A terrible experience—A Thoppa and a journey in it—Its
difficulties and dangers—The Lushais—Arrive at Sylhet—Find the
Coolies have levanted—A pony journey ends disastrously—A night
walk—Accident to Mr. A⸺.—Arrive at a teahouse—Not a shadowy
dinner.
I left Shillong early in November, 1889, travelling part of the way
towards Manipur quite alone, and had a terrible experience too. I had
arranged to journey a distance of thirty-eight miles in one day. I sent
one of my horses on the day before, and started in a ‘Khasia Thoppa’ down
the last hill of the range upon which Shillong is situated, which brings
you down into the plain of Sylhet. A Thoppa is a very curious mode of
locomotion. It is a long cane basket, with a seat in the middle, from
which hangs a small board to rest your feet upon. Over your head is a
covered top made of cane, covered with a cloth. You sit in this basket
and a man carries you on his back, supporting some of the weight by tying
a strap woven of cane on to the back of the Thoppa, which he puts over
his forehead. The Khasias, luckily, are very strong men, but they think
it necessary always to begin by informing you that you are much too heavy
to be lifted by any single individual, unless that said individual be
compensated at the end of the journey with double pay.
You ask him what you weigh, and he scratches an excessively dirty head,
shuts up one eye, spits a quantity of horrible red fluid out of his
mouth, and then informs you that he should put you down as eighteen or
nineteen stone, and he even will go as far as twenty sometimes. This,
to a slim, elegant-looking person, partakes of the nature of an insult,
but eventually he picks you up on his back and proceeds along the road
with you as fast as he can, as if you were a feather weight. Going along
backwards, and knowing that, should the man’s headstrap break, the
chances are you will be precipitated down the Khud,[7] are certainly not
pleasurable sensations; but it is astonishing how exceedingly callous you
become after a lengthy course of Thoppa rides up in the hills. Sometimes
your Thoppa wallah[8] may be slightly inebriated, when he will lurch
about in a horrible manner, emit a number of curious gurgling noises from
the depths of his throat, and eventually tumble down in the centre of the
road, causing you grievous hurt.
At other times he will take into consideration that it is a cold night,
the Memsahib is going to a Nautch,[9] and will be there four or five
hours, while he is left to his own reflections outside, waiting to carry
her home again when her festivities have subsided. Having arrived at
the conclusion that the cold will probably by that time be intense, he
will come to take you to the scene of action enveloped in every covering
that he can get together. After he has carried you a short way he begins
getting hot, and rapidly divests himself of his many wrappers, placing
them on the top of your machine, where they flutter about, hitting you
now and then playfully in the mouth or eye, as the case may be, and
making themselves as generally unpleasant as they possibly can. Having
done so, they end by falling off into the road. Your Khasia perceives
them, and immediately descends with you on to his hands and knees, and
grovels about until he recovers the fallen raiment. During this process
your head assumes a downward tendency, and your heels fly heavenwards;
and should you move in anyway ever so slightly, you immediately find
yourself sitting on the ground in a more hasty than dignified attitude,
upbraiding your Khasia in English. You may swear at a native and abuse
all his relations, as their custom is, in his own language, and you will
not impress him in any way; but use good sound fish-wife English, and he
will treat you as a person worthy of respect.
On my journey from Shillong, at the time of which I write, I fell in with
two very amiable Khasias. One could speak Hindostanee rather well, and he
walked beside me as I travelled down the hill and talked to me on various
interesting subjects. He asked me a great deal about the Lushais, and I
invented some wonderful anecdotes for his delectation. When we parted,
I think I had impressed him with the idea that I was a person of great
moral worth.
At the foot of the hill I got into a small train, the only railway to
be found at present in that side of Assam. I think it only extends over
about twelve miles of country, and there are about four trains, two
up and two down daily. They do not trouble themselves by putting on
too much speed. We, my servants and I, travelled as far as we could in
it, and then I found myself within twenty miles of Sylhet—my proposed
destination—in lots of time to ride in comfortably before dark, and get
my servants and baggage in at the same time. But, alas! the inevitable
fate of the traveller in Sylhet was destined to be mine, too, on this
occasion; and when I got out of the train, expecting to find my coolies
waiting for me, I found a wretched police inspector, who informed me that
the coolies had all run away, and he could not get me any more. What was
to be done I knew not, but after some delay I met a young fellow whom I
knew slightly, as he was connected with the railway, and I had seen him
passing through the district once before. He was a perfect godsend to me
on this occasion, and after some hours’ hunting for coolies he managed to
get the requisite number, and started them off with my luggage.
The next thing to be done was to start myself. Mr. A⸺ kindly offered to
go with me half-way, as it was then four o’clock, and only two hours of
daylight left. Off we started, he on the most extraordinary pony I have
ever seen, that looked as though it might fall down at any moment, and I
on a small Manipuri pony I had taken with me up in the hills. We started
off galloping, and went as hard as we could for six miles. I hoped that
about seven miles from Sylhet I should find a pony-trap waiting for me
which a planter had offered to send to meet me, so I did not spare my
small steed, as I knew he would not think anything of twelve miles.
By the time we got to the river, where I expected the cart to meet me, it
was almost dark. My poor pony was terribly tired and hot, but Mr. A⸺’s
curious old beast seemed none the worse. We crossed the river on a ferry,
and then found there was no cart on the opposite side. It was a terrible
blow, for our ponies had done enough as it was. Night was rapidly
overtaking us, and seven miles of the road lay before us to be got over
somehow. I had passed all my coolies three miles away on the road from
the railway, and knew that they would not be in for hours. There was
nothing to be done but to go on as best we could. There were tracks of
the cart-wheels in the road, so I knew it had been there, and it made it
all the more annoying. It was no good trying to gallop on, as my pony was
so tired he could scarcely crawl.
We proceeded slowly for about two miles. It was getting darker every
minute, and at length we could see nothing at all, but knew that we had
still five more weary miles to travel over. Mr. A⸺ suggested our urging
our horses into a canter, which ended disastrously for me, as my pony
caught his foot in something on the road and landed on his head. That
was the end of all idea of riding, so I got off, hauled him up on his
legs by dint of much persuasion, and started off walking. The road was
ankle-deep in loose sand, jackals hurried by us at every moment, and
noises startled me at every turn. At last I remembered that the planter
who had sent the cart out lived somewhere in that neighbourhood. When we
had been quartered in Sylhet, I had often ridden past his house, though I
had never been actually up to it, and I told Mr. A⸺ that I thought we had
better steer for his bungalow, if we could only find the road up to it.
We went on as fast as we could, considering, and at length saw the lights
of the house standing some distance to our left away from the road.
The next thing was to find the way up to it. My companion asked me to
look after the ponies—a rather unnecessary precaution, as they were too
tired to need any looking after—and he proceeded to try and find the
road. After a little while I heard a stifled call in the distance, which
was repeated, and then I discovered that poor Mr. A⸺ had fallen into a
horribly wet, slushy rice-field, and needed my help to extricate him.
Having given him the necessary aid, and hauled him out, we decided that
any more searching for the road up to the house would be a futile waste
of energy, and were preparing to make the best of our way into Sylhet,
when a coolie woman came by, and we rushed at her and asked if she could
show us the way to the Sahib’s bungalow. She seemed very much alarmed at
our sudden appearance, as we were then only dimly visible by the light of
the rising moon. However, she said after a little that she would not mind
conveying us up to the house, provided that we would allow her a fair
start in front of us, as she professed to be much alarmed at our horses.
We proceeded slowly and solemnly behind her, and at length found
ourselves not at the bungalow, but at the tea-house, an erection made
of corrugated iron in which the tea was manufactured. All round this
building there were wire stays which were fastened in the ground and
attached to the roof, to prevent the latter being blown off in storms
of wind. My poor tired pony caught his feet in one of these wires and
tumbled down; so, thinking that it was better to take what rest he could,
he did not trouble himself to get up again. It was not much good scolding
our guide, but we seemed no better off than we had been in the road
below, and the lights of the bungalow gleamed just as far away as before.
Mr. A⸺ suggested shouting, so simultaneously we all lifted up our voices
and shouted as loud as we could.
At length, after doing this a great many times, a light appeared in the
door of the bungalow; and a few minutes afterwards the figure of my
friend the planter became visible descending the hill upon which his
house was situated, and coming armed with a big stick to see what evil
spirits were in possession of his tea-house.
Very much surprised was he when he found there was a lady in the case,
and not a little disconcerted over his own appearance, as he was not clad
in raiment suitable to the entertaining of female visitors.
I was much too tired, however, to notice whether he was got up for the
occasion or not, and he seemed a perfect godsend to us both after all we
had gone through.
He soon took us up to his house, and in half an hour gave us dinner. Real
dinner, too—not a shadowy make-belief; but soup, entrée, and joint, just
as though we had come by invitation, and this had been the result of some
days’ preparation.
How we did eat! There was little doubt that we appreciated the excellent
fare set before us, and at the end of it I felt a different being.
Our friend the planter had meanwhile got himself up regardless of
expense, and offered to drive me into Sylhet, an offer which I most
gladly accepted, leaving the poor Jabberwock in a comfortable stable,
with a large bundle of grass in front of him, which he was too tired to
eat.
We did not take long to get over the four miles to Sylhet, where I bade
farewell to the planter and Mr. A⸺, who returned with him to the garden.
I had the pleasure of lying down on a bed with no bedding, and waiting
until my coolies and baggage should arrive, with part of my muddy habit
rolled up to serve for a pillow; and very well I slept for three good
hours, when at two o’clock in the morning my goods and chattels commenced
dropping in, and I was able to go to bed in real, sober earnest.
Next morning the Jabberwock arrived, looking rather miserable, with a
very large swelling on his leg, and a bad girthgall; so there was no
possibility of our continuing our journey that day, as the servants all
said they were dying, and could not move on at any price. However, the
day following they had recovered sufficiently to proceed another fifteen
miles; and after three more days I arrived at Cachar, where I found my
husband, who had come down from Manipur to meet me.