TALI-FU TO BHAMO
At Tali-fu I found it impossible to hire mules or coolies for a journey
to the Kunlon ferry, though during the cool weather the transport
question would have presented no difficulty. To travel from Tali to
Yün-chou, on the south of the Mekong, would have occupied, I was told,
only seven days, and another twelve days' march would have brought
me through the valley of the Nam Ting to the Salwen ferry at Kunlon,
the boundary of British territory. From there it is but four or five
easy stages through the jungle to the British post of Lashio,[349] the
headquarters of the Superintendent of the North Shan States, and from
that point I could have taken train to Mandalay. In summer, however,
and especially after the commencement of the rains, the Tali muleteers
regard a journey through the Nam T'ing valley and the Shan jungles of
the frontier as very deadly, and I found that even an offer of treble
the usual pay would not induce a single man to come forward. The
crossing of the Salwen valley on the way to Bhamo is also considered
a very dangerous performance in the hot season; but that, after all,
is a matter of a few hours only, and there is no superstitious dread
of any other part of the journey. I found it necessary, therefore,
to abandon all idea of travelling to the Kunlon ferry, and rather
reluctantly decided to take the well-known trade-route to Bhamo,
through Yung-ch'ang and T'êng-yüeh.
So many Europeans in recent years have traversed this route that it
is unnecessary for me to describe, in any detail, the characteristic
features of a road which we all know so well from the graphic accounts
of such experienced travellers as Baber, Colquhoun, Captain Gill and
Dr Morrison. South-western China bears much the same appearance to-day
as it did thirty years ago, and it may be doubted whether it was very
different in the days of Marco Polo, though probably the roads were
better. There is therefore very little need for me to describe this
part of my journey with any minuteness.
I left Tali-fu on 25th May, and passed through the southern
fortress-city of Hsia Kuan--where the trade is much brisker than at
Tali-fu itself--after an easy ride of 6 or 7 miles. There my road left
the lake and struck west into a ravine, and a few miles further on I
reached the village of Ho Chiang-p'u. Next day we passed through Yang
Pi, crossed a suspension bridge which was undergoing repair, and after
a fairly stiff climb spent the night in a hamlet near the summit of
a pass. On the 27th we crossed another pass of no great elevation,
rode through T'ai-p'ing-p'u and one or two other small hamlets,
and descended into a deep ravine in order to cross the Ch'ing Lien
river by a suspension bridge, which, according to an inscription, was
reconstructed in the eighteenth year of the present reign (1892), with
funds raised by the public.[350] A few miles beyond, we halted for
the night in the village of Huang-lien-p'u. Some arduous climbing the
next day brought us to the small town of Yung P'ing, which, a year
previously, had suffered terribly from the floods of a neighbouring
river. As no inn was habitable, I was given accommodation in a
schoolhouse.
[Sidenote: TOWARDS THE MEKONG]
On the 29th I left Yung P'ing by a new road, only recently opened
to traffic, passed the villages of Hsiao T'ien Pa situated amid
rice-fields, Hsiao Hua Ch'iao ("Little Flower Bridge"), and Ta Hua
Ch'iao ("Big Flower Bridge"). Above the last-named village and
overlooking it is a temple (the San Shêng Kung), in which I lunched.
In the afternoon we climbed a steep pass from which an equally steep
descent led to the village of Sha Yang, where we halted. Immediately
on leaving this village next day we ascended and crossed a low ridge,
and descended into a small valley cultivated with rice. We crossed a
stream by a three-arched bridge built in 1888, called the "Stone Bridge
of the Cry of the Phœnix" (Fêng Ming Shih Ch'iao). Beyond this is a
row of stone tablets, some commemorating the virtues of incorruptible
officials, and others recording the names of those who had subscribed
funds for building the bridge.
[Sidenote: CROSSING THE MEKONG VALLEY]
At the top of the next steep pass, which overlooks the deep trough
through which flows the Mekong river (called by the Chinese the Lan
Ts'ang Chiang[351]), there is a rather large temple much patronised
and enriched by successful traders. The descent to the river's edge
is very steep. "A series of short and dangerous zigzags," says Baber,
"leads down to a bold suspension bridge of 60 yards span, striding
the river at its issue from the darkest of gorges. The perpendicular
walls are not 100 yards apart; from our confined position we did
not venture to estimate their height."[352] Only the day before my
arrival a man had been killed by a boulder which fell on his head as
he was wending his way down to the river. One of my escort casually
mentioned this to me just after we had passed the fatal spot. The
man had been buried that morning close to the place where he was
killed. The boulder was supposed to have been dislodged by a deer
or a goat. On the east bank of the river, close to the bridge, is a
stone tablet or shrine dedicated to the Spirit of the Mountain, and
an inscription in which the bridge is described as the T'ai P'ing
Ch'iao ("Great Peace Bridge"). The bridge is covered by a wooden
arcade, from the roof of which are suspended several _pien_ or boards
bearing appropriate inscriptions in huge gilt letters. One of them has
the four words, _Shan Kao Shui Ch'ang_ ("The mountain is lofty and
the river is long")--which remark if wanting in imaginative insight
at least expresses an obvious truth concisely and to the point.
The cliffs on the west side of the river are likewise covered with
short inscriptions, carved deeply into the rock. One of the largest
of all consists of the four words, _Jên Li So T'ung_[353] ("Made a
thoroughfare by the labour of man"). The construction of this great
bridge is indeed an engineering feat of which any people might well be
proud.
On leaving the river we had a stiff climb over a fairly well paved
road to P'ing P'o, the inhabitants of which ought to be excellent
mountaineers. They cannot go out of doors in any direction without
having to ascend or descend a steep mountain-side. A further climb of
nearly 3 miles, partly beside the bed of a stream which in the rainy
season is said to be a foaming torrent but in dry weather is absolutely
non-existent, brought us to our destination for the night in the
village of Shui Chai. In the neighbourhood of this village I found some
tombstones of a kind I had not hitherto seen, though I met with many
similar ones thereafter. They are like stone drums or cylinders stuck
end-wise into the ground, but slightly convex on the top. On some of
the grave-tablets are inscribed the words, _Chia Ch'êng_ ("The City
Beautiful").
[Sidenote: ARRIVAL AT YUNG-CH'ANG]
So far throughout my journey I had been remarkably fortunate as regards
weather. The rainy season in western Yunnan usually begins early in
May, yet, except for some snow-storms, one day's rain at Li-chiang,
and two or three heavy showers after leaving Tali-fu, I had met with
nothing but the most brilliant sunshine. I knew, however, that once
the rains began in earnest they would continue incessantly for many
weeks to come, and for this reason I was anxious to reach Bhamo as
quickly as possible. What became of the weather after I had reached the
Irrawaddy valley was a matter of indifference: _après moi le déluge!_
The next stage after Shui Chai was the city of Yung-ch'ang, and as I
had to pay off my Tali muleteers there, and engage others to take me
on to T'êng-yüeh, I sent on my servant post-haste to Yung-ch'ang to
make the necessary arrangements in advance in order that I might not
have to waste a day. Following him more leisurely, I left Shui Chai
and rode along a winding road for about 6 miles to the summit of a
pass from which we had a good view of a portion of the Yung-ch'ang
plain. This range of hills separates the watershed of the Mekong from
that of the much-dreaded Salwen. Soon after crossing the pass our
road led us down the left side of a small mountain stream, and it was
interesting to reflect that its waters were destined, like myself, for
British territory. The first village on the west side of the pass was
Niu Chio Kuan. It consisted of two huts in Baber's time, and though it
has since then quintupled in size it is by no means an imposing centre
of population. A mile further down the slope we reached Kuan P'o, a
larger village, whence we descended to the edge of the Yung-ch'ang
plain, and passed by the side of the village of Shih K'o Ts'un, which
possesses a rather handsome and imposing temple, the Kuang Tsun
Ssŭ.[354] I may note here that as one enters western Yunnan a tendency
to over-decoration and ornateness in the architecture of temples is
observable, but on the whole the effect is generally rather pleasing
than otherwise, as carved and decorated doorways and fantastic gables
often relieve the sordid meanness of the village dwelling-houses. No
doubt the influence of non-Chinese races, akin to the Burmese or Shans,
has been at work here.
The next village was Pan Ch'iao, a prosperous-looking place with a
street of shops and many new buildings and ferocious dogs. One of
the dogs, however, came to sorry grief in a conflict with my own
bull-terrier, which--I will say it to his credit--seldom took the
trouble to fight unless his antagonists were at least two in number.
On leaving this village we were in full view of Yung-ch'ang city, with
its curious pyramidal hill in the background. We entered by the north
gate early in the afternoon. Within the city it almost seemed as though
we were still traversing country roads, for we passed many wide open
spaces, cultivated plots and a few isolated cottages, and the prickly
pear was flourishing where one might have expected to find shops and
paved streets. However, the whole city did not present this forlorn
appearance, for a turning to the right brought us to a busy and
populous quarter, and a further turn to the left led us into a lane in
which inns abounded, showing that the city fostered a certain amount of
trade.
I expected to find a fair assortment of foreign articles for sale here,
but there were few. Tinned pineapples from a Chinese firm in Singapore,
bearing a distinguished-looking label with the Royal Arms and the
British lion, were to be bought for the equivalent of ninepence a tin;
and "Finest Mineral Wax Candles, specially made for India," and sold by
a well-known Rangoon firm, were also to be had for about one shilling
per packet of five.
[Sidenote: COUVADE]
We have seen that the district of which Tali-fu is the centre, is the
Carajan of Marco Polo. Its western limit appears to have been the
Mekong river, and west of that was the old kingdom or state which Marco
calls the Province of Zardandan. To its capital he gives the name of
Vochan, and this city has been identified with Yung-ch'ang. This is the
"Golden-Teeth" country, so named because the inhabitants were said to
cover their teeth with thin movable plates of gold. Of this custom no
vestige remains, and it is uncertain whether the people are represented
by Shans or by some race connected with the Kachins. The inhabitants
of the district were evidently regarded by the Chinese till quite
modern times as an inferior race, for there is in the Chinese Penal
Code a law to the effect that immigrant Chinese, visiting Yung-ch'ang
for purposes of trade, must not ally themselves by marriage with
the "outer barbarians" of that neighbourhood. The extraordinary
practice known to us by the name (popularised by Tylor) of _Couvade_
apparently existed in Yung-ch'ang in Marco Polo's time; and as he was
doubtless unaware of its prevalence in many other parts of the world
his testimony on the subject may be regarded as trustworthy. "And when
one of their wives," says Marco, "has been delivered of a child, the
infant is washed and swathed, and then the woman gets up and goes about
her household affairs, whilst the husband takes to bed with the child
by his side, and so keeps his bed for forty days; and all the kith and
kin come to visit him, and keep up a great festivity. They do this
because, say they, the woman has had a hard bout of it, and 'tis but
fair the man should have his share of suffering."[355] Whether this
explanation of the custom is the true one is perhaps open to doubt.
It is hardly flattering to the kith and kin, who presumably did their
best to relieve the man's monotony, and make matters as pleasant as the
somewhat singular circumstances permitted.
The annals of Yung-ch'ang should prove of exceptional interest to
the student of Chinese history, for they cannot but throw a flood of
light on the relations between the various tribes and states that have
striven for the mastery of western Yunnan and the great valleys of the
Mekong and Salwen. Its first annexation to the Chinese empire may be
assigned to the year 1277, when a great battle--vividly described by
Marco Polo[356]--was fought in the Yung-ch'ang plain between the army
of the Great Khan and the ambitious king of Mien, or Burma, the main
strength of whose army consisted in a host of elephants. "Then might
you see swashing blows dealt and taken from sword and mace; then might
you see knights and horses and men-at-arms go down; then might you
see arms and hands and legs and heads hewn off: and besides the dead
that fell, many a wounded man, that never rose again, for the sore
press there was. The din and uproar were so great from this side and
from that, that God might have thundered and no man would have heard
it! Great was the medley, and dire and parlous was the fight that was
fought on both sides; but the Tartars had the best of it."
The population of Yung-ch'ang is still a very mixed one, but the
Chinese language is spoken and understood by all classes, and the
dialect differs little from that of the metropolitan province. The
observant Marco Polo noticed among the people of Zardandan the
prevalence of the custom of tatooing the body and legs: a custom which
to this day is universal among the Shans and Burmese and allied races.
[Sidenote: IN THE LION'S DEN]
On arrival at my inn I found that all arrangements for the next
stage of my journey had been duly made, and on the following morning
I set out with two new riding mules--one for myself and one for my
servant--and two baggage mules. The muleteers undertook to get us to
T'êng-yüeh in five days, and kept their word. Our road led through the
city past a temple dedicated to the God of Wealth and out of the south
gate. I noticed the date "Kuang Hsü xxvi" (1900) on some of the bricks
of the city wall, showing that a restoration had taken place recently.
Unfortunately the authorities take no steps to prevent weeds and shrubs
from growing in the interstices and on the parapet, and the roots must
in course of time seriously affect the stability of the structure.
Outside the gate we passed a Kuan Yin temple and went through a small
suburb. The road then lay for about 4 miles southward over the plain
and through the village of Wo Shih Wo (the "Sleeping Lion's Den"). The
name is derived from a cave a few hundred yards above the village.
The smell of the innumerable bats, not to mention the disquieting
possibility of arousing the lion from his slumbers, would make the cave
a disagreeable place to explore. The cave evidently penetrates some
distance into the hill, though from the entrance it is difficult to
say how far, as there is a turn to the left. It was very dark, and I
did not venture far into the interior, as there was a steep slope made
slippery by the constant dripping of water from the roof. The descent
would have been easy enough--
"Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras
Hoc opus, hic labor est,"--
so I left the attempt to the next traveller.
From here the road wound steadily but not steeply up and over a
range of hills, and brought us to the village of Hao Tzŭ P'u. We
continued the ascent to the summit of a pass, and in the course of the
corresponding descent reached the village of Lêng Shui Ching ("Cold
Water Well"). Another 5 or 6 miles brought us down to a level plain and
to our halting-place--the large village of P'u Piao. Here I found the
accommodation bad, though it is a regular stage and there are several
inns.
The next stage was a very short one, only about 7 miles, but it
brought us to the edge of the "Valley of the Shadow of Death"--the
chasm through which flows the Salwen--and my men would not dare to
cross it unless they were quite fresh and had dosed themselves well
with quinine. The road from P'u Piao offers no difficulties. The only
villages we passed were several which bore the collective name of Fang
Ma Ch'ang. Baber describes this place as being a ruined hamlet, but it
has risen from its ashes since his day. Even as late as Baber's time
this district was the scene of sanguinary strife between the imperial
forces and a noted rebel chief. Baber actually saw the rebel camp on
the hills opposite the road in the Fang Ma Ch'ang valley. No wonder he
passed villages in ruins. Two miles further brought us to the end of
our short stage--the miserable hamlet of Ta Pan Ching. A short distance
behind it, on the slope of a wooded hill, is a small rock-temple. In it
there are four sedent figures and two standing. A semicircular brick
wall is built in front of them, so that their view, if they had eyes
to see, would be distinctly circumscribed and lacking in variety. Just
above the shrine, and nearly hidden by trees, is a picturesque little
temple, and close by are a few graves.
[Sidenote: "VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH"]
Next morning, after dosing my men and myself with all the quinine that
was likely to be good for us, I began the long winding descent into the
valley of the Salwen, the Chinese name for which is the Lu Chiang or
Lu Tzŭ Chiang.[357] I started on foot half an hour before my men, and
did not see them until we all foregathered at the river. Soon after
starting I came upon a stream of running water by the side of which was
a tablet bearing a Chinese inscription to the effect that the water
was dangerous to drink. Is it possible that the streams of this valley
really contain some vegetable or mineral poison, and that it is from
this fact that the valley derives its terrible reputation? The height
of Ta Pan Ching above sea-level is 4,500 feet, while the bed of the
Salwen lies at about 2,400; the actual descent was therefore 2,100
feet. It is not very steep, for the Salwen valley at this point is very
much broader than that of the Mekong in the same latitude. After an
easy and pleasant walk I reached the suspension bridge feeling quite as
free from sickness as when I started.
I can offer no plausible theory to account for the traditional
unhealthiness of the Salwen valley. To all appearance its verdant
hills and broad slopes ought to be covered with cultivation and with
the homes of thousands of industrious farmers. As it is, not a soul
lives in the whole of that splendid stretch of country except a few
despised Shan or Pa I tribesmen, who are apparently the only people
who can dwell there and thrive. Most travellers dash across as if they
were flying for their lives,[358] and consider themselves fortunate if
they are not struck down before they reach the heights overlooking the
further side of the valley. Baber's account of its terrors, as they
were described to him, is well worth quoting. "The morrow's journey
would lead us across the Salwen--a river, to the native mind, teeming
with portent and mystery. In western Yunnan this river is always spoken
of with a certain awe. Governor Ts'ên himself had warned us to cross
its valley with all haste. Often had we been told of the many varieties
of malarious exhalations which shroud the hollow after sunrise: fogs,
red, yellow and blue, of which the red is the most deadly and the
blue next in the scale of mortality. General Thunder, who had never
previously crossed, came to notify to us that he had determined to
start before daylight, so as to get well beyond the river before the
sun was up. Luckily for us, he said, the deadly flood was now spanned
by a suspension bridge, but before its construction travellers had to
pass in boats. In those days a gruesome monster, resembling in shape
a huge blanket, would issue from the depths, and, wrapping passengers
and boat in his fœtid folds, would sink back into his native
abyss."[359]
[Sidenote: THE SALWEN VALLEY]
How far back these superstitions may be traced is difficult to say.
Certainly in Marco Polo's time, in the thirteenth century, they were
widely current; for, though he himself obviously did not cross the
valley, he describes the whole region as "full of great woods and
mountains which 'tis impossible to pass, the air in summer is so impure
and bad; and any foreigners attempting it would die for certain." That
travellers descending from the high Yunnan plateau into a steamy valley
only 2,400 feet above sea-level may be seriously inconvenienced by the
sudden change of temperature,[360] and perhaps become liable to attacks
of fever, is not improbable; but as none of my own party succumbed to
sickness, I am inclined to think that the Salwen has been unjustly
maligned. My friend the Peking _Times_ correspondent has told us "there
can be little doubt that the deadliness of the valley is a tradition
rather than a reality." In view of Dr Morrison's well-known accuracy, I
am content to accept his opinion as the true one, more especially as it
coincides with my own. Being a man of scientific and medical skill he
would surely have sought out and annihilated Baber's blanket-fiend if
it had existed.
After crossing the suspension bridge, which is similar in construction
to those already noticed but is in two sections, I came to a small
Pa I hamlet and a temple. Being in no hurry, and anxious to give the
noxious vapours of the valley every opportunity of doing their worst
on me, I paid a long visit to the temple and waited about an hour for
the arrival of my caravan. I was told that the indigenous inhabitants
of the valley were gradually increasing in numbers and bringing more of
the land under cultivation, and that they were ruled by a _t'u ssŭ_ or
tribal chief who dwelt on the right bank of the river at a place about
10 miles to the south. A path leads thither along the river-bank.
[Sidenote: RAINBOW IN THE SALWEN VALLEY]
The upward climb on the west side of the valley was not arduous, and
the mules made the ascent without much difficulty in spite of the fact
that a very heavy shower of rain turned the road into a running stream.
It was curious to watch the rain-storm in the shape of a dense grey
cloud rushing southwards through the valley. On looking back towards
the river, then a couple of thousand feet below us, we had a fine view
of the silver waters of the Salwen sparkling in brilliant sunshine;
in a moment they were hidden by a rolling mass of dark vapour, out
of which arose a strange parti-coloured rainbow in which orange and
blue-green predominated. Its perfect arch crossed the whole breadth of
the river-bed where the valley was narrowest, spanning the river like
a fairy bridge. In five minutes the storm rolled on and the rainbow
faded away, leaving me with the impression that I had never seen
anything more beautiful or more strange. The fancy occurred to me that
it was perhaps some such natural phenomenon as this that gave rise to
the tradition recorded by Baber about the tinted fogs that varied in
deadliness according to their colour.
We were all in a very wet and draggled condition when we arrived at the
wretched wattle-and-mud hamlet of Hu Mu Shu, after a climb of about
3,100 feet above the level of the river. When we started next morning
it was still raining, and in half an hour the clothes that we had
dried with difficulty were again wet through. Our path lay to a great
extent through thick forest, and the dripping of the leaves was almost
as troublesome as the rain itself. We had a steady climb of about 3
miles to the hamlet called Hsiang Po ("Elephant's Neck"), and a further
climb of 1,500 feet to the summit of a pass 8,730 feet high. There is
a wooden gateway at the top. From here the road descends for about a
mile, then ascends again and undulates, and finally goes rather steeply
down to the hamlet of T'ai P'ing, where we halted for our midday rest.
Pheasants abound in this district, but the jungle is so thick that it
is hardly possible to leave the pathway in search of game. Our host at
T'ai P'ing possessed some valuable European articles in the shape of
a glass oil-lamp and two empty claret bottles probably left behind by
some traveller more amply provided than myself with good things. The
descent to the Shweli or Lung River was a steep and slippery ride in
the course of which we descended about 3,500 feet. The river is crossed
by a suspension bridge of the usual type. A mile or two further on we
came to the village of Kan-lan-chan, where we spent the night in a very
dirty inn.
Next day's stage presented no features of special interest. Early in
the afternoon I descended to the T'êng-yüeh plain, which is studded
with more or less prosperous villages, and soon caught sight of the
semi-European buildings of the Chinese Imperial Customs and--more
welcome still--the Union Jack floating over the gates of the British
Consulate. There I was most hospitably received and entertained by Mr
Ottewell, Acting British Consul, and enjoyed a two days' rest.
[Sidenote: PROJECTED RAILWAYS FROM BURMA]
T'êng-yüeh is to be the terminus of the proposed British railway from
Bhamo, regarding which negotiations have been in progress for some
considerable time. That the trade between Burma and China by this route
requires some stimulus is unquestionable. The officials in charge of
the T'êng-yüeh Customs informed me that the volume of trade annually
passing through their hands was not showing any elasticity, and that
the Customs revenue barely served to defray the expenses of the
establishment. Whether the railway will stimulate the trade to any very
great extent is questionable; for caravans bound for Burma have already
surmounted all serious obstacles, in the shape of mountain and flood,
by the time they have reached T'êng-yüeh, so that as far as they
are concerned a railway would merely shorten by a few days a journey
which already might have lasted months. Local traffic between the two
termini will probably be found fairly remunerative, though very large
returns can hardly be expected. If the railway could be carried on to
Tali-fu, its ultimate success would be a certainty; but the engineering
difficulties are very great, and the amount of capital required for
construction would be enormous. From Tali-fu several branch lines might
be constructed, one going south to the Kunlon ferry (a route which has
already been surveyed) to meet the existing British line from Mandalay
to Lashio, and another going north to Li-chiang. The main line should,
of course, be carried eastwards to Yunnan-fu, which will very soon
be in railway communication with French Indo-China and the port of
Haiphong. The branch line from Tali-fu to Li-chiang--following the
route traversed by myself[361]--would meet with no great difficulties,
and would pass through a series of rich and populous valleys. Even
if Li-chiang were a terminus it is probable that the local traffic
would amply justify such a railway; though it would be better still if
further branches could be carried on to Wei-hsi in the west, in order
to intercept the Tibetan trade, and to Hui-li-chou or Ning-yüan-fu on
the east, to tap the trade of the Chien-ch'ang valley, which might
eventually include a great deal of the foreign trade of Ssuch'uan. It
must be admitted that all these lines--with the exception of the branch
from Tali to Li-chiang--would be very costly to construct and to keep
in repair. Meanwhile British enterprise seems content to restrict
itself to the short line between Bhamo and T'êng-yüeh. This railway
will doubtless fully justify its existence, but it is absurd to suppose
that such a line will seriously compete with the French lines in the
east of the province, or will have any appreciable effect in deflecting
the trade of Yunnan from Tongking to Burma.[362]
[Sidenote: CHINESE SHAN STATES]
At T'êng-yüeh I paid off the Tibetan servant who had accompanied me
from Tachienlu, and the muleteers who had come from Yung-ch'ang,
and engaged new mules and coolies to take me to Bhamo. I resumed
my journey on 8th June. The path soon leaves the plain and mounts
through extensive graveyards and over barren hills. Later in the day
we descended, gradually but steadily, to a valley, narrow, but very
extensively cultivated with rice and dotted with many villages. In many
cases the recent rains had caused the inundated rice-fields to overflow
into the road, which was often quite submerged. I lunched at the small
village of Jê Shui T'ang, which, as its name implies, possesses a
natural hot spring. We had now left the Yunnan plateau behind us, and
had descended to the plains that slope gradually downwards towards
the Irrawaddy. For the rest of the way to Burma I found that the vast
majority of the population were Shans and Kachins, whose picturesque
dresses are a pleasant contrast to the drab-coloured garments that
generally content the less æsthetic Chinese. The women are remarkable
for their headgear, which is similar to that worn by the isolated Shans
whom I had seen in the Salwen valley. It consists of a tall dark turban
that looks like a kind of antediluvian gentleman's top-hat that has
been cruelly sat upon. Unfortunately the Shans, both men and women,
are much given to disfiguring their mouths by chewing betel-nut--a
disagreeable habit of an otherwise charming people. The drinking-water
in this part of the country--as is generally the case in a land of
padi-fields--must be used with great caution. I passed a clear flowing
stream, by the side of which was the notification, _t'zŭ shui yu tu_
("This water is poisonous")--a warning which must be disconcerting to a
thirsty wayfarer.
We spent the night of our first day from T'êng-yüeh in a roomy temple
in the large village of Nan Tien. The next day was uneventful. We
traversed execrable roads. Often it was difficult to know whether we
were on the path or in a padi-field, for both were inundated, and
we spent the greater part of the day in wading through a series of
shallow and very muddy lakes. We spent the second night in the market
village of Kau Ngai, and the third in Hsiao Hsin Kai ("Little Bhamo").
The purely Shan villages were generally enclosed within fences, and
we did not see much of them; but I noticed that the native houses in
the Chinese Shan States are less picturesque, and also apparently
less clean and commodious than those of the Lao-Shans in the French
Shan States and Siam. On 11th June the swollen rivers caused us even
greater trouble than the flooded rice-fields, and at one point I feared
we should have to wait till the waters subsided. Between the villages
of Hsiao Hsin Kai and Lung Chang Kai we came to a river which, though
doubtless an insignificant brook in dry weather, was then a swift and
muddy river about 60 yards broad. There was nothing in the way of boat,
bridge or ford, and our mules, with all the obstinacy of their kind,
for a long time refused to leave the bank. Finally, my two baggage
animals were relieved of their burdens, which were carried across in
separate light loads on the heads of coolies. The latter were stripped
to the skin, for the water was almost high enough to take them off
their feet. One of them lost his footing, and let his load fall into
the water; it was recovered, but most unfortunately it contained some
rolls of exposed photographic films. The comparatively poor results of
my journey from the photographic point of view--for dozens of films
were utterly ruined--are largely due to that unhappy accident. The fact
that I had so nearly reached my journey's end and had so far escaped
any such mishap rendered it all the more vexatious. I crossed the
river without any disaster to myself, but the drenching to which I was
unavoidably subjected gave me an attack of fever, which was not shaken
off for several days. It is not so easy to get rid of colds and fevers
in the steamy tropical valleys of the Shan States as it is in the
exhilarating climate of the Tibetan mountains.
[Sidenote: BRITISH-MADE ROAD IN CHINA]
The latter part of the same day's journey (the fourth stage from
T'êng-yüeh) was unexpectedly easy. I suddenly found myself on a good
broad road, unmetalled, but well engineered. I followed this road the
whole way to Bhamo, and it was not until my arrival there that I was
given an explanation of so unusual a phenomenon as a carriage road
in Chinese territory. It was the work of British engineers, and had
been undertaken by the Government of Burma at the request and at the
expense of the Government of Yunnan. The provincial funds have not yet
permitted of the extension of the road to T'êng-yüeh, but it is to
be hoped, for the sake of future travellers, and in the interests of
trade, that something will be done to carry it over the rain-sodden
plains. When we struck the British-made road we were about 70 or 80
miles from Bhamo, and between 20 and 30 from the British frontier. At
15 miles from the frontier we halted for the night in the village of
Man-hsien, which is the administrative centre of a Chinese-Shan chief
or sawbwa.[363] It is only a hamlet consisting of about thirty flimsy
bamboo huts, several of which were shops for the sale of local produce.
On 12th June my day's journey began in Chinese and ended in British
territory. Being too impatient to wait for my muleteers--who showed no
emotion at the proximity of the British flag--I started on foot and
walked the whole of the 15 miles to the frontier. There was a heavy
shower in the early morning, but the sky soon cleared up, and for the
rest of the day the fierce rays of a tropical sun beat upon me with
all their strength, and taxed all the resisting power of the shilling
umbrella I had bought at San Ying. The gradient of the road was
excellent throughout, but being unmetalled it had been much damaged by
the recent rains. In many places it was entirely blocked by landslips;
at others it had been torn away by mountain floods. It was bordered by
dense jungle on both sides. On the left, luxuriant vegetation covered
the steep slope of a mountain; on the right was an abrupt descent into
a ravine, in which one could hear but seldom see the roaring torrent
below. In some places the landslips had brought down large trees, which
lay across the road. My mules, I heard afterwards, had great difficulty
in surmounting these various obstacles, and in some cases were forced
to trample out a new road for themselves in the jungle. The road, good
as it was, seemed to me a "fair-weather" road. There was a lack of
bridges. Streams that might be non-existent in the dry season were then
rushing over the road, wearing deep channels in its surface, or tearing
it away altogether. There was also a lack of storm-water drains. These
would at least do a little to prevent the torrential summer rains from
making havoc of the roadway. Further, the wooded slopes adjacent to
the road have not been sufficiently strengthened, and, under present
conditions, serious landslips are bound to occur every year. Only an
engineer has any right to speak with authority on such matters, but one
may perhaps hazard the suggestion that the cemented roads of Hongkong,
with their admirable and elaborate storm-drainage system, might with
advantage be copied in Upper Burma in places where the roads are
specially liable to landslips or floods. Probably, however, the great
cost of such roadways would be prohibitive in a country which is, after
all, thinly populated, and where there is little traffic.
[Sidenote: THE BRITISH FRONTIER]
In referring to the lack of bridges I must not forget the admirable
iron bridge at Kamsa, 4 miles west of Man-hsien in Chinese territory.
It spans a torrent which descends in a series of dazzling cascades.
The highest of these, visible from the bridge, is a really fine
waterfall, which would attract crowds of sightseers if it were in a
more accessible country. The bridge is quite new, having been completed
only in April 1905. Had it not existed, I should have found myself in a
serious dilemma. The stream that flowed below it was a boiling torrent
which neither man nor horse could ford or swim, and its course, above
and below, was hidden by impenetrable jungle.
At the bottom of a narrow ravine 15 miles from Man-hsien there is a
brook spanned by a log of wood. I saw no inscribed pillar, and no
flags, nor was I challenged by any lynx-eyed Indian sentry; but this
is the spot at which two great Empires meet. On the Chinese side were
a few Shan huts, known collectively as Kulika. After climbing out
of the ravine on the western side, I found the first evidence of
British occupation: two small wooden bungalows surrounded by servants'
sheds and outhouses. They were all empty and deserted, though some
Shan pedlars were peacefully enjoying their midday slumber on one of
the verandahs. The bungalows had probably been used by engineers and
surveyors, but evidently they had not been occupied for some time. I
took temporary possession of the one not selected by the Shans, and
awaited there the arrival of my caravan.
[Sidenote: RETURN TO CIVILISATION]
After a meagre tiffin I again set off on foot amid enchanting tropical
scenery. The views were not extensive, for the road lay through a
gorge covered with thick jungle. Several hundred feet below the road
I occasionally caught sight of the foaming waters of the T'ai P'ing
rushing tempestuously through its confined bed. From a wide, majestic
and apparently navigable river--for such it was while it flowed through
the plains I had lately been traversing--it had become a series of
boiling rapids noisily protesting against their confinement within so
narrow a channel. Eight miles beyond the frontier I was not sorry to
come within sight of the end of my long day's walk--the first of the
trim little Public Works Bungalows[364] which a considerate Government
has established at convenient distances along the main roads of Upper
Burma for the use of officials and travellers. Here I was welcomed by
a Kachin damsel, who, in the absence of the regular bungalow keeper,
addressed to me soothing words which, I felt sure, must be meant to be
words of welcome; and I made haste to interpret them as such. A walk
of 23 miles at the hottest season of the year in a tropical country is
not a task to be lightly undertaken every day; and when allowance is
made for the manner in which I had lived for the past few months, in a
country where European comforts are unknown, I may perhaps be pardoned
for having given way to feelings of exultation at finding myself in a
bungalow furnished--as it seemed to me--with the utmost luxury. A clean
table-cloth, knives and forks and glass tumblers, long easy-chairs, a
four-poster bed with mosquito curtains, and, above all, a bath, were
things of beauty and wonder that seemed almost too good to be true.
My expedition from Weihaiwei to the frontier of Burma had occupied
five months and six days. I had travelled from the most easterly
prefecture in China (Têng-chou) to the most westerly (Yung-ch'ang);
from the extreme north-east to the extreme south-west of China; over
the loftiest passes in the empire, and through seven of its provinces.
I had also traversed most of China's greatest rivers-the Yellow River,
Yangtse, Min, Ya, Ta Tu, Yalung, Mekong, Salwen and Shweli. As to my
condition at the end of this long and solitary journey, during the
greater part of which I had partaken of the same coarse and frugal fare
as my coolies and muleteers, I need only say that apart from a short
attack of fever in the Shan plains beyond T'êng-yüeh I never had a
day's sickness.
[Sidenote: BRITISH-INDIAN TROOPS]
At the bungalow of Mong-kung-ka I was still some distance from Bhamo.
At the earnest request of my guides, whose mules were exhausted, I
spent three days in traversing the remaining 43 miles. On 13th June I
halted at the bungalow of Kulong-ka, 30 miles from Bhamo. Next day,
at the eighteenth milestone from Bhamo, I found myself on a metalled
carriage road, as good as a first-rate country road in England, and
followed it to the bungalow at Momauk, a small village inhabited by
Shans and Kachins. On the 15th I left Momauk before 6 A.M., hoping to
reach the travellers' Dâk bungalow at Bhamo, only 9 miles distant,
without having to meet the critical eyes of the European residents.
The very slender outfit with which I had started from Weihaiwei had
long since disappeared. Peking furs and sheep-skin boots had served me
well on the Tibetan mountains, but were hardly suitable for a tropical
climate: and what remained of them I had given away to my followers
at Tali-fu. Other garments had gradually fallen to pieces, and had
been discarded one by one. I was now wearing Chinese straw sandals
without socks, an old khaki suit patched with most inappropriate
coarse blue cloth, and held together with string instead of buttons,
and a huge, wide-flapping straw hat such as forms the headgear of
Chinese Shans when working in the fields. The animal on which I had
ridden from T'êng-yüeh was a shaggy Yunnanese pony. The saddle, which
I had bought in Tachienlu, was of the kind generally used by the
natives of eastern Tibet, with a high pommel tipped with metal, and
a hard wooden seat covered with tightly-stretched yak leather. The
stirrups were iron plates something like flat saucers, and the bridle
was of rope and twisted bamboo. I had no desire to be thrust into the
deputy-commissioner's dungeons on suspicion of being a head-hunting Wa,
or an untamed Kachin, yet it was rash to expect any more hospitable
reception in my present condition. My hopes of evading detection until
I had emerged a new man from the shops of the shoemakers and tailors
of Bhamo were doomed to disappointment. I covered the nine miles at my
pony's quickest trot, and the houses of Bhamo were already in sight,
when suddenly arose in front of me an ominous cloud of dust. A glint
of sunshine shone on a brilliant array of polished arms, and quickly
out of the dust advanced a body of Indian troops. The pleasure with
which I should have welcomed the sight of a British mountain-battery
and the sound of the tramp of the king-emperor's soldiers was damped by
my painful knowledge of the ridiculous figure I must have presented. I
hastily urged my pony into a friendly ditch while the detachment passed
by, but I could not, unfortunately, escape the "stony British stare" of
the commanding-officer. Half a mile further on, on entering the town, I
met a solitary European on horseback, who in answer to my timid query
kindly directed me to the Dâk bungalow. Half an hour afterwards I was
arraying myself in ready made garments of varying degrees of misfit in
that admirable establishment well known to all residents in Upper Burma
as "Kohn's."
FOOTNOTES:
[349] See below, p. 331.
[350] Baber describes the old bridge as "very dilapidated" when it was
crossed by the Grosvenor Mission in 1876.
[351] 蘭滄江.
[352] Captain Gill (_River of Golden Sand_) somewhat exaggerates the
difficulties of what he calls "this desperate gorge."
[353] 人力所通.
[354] 光尊寺.
[355] Yule's _Marco Polo_ (Cordier's edition), vol. ii. p. 85.
[356] Yule's _Marco Polo_ (Cordier's edition), vol. ii. pp. 98-104.
[357] 潞子江.
[358] This is especially the case with the Chinese who come from a long
distance, and only know the Salwen by hearsay. My men (who belonged to
Yung-ch'ang) treated the valley with a disrespect that was perhaps bred
of familiarity, for they certainly did not unduly hurry themselves.
[359] Royal Geographical Society's _Supplementary Papers_, vol. i. pp.
176-177.
[360] At Ta Pan Ching (4,500 feet) the shade temperature immediately
after sunrise was 67°: in the temple at the Salwen bridge (2,400 feet)
it was only 81° at midday. So even the change of temperature was not
very serious.
[361] Or the alternative route through the valley of Ho Ch'ing.
[362] Those interested in the railway question should consult Major
Ryder's paper in the _Geographical Journal_ for February 1903 (vol.
xxi.) and Major Davies's remarks thereon.
[363] So called by the Burmese. The Shan word is _Sao-p'a_, which is
the designation of a tribal chief or prince.
[364] The name of the bungalow is Mong-kung-ka.