Yesterday afternoon we did a little preparation for our trek into China.
Mr Kohn, the storekeeper in Bhamo, imports to the East, the essentials
of western civilization (in my opinion claret and cut Virginian) and the
etceteras; Cross and Blackwell things. And the West, he supplies with
Shan swords and orchids, Kachin bags, ornaments in jade, gold and
silver, and all sorts of curios. So we got bread from him for seven
days, and tinned butter, milk, coffee, and a supply of the dried leaves
of a certain aromatic shrub, for an infusion called Tea, also his
Uisquebagh, and live ducks and hens in baskets, and six Chinese ponies,
and three Chinamen--quite an extensive piece of shopping which took two
hours at least.
... It is really very pleasant to feel we are actually going with our
own mule train into the wilds, where even Cook's tickets and Empires
peter out; there is almost the same exciting feeling as of sailing into
uncharted seas, and seeing new lands.
Our mule train cannot exactly be called interminable; but we have four
riding ponies to add to the live stock already mentioned, making a
caravan of ten beasts. Besides the three Chinese men, there is our
Madrassee boy, an Indian cook, in black top-coat and black Delhi cap; he
has a plain but honest face, and a stutter and a few words of English,
and there is a youthful Burman to help him, and three Indian soldiers,
Sowars, to ride behind our illustrious selves! Quite an interesting
crowd when you come to think of it, for its size and babel of tongues!
but, my certie! I'd nearly left out the cook's charming and stately
Burmese wife! She is the most decorative part of the show; with a yellow
orchid in her black hair, coppery-brown lungy, green-jacket and pink
scarf floating from her shoulders; she carries a black gingham umbrella
in one hand, and in the other, of course, a big white cheroot, and
behind her toddles her dog, liver and white, half terrier, half
daschhound.
We got our packages fast on the pack saddles, and the procession on the
road only three hours after the time we had aimed at, which we thought
not bad for beginners, and G. and I followed, in a pony trap, with the
four ponies and two Sowars, her maid being left in the care of the
American missionary's wife.
Out of Bhamo for some miles, the road is macadamised, broad level and
straight, with grand columnar trees on either side, and leaves on its
surface. Every mile or so you meet or pass groups of Kachins, Chinese or
Shans, or people you can't quite place. They walk in Indian file as they
are accustomed to in narrow hill and jungle paths. The Chinese men are
without women and carry burdens, the Kachins carry their swords slung
under the left arm, and their women carry their burdens. Some tribesmen
have bows and arrows as well as swords. The Kachin woman's costume is of
a pretty colour, a little dark velvet jacket with short sleeves, a kilt
to the knee, and dark putties, both of woven colours like tartan, in
diced and in herringbone and running patterns. She carries the load in a
narrow, finely-woven basket on her back, and her black hair is dressed
after the fashion in Whitechapel. She is short with very strong calves.
Her jaunty husband comes behind, with his red bonnet or turban cocked on
one side, the sword and red tasselled bag hung from his left shoulder.
The square Kachin bag or satchel is a pure joy of bright threads and
patches and wonderful needlework, and is a little suggestive of a
magnificent sporran. His expression is said to be sly, but I don't think
so. His head is held straight on a longish neck for his size, his dark,
slightly oblique eyes are wide open and mildly startled looking--ditto
his mouth, he is neater in figure than the Chinese, and does not look so
heavy and potent. The top of his head is wide, his nose short and jaw
and chin square but not deep.
As we drove through the fallen leaves and the shade on this fine road,
the sun setting behind us lit up the tallest trees and branches in front
of us in gold and green against the violet hills in the East. I
scribbled figures in sketch-book and G. drove, and the syce sat behind
with my gun handy. I also kept a corner of an eye lifting for jungle
fowl, and by Jove! we were not two miles out when a hen ran across the
road a hundred yards ahead and the sketches flew, and out came the gun;
but instead of driving on and getting down when past as I ought--we
stopped, and I went on, and when I came up to the place saw a cock
scurrying along, and fired just as it got behind a bamboo clump, and I
said--"tut, tut," and was very disappointed; as have been many men
before me, by the same trifling miscarriage. It seemed a handsome little
bird, a glowing bit of orange red colour. It's as fascinating as novel,
the sensation of driving through country where you may see game at any
time, and which all belongs to you and is gamekeepered by Government for
you--it makes you feel a share of the county actually belongs to you.
I have read that you should get your terrier into the trap about this
part of the road; the leopards have demonstrated this by collaring those
that have followed the few white men's carriages that have driven along
it. You may, see big game from it--I only saw pigs; they crossed the
road, grey and bristly fellows, I'd swear they were wild, but I met
Shans driving others in leash so like that now I am not quite sure.
It gets cold and dark as we get to the end of our drive, and we are glad
to get down and into a rest-house of bamboo, built on trestles; it is
like a pretty little shooting-box in the midst of shooting of
measureless extent. The moon shines on its thatch, and the lamp lit
inside tells us our caravan has arrived before us. The country is flat
here, with fields and little jungle. We see the woods rising to the
hills which we will reach to-morrow, and wisps of pungent smoke from a
village near hang low across the fields. A few minutes walk brings us to
where a smith works under a tall solitary tree; the smith, as usual, is
brawny, and sparks fly up and bellows blow, and children blink at the
glow just as they do elsewhere. The apprentice works the bellows, and at
a nod from the smith pulls out the glowing metal, and the two thump away
at it cheerily, and shove it back and heap up the charcoal, the bellows
go again, and the smith has three whiffs at his pipe; it is a dah, or
sword, they are making, welding one bit of iron after another into one
piece.
[Illustration]
We dine by candle light, and the moonlight comes through the hanging
screen window and through the spaces between the planks of the floor,
and our music is the distant ringing of the anvil, and the intermittent
liquid notes of a Burmese reed instrument in the village.
After dinner, the mail, which we had not time to read yesterday, and our
home news from the cold North-West. Two letters are from "The Grey
City," both from authors, one with a word picture of that most dreary
sight, our empty High Street on a Sunday morning, the poor people in
their dens and the better class in St Giles; the other tells us that the
"Boyhood of R. L. S." does well, as of course we knew it would; so we
pass the evening pleasantly enough with thoughts of East and West, and
friends here and there--even though that jungle fowl did get clean
away.