of Kwangtung. But the men of
Yunnan and Szechuan are of a different type, larger, sturdier, of better
carriage. It takes experience commonly to mark differences in face and
expression among men of an alien race, and to the Asiatic all Europeans
look much alike, but already I was discerning variety in the faces I met
along the trail, and they did not seem as unfamiliar to me as I had
expected. I was constantly surprised by resemblances to types and
individuals at home. One of my chair coolies, for example, a young,
smooth-faced fellow, bore a disconcerting likeness to one of my former
students. But fair or dark, fine-featured or foul, all greeted me in a
friendly way, generally stopping after I had passed to ask my coolies
more about me. My four-bearer chair testified to my standing, and my
men, Eastern fashion, glorified themselves in glorifying me. I was a
"scholar," a "learned lady," but what I had come for was not so clear. A
missionary I certainly was not. Anyway, as a mere woman I was not likely
to do harm.
The road after crossing the plain entered the hills, winding up and
down, but always paved with cobbles and flags laid with infinite pains
generations ago, and now illustrating the Chinese saying of "good for
ten years, bad for ten thousand." It was so hopelessly out of repair
that men and ponies alike had to pick their way with caution. Long
flights of irregular and broken stone stairs led up and down the
hillsides over which my freshly shod pony slipped and floundered
awkwardly, and I always breathed a sigh of relief when a stretch of hard
red earth gave a little respite. It was neither courage nor pride that
kept me in the saddle, but the knowledge that much of the way would be
worse rather than better, and I would wisely face it at the outset. If
it got too nerve-racking I could always betake myself to my chair and,
trusting in the eight sturdy legs of my bearers, abandon myself to
enjoying the sights along the way.
Our first day's halt for tiffin was at the small hamlet of P'u chi. The
eating-house was small and crowded, and my cook set my table perforce
in the midst of the peering, pointing throng. I was the target of scores
of black eyes, and I felt that every movement was discussed, every
mouthful counted. As a first experience it was a little embarrassing,
but the people seemed good-humoured and very ready to fall into place or
move out of the way in obedience to my gestures when I tried to take
some pictures, not too successfully. Here for a moment I was again in
touch with my own world, as a runner, most thoughtfully sent by Mr.
Stevenson with the morning's letters, overtook me. According to
arrangement he had been paid beforehand, but not knowing that I knew
that, he clamoured for more. The crowd pressed closer to listen to the
discussion, and grinned with a rather malicious satisfaction when the
man was forced to confess that he had already received what they knew
was a generous tip. Chinese business instinct kept them impartial, even
between one of their own people and a foreigner.
That night we stopped, after a stage of some sixty li, about nineteen
miles, at Erh-tsun, a small, uninteresting village. The inn was very
poor, and I would have consoled myself by thinking that it was well to
get used to the worst at once, only I was not sure that it was the
worst. My room, off the public gathering place, had but one window
looking directly on the street. From the moment of my arrival the
opening was filled with the faces of a staring, curious crowd, pushing
each other, stretching their necks to get a better view. My servants put
up an oiled cotton sheet, but it was promptly drawn aside, so there was
nothing for me to do but wash, eat, and go to bed in public, like a
royal personage of former times.
It was a beautiful spring morning when we started the next day. We were
now among the mountains, and much of our way led along barren hillsides,
but the air was intoxicating, and the views across the ridges were
charming. At times we dropped into a small valley, each having its
little group of houses nestling among feathery bamboos and surrounded by
tiny green fields. Dogs barked, children ran after us, men and women
stopped for a moment to smile a greeting and exchange a word with our
coolies. As a rule, the people looked comfortable and well fed, but here
and there we passed a group of ruined, abandoned hovels. The explanation
varied. Sometimes the ruin dated back more than a generation to the
terrible days of the Mohammedan rebellion. In other cases the trouble
was more recent. The irrigating system had broken down, or water was
scant, or more frequently the cutting-off of the opium crop had driven
the people from their homes. But in general there was little tillable
land that was unoccupied. In fact, the painstaking effort to utilize
every bit of soil was tragic to American eyes, accustomed to long
stretches of countryside awaiting the plough. At the close of the
troubles that devastated the province during the third quarter of the
nineteenth century it is said that the population of Yunnan had fallen
to about a million, but now, owing in part to the great natural increase
of the Chinese, and in part to immigration chiefly from overpopulated
Szechuan and Kwei-chou, it is estimated at twelve million. At any rate,
those who know the country well declare there is little vacant land fit
for agriculture, that the province has about as many inhabitants as it
can support, and can afford no relief to the overcrowded eastern
districts. This is a thing to keep in mind when Japan urges her need of
Manchuria for her teeming millions.
We stopped for tiffin at Fu-ming-hsien, a prosperous-looking town of
some eight hundred families. As usual, I lunched in public, the crowd
pressing close about my table in spite of the efforts of a real,
khaki-clad policeman; but it was a jolly, friendly crowd, its interest
easily diverted from me to the dog. Here we changed soldiers, for this
was a hsien town, or district centre. Those who had come with me from
Yunnan-fu were dismissed with a tip amounting to about three cents gold
a day each. They seemed perfectly satisfied. It was the regulation
amount; had I given more they would have clamoured for something
additional. That afternoon we stopped for a long rest at a tiny, lonely
inn, perched most picturesquely on a spur of the mountain. I sat in my
chair while the coolies drank tea inside, and a number of children
gathered about me, ready to run if I seemed dangerous. Finally one,
taking his courage in both hands, presented me with the local substitute
for candy,--raw peas in the pod, which I nibbled and found refreshing.
In turn I doled out some biscuits, to the children's great delight,
while fathers and mothers looked on approvingly. The way to the heart of
the Chinese is not far to seek. They dote on children, and children the
world over are much alike. More than once I have solved an awkward
situation by ignoring the inhospitable or unwilling elders and devoting
myself to the little ones, always at hand. Please the children and you
have won the parents.
We stopped that night at Che-pei, a small town lying at an elevation of
about six thousand feet. My room, the best the inn afforded, was dirty,
but large and airy. On one side a table was arranged for the ancestral
family worship, and I delayed turning in at night to give the people a
chance to burn a few joss sticks, which they did in a very
matter-of-fact fashion, nowise disturbed at my washing-things, which
Liu, the cook, had set out among the gods.
Our path the next day led high on the mountain-side and along a
beautiful ridge. We stopped for an early rest at a little walled
village, Jee-ka ("Cock's street"), perched picturesquely on the top of
the hill. Later we saw a storm advancing across the mountains, and
before we could reach cover the clouds broke over our heads, drenching
the poor coolies to the skin, but they took it in good part, laughing as
they scuttled along the trail. The rain kept on for some hours, and the
road was alternately a brook or a sea of slippery red mud; the pony,
with the cook on his back, rolled over, but fortunately neither was
hurt; coolies slid and floundered, and the chair-men went down, greatly
to their confusion, for it is deemed inexcusable for a chair-carrier to
fall. Toward the end of the day it cleared and the bright sun soon dried
the ways, and we raced into Wu-ting-chou in fine shape, the coolies
picking their way deftly along the narrow earth balks that form the
highway to this rather important town. Our entrance was of the usual
character, a cross between a triumphal procession and a circus
show,--people rushing to see the sight, children calling, dogs barking,
my men shouting as they pushed their way through the throng, while I sat
the observed of all, trying to carry off my embarrassment with a
benevolent smile. I am told that the interest of a Chinese crowd usually
centres on the foreigners' shoes, but in my case, when the gaze got down
to my feet, Jack was mostly there to divert attention.
Rain came on again in the night and kept us in Wu-ting-chou over the
next day. The Chinese, with their extraordinary adaptability, can stand
extremes of heat and cold remarkably well. Hence they are good
colonizers, able to work in Manchuria and Singapore, Canada and Panama.
But rain they dislike, and a smart shower is a good excuse for stopping.
Fortunately for all, the inn was unusually decent. Steps led from the
street into an outer court, behind which was a much larger second court,
surrounded on all sides by two-story buildings. My room on the upper
floor had beautiful views over the town, more attractive at close range
than most Chinese towns. The temples and yamen buildings were
exceptionally fine, while the houses, of sun-dried brick of the colour
of the red soil of Yunnan, had a comfortable look, their tip-tilted
tiled roofs showing picturesquely among the trees.
I spent the rainy forenoon in writing and in leaning over the gallery to
watch the life going on below. After the first excitement people went
about their business undisturbed by my presence. At one side cooking was
carried on at a long, crescent-shaped range of some sort of cement, and
containing half a dozen openings for fires. Above each fire was a
bowl-shaped depression in the range, and into this was fitted a big iron
pot. The food of the country is generally boiled, and is often seasoned
with a good deal of care. Barring the lack of cleanliness, the chief
objection to the cooking of the peasant-folk is the failure to cook
thoroughly. The Chinese are content if the rice and vegetables are
cooked through; they do not insist, as we do, that they be cooked soft.
In the smaller inns my men prepared their food themselves, and some
showed considerable skill. One soldier in particular was past-master in
making savoury stews much appreciated by the others.
Wu-ting-chou being a place designated for the payment of an instalment
of wages, and also the time having come for pork money, my coolies had a
grand feast, after which they devoted themselves to gambling away their
hard-earned money in games of "fan t'an." As they played entirely among
themselves the result was that some staggered the following day under
heavy ropes of cash, while others were forced to sell their hats to pay
for their food. I could only hope that the next pay-day would mean a
readjustment of spoils.
In the afternoon it cleared, and I went out in my chair, escorted by two
policemen, to a charming grove outside the walls, where I rested for a
time in a quiet nook, enjoying the views over the valley and thankful to
get away from the din of the inn. Curling up, I went fast asleep, to
wake with an uncomfortable sense of being watched; and sure enough,
peering over the top of the bank where I was lying were two pairs of
startled black eyes. I laughed, and thereupon the owners of the eyes,
who had stumbled upon me as they came up the hill, seated themselves in
front of me and began to ply me with questions, to which I could only
answer with another laugh; so they relapsed into friendly silence,
gingerly stroking Jack while they kept a watchful eye on me. What does
it matter if words are lacking, a laugh is understood, and will often
smooth a way where speech would bring confusion. Once, years ago in
Western Tibet, I crossed a high pass with just one coolie, in advance of
my caravan. Without warning we dropped down into a little village above
the Shyok. Most of the people had never before seen a European. I could
not talk with them nor they with my coolie,--for he came from the other
side of the range,--nor he with me. But I laughed, and every one else
laughed, and in five minutes I was sitting on the grass under the walnut
trees, offerings of flowers and mulberries on my lap, and while the
whole population sat around on stone walls and house roofs, the village
head man took off my shoes and rubbed my weary feet.
When I emerged from my retreat I found that a priest from the
neighbouring temple had come to beg a visit from me. It turned out to be
a Buddhist temple on the usual plan, noteworthy only for a rather good
figure of Buddha made of sun-dried clay and painted. The priest was
inclined to refuse a fee, saying he had done nothing, but he was keen to
have me take some pictures.
[Illustration: WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE GATEWAY]
[Illustration: WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE CORNER]
The next three days our path led us across the mountains separating the
Yangtse and Red River basins. We were now off the main roads; villages
and travellers were few. To my delight we had left for a time the paved
trails over which the pony scraped and slipped; the hard dirt made a
surer footing, and it was possible to let him out for a trot now and
then. The start and finish of the day were usually by winding narrow
paths carried along the strips of turf dividing the fields or over the
top of a stone wall. I learned to respect both the sure-footedness of
the Yunnan pony and the thrift of the Yunnan peasant who wasted no bit
of tillable land on roads. From time to time we crossed a stone bridge,
rarely of more than one arch, and that so pointed that the ponies on the
road, which followed closely the line of the arch, clambered up with
difficulty only to slide headlong on the other side. The bridges of
these parts are very picturesque, giving an added charm to the
landscape, in glaring contrast to the hideous, shed-like structures that
disfigure many a beautiful stream of New England.
Our way led alternately over barren or pine-clad hills, showing
everywhere signs of charcoal burners, or through deep gorges, or dipped
down into tiny emerald valleys. At one point we descended an
interminable rock staircase guarded by soldiers top and bottom. Formerly
this was a haunt of robbers, but now the Government was making a
vigorous effort to insure the safety of traffic along this way. Our
stay that night was in a tiny hamlet, and a special guard was stationed
at the door of the inn to defend us against real or fancied danger from
marauders.
It was still early in April, but even on these high levels the flowers
were in their glory, and each day revealed a new wonder. Roses were
abundant, white and scentless, or small, pink, and spicy, and the ground
was carpeted with yellow and blue flowers. From time to time we passed a
group of comfortable farm buildings, but much of the country had a
desolate look and the villages were nothing more than forlorn hamlets,
and once we stopped for the night in a solitary house far from any
settlement. A week after leaving Yunnan-fu we entered the valley of the
Tso-ling Ho, a tributary of the Great River, and a more fertile region.
As I had been warned, the weather changed here, and for the next
twenty-four hours we sweltered in the steamy heat of the Yangtse basin.
From now on, there was no lack of water. On all sides brooks large and
small dashed down, swelling the Tso-ling almost to the size of the main
river itself. At one spot, sending the men on to the village, I stopped
on the river bank to bathe my tired feet, and was startled by the
passing of a stray fisherman, but he seemed in no wise surprised, and
greeting me courteously went on with his work. China shares with us the
bad fame of being unpleasantly inquisitive. Would the rural American,
happening upon a Chinese woman,--an alien apparition from her smoothly
plastered hair to her tiny bound feet,--by the brookside in one of his
home fields, have shown the same restraint?
At five o'clock that same day we reached the ferry across the Yangtse,
too late to cross that night. I was hot and weary after a long march,
and the only place available in the village of Lung-kai was a cramped,
windowless hole opening into a small, filthy court, the best room of the
inn being occupied by a sick man. Through an open doorway I caught a
glimpse into a stable-yard well filled with pigs. On one side was a
small, open, shrine-like structure reached by a short flight of steps.
In spite of the shocked remonstrances of my men I insisted on taking
possession of this; the yard, though dirty, was dry, and at least I was
sure of plenty of air. Fresh straw was spread in the shrine and my bed
set up on it; the pigs were given my pony's stable, as I preferred his
company to theirs; and I had an unusually pleasant evening, spite of the
fact that the roofs of the adjoining buildings were crowded with
onlookers, mostly children, until it grew too dark for them to see
anything.
We crossed the Yangtse the next day on a large flat-bottomed boat into
which we all crowded higgledy-piggledy, the men and their loads, pony
and chairs. The current was so swift that we were carried some distance
downstream before making a landing. At this point, and indeed from Tibet
to Suifu, the Yangtse is, I believe, generally known as the Kinsha
Kiang, or "River of Golden Sand." The Chinese have no idea of the
continuing identity of a river, and most of theirs have different names
at different parts of their course, but in this case there is some
reason for the failure to regard the upper and the lower Yangtse as one
and the same stream, for at Suifu, where the Min joins the Yangtse, it
is much the larger body of water throughout most of the year, and is
generally held by the natives to be the true source of the Great River.
Moreover, above the junction the Yangtse is not navigable, owing to the
swift current and obstructing rocks, while the Min serves as one of
China's great waterways, bearing the products of the famous Chengtu
plain to the eastern markets.
After leaving the ferry we followed for some miles the dry bed of a
river whose name I could not learn. The scene was desolate and barren in
the extreme, nothing but rock and sand; and had it not been cloudy the
heat would have been very trying. But we were now among the Cloud
Mountains, where the bright days are so few that it is said the Szechuan
dogs bark when the sun comes out. After a short stop at a lonely inn
near a trickle of a brook we turned abruptly up the mountain-side, by a
zigzag trail so steep that even the interpreter was forced to walk. As
I toiled wearily upward, I looked back to find my dog riding comfortably
in my chair. Tired and hot, he had barked to be taken up. The coolies
thought it a fine joke, and when I whistled him down they at once put
him back again, explaining that it was hard work for short legs. At one
of the worst bits of the trail we met some finely dressed men on
horseback, who stared in a superior way at me on foot. The Chinese sees
no reason for walking if he has a chair or pony. What are the chair and
the pony for? They must lack imagination, or how can they ride down the
awful staircases of a West China road, the pony plunging from step to
step under his heavy load? I doubt if they realize either the pony's
suffering or the rider's danger. I did both, and so I often walked.
After a climb of three thousand feet we came out on a wide open plateau,
beautifully cultivated, which we crossed to our night stopping-place,
Chiang-yi, nearly seven thousand feet above sea level.
We started the next morning in the rain, which kept up pretty much all
day. The country through which we now passed was rather bare of
cultivation and of inhabitants, but the wealth and variety of flowers
and shrubs more than made amends. Nowhere have I seen such numbers of
flowering shrubs as all through this region, a few known to me, but most
of them quite new. It was with much gratification that I learned at a
later time of the remarkable work done in connection with the Arnold
Arboretum near Boston in seeking out and bringing to America specimens
of many of China's beautiful trees and plants. At the head of one small
valley we passed a charming temple half buried in oleanders and
surrounded by its own shimmering green rice-fields, and a little farther
on we came to a farmhouse enclosed in a rose hedge some twelve feet high
and in full bloom. There was no sign of life about, and it might have
served as the refuge of the Sleeping Princess, but a nearer inspection
would probably have been disillusioning.
We stopped that night at Ho-k'ou, a small place of which I saw little,
for the heavy rain that kept us there over a day held me a prisoner in
the inn. I had a small room over the pony's stable, and I spent the
forenoon writing to the tune of comfortable crunching of corn and beans.
The rest of the day I amused myself in entertaining the women of the inn
with the contents of my dressing-case, and when it grew cold in my open
loft I joined the circle round the good coal fire burning in a brazier
in the public room. Every one was friendly, and persistent, men and
women alike, in urging me to take whiffs from their long-stemmed tobacco
pipes. All smoke, using sometimes this long-stemmed, small-bowled pipe,
and sometimes the water pipe, akin in principle to the Indian
hubble-bubble. In this part of Szechuan I saw few smoking cigarettes,
but thanks to the untiring efforts of the British American Tobacco
Company, they are fast becoming known, and my men were vastly pleased
when I doled some out at the end of a hard day.
From Ho-k'ou it was a two days' journey to Hui-li-chou, the first large
town on my trip. The scenery was charmingly varied. At times the trail
led along high ridges with beautiful glimpses down into the valleys, or
affording splendid views to right and left, to the mysterious, forbidden
Lololand to the east, and to the unsurveyed country beyond the Yalung,
west of us, or again it dropped to the banks of the streams, leading us
through attractive hamlets buried in palms and bamboo, pines and cactus,
while the surrounding hillsides were white or red with masses of
rhododendron just coming into flower. Entering one village I heard a
sound as of swarming bees raised to the one hundredth power. On inquiry
it turned out to be a school kept in a small temple. While the coolies
were resting I sent my card to the schoolmaster, and was promptly
invited to pay a visit of inspection. It proved to be a private school
of some thirty boys and one girl, the master's daughter. They were of
all ages from six years upwards, and, I was told, generally stayed from
one to five years at school. Instruction was limited to reading and
writing, and two boys were called up to show what they could do. To
ignorant me they seemed to do very well, reading glibly down their
pages of hieroglyphics.
At another stop I had a talk with the village headman. He was elected
for one year, he told me, by the people of the hamlet, comprising about
forty families. He confessed his inability to read or write, but his
face was intelligent and his bearing showed dignity and self-respect.
Petty disputes and breaches of the peace were settled by him according
to unwritten custom and his native shrewdness; and he was also
responsible for the collection of the land tax due from the village.
The people in this part of Szechuan seemed fairly prosperous, but the
prevalence of goitre was very unpleasant. The natives account for it in
various ways,--the use of white salt or the drinking of water made from
melting snow.
On the 20th of April we reached Hui-li-chou. The approach to the town or
group of towns which make up this, the largest place in southern
Szechuan, was charming, through high hedges gay with pink and white
flowers. In the suburbs weaving or dyeing seemed to be going on in every
house. Sometimes whole streets were given over to the dyers, naked men
at work above huge vats filled with the inevitable blue of China. After
crossing the half-dry bed of a small river we found ourselves under the
great wall of Hui-li proper. Turning in at the South Gate we rapidly
traversed the town to our night's lodging-place near the North Gate, the
crowds becoming ever denser, people swarming out from the restaurants
and side streets, as the news spread of the arrival of a "yang-potsz"
(foreign woman). The interest was not surprising, as I was only the
third or fourth European woman to come this way, but it was my first
experience alone in a large town, and the pressing, staring crowd was
rather dismaying; however, I found comfortable companionship in the
smiling face of a little lad running beside my chair, his swift feet
keeping pace with the carriers. I smiled back, and when the heavy doors
of our night's lodging-house closed behind us, I found the small gamin
was inside, too,--self-installed errand boy. He proved quick and alert
beyond the common run of boys, East or West, and made himself very
useful, but save when out on errands he was always at my side, watching
me with dog-like interest, and kowtowing to the ground when I gave him a
small reward. The next morning he was on duty at dawn, and trotted
beside my chair until we were well on our way, when I sent him back. I
should have been glad to have borrowed or bought or stolen him.
Hui-li-chou, with a population of some forty thousand, is in the middle
of an important mining region, both zinc and copper ore being found in
the neighbouring hills in good quantity; but the bad roads and
government restrictions combine to keep down industry. In spite of its
being a trading centre the inns are notoriously bad, and we were
fortunate in finding rooms in a small mission chapel maintained by a
handful of native Christians. In the course of the evening some of them
paid me a call. They seemed intelligent and alert, and although in the
past the town has had an unpleasant reputation for hostility to
missions, conditions at the present time were declared to be
satisfactory.