THE JOURNEY TO THE HILLS.
"Old as the chicken that Kitmûtgars bring
Men at dâk bungalows,--old as the hills."
(Rudyard Kipling.)
The horse who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.--"John Gilpin."
We left Mandalay at half-past three in the morning, (our heavy baggage
having preceded us in bullock carts the night before) and with our
bedding and hand baggage packed with ourselves into a "ticca gharry," we
started at that unearthly hour on our seventeen miles drive to the foot
of the hills, where our ponies awaited us.
As we left the last lights of the town behind us, and drove out into the
dreary looking country beyond, I was filled with a mixture of elation
and alarm, but when my brother-in-law (I knew not whether seriously or
in fun) remarked that he hoped we should meet no dacoits, the feeling of
alarm predominated.
It would be an adventure, and I had come there purposely for adventure,
but an adventure does not appear so fascinating in the dark at three
o'clock in the morning, as it does at noonday. I was quite willing to
have it postponed. However my companion seemed at home, and settled
himself to sleep in his corner, so I endeavoured to do likewise.
But somehow sleep seemed impossible. The shaking and rattling of the
uncomfortable "gharry," the strange shadows of the trees, and the dark
waste of paddy fields stretching before and around us, faintly showing
in the mysterious grey light of the dawn, all combined to prevent me
from following my brother's example.
On and on we drove along that interminable road, cramped, weary, and
impatient; I sat in silence with closed eyes, waiting longingly for the
end of our journey, wondering what strange people inhabited this dreary
tract of land, and dreaming of the possible adventures to be encountered
in the wild country towards which we were travelling.
Suddenly the gharry stopped abruptly; there was a loud cry from the
gharry wallah, a confused medley of Burmese voices, and I sprang up to
find we were surrounded by a large body of evil looking men, armed with
"dahs." We were "held up" by dacoits!
My brother started up, shouting eager threats and imprecations to the
men, and sprang from the carriage. I caught a glimpse of him surrounded
by natives, fighting fiercely with his back to the carriage door, while
he shouted to me to hand him his revolver from the back seat of the
gharry.
But ere I could do so, my attention was called to the matter of my own
safety. Three natives had come round to my side of the gharry, the door
was wrenched open, and a huge native flourishing a large "dah" rushed at
me, evidently with the intention of procuring the revolver himself.
At that moment all feelings of fear left me, and I only felt furiously
angry. Quickly I seized my large roll of bedding, and pulling it down
before me received the blow in the folds; then when the knife was
buried in the clothes, I crashed the revolver with all my force in the
face of the dacoit, and he fell unconscious at my feet, leaving the
"dah" in my possession.
The remaining natives rushed at me, and I had no time to lose. Pulling
down my brother's bedding roll, I doubled my defence, and from behind it
endeavoured to stab at the attacking natives with the captured "dah,"
dodging their blows behind my barricade. The door of the gharry was
narrow, and they could only come at me one at a time.
After playing "bo peep" over my blankets for a little time, they
retired, and I was just turning to assist my brother, when suddenly,
they rushed my defence, one behind the other, pushed over my barricade
with me under it, fell on the top themselves, and we all rolled a
confused heap on the bottom of the gharry.
At that moment the man at the pony's head relaxed his hold on the
bridle, and the animal, with a speed and energy unusual in Burmese
ponies, escaped and galloped down the road, dragging behind it the
battered gharry, on the floor of which I and the two natives were
struggling.
Faster and faster went the pony, till we seemed to be flying through the
air, the door hanging open, and we three fighting for life inside. I
made haste to crawl under a seat, and again barricaded myself with my
bedding roll, but it was quite clear to me that the struggle could not
last much longer; I was at my wit's end, and my strength was nearly
exhausted.
Then the natives climbed on to the seat opposite, and pulled and pushed
my barricade, until at last I could hold it no longer. They dragged it
away, and threw it from the gharry. My neck was seized between two slimy
brown hands, I was pulled from my hiding place, a dark evil looking face
peered gloatingly into mine, and then I suppose I lost consciousness,
for I remember nothing more until----I awoke, and found we had arrived
at the foot of the hills; not a dacoit had we encountered, and the whole
affair had been only a dream.
I was disappointed: I feel I shall never be so heroic again, or have
such another opportunity for the display of my bravery.
I cannot remember the name of the village at the foot of the hills where
we found our ponies waiting, and I certainly could not spell it if I
did. It consisted of a mere half a dozen native huts, set down by the
road side, and looked a most deserted little place. While our ponies
were saddled, and our baggage transferred from the gharry to the bullock
cart in attendance, we walked round the village, very glad to stretch
our legs after the cramped ride.
All the natives stared at us, as they went leisurely about their daily
work; the girls in their brightly coloured, graceful dresses, going
slowly to the well, carrying their empty kerosene oil cans, the almost
universal water pots of the Burman; the men lounging about, smoking big
cheroots, and evidently lost in deep meditation; and the old women
sitting in their low bamboo huts, grinding paddy, cooking untempting
looking mixtures, or presiding over the sale of various dried fruits
and other articles, for in Burmah there is rarely a house where
something is not sold.
On the whole, we on our part did not excite very much interest. It needs
more than the advent of two strangers to rouse the contemplative Burman
from his habitual state of dreaminess.
In one hut I saw a family sitting round their meal, laughing and
chatting merrily, while a wee baby, clad in gorgeous silk attire (it
looked like the mother's best dress) danced before them in the funniest
and most dignified manner, encouraged and coached by an elder sister,
aged about seven. They looked such a merry party that I quite longed to
join them, for I was beginning to feel hungry, but I changed my mind on
a nearer view of the breakfast, a terrible mixture of rice and curried
vegetables, with what looked remarkably like decayed fish for a relish.
All this time, though outwardly calm and happy, I was inwardly suffering
from ever increasing feelings of dread at the thought of the ordeal
before me. As I have explained elsewhere, I have always had a terror of
horses, and had not ridden for eleven years, not in fact since I was a
child, and then I invariably fell off with or without any provocation.
But here was I, with twenty-six miles of rough road between me and my
destination, and no way of traversing that distance save on horseback.
Knowing my peculiarities, my brother had begged the very quietest pony
from the police lines at Mandalay, the animal bearing this reputation
stood saddled before me, and I could think of no further excuse for
longer delaying our start.
Accordingly, I advanced nervously towards the pony, who looked at me out
of the corners of his eyes in an inexplicable manner, and after three
unsuccessful attempts, and much unwonted embracing of my brother, I at
last succeeded in mounting, and the reins (an unnecessary number of them
it seemed to me) were thrust into my hands.
I announced myself quite comfortable and ready to start; may Heaven
forgive the untruth! But evidently my steed was not prepared to depart.
I "clucked" and shook the reins, and jumped up and down on the saddle in
the most encouraging way, but the pony made no movement.
My brother, already mounted and off, shouted to me to "come on." It was
all very well to shout in that airy fashion, I couldn't well "come on"
without the pony, and the pony wouldn't.
At last he did begin to move, backwards!
This was a circumstance for which I was wholly unprepared. If a horse
runs away, naturally, he is to be stopped by pulling the reins, but if
he runs away backwards, there seems nothing to be done; whipping only
encourages him to run faster. I tried to turn the pony round, so that if
he persisted in continuing to walk backwards, we might at any rate
progress in the right direction, but he preferred not to turn, and I did
not wish to insist, lest he should become annoyed; to annoy him at the
very outset of the journey I felt would be the height of imprudence.
The natives of the village gathered round, and with that wonderful
capacity for innocent enjoyment for which the Burmese are noted, watched
the performance with the deepest interest and delight, while I could do
nothing but try to appear at ease, as though I really preferred to
travel in that manner.
At last however, my brother would wait no longer, and shouting to the
orderly and sais, he made them seize the bridle of my wilful pony, and
drag us both forcibly from the village.
And so we started.
Oh! that ride--what a nightmare it was! The pony justified his
reputation, and was certainly the most quiet animal imaginable. He
preferred not to move at all, but when forced to do so, the pace was
such that a snail could easily have given him fifty yards start in a
hundred, and a beating, without any particular exertion. He did not
walk, he crawled.
In vain did I encourage him in every language I knew, in vain did the
sais and orderly ride behind beating him, or in front pulling him, our
efforts were of no avail. Once or twice, under great persuasion, he
broke into what faintly suggested a trot, for about two minutes, but
speedily relapsed again into his former undignified crawl.
My brother at last lost patience and rode on ahead, leaving me to the
tender mercies of the sais, who, no longer under the eye of his master,
and seeing no reason to hurry, soon ceased his efforts, and we jogged on
every minute more slowly, till I fell into a sleepy trance, dreaming
that I should continue thus for ever, riding slowly along through the
silent Burmese jungle, wrapped in its heavy noon-day sleep, till I too
should sink under the spell of the sleep god, and become part of the
silence around me.
But the scenery was glorious, and I had ample time to admire it. Our
road wound up the side of a jungle clad hill, around and above us rose
other hills covered with the gorgeous vari-coloured jungle trees and
shrubs. Immediately below us lay a deep wooded ravine, shut in by the
hills, and far away behind us stretched miles and miles of paddy fields
and open country shrouded in a pale blue-grey mist. I cannot imagine
grander scenery; what most nearly approach it are views in Saxon
Switzerland, but the latter can be compared only as an engraving to a
painting, the colour being lacking.
What most impressed me was the absolute silence, and the utter absence
of any sign of human life. All round us lay miles and miles of unbroken
jungle, inhabited only by birds and beasts; all nature seemed silent,
mysterious, and void of human sympathies as in the first days of the
world, before man came to conquer, and in conquering to destroy the
charm. It is impossible quite to realise this awe-inspiring loneliness
of the jungle
"Where things that own not man's dominion dwell."
"And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been."
We halted for breakfast at a small wayside village, where we found the
usual mat "dâk" bungalow, guarded by the usual extortionate khansamah,
and surrounded by the usual dismal compound full of chickens.
Here it was that I made my first acquaintance with the world renowned
Burmese chicken, an acquaintance destined to become more and more close,
until it blossomed into a deep and never to be forgotten hatred.
The Burmese chicken, whose name is legion, is a thin haggard looking
fowl, chiefly noted for his length of leg, and utter absence of
superfluous flesh. He picks up a precarious living in the compounds of
the houses to which he is attached, and leads a sad, anxious life, owing
to the fact that he is generally recognised as the legitimate prey of
any man or beast, who at any time of the day or night may be seized with
a desire to "chivy."
Consequently he wears a harassed, expectant look, knowing that the end
will overtake him suddenly and without warning. One hour he is happily
fighting with his comrades over a handful of grain, within the next he
has been killed, cooked, and eaten without pity, though frequently with
after feelings of repentance on the part of the eater.
It is, doubtless, the kindly heart of the native cook that prevents him
killing the bird more than half an hour before the remains are due at
table; he does not wish to cut off a happy life sooner than is
absolutely necessary. It is, doubtless too, the same gentle heart that
induces him to single out for slaughter the most ancient of fowls,
leaving the young and tender (if a Burmese chicken ever is tender) still
to rejoice in their youth. If this be so, there is displayed a trait of
native character deserving appreciation--which appreciation the result,
however, fails as a rule to secure.
It is wonderful what a variety of disguises a Burmese chicken can take
upon itself. The quick change artist is nowhere in comparison.
It appears successively as soup, joint, hash, rissoles, pie, patties and
game. It is covered with rice, onions, and almonds, and raisins, and
dubbed "pillau"; it is covered with cayenne pepper and called a savoury.
It is roasted, boiled, baked, potted, and curried, and once I knew an
enterprising housekeeper mix it with sardines and serve up a half truth
in the shape of "fish cakes."
But under whatever name it may appear, in whatever form it be disguised,
it may be invariably recognised by the utter absence of any flavour
whatever.
After breakfast, my brother assumed his most stern judicial expression
and gave me to understand gently but firmly, that he refused to continue
our journey under existing circumstances, and that if I really could not
induce my pony to progress faster, I must mount that of the orderly, and
leave the laggard to be dealt with by a male hand. I could not object; I
was alone in a distant land far from the protection of my family; I
could only agree to the proposal with reluctance, and disclaim all
responsibility with regard to my own or the new pony's safety.
Accordingly, the saddles were changed, much to the dissatisfaction of
the orderly, and I was speedily mounted on my new steed.
At first the exchange appeared to be an improvement. The pony had a
brisk walk, and we progressed quite as rapidly as I wished. I began to
feel an accomplished horse-woman, and when my brother suggested a two
miles canter, I consented after but a few objections.
We started gaily, and we did canter two miles without a break, and the
pony and I did not part company during the proceedings, but that is all
I can say.
I have frequently heard foolish people talk of the unspeakable joy of a
wild gallop, the delightful motion, the exhilaration of rushing through
the air, with a good horse beneath you. Once I listened to such talkers
with credulity, now I listen in astonishment. Our gallop was wild enough
in all conscience, but after the first three minutes I became convinced
it was the most uncomfortable way of getting about I had ever
experienced.
I started elegantly enough, gripping my pummel tightly between my knees,
and sitting bolt upright, but I soon gave up all ideas of putting on
unnecessary "side" of that sort; this ride was no fancy exhibition, it
was grim earnest.
I and the pony were utterly out of sympathy with one another, and I am
sure the latter did all he could to be tiresome out of pure
"cussedness." Whenever I bumped down, he seemed to bump up, and the
result was painful; whenever I pulled the reins he merely tossed his
head scornfully; and I am sure the saddle must have been slipping about
(though it appeared firm enough afterwards), for I landed on all parts
of it in turn.
To add to my troubles my sola topee became objectionable.
It was not an ordinary looking topee; it being my first visit to the
East, of course I had procured an exceedingly large one, and in addition
to its great size, it was very heavy and very ugly. I fancy it was
originally intended to be helmet shaped, but its maker had allowed his
imagination to run away with him, and when finished, it was the most
extraordinary looking headdress that ever spoilt the appearance of a
naturally beautiful person.
It resembled rather a swollen plum pudding in a very large dish, than a
respectable sola topee.
It was so constructed inside as to fit no existingly shaped human head,
and consequently required to be balanced with the greatest care. By dint
of sitting very upright I had succeeded in keeping it on my head during
the earlier stages of my journey, but now I had more important matters
to think of than sola topees, and consequently it became grievously
offended, and (being abnormally sensitive, as are most deformed
creatures) it commenced to wobble about in a most alarming manner.
On and on we went. I had almost ceased to have any feeling in my legs
and body, and began to wonder vaguely what strange person's head had got
on to my shoulders, it seemed to fit so loosely. We flew past the second
milestone, but my brother, who rode just ahead of me, absorbed no doubt
in the joys of the gallop, never stayed his reckless course. I could not
stop my pony, because both hands were, of course, engaged in holding on
to the saddle. I lost my stirrup; it was never any good to me, but my
foot felt lonely without it. My knees were cramped, my head ached, and
finally my sola topee, unable longer to endure its undignified wobble,
descended slowly over my face and hung there by its elastic, effectually
blocking out everything from my sight.
I would have infinitely preferred to have fallen off, but did not know
how to do so comfortably.
At last, with a mighty effort I crouched in the saddle, gingerly
released one hand, pushed aside the topee from before my mouth, and
yelled to my brother to stop. He turned, saw something unusual in my
appearance, and, thank goodness! stopped.
It could not have lasted much longer; either I or the pony would have
been obliged to give way. When I indignantly explained to my brother
what the pony had been doing, all he said was that he hoped to goodness
I had not given it a sore back. I know its back could not have been a
quarter as sore as was mine! I did not gallop again that or any other
day.
We spent the night in another "dâk" bungalow, consisting of three mat
walled sleeping apartments, scantily furnished, and an open veranda
where we dined. We dined off chicken variously disguised, and being very
stiff and weary, retired early to bed.
During dinner, my brother casually remarked that on his last visit there
he had killed a snake in the roof, and on retiring to my room I
remembered his words and trembled.
I don't know much about snakes, save only that a "king cobra" alone will
attack without provocation; therefore, if one is attacked, the reptile
is almost certain to be a snake of that species.
What precautions should therefore be taken to defend one's life I have
not ascertained, but I give the information as affording at any rate
some satisfaction in case of attack.
The roof of my room was thatched, and looked the very dwelling place of
snakes, and how could I possibly defend myself from attack (supposing
king cobras inhabited that district), when they might drop down on me
while I slept, or come up through the chinks and holes in the wooden
floor, and bite my feet when I was getting into bed? The situation was a
desperate one. What was to be done?
After half an hour, I was forced to abandon my plan of sitting up all
night on the table, under my green sun-umbrella; the table was so
rickety that I fell off whenever I dozed, and the situation became
painful.
At last a new plan occurred to me. I took a wild leap from the table to
the bed, and succeeded in rigging up a tent with the mosquito curtain
props, and a sheet. Then, secure from all dangers from below or above, I
fell fast asleep, and awoke next morning to find myself still alive and
unharmed.
I am convinced that more than one cunning serpent that night returned
foiled to its lair, having at last encountered a degree of cunning
surpassing its own.
We made an early start next morning, as we had still twelve miles to
ride before the day grew hot.
The orderly objected to ride further on a snail, and had put my saddle
once more on my original pony, so I finished my ride without further
mishap.
It was a delicious morning; the early lights and shadows of dawn and
sunrise enhanced the beauty of the richly coloured jungle bordering the
road. On all sides we were surrounded by the tall, dark, waving trees,
and the thick green, pink, golden, and red-brown under-growth, save
occasionally when the close bushes were cleared a little, and we caught
tempting glimpses of shady moss covered glades, chequered by the
sunlight peering through the thick leaves. Everything was very still,
and except for the soft whisper of the jungle grass, a great silence
brooded over all.
Suddenly there broke upon my ears a strange sound, weird, mystic,
wonderful. It was a heavy, grating, creaking noise, more horrible than
aught I had heard before. Nearer and nearer it came; and now it could be
distinguished as the cry of some mighty beast in pain, for the first and
fundamental noise was varied by shrill screams and deep, painful
groans. Was it a wounded elephant? No! surely no living elephant ever
gave voice to such terrible, awe-inspiring sounds. It must be some far
mightier beast, some remnant of the prehistoric ages, which remained
still to drag out a lonely existence, hidden from human eyes, in this
far Burmese jungle.
But now it was close upon us; the noise was deafening, making day
hideous; round the corner of the road appeared four huge, horns, two
meek looking white heads, and----a bullock cart.
That was the sole cause of this hideous disturbance, of these
ear-piercing shrieks which rent the air. As usual, the wheels of the
cart were formed of solid circles of wood, not even rounded, and
carefully unoiled, and from these emanated those horrible shrieks,
groans, and creaks, which are the delight and security of the Burmese
driver, and the terror of tigers and panthers haunting the road.
How eminently peaceful must be the life of the bullock-cart driver! He
knows no hurry, no anxiety, no responsibility.
Hour after hour, day after day he jogs along, seated on the front of his
cart, occasionally rousing himself to joke and gossip with friends he
may meet on the way, or to encourage his team by means of his long
bamboo stick, but more often he sits wrapped in a deep sleep, or
meditation, trusting for guidance to the meek solemn-faced bullocks
which he drives. His work is done, his life is passed in one long
continuous, sleeping, smoking, and eating sort of existence; the thought
of such a life of careless, uneventful, unambitious happiness, is
appalling.
[Illustration: BURMESE BULLOCK CART]
I grew somewhat weary of the frequent opportunities I had of studying
the bullock carts and their drivers during that morning ride. Every cart
jogged on its noisy way along the very centre of the road; but it is not
meet that a Sahib and a representative of the great Queen should occupy
anything but the very centre of the road when taking his rides abroad.
Consequently whenever we met a bullock cart both cavalcades had to stop.
It was a work of time to make the driver hear the orderly's voice,
above the creaking of the wheels; more time was occupied in rousing him
from his sleep, and explaining to him the situation; and more time again
in explaining matters to the bullocks, and inducing them to drag the
cart into the ditch.
It took five minutes to pass each cart, and as we met a great many that
morning as we approached the village, our progress was considerably
delayed. I should have preferred for the sake of speed to have ridden in
the ditch myself; at the same time I am aware such opinions are unworthy
of the relation of an Indian Civilian.
My entrance into Remyo, the future scene of my experiences, at half-past
ten that morning was striking, though hardly dignified.
Picture to yourself a sorrowful, huddled figure, seated on a weary
dishevelled looking pony, covered from head to foot with red dust, and
surmounted by a large battered topee "tip-tilted like the petal of a
flower." I had long ceased to make any pretence at riding. I sat
sideways on my saddle, as one sits in an Irish car, grasping in one hand
the pummel and in the other my large green sun umbrella, for the sun was
terribly hot. How weary I was, and how overjoyed at arriving at my
destination!
But even yet my troubles were not over. There was the house, there my
sister waiting in the veranda to welcome me, but directly my pony
arrived at the gate of the compound he stopped dead. Apparently it was
not in the bond that I should be carried up to the door, and so no
further would he go. I was too impatient to argue the matter, too weary
to give an exhibition of horsemanship, so there was nothing to do but
descend, walk up the compound, and tumble undignifiedly into the house,
where the first thing I did was to register a vow that never again,
except in a case of life and death, would I attempt to ride a Burmese
pony.