THE ROAD TO MANDALAY.
"I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the Sea."--(Wordsworth).
"Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour tho' varied, in beauty may vie."--(Byron).
The distance by rail from Rangoon to Mandalay is 386 miles, and it takes
twenty-two hours to accomplish the journey. Trains, like everything else
in this leisurely country, are not given to hurrying themselves. "Hasti,
hasti, always go hasti" is the motto for Burmah. As an example of the
unintelligible nature of the language I may explain that "Hasti" means
"slow!"
It is a pleasant journey however, for the carriages are most
comfortable, and the scenery through which the rail passes affords
plenty of interest to a new comer.
I enjoyed my journey, therefore, immensely. I left Rangoon about five
o'clock in the afternoon, well provided with books, fruit and chocolates
for the journey, and under the protection of a hideous Madrassee Ayah.
I believe she was in reality a worthy old creature, but she was so
exceedingly ugly, so very unintelligible (though most persistent in her
efforts at conversation) and so intolerably stupid, that I could not
feel much affection for her, and I only consented to put up with her
company as a protection against the thieves who haunt the various
halting places along the line, ready to steal into carriages and carry
away all the portable property of the traveller. I had heard such blood
curdling stories of these train thieves that I should have felt quite
nervous about undertaking the journey, had I not fortunately disbelieved
them.
I do not for an instant believe my ayah would have been any real
protection, for whenever we stopped she was seized with an overpowering
hunger, and spent all her time bargaining with the vendors of bananas,
huge red prawns, decayed fish, dried fruits, cakes, and other horrible
articles, who swarmed upon the stations.
These delicacies, and others which she prevailed upon my tender heart
to buy for her, she wrapped up in a large red pocket handkerchief, and
hid under the seat; what was their final fate I cannot pretend to say,
but for her sake I trust she didn't eat them.
She was a much travelled lady and had visited many of the towns along
the route, and persisted in waking me up at all odd hours of the night,
to point out the houses where her various Mem-Sahibs had lived, or the
bungalows inhabited by the commissioners, matters in which I was not at
all interested.
She kept me awake with long rambling stories about her many relations,
stories which, as they were told in the most vague and unintelligible
"pigeon English" I found it very difficult to understand, but the gist
of all was that she was very old and very poor, and she was sure I was a
very kind and generous "Missie," and would not fail to reward her
handsomely for her services.
I failed to discover what these same services might be, for beyond
fanning me vigorously when I did not require it, and at three o'clock in
the morning procuring me from somewhere an unpleasant mixture she called
coffee, and which I was obliged to throw secretly out of the window, she
did nothing except talk. I suppose she was really no worse than the rest
of her tribe, and cannot be blamed for getting as much as she could out
of her exceedingly innocent and easily humbugged "missie."
At the first station at which we stopped, I was much astonished to see
all the natives on the platform come and kneel down in the humblest
manner round the door of my carriage, and remain there "shekkohing" and
pouring forth polite speeches in Burmese, until our train left the
station.
I have never been backward in my high opinion of my own importance, but
I hardly expected the fame of my presence to have spread to this distant
land, and felt considerably embarrassed, though, of course, highly
gratified, by such unexpected tokens of respect.
I received these attentions at every station with the most royal bows
and smiles, until at last, on dismounting from the train at the dining
station, I discovered that the carriage next to mine was occupied by a
noble Shan Chief and his retinue, and it was to him, not to my
insignificant person, that all this homage was paid. I felt quite
annoyed at the discovery. He was really such a hideous, yellow, dirty
old man, and he sat at the window, surrounded by his wives and
attendants, smoking grumpily, and paying not the least attention to the
flattering speech of his admirers, who must have been far more gratified
by my gracious condescension.
The chief stared at me a great deal when I passed his window to re-enter
my carriage, and shortly after the train was again set in motion he sent
one of his wives to inspect me, possibly with a view to offering me a
position among the number of his dusky spouses. She opened the door, and
stared at me for some time, taking not the slightest notice of my
requests that she would withdraw, until she had sufficiently examined
me, when she retired as abruptly as she had appeared, and I lost no time
in securing the door behind her.
Evidently her report was not satisfactory, for I have heard no more of
the episode. Possibly, she reported that I looked bad tempered; I
certainly felt so!
What a fascinating journey that was. During the first part of the route
the country is less interesting, consisting merely of flat stretches of
Paddy fields and low jungle scrub. But all this I passed through by
night, when the soft moonlight lent a witching beauty to the scene.
There is something so inexplicably beautiful about night in the east, so
comparatively cool, so clear, so quiet, and yet so full of mysterious
sound,
"A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves."
The cloudless heavens sparkle with a myriad stars, the moonlight seems
brighter and more golden than elsewhere, and the noisy, weary, worn old
earth hides away her tinsel shams and gaudiness, which the cruel
sunlight so pitilessly exposes, and appears grander and nobler under
night's kindly sway.
The scenery in Upper Burmah is exceedingly fine. The great rocky hills,
each crowned with its pagoda, rise on all sides, stretching away into
the distance till they become only blue shadows. Everywhere are groves
of bananas and palm trees, forests of teak and bamboo, and vast tracks
of jungle, attired in the gayest colours.
The pagodas, mostly in a half-ruined condition, are far more numerous
here than in Lower Burmah, and raise their white and golden heads from
every towering cleft of rock, and every mossy grove. As we neared
Mandalay we passed many groups of half-ruined shrines, images and
pagodas, covered with moss and creeper, deserted by the human beings who
erected them, and visited now only by the birds and other jungle folk,
who build their nests and make their homes in the shade of the once
gorgeous buildings. They look very picturesque, rising above the
tangled undergrowth that surrounds them, but pitifully lonely.
We stopped at a great number of stations en route. The platforms were
always crowded with natives of every description, at all hours of the
day and night, selling their wares, greeting their friends, or smoking
contentedly, and viewing with complacency the busy scene.
The natives of India, with their fierce sullen faces, frightened me; the
cunning Chinese, ever ready to drive a hard bargain, amused but did not
attract me; but the merry, friendly little Burmese were a continual
delight.
They swaggered up and down in their picturesque costumes, smoking their
huge cheroots, the men regarding with self-satisfied and amused contempt
the noisy chattering crowd of Madrassees and Chinese, the women
coquetting in the most graceful and goodnatured way with everyone in
turn. When they had paid their devoirs to the old chief, they would
crowd round my carriage window offering their wares, taking either my
consent or refusal to be a purchaser as the greatest joke, and laughing
merrily at my vain attempts to understand them.
I fell in love with them on the spot, they are such jolly people and
such thorough gentlefolk.
It was very interesting in the early morning to watch the signs of
awakening life in the many Burmese villages through which we passed. To
see the caravans of bullock carts or mules setting out on their journey
to the neighbouring town, and the pretty little Burmese girls coquetting
with their admirers as they carried water from the well, or chattering
and whispering merrily together as they performed their toilet by the
stream, decking their hair with flowers and ribbons, and donning their
delicately coloured pink and green "tamehns."
Here we met a procession of yellow-robed "hpoongyis" and their
followers, marching through the village with their begging bowls, to
give the villagers an opportunity of performing the meritorious duty of
feeding them. There a procession of men, women, and children walking
sedately towards a pagoda, with offerings of fruit or flowers; to
contemplate the image of the mighty Gaudama, to hear the reading of the
Word, and to meditate upon the Holy Life. Now we passed a group of
little hpoongyi pupils with their shaven crowns and yellow robes,
sitting solemnly round their teacher in the open-sided kyaung. Anon we
passed a jovial crew of merrymakers in their most brilliantly coloured
costumes, jogging along gaily behind their ambling bullocks, to some Pwé
or Pagoda Feast, which they are already enjoying in anticipation.
And the strange part of it all is that nowhere does one see sorrow,
poverty, or suffering; outwardly at least, all is bright and happy. I
suppose the Burman must have his troubles like other folk, but if so he
hides them extremely well under a cheerful countenance. Surely in no
other inhabited country could we travel so far without beholding some
sign of misery.
I think the great charm of Burmah lies in the happiness and brightness
of its people; their merriment is infectious, and they make others
happy by the mere sight of their contentment.
We arrived at Mandalay about three o'clock in the afternoon. The last
few hours of the journey were most unpleasantly hot, and I was very glad
when we steamed into the station, and I saw my brother-in-law (who had
descended from his "mountain heights" to meet me) waiting on the
platform. The journey had been delightful in many ways, but after being
twenty-two hours boxed up in a railway carriage with a chattering ayah,
it was a great relief to reach one's destination at last.
When I arrived in Mandalay I was filled with an overwhelming gratitude
towards Mr. Rudyard Kipling for his poem on the subject.
Rangoon, fascinating and interesting though it be, is yet chiefly an
Anglo-Indian town, but Mandalay, though the Palace and Throne room have
been converted into a club, though its Pagodas and shrines have been
desecrated by the feet of the alien, and though its bazaar has become a
warehouse for the sale of Birmingham and Manchester imitations, yet,
spite of all, this former stronghold of the Kings of Burmah still
retains its ancient charm.
When first I experienced the fascination of this wonderful town, my
feelings were too deep for expression, and I suffered as a soda water
bottle must suffer, until the removal of the cork brings relief.
Suddenly there flashed into my mind three lines of Mr. Kipling's poem,
and as I wandered amid "them spicy garlic smells, the sunshine and the
palm trees and the tinkly temple bells," I relieved my feelings by
repeating those wonderfully descriptive lines; I was once again happy,
and I vowed an eternal gratitude to the author.
Before the end of my two days stay in Mandalay I began to look on him as
my bitterest foe, and to regard the publication of that poem as a
personal injury.
The Hotel in which we stayed was also occupied by a party of American
"Globe Trotters." In all probability they were delightful people, as
are most of their countrymen. They were immensely popular among the
native hawkers, who swarmed upon the door steps and verandahs, and sold
them Manchester silks and glass rubies at enormous prices. But we
acquired a deeply rooted objection to them, springing from their desire
to live up to their surroundings.
We should have forgiven them, had they confined themselves to eating
Eastern fruits and curries, wearing flowing Burmese silken dressing
gowns, and smattering their talk with Burmese and Hindustani words. But
these things did not satisfy them. Evidently they believed that they
could only satisfactorily demonstrate their complete association with
their surroundings, by singing indefatigably, morning, noon, and night,
that most un-Burmese song, "Mandalay."
They sang it hour after hour, during the whole of the two days we spent
in the place.
In their bedrooms, and about the town they hummed and whistled it,
during meals they quoted and recited it. At night, and when we took our
afternoon siesta, they sang it boldly, accompanying one another on the
cracked piano, and all joining in the chorus with a conscientious
heartiness that did them credit.
We tossed sleepless on our couches, wearied to death of this endless
refrain that echoed through the house: or, if in a pause between the
verses we fell asleep for a few seconds, it was only to dream of a
confused mixture of "Moulmein Pagodas," flying elephants, and fishes
piling teak, till we were once again awakened by the uninteresting and
eternally reiterated information that "the dawn comes up like thunder
out of China 'cross the Bay."
The only relief we enjoyed, was that afforded by one member of the party
who sang cheerfully: "On the Banks of Mandalay," thereby displaying a
vagueness of detail regarding the geographical peculiarities of the
place, which is so frequently (though no doubt wrongly) attributed to
his nation.
And here I pause with the uncomfortable feeling that in writing my
experiences of Burmah, I ought to make some attempt to describe this
far-famed city of Mandalay, the wonders of its palaces, the richness of
its pagodas, the brilliancy of its silk bazaar, and its other thousand
charms.
But such a task is beyond me. Others may aspire to paint in glowing
colours the fascinations of this royal town, and the beauty of the
wonderful buildings; but in my modesty I refrain, for to my great regret
I saw little of them. My stay in the town was too short, and I was too
weary after my journey, to admit of much sight-seeing. Beyond a short
drive through the delightful eastern streets, and a hurried glimpse of
the Throne Room, I saw nothing of the place, and the only thing I
clearly recollect is the Moat, which I admired immensely, mistaking it
for the far-famed Irrawaddy!
Therefore I will pass by Mandalay with that silent awe which we always
extend to the Unknown, and leave it to cleverer pens than mine to depict
its charms. "I cannot sing of that I do not know," especially nowadays
when so many people _do_ know, and are quite ready to tell one so.