2nd February.--There was a river mist this morning, the sun shining
through, and we "slept in" for there was no engine to awaken us. When we
did awaken, it was to the tune of reed instruments like our pipe
chanters. These headed a single and double file procession to the pagoda
along the top of the river bank. The arrangement might have been taken
from the procession of the Parthenon. Most of the people were women,
some carried offerings in lacquer bowls on their heads, others carried
between them pagodas and pyramids in wicker-work hung with new pots and
pans and, odd bits of pretty colours and flowers. Others carried round
palm leaf fans, the whole effect through the sunny morning mist was
exquisite in colour and perfectly decorative. I think it was part of the
Phoungie funeral of last night. We got fairly cold looking at it from
the deck in dressing-gowns.
... It gets cold truly--morning tub makes one gasp, but the Burmans are
bathing and soaping themselves this morning alongside, apparently
enjoying the cold water as much as they do down south.
The fog lifts and we swing out and into the current at eight o'clock;
the mail boat that came up last night just ahead of us, and we go
surging up in her wake, two mighty fine children of the great Cleutha;
Glasgow owned, Clyde built and engineered--900 horse-power has this
Mandalay, and she has twenty years behind her, and the engines run as
smoothly as if she were new: and the whole ship fore and aft is so well
kept, she might have come from the makers yesterday! I don't say that
the mail boat in front exactly adds to the beauty of the scenery but it
gives a big sense of successful enterprise. How gratifying it must be to
Germans and other foreigners to have the use of such a fine line of
steamers for their goods.
The cottages on your left after Katha are rather pretty. They are on
piles of course, on account of the floods in the monsoon, not "because
of ye tygers which here be very plentifull," as the old travellers had
it. Their silvery weather-worn teak or cane showing here and there, is a
pleasant contrast to the rich green foliage. We pass so close to the
bank that we can see the bright colours of the women's tamaines inside
them and through the trees we get glimpses of the blue hills to the
west-- d---- we are aground again--and my snipe shooting at Moda won't
come off--horrid sell! No--I believe she's over. No, she's stuck!
... But we got off--and have arrived at Moda; and I think the show of
native beauty crowding down the white sand here is even more effective
and exquisite than any village crowds we have seen so far on either of
the two sides of the river.
The girls are pictures; one has a yellow orchid between her golden
coloured cheek and jet black hair, another a Marechal Niel rose above
her forehead. There are old and young; Shans, Burmans, Chinese,
Kachins--the young Burmese beauties vastly set off by the various
northern tribes. Up the sand I see, for example, a group of three, an
old lady and two young things sitting under a pink parasol, each with
knees tucked up in a red purple and lemon yellow silk tamaine or tight
skirt. Imagine the soft rose light from the parasol over the white
jackets and silk and the sharp shadows on the sand. How graceful the
owner of the parasol was when she stood up! I think it was her duenna
who toppled off the edge of the gangway with one of the Chittagong crew
in the push to come aboard. The old lady's face puckered as she went
over, but she was out in a second, and came aboard with the jolly
crowd, smiling like the rest. The pretty girls drop their red and blue
velvet sandals with a clatter on to our iron deck when they come up the
gangway, shuffle their toes into them and waddle off to the stalls with
an air. No--waddle is not the word, its a little body twist rather like
that of our French cousins, and their frank look is Spanish, but with
less langour and a little more lift in it for fun! Leaving all this
grace and colour behind, we marched away with a gun and two men, a
native and a Burman, which surely proves the vandalism of our
upbringing.
But I may have scored by not staying and painting, granted I may never
forget the charm of the mid-day stillness behind the village, and the
walk through half jungle, half cultivated country with everything asleep
in the quiet and warmth, and never a chance of game unless I trod on it.
Through the village palms and trees I came on a lakelet with short grass
and tall white briar rose bushes round its edge. It was almost covered
with a water plant with leaves like a strawberry, which made a dull rose
tracery across the reflected blue sky. There were three white ibis,
distant dark blue hills and trees, and jungle grass and their
reflections; a cormorant and sea swallow were fishing, and a little
pagoda, with gleaming golden Hti hung its reflection in the mirror. It
was so still and the air so sweet that I felt perfectly happy with never
a thing to fire at but an occasional dove, or curiously coloured
lapwing. The only thing I actually did fire at was a swagger bluebird
whose plumage I did covet. It let me have five shots, at from seventy to
eighty yards but never closer, and went off flaunting its green and blue
plumage derisively, and I hurried home at top speed long after the
second whistle, rather glad I'd done no damage to anything.
At Shewgee in the afternoon we pulled out of the sunlight on the river
into the shadow of a steep bank with some sixty black-tarred wooden
steps up it. Creepers and foliage hung in masses over the edge and on
the top were the usual groups of brightly dressed people and palms and
trees in half tone, against a warm sky; and a pagoda too, of course, in
white and gold, with a banner staff in white glass mosaic. The dainty
figures came trooping down the long black steps and surged on board,
first of all politely making way to let us go ashore.
We wandered through, I think, the neatest village we have seen, each
dainty mat house had a tiny compound with palms, trees, and roses and
other flowers round it. We heard "The Potter thumping his wet clay" and
stopped and watched. He, or she, sat on the ground with feet out in
front and modelled bowls round the left hand, thumping and patting the
stiff clay with a little wooden spade, and without any further appliance
made complicated forms perfectly symmetrical. I'd no idea such symmetry
could be attained without the use of the wheel.
As we came back the darkness was falling and there were fires in most of
the houses on trays of earth and the light shone through the bamboo
walls, and we could see figures sitting beside them, either for warmth
or possibly to get away from mosquitoes.
We met a gold prospector here, a lean, brown, blue-eyed man in khaki
shirt and well-cut, and well-worn tweed continuations. I think all
prospectors must be somewhat alike. The last I saw was a similar
type--drinking beer in "The First and Last,"--Port Stanley--he was just
back from "the Coast," and his rig, and particularly, his expression
were much the same, but the man from Terra del had found gold, "like
melon seeds--G--D--two inches deep!"--this one hadn't.
Dinner talk suddenly interesting--the new passenger, Captain Kirke, R.
A., commandant of the military police is just in from the hills on the
west, where he has been on a punitive expedition. His three hundred
Sikhs and Ghurkas and ponies are on a small government steamer which we
have passed and repassed lately, so we have the latest news of our
neighbours to the west, the "partially subdued" Chins. The expedition
was, I understand, to settle some family grievances of these people. One
chief had taken some of a neighbouring chief's people when he wasn't at
home, and had them tied to trees and little arrows fired into them, one
by one, so that in the end they died. The cruel chief's wives were said
to be the instigators of this "most bloody business" and the leading
lady's photograph warranted the assertion. Her face was tattooed and was
curiously like a Red Indian's. I have read in a book that the Chins
tattoo their wives' faces to prevent them being stolen for their beauty!
I gather this punitive expedition that we have come across unexpectedly,
was carried out without a shot being fired, so it won't be in the
papers. The wicked chief and his wives awoke one morning to find their
village being looked at severely by two mountain guns, and a camera, and
encircled with rifles, so they came along quietly-some ten chiefs all
told. I think Captain Kirke was naturally a little pleased at the
persuasive effect of his pet guns, and gratified that he had managed to
bring them over the difficult country, and civil objections--but if I
had run that show I'd have felt much inclined to have fired just one
shot, for the sake of a medal and newspaper laurels.
We really begin to feel at the Empire's frontier now, when we have
pointed out to us to the northward, the mountain tops where the military
police, _i.e._, native troops and lonely British officers keep watch and
ward over our furthest marches--heliographing between times to Bhamo for
"news from Town."
3rd February.--We got away early this morning, and were stopped by a fog
bank, so I saw the Defiles. The Defiles are considered the thing to see;
and they are interesting enough; we passed the Third Defile down the
river somewhere. At this the Second the river narrows and the mountains
rise pretty steeply on either side, and are clothed with grand trees
and jungle. It is less distinctive scenery than that of the wider
valleys of the Irrawaddy; you might see similar features in many other
rivers. At full flood the force of water down this narrow gorge must be
rather tremendous, it is said to be forty fathoms deep then, and the
captain told me, that when steaming up at fourteen knots, they could
sometimes barely make way! Coming down must be kittle steering, I'd
think. It is a good country for elephants. I am told.
After the Defiles we stop at Sinkan on the left bank, where the river
spreads out again into the more usual style of Irrawaddy scenery, the
valley very wide, the sandy river's edge capped with a jungle of waving
kaing, or elephant grass, eighteen feet high, and over and beyond
bluey-green tree-clad mountains, not very high, but high enough to be
interesting and to raise hope.
[Illustration]
I made a sketch of cottages at Sinkan. The blue and black of the Shans,
and light blue colours of the Chinese dresses, begins to tell more
distinctly among the tulip colours of the Burmans. The men here are
armed with swords. The Shan's blade is slightly curved and pointed,
with no guard, the hilt sometimes of ivory and the scabbard richly
ornamented with silver, and the shoulder belt is of red or green velvet
rope; the Kachins' swords that I have seen are more simply made as
regards their scabbards and are square across the end of the blade.
Only you who fish can understand what great restraint I was obliged to
exercise here; as I painted on the fore-deck a grand fish rose in the
stream that comes in beside us, within casting distance of our bow, and
with the surge of a thirty pound salmon! And yet I went on painting! I
confess I very nearly did not.
At Bhamo the river broadens into a lake again, something like what it is
between Saigang and Mandalay--beautiful enough to travel a long way to
see.
There is a little desert of sand between the water's edge and Bhamo,
across it were trekking in single file Burmans, Shans, and Chinese, to
and from our steamer with lines of ponies, with bales of merchandise on
their pack saddles.
We look at the distant mountains beyond Bhamo that bound the
horizon--they tempt us and we wonder if we should not venture further
north; and take the caravan route into China--rather a big affair for
peaceful tourists. Captain Kirke came in strongly here, said, "Go, of
course--I will show you how to do it, give you ponies, and find you
guide and servants." So we have taken our courage in both hands and
decided to go. One of his men in the meantime, had gone and brought an
elephant, an enormous beast, over the sand; I am sure it was twice the
height of any I've seen in Zoos. It went down on its knees and elbows,
bales of cotton were piled alongside, and Miss B. and G. climbed up
these on to the pad, and I got up by its tail and the crupper. Then up
it heaved, and on we held, to ropes, and went off for half a mile over
the hot, soft sand; Captain Kirke riding a pretty Arab pony. I'd never
been on an elephant before, to my knowledge, nor had I ever experienced
the sensation of the black hair pricking through thin trousers, or the
besom of a tail whacking my boots--I consider we entered Bhamo with a
good deal of eclat.
[Illustration]
4th February.--We all went shopping on the elephant, Captain Kirke
kindly showing us round. He and his pony might have passed under our
steed's girth. It made a pretty fair block in the traffic of China
Street, but the style of shopping seemed to take the popular taste; and
from our point of view we could study at ease the various types of
people. The old ladies in tall blue serge turbans and tunics and putties
of the same colour rather struck me--they are Shans from the East--with
little shrewd twinkling black eyes, short noses and a gentle expression,
and that break in the eyebrow, which I think characteristic of a certain
dark Celtic type.
The above sketch represents a corner of the market; in the centre a
Kachin fairly characteristic but too tall, beside him his sturdy kilted
wife, with the usual basket on her back; other figures, a Burmese girl,
a Chinese woman, Sikhs, and distant Shan woman.
China Street, the principal street in Bhamo, is only about two hundred
yards long, but it is fairly wide and crammed full of interest to the
newcomer; it is so purely Chinese, you only see a Burman, a Burmese
woman rather, here and there, the wife of some Chinese trader. Burmese
women they say, incline to marry either Indians or Chinese, for though
these men are not exactly beautiful they are great workers, whilst the
Burman is a pleasure-loving gentleman of the golden age. The Burmese and
Indian cross is a sad sight.
We stopped at a leading citizen's house with whom Captain K. conversed
in Chinese, and why or how I don't know, but we found ourselves sitting
in his saloon, beyond his outer court, and it was just as if I'd dropped
into an old Holbein interior, it was all so subdued and harmonious and
perfect in finish. There was lacquer work-and ivory-coloured panels on
the walls, brown beams above, and orange vermilion paper labels with
black lettering hanging from them in rows, each purporting the titles of
our host; he wore a loose black silk waistcoat with buff sleeves, buff
shorts, black silk skull-cap, and a weedy black moustache which he
touched every now and then with little pocket comb; the colouring of his
dress, and complexion, and background, all in perfect harmony. He had
gentle clever overhung eyes and was quite the great gentleman,
entertaining us intruders with calm smiling affability. In a court
which he showed us, he had a raised octagonal fish pond, and in his
porch his people were unlading ponies of bales of merchandise. Both the
persons and the surroundings of his establishment seemed to date away
back to the happy and cruel Middle Ages.
At a shop over the way our elephant stood in the sun, the Burman on its
head with his white jacket and light red scarf round his hair, calmly
smoking a cheroot, a welcome contrast to the busy keen Chinese life;
above him hung large orange-red paper lanterns with large Chinese
inscriptions. At the young merchant's shop over the way, we bought
finely cut Chinese tobacco, and a number of Chinese silk satchels, note
books, and other things at trifling prices. The young owner I'd like to
be able to describe; I don't think I have ever seen such perfection of
finish of dress, and even form; his complexion was palest coffee-colour,
teeth perfectly white and symmetrical, cap and jacket of the most
delicate finish, silk shoes and white socks, and baggy trousers, all as
if split new and of perfection of workmanship, and he totted up his
accounts and did all the business with a polished self-possessed manner!
I must say my first impression of the heathen Chinee at Bhamo was
tremendously in his favour; in many ways even the coolies, or Chinese
porters, struck me favourably, by their simple kit, blue tunic and
shorts, and their sturdy limbs and absence of any roughness of manner.
A few yards along the road brought us to the Joss House. It would take
many drawings, to describe the many arrangements of courts and steps and
quaintly curved roofs, and the foliage and flickering shadows. In the
interior were Chinese and some Burmese, and all the pastime of their
lives seemed to go on there, prayers, feeding, gambling and theatricals,
at the same or at different times without hurry. We patronised the
gambling corner--gave the principal high priest who did the honours of
the place to us five rupees to gamble with for us--he was a fine big
man with a potent expression--he lost and won a good deal, then lost the
lot and two or three more rupees, and went on playing with his own
money. It was delightful to see the hearty way these gamblers laughed
when they lost, and chuckled when they won: I got a respect for gambling
that I'd never previously had. I've generally seen people get a little
white when they lose--and--well--I do not care for their subdued
expressions when they win--but there was a boyish hilarity and hardihood
about this gambling that made it almost attractive.
Here is one view of the Joss House. The Chinamen were intensely
interested, as I painted, and crowded round. They were perfectly polite
and well-intentioned as also are the Burmese, but I think the Chinaman's
interest in the technique is so great that he cannot keep at any
distance, so it was an enormous effort to concentrate on the subject and
not just to draw the nearest heads. Here is one, however, a boy with fur
cap, his complexion was like fine China and showed great finish of form.
I noticed they were all very clean indeed, their clothes spotless, and
the scent of their tobacco quite good.
[Illustration]
I had sent my Boy round to find a place where we might stay, and on our
return to the steamer he told me the Dak bungalow was occupied, likewise
the circuit house, so we were stranded and homeless on the banks of the
Irrawaddy. We then went up to the club, and there found to our relief
our Boy was ... mistaken, and that the Dak bungalow was available. A
member of the club kindly introduced himself and entertained us whilst
we waited for our host, we noticed his hands were both in bandages, but
of this more anon. From the club we went back in the starlight to our
home on the ship for one more night, our minds at rest and bodies
refreshed. The ladies drove in a bullock cart, the writer walked
behind--the sand and track were too rough for The Bhamo gharry, and
truly we considered our cart was more picturesque and comfortable. The
grey wood of the cart and the ladies' white hats and dresses, and the
natives' white robes and the grey white sand and white oxen, all blended
into a very pretty moth-like harmony; and overhead the sky was mat blue
with many solemn stars twinkling. As we crossed the little desert of
sand we passed the camp and fires of the Northern peoples, beside their
scores of ponies, and bales of cotton, and pack saddles; everything
uncovered and open on the dry sand, no need here at this season for
shelter excepting from the sun at mid-day.
[Illustration: A Chinese Joss House]
Miss B. leaves us here, going south by what is called the Ferry Boat, a
most excellent little steamer, with roomy, comfortable cabins. It goes
down to Katha, thence she goes by train to Mandalay, and straight on to
Rangoon, and her R.E. brother in India. We decide to stick to steamers
in Burmah as long as we can, the extra time spent on steamers is well
balanced by their comfort as against the dust and racket of a train.
[Illustration]
The morning fog gave us a little respite--let us have an extra
half-hour on board before landing our goods and chattels--but the horn
was let off pretty often before we got our luggage up the loose sand on
to the level. Chinese coolies in blue dungaree tunics, wide straw hats
and ditto shorts carried it in baskets slung from either end of bamboo
poles balanced over their shoulders. They are sturdy, cheery fellows,
with well-shaped calves and muscular short feet. When the steamer
cleared off we were fairly marooned on the sandbank.
[Illustration]
No bullock-carts had come, so G. and I sat on her saddle-box and
sketched a departing caravan of mules and ponies, each laden with two
bales of cotton,--a Chinaman to every four ponies. There were
eighty-four ponies, and they filed away, jingling into the morning mist
that hung low on the sand flat. It was a little cold, but we got warmer
as the sun rose over the Bhamo trees, and pagoda, and Joss House. At
first the coolies stood round us, and our baggage, and took stock of us,
but gradually the interest flagged, and they sat down, and we drew them,
and G. made this sketch of Bhamo, and the sunrise over China.
... A Burmese woman came to the sand's edge with her baby, and built a
shelter with a few bamboos, and some matting for roof, and the baby
played in the patch of shadow. As it got hotter we grew wearied of
waiting. At last our _Boy_ got the two errant bullock-carts, and we went
off in procession, a big bullock-cart with our luggage in front, a
Burman youth on top with long black hair escaping from a wisp of pink
silk, a Macpherson tartan putsoe round his legs, a placid expression,
and a cheroot, of course. G. and her maid came behind with recent
fragile purchases; pottery, in another bullock-cart, with an older
Burman whose face was a delight--so wrinkled, and wreathed with smiles.
I tailed behind and sketched as per margin, as we went through the
sand--shockingly unacademical wasn't it, to draw walking?
[Illustration]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Our first Dak bungalow experience was short. We had just settled down
when word came we were to occupy the Deputy-Commissioner's bungalow
which is apparently empty, so we only had tiffin in the Dak bungalow.