RANGOON.
"Oh! the Land of Pagodas and Paddy fields green,
Is Burmah, dear Burmah you know."
This is not a book on "Burmah," but an account of my impressions of
Burmah; therefore, for all matters concerning which I had no original
impressions, such as its history, its public buildings, the scenery, the
life and condition of the natives, its resources, and its future, I
refer both the gentle and ungentle reader to the many books on the
subject which have appeared during the past few years.
My first and last impression of Rangoon was heat. Not ordinary honest,
hot, heat, such as one meets with at Marseilles or in the heart of the
desert, wherever that may be; not even a stuffy heat, such as one
encounters in church, but a damp, clinging, unstable sort of heat, which
makes one long for a bath, if it were not too much trouble to get into
it.
I remember in my youth placing one of my sister's wax dolls (mine were
all wooden, as I was of a destructive nature) to sit before the fire one
cold winter's day; I remember dollie was somewhat disfigured ever
afterwards.
The remembrance of that doll haunted me during my stay in Rangoon; I
felt I could deeply sympathise with, and thoroughly understand her
feelings on that occasion; and for the first two or three hours,
remembering the effect the heat had upon her appearance, I found myself
frequently feeling my features to discover whether they still retained
their original form and beauty. But after a few hours I became resigned;
all I desired was to melt away quickly and quietly, and have done with
it.
At first I looked upon the "Punkah" as a nuisance, its unceasing
movement irritated me, it ruffled my hair, and I invariably bumped my
head against it on rising. But after enduring one long Punkahless
half-hour, I came to look on it as the one thing that made life
bearable, and the "Punkah-wallah" as the greatest benefactor of
mankind.
In the early mornings and evenings I became, hardly cooler, but what
might be described as firmer, and it was at these times that the
wonderful sights of Rangoon were displayed to my admiring gaze.
I saw the celebrated "Schwee Dagon Pagoda" with its magnificent towering
golden dome, surmounted by the beautiful gold and jewelled "Htee;" the
innumerable shrines, images, cupolas, and pagodas at its base, the
curious mixture of tawdry decorations and wonderful wood carvings
everywhere visible, and the exquisite blending and intermingling of
colours in the bright dresses of the natives, who crowd daily to offer
their gifts at this most holy shrine. It is quite futile to attempt
description of such a place; words cannot depict form and colour
satisfactorily, least of all convey to those who have not themselves
beheld it, a conception of the imposing beauty of this world famed
Pagoda.
The Burmese are a most devout people; the great flight of steps leading
to the Pagoda is worn by the tread of many feet, and every day the place
is crowded with worshippers.
They begin young. I saw one wee baby, scarcely more than a year old,
brought by his father to learn to make his offering at the shrine of
Buddha. The father with difficulty balanced the little fellow in a
kneeling position before a shrine, with the tiny brown hands raised in a
supplicating attitude, and then retired a few steps to watch. Instantly
the baby overbalanced and toppled forward on its face. He was picked up
and placed in his former position, only to tumble down again when left.
This performance was repeated about five times; the father never seemed
to notice the humour of the situation--the baby certainly did not.
One of the most interesting sights of Rangoon is that of the elephants.
Ostensibly their work is to pile timber ready for embarkation on the
river, but evidently they consider that they exist and work in order to
be admired by all who pay them a visit.
And well they deserve admiration! They go about their duties in a
stately, leisurely manner, lifting the logs with trunk, tusks, and
forefeet; piling them up with a push here, a pull there, and then
marching to the end of the pile and contemplating the result with their
heads on one side, to see if all are straight and firm. And they do all
in such a stately, royal manner, that they give an air of dignity to the
menial work, and one comes away with the feeling that to pile teak side
by side with an elephant would be an honour worth living for.
During my peregrinations round the town I was taken to see the home of
the Indian Civilian, a huge imposing building, with such an air of
awe-inspiring importance about every stick and stone, that none save
those initiated into the secrets of the place, may enter without feeling
deeply honoured by the permission to do so. Even a "Bombay Burman" could
hardly approach, without losing some of his natural hardihood.
[Illustration: ELEPHANT MOVING TIMBER]
It may have been the awe with which this building inspired me, it may
have been my visit to the Pagoda, with its air of mysticism and unknown
possibilities, but when I retired to my large dimly lighted bed-room
after my first day's wanderings in Rangoon, my natural courage forsook
me, and I became the prey to a fit of appalling terrors.
All the ghostly stories I had ever read of the spiritualism of the East,
of the mystic powers of "Thugs," "Vampires" and other unpleasant beings,
returned to my mind.
For some time I could not sleep, and when at last I did sink into an
uneasy doze I was haunted by nightmares of ghostly apparitions, and
powerful and revengeful images of Gaudama.
Suddenly I awoke with the feeling that something, I knew not what, had
roused me from my uneasy slumber. And then, as I lay trembling and
listening, out of darkness came a Voice, weird, uncanny, which exclaimed
in solemn tones the mystic word "Tuctoo."
What could it be? Was I one destined to learn deep secrets of the
mystic world? Had the spirit, if spirit it were, some great truth to
make known to me? if so, what a pity it did not speak English!
"Tuctoo" remarked the voice again, this time rather impatiently.
I racked my brains to think of a possible meaning for this mysterious
word, but all in vain, I could understand nothing.
"Tuctoo, tuctoo, tuctoo," it continued.
And then, out of the darkness came another voice, an angry English
voice, loud in its righteous indignation, the voice of my host.
"Shut up you beast," he cried, and perhaps he added one or two more
words suited to the occasion. I lay down and tried to pretend that I had
not been frightened, and in doing so, fell asleep. I was introduced to
the "Tuctoo" next day, but did not consider him a pleasant acquaintance.
He is a lizard about a foot long, with a large red mouth, and a long
wriggling tail; he reminded me of a baby alligator. He dwells on the
inner walls of houses, and his presence in a house is supposed to bring
good luck, but his tiresome habit of "tuctooing" in a most human voice
at all hours of the day or night make him rather unpopular. We chased
him down the wall with a long "Shan" spear and caught him in a towel,
but he looked so very pugnacious that we did not detain him from his
business.
Of course the most important element of life in Rangoon, in fact in all
Burmah, is the Gymkhana.
Apparently, the European population in Rangoon exists solely in order to
go to the Gymkhana. It attracts like a magnet. People may not intend to
go there when they set out, but no matter how far afield they go, sooner
or later in the evening they are bound to appear at the Gymkhana. If
they did not go there in the daytime they would inevitably walk there in
their sleep.
This renowned Gymkhana is situate in the Halpin Road (pronounced
"Hairpin," which is confusing to the uninitiated) and is a large, open,
much verandaed, wooden building. Of the lower story, sacred to the male
sex, I caught only a hurried glimpse in passing, and the impression left
on my mind was a confusion of long men, reclining in long chairs, with
long drinks.
On my first visit to the upper regions, I fancied myself in a private
lunatic asylum, for there, in a large room built for the purpose, were
numbers of men and women, to all other appearances perfectly sane,
waltzing round and round to the inspiriting music of the military band;
dancing, in ordinary afternoon attire, not languidly, but vigorously and
enthusiastically, and that in a temperature such as Shadrach, Meshech
and Abednego never dreamed of.
But I soon discovered that there was method in this madness, for the
heat, when dancing, was so unspeakably awful that to sit still seemed
quite cool in contrast, and it was worth the sufferings of the dance to
feel cool afterwards, if only in imagination.
In another room of the Gymkhana the ladies assemble to read their
favourite magazines, or to glower from afar upon the early birds who
have already appropriated them.
And here I must pause to say a word in deprecation of the accusations
of gossip and scandal, which are so frequently launched against the
Anglo-Indian ladies. Not that I would for the world deny the existence
of scandal, but what I wish to emphasise is, that the Anglo-Indians (at
least those of the female sex) do not invent or repeat scandalous
stories from pure love of the thing, nor from any desire to injure the
characters of their neighbours. They are forced to do so by
circumstances.
For example, Mrs. A. arrives early at the Gymkhana, appropriates the
newly arrived number of the "Gentlewoman," and seating herself
comfortably in a good light, sets to work to read the paper from
beginning to end.
But soon Mrs. B. appears upon the scene, and alas! Mrs. B. has also come
to the Gymkhana with the intention of reading from beginning to end the
newly arrived number of the "Gentlewoman"; and, being human, Mrs. B., on
finding her favourite paper already appropriated, is filled with a
distaste for all other papers, and a consuming desire to read "The
Gentlewoman," and "The Gentlewoman" only. If she cannot procure the
paper right speedily, life holds no more happiness for her.
But alas, Mrs. A. shows no intention of relinquishing her possession of
the paper for many hours. In vain does Mrs. B. spread "Punch,"
"Graphic," or "Sketch," temptingly before Mrs. A's abstracted eyes, she
is not to be influenced by honest means. Then Mrs. B. has only one
course left to her, and adopts it.
First she seeks and obtains an assistant to the scheme, Mrs. C. The two
ladies then draw near Mrs. A. (who tightens her hold on the paper as
they approach) and seat themselves on either side of their victim.
Mrs. C., assuming an expression of sweet innocence, entirely disguising
the craft of her intentions, pretends to be deeply interested in last
week's "Gazette," hoping thereby to demonstrate her lack of interest in
fashion papers; Mrs. B. entices Mrs. A. into conversation.
After a few desultory remarks, during which the aggressor still clings
to her prey, Mrs. B., throwing a warning glance at Mrs. C. to prepare
her, says in a voice fraught with deep mystery:
"Were you not astonished to hear of so and so's engagement last week?"
No, Mrs. A. was not particularly astonished.
But surely Mrs. A. had heard that strange story about so and so's
behaviour towards somebody else?
Curious, Mrs. A. had not heard of it.
Of course Mrs. B. would not mention it to anyone else, but Mrs. A., as
every one knows, can be trusted, and really it was so strange.
Then calling to her aid all her powers of imagination, Mrs. B. proceeds
to relate some astounding invention concerning so and so. Gradually, as
she becomes more interested in the recital, Mrs. A's. fingers relax
their hold on the precious paper, and at last it is dropped, forgotten,
upon the table.
Now it is Mrs. C's. turn. In the most careless manner she draws the
"Gentlewoman" slowly towards her, until it is out of reach of Mrs. A.,
when she snatches it up eagerly, and retires to another table, where she
is soon joined by the triumphant Mrs. B.
Then poor Mrs. A., deprived of her newspaper must needs seek another
one, but alas? they are all in use. Nothing remains for her to do but to
imitate Mrs. B's conduct, and attract Mrs. D's attention from the paper
she is reading, by repeating to her the story she has just heard, adding
whatever new details may appear to her as most likely to arouse Mrs.
D's. interest. And so the snowball grows.
Thus it will be clear to all that the accusations are unfair, seeing
that the gossip indulged in by the ladies at the Gymkhana is merely the
outcome of circumstances, inventions being notoriously the children of
necessity. It is obvious that were each lady in Burmah provided with
every magazine and paper that her heart could desire, gossip would
speedily cease to exist,--in the Ladies' Clubs.
The most extraordinary vehicle that ever existed is the Rangoon "ticca
gharry." For inconvenience, discomfort, and danger, it has never been
surpassed. It has been excellently described as "a wooden packing case
on wheels." I suppose it is a distant and unfashionable relation of the
modern four wheeler, with wooden shutters in place of windows; very
narrow, noisy, and uncomfortable. It is usually drawn by a long-tailed,
ungroomed and brainless Burman pony, and is driven by one of the most
extraordinary race of men that ever existed.
The "Gharry Wallah's" appearance--but it is scarce meet to describe his
appearance to the gentle reader; we will say his appearance is unusual.
His mind and character have gained him his well earned right to be
counted among the eccentricities of the age. He is sublime in his utter
indifference to the world at large, in the cheerful manner in which he
will drive, through, into, or over anything he happens to meet.
But his most noted characteristic is utter indifference to the wishes
of his "fare."
I have often wondered what are the secret workings of the "Gharry
Wallah's" mind. He cannot imagine, (no man, intelligent or otherwise,
could imagine) that a human being drives in a "gharry" for the pure
enjoyment of the thing; and yet he never seems to consider that his
"fare" may desire to go to any particular destination. 'Tis vain to
explain at great length, and with many forcible gestures, where one
wishes to go; "he hears but heeds it not." The instant one enters the
vehicle he begins to drive at a great rate in whatever direction first
comes into his mind. He continues to drive in that direction until
stopped, when he cheerfully turns round and drives another way, any way
but the right one.
No one has yet discovered where he would eventually drive to; many have
had the curiosity but none the fortitude to undertake original research
into the matter.
It is presumed that, unless stopped, he would drive straight on till he
died of starvation.
Occasionally, by a judicious waving of umbrellas it may be possible to
direct his course, but that only in the case of a very young driver. I
have sometimes wondered whether perchance the pony may be the sinner,
and the driver merely an innocent and unwilling accomplice. I cannot
tell.
But this I can say, if you crave for danger, if you seek penance, drive
in a "ticca gharry," but if you desire to reach any particular
destination in this century, don't.
With the exception of a few leisure hours spent at the Gymkhana, the
ladies of Rangoon devote their time and energy to writing "Chits."
At first I was filled with a great wonder as to what might be the nature
of these mysterious "Chits." I would be sitting peacefully talking with
my hostess in the morning, when suddenly, a look of supreme unrest and
anxiety comes over her face: "Excuse me, a moment" she exclaims, "I must
just go and write a chit."
She then hastens to her writing table, rapidly scribbles a few words,
gives the paper to a servant, and then returns to me with an expression
of relief and contentment.
But scarce five minutes have elapsed, ere the look of anxiety again
returns; again she writes a "chit," and again becomes relieved and
cheerful, and so on throughout the day.
And this, I discovered was the case with nearly every European lady in
the country. I suppose it must be some malady engendered by the climate,
only to be relieved by the incessant inditing of "chits." I myself never
suffered from the ailment, but should doubtless have fallen a victim had
I remained longer in the country.
The contents and destination of these "chits" seem to be of little or no
importance; so long as notes be written and despatched at intervals of
ten minutes or so during the day, that is sufficient. What finally
becomes of these "chits" I cannot pretend to say; whether they are
merely taken away and burnt, or whether they have some place in the
scheme of creation, I never discovered.
Nor do I know whether the male population suffers from the same malady.
Does the Indian Civilian, seated in his luxurious chamber in that
awe-inspiring building of his, does he too spend his life in writing
"chits"? Does the "Bombay Burman," in some far off jungle, "alone with
nature undisturbed," does he too sit down 'neath the shade of the
feathery bamboo, or the all embracing Peepul tree, and write and
despatch "chits" to imaginary people, in imaginary houses, in an
imaginary town?
I know not, it is futile to speculate further upon the matter. The
mystery of "chit" writing is too deep for me.
I would gladly have remained longer in Rangoon, but it might not be.
Mine was no mere visit of pleasure; I had travelled to Burmah in search
of adventure, such as is scarcely to be met with in the garden party,
dinner party, and dance life of Rangoon. And so, one hot afternoon, with
anxious beating heart, I said "Good bye" to security and civilisation,
and set forth on my journey to Mandalay!