THROUGH CHINA INTO BURMAH--ENTERTAINED LAVISHLY BY BRITISH OFFICERS
IN MANDALAY AND MADE TO BLUSH AT A "ZAT PWEI."
Days of intense heat reigned, and snow marked our progress through
the Yunnan and Kwei Chan provinces. The snowstorm rivaled in force
a Texas blizzard, so exhausting our coolies that they refused to go
further. We gave them from our surplus store of clothing, and put
upon their feet extra pairs of our thick woolen socks, so earning
their gratitude that they consented to proceed a few miles further,
where we came upon a large hut, which sometimes did service as a
tavern. We were snow-bound here for three days before we could push
our way to the British line.
Wednesday, Dec. 23, our last day in China, found us up bright and
early, and so impatient that we set out afoot in advance of our
carriers. Up and down over the stone-heaped path, passing numerous
Chinese forts, and over three ranges of mountains, we walked, climbed
and stumbled until we sighted a more civilized land--Burmah. Pausing
only to assure our gladdened hearts that our eyes did not deceive us,
we plunged down a precipitous path, crossed a swaying suspension
bridge of bamboo, and, with a loud hurrah, landed on Burmese
soil. Mrs. McIlrath's first action on the new territory was to flop
down in the sand and cry; mine to crack the neck from a small bottle,
and, with a prayer of thanksgiving, a toast to the United States,
Queen Victoria, the Inter Ocean, and the good wheels we rode, we
drank the bottle's fizzing contents, and yelled like a pair of cowboys.
At the water's edge were squatted a few of Great Britain's
defenders--the black Sepoys of India. We toiled up the hill to the
stockade above, and as we approached, an individual, who introduced
himself as Gordon, opened the barrier gates and invited us to come
inside. Our advent was expected, and other formalities of introduction
were unnecessary. We remained the guests of Gordon over night, as
our coolies, with the bicycles, did not arrive until after sundown.
As I looked back over the last eleven months, my recollections become
almost kaleidoscopic in their variations. For eleven months we were
the guests of the Mongolians, having them for companions both day and
night; we had adopted their customs, ate, slept and journeyed with them
for weeks isolated from a white face, and we felt on our arrival in
Nampong that we were competent to judge as very few others the true
character of the long-queued Orientals. Our trip from Shanghai had
involved 4,200 miles of walking, riding and climbing. We had been
pursued by howling mobs; we had slept in swamps and rice fields;
we had been fired upon, cut at with knives, lunged at by spears,
and stoned innumerable times; often running a gauntlet of maddened
natives, with clods and stones falling about us like hail. Coolies
of the lowest and officials of the highest type had sheltered and
entertained us; pleasures and pain had been our lot; from a palace as
honored guests we had been altered in forty-eight hours to besieged
beings, expecting to fight for our lives; lost in snowstorms, wading
in streams, creeping around landslides, our journey has been fraught
with many dangers; death in the garb of pestilent disease had brushed
shoulders, feasted at the same table and slept in the same apartment
with us; we had been ragged and hungry, yet now, on Burmese soil,
not a word of regret could be expressed for all the hardships we had
suffered. For myself, there is due little credit. I simply accomplished
that which I understood must be done when we entered China, but to the
heroic little woman who pleaded to be allowed to share my hardships,
is all credit due. Never did she falter when the mobs gathered around
us, and when the last possible recourse permitting escape from death
and torture seemed exhausted, she was firm and quiet.
Of the Chinese as a people, individually and collectively, we learned
them to be a weak race, morally and mentally. Opium, liquor and
disease have set their marks upon millions. In trade the natives
are unscrupulous, and chivalry or respect toward women does not
exist. Cruel to the extreme, with a cultivated ferocity they are
most arrant cowards, and yet, most overbearing when in numbers. The
country itself is rich with precious metals, commercial minerals, oil
and fibrous grasses, as yet either unknown to the natives, or else
requiring too much labor to extract. Improvement or advancement in
civilization or mercantile industries will never take place in China
while governed by China. The supreme egotism of the natives prevents
the adoption of anything modern or anything foreign. The official
classes are no less corrupt. Banded together, as if a society for
pillage, they prey upon the people, aided by the more unprincipled
priests, and woe to the merchants and peasants who enter court to
obtain justice. Such, briefly, is China as the Inter Ocean cyclists
found it to be.
The first Burmese village into which we wheeled was Myathit, situated
in one of the dustiest, hottest, driest portions of all India. There
were fine shade trees dotting the white, dusty road, and everywhere
were to be seen the curiously attired people from all parts of India
and Burmah. I could distinguish the Indians by their garbs of white,
some cut into long frock coats and tight trousers, others into jackets,
with long, flowing trousers gathered at the ankles. Huge white turbans
were knotted about the heads of the Indians, a bit of bright color in
the center being the only relief in the entire study of black hands and
faces framed in a setting of immaculate white. The Burmese women, as
a rule, are handsome. I was aided in this discovery by Mrs. McIlrath,
who pointed out to me, as a type, a beauty possessing a complexion
like cream, with the pink tint of peach blossoms. When Mrs. McIlrath
announces that a woman is beautiful I accept it without argument. She,
and not I, is the censor in such matters.
One could not imagine a more insipid place to live in than Bahmo,
the military and trading coast where we were quartered. The hours
of life are routine and monotonous, excepting when one is fortunate
enough to own a membership or to have a card to the Bahmo Club. For
thirty days in luxuriant idleness (of course not counting the many
short trips awheel in and about the city), we lingered in Bahmo,
living in the bungalow of the China inland missionary. Bicycling
in the district of Bahmo affords limited journeys, but we managed
to travel twenty miles away, and visit the government hospital,
the provincial jail and a number of coffee plantations.
We sailed from this large, but rather uninteresting, city on Jan. 25,
1897, taking passage on one of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company's mail
steamers, the Monein. After three days' steaming the Monein tied up
at the dock in Mandalay, the capital city of Burmah, and sung of by
Mr. Kipling in his clever verses, "On the Road to Mandalay." During the
reign of Kings Mindoon and Theebaw, in order that the palaces might be
protected from invaders, the buildings were erected far to the inland,
under the shadow of Mandalay hill. Wheeling over the hard macadam
was a delight, and merrily we whirled off the miles intervening,
until we alighted, at last, at the European hotel, the first that
had welcomed us since leaving Hankow, China. In our journey of the
globe, having been the guests of thousands of people, we must credit
the members of the Burmah Club, fifty per cent of whom are British
officers, with being the most attentive and kindly organization at
whose hands we received courtesies. As a body they wined us, dined
us, gave picnic excursions on the river, drives, bicycle rides,
obtained invitations to various native celebrations, and put forth
every effort to render our sojourn instructive and pleasant. Bicycling
with several Europeans who were fortunate enough to own cycles was
one of the most delightful features of our entertainment. The roads
were excellent, and wheeling in the cool air of early morning, one
of the many delightful temples or majestic pagodas the objective
point of our excursion, is a pleasure to be enjoyed only on British
roads in an Oriental country. It was our privilege, on Feb. 12 to
witness a wedding of royal blood. The ex-Nyanugwe Saw Bwa "requested
the pleasure of the company of Mr. and Mrs. McIlrath at his home, in
South Moat Road, on the occasion of the marriage of his daughter Saw
Kin Gwi with the Sawbued of South Theinni, and also on the same night,
to witness a Zat Pwei." The ceremonies were performed by the highest
class native officials and Sir Frederick Fryer, first lieutenant
governor of Burmah. To appear successfully at such a state function
one is supposed to dress appropriately, and I felt greatly embarrassed
in my knickerbockers as I mingled in the blaze of red uniforms, royal
Scotch plaids, gold lace, decorations, and the jewels and dainty gowns
of the ladies. Extravagant as are the English in costuming for each
event and occasion of the day, the guests did not appear to notice the
greasy, dusty and patched raiment which comprised my only wardrobe,
and did all they could to make me feel at home. The verbal portion of
the marriage ceremony was unintelligible to me, but the "business,"
as an actor would describe it, made it quite plain to the most casual
observer that the dusky pair who formed the center piece of a most
interesting group were being united in the holy bonds of wedlock.
The usual check from "papa" was not seen as we inspected the wedding
gifts, but there was a profusion of diamonds and silver plate. The
diamonds were just such as are admired by Burmans, huge yellow
beauties, set in dull gold rings, the base uppermost and the radiating
surface concealed. Just why the Burmans reverse the European idea of
setting gems is difficult to explain, but the prevailing idea is that
the gem is so set to resemble the pagodas and pyramids so omnipresent
and revered in Burmah. Diamonds valued as high as 30,000 rupees,
or about $10,000 in our money, are set in this manner, and the color
is invariably yellow. The Zat Pwei, which was next on the program,
proved to be a theatrical performance. It began with an overture by
the orchestra, the music typically Oriental; then came the dancers of
the company, followed by the event of the evening, the drama. Just what
the play was called, or what the plot was about, was vague to all the
Europeans present, but as the dialogue progressed the audience warmed
up and the actors became enlivened. Dropping their theatrical drawl
and stagy manner which had characterized the first half hour, the
performance developed into repartee of suggestive tone. In fact, the
most unblushing French jokes would look well upon Sunday-school cards
after listening to a series of Zat Pweis. As our party was entirely
dependent upon a native interpreter for translation, and as this
gentleman did not regard the performance from a European standpoint,
the entertainment soon reached a stage which required the withdrawal
of the ladies, and at midnight, with a farewell congratulation to
our host, we returned to the hotel, satisfied that Zat Pweis were
most interesting--to bachelors and a few other gentlemen.