TO GNATONG
I marched to Gnatong as a passenger--that is to say, though I
accompanied troops, I yet did no duty with them. The camping grounds _en
route_ were small clearings in the jungle, so small that not more than
two or three hundred men and two or three hundred animals could be
encamped at any one spot on a given day. Hence the reinforcements were
marching up in very small columns. It was one of these which I
accompanied as far as Gnatong.
About two or three days' marching takes you out of India into Sikkim,
but you are in the heart of the jungle almost as soon as you leave
Siliguri. For about seven days you hardly rise at all, merely following
the course upstream of the Teesta river, and later on of one of its
tributaries.
That belt of 'terai' jungle which fringes the skirt of the whole
Himalayan range has its own special charms. It is a fine sporting
country for those who are on pleasure bent and are mounted on elephants,
on which alone is it possible to penetrate the thick breast-high
undergrowth. Even for troops marching along a road running through its
midst, it has a certain fascination. The incessant call of the
jungle-fowl on either side of you, the constant shade, so unusual in
India, the bright orchids in the tree-tops, the heavy luxuriance of
vegetation that loads the air with scents that are generally sweet, the
gorgeous butterflies, the steamy hothouse atmosphere--all combine to
form a kind of sedative, suggestive of the lotus-flower, of pleasant
physical enervation, and perpetual afternoon. One could enjoy this
feeling as one sat idly on one's pony, till it was dispelled by the
rain. It rained very heavily all those days. Even when it did not rain
the air was so laden with moisture that the very clothes you wore were
always wet on the outside. The rain too was of the sort that did not
cool or stir the air; the thermometer stood perpetually at a high
figure, and existence on the inside of a mackintosh during one of those
showers was a protracted torture of prickly heat.
We reached Rangpo--the town that lies on the border of independent as
opposed to British Sikkim--after four days' marching. I call it a town,
for it certainly possessed one street and a bazaar, and swarmed with
natives other than those belonging to the force. The ordinary native of
Sikkim seems to be a half-breed, looking partly Aryan, partly Mongolian,
and less Aryan and more Mongolian as one penetrates further into the
country. Their women are rather picturesque. They do not give you quite
the same cheery unblushing greeting as you generally get from the
regular hill woman of Mongolian type, but they do not hide their faces
jealously from you, like the women on the plains of India. In dress they
largely affect black velveteen. It would be interesting to know from
where that velveteen comes, though I think it could, like the iridescent
shawls and the stocking suspenders that are so largely worn by the brave
men of Bengal, be traced to Manchester or Birmingham. It must have been
an enterprising bagman who first went round Sikkim and persuaded the
Sikkimese ladies that black velveteen was the match _par excellence_ for
their complexions.
At length we began to climb a little, ever so little, and after two more
days reached Lingtam in pouring rain. This was the last of our level
going; from here to Gnatong we were to climb continuously, and at as
steep a gradient as laden mule with straining breast-piece could hope to
tackle. The Lingtam camp was even smaller, more uneven, and damper than
the others had been. I found a convenient difficulty arising as to where
my tent could be fitted in, and simultaneously heard of the existence of
a bungalow at Sedonchan, three miles beyond. I was tied by no duty to
the column, so determined to reach Sedonchan that afternoon, and push on
to Gnatong the next day.
Those three miles to Sedonchan involved a climb of four thousand feet,
up a rough dripping bridle-path paved with cobbles, not nice
smooth-rounded cobbles, but roughly cut spiky stones. I have said the
path was paved with cobbles, but should have added that it had a
supplementary pavement of horse-shoes.
At first in my ignorance I thought of picking one up for luck, but a
yard ahead I saw another one, and then met others at close intervals all
the way, so decided that all that good fortune could not be meant for
me, and had better be left well alone. It was a good farrier who could
so shoe a horse that he would lose no shoe between Lingtam and Gnatong.
I don't know in the least what sort of place Sedonchan may be. It rained
all the time, some fourteen hours, that I stayed there, and was shrouded
in mist. So that if I ever went there again the place would still
possess the charm of novelty.
The next morning I found that my pony had shared the lot of most animals
along that road and cast a shoe. Farriers don't grow on the wayside in
Sikkim, so there was no alternative but to walk up to Gnatong. This
involved a climb of about six thousand feet, and then a drop into
Gnatong of about one thousand. I overtook the Royal Fusiliers during my
walk; they had camped for the night in a puddle called Jaluk which lies
half-way between Sedonchan and Gnatong. It was during this march of
theirs that I believe the following dialogue was overheard:--
'What-ho, Bill!' said Atkins No. 1. 'What do they mean by calling this
something country a something tableland? 'Tain't no something tableland,
this 'ere ain't.'
'Garrn,' answered Atkins No. 2, 'it's a something tableland right
enough, and this 'ere as we are climbing is the something legs of the
something table.'
Fill in the adjectives to taste, or _a la_ Mr. Kipling, and you get the
real flavour of the dialogue.