THE CYCLING FEVER BREAKS OUT IN RANGOON--PRIZE FIGHTING UNDER
REMARKABLE RULES--ACROSS THE BAY OF BENGAL TO CALCUTTA.
Cycling in Burmah proved extremely monotonous, and the dullest of
all the dreary rides we experienced were here. Nowhere was there a
variety of scene or change from the level valley, with its dusty,
winding roads stretching out under the blistering tropical sun. The
air was ever stifling hot; it smarted our dilated nostrils; seemed
to stuff our gasping lungs and blister the backs of our hands and
necks, and a ride of three hours at a stretch caused us to relax
into a sort of stupor, from which we could only arouse ourselves by
repeated efforts. Had we reached Burmah during the fall of the year,
we could have made good progress, but now tedious delays, entirely
beyond our control, hampered us, and we had to face not only the
famine and plague-infested land, but the white man's greatest enemy,
the summer sun, which, in its molten glare, kept the temperature above
100, night and day, making death and heat apoplexy quite as possible
as from the epidemic of cholera and bubonic fever. We left Mandalay
at daybreak on March 1, and started over the dusty roads to Rangoon,
400 miles south. Mandalay had been the point which we had selected
to observe the characteristics and customs of the natives, and,
unlike the efforts put forth in the same channel in China, we found
the duties pleasant and fraught with happy little incidents. Burmans
resemble the Japanese to a certain extent; not so cleanly, energetic,
intelligent or independent, but possessing the same admirable faculty
of being happy, smiling and self-complacent under circumstances which
would fill any other being's soul with pessimistic vagaries. Farming,
carpentry and carving appear to be the only occupations left them,
for everywhere was seen the submissive black who followed the rush
of England into the land of milk and honey and rice and rubies.
"Othello's occupation gone" is true of the Burman. Blacks are the
scavengers, sweepers, table servants, cooks, butlers, porters,
coachmen, tailors and merchants. Eurasians, the half-castes, whose
yellow skin and coarse black hair betray their early English ancestors,
and the blacks are selected to act as clerks, hospital attendants,
telegraph operators and railroad clerks. "Baboo," the English and
natives call them, and, if another letter had only been added to
the name, the term would have been quite appropriate. With all these
occupations lost to him, the native still appears to do well, always
in silk and spotless muslin, smoking incessantly cigarettes or huge
cheroots, which scatter sparks like a working fire engine. The women
of the Indian races act as laundresses, nurses and maids. Thus, with
almost all the natural trades and occupations taken by invaders, little
is left for the Burman but the profession of thief and thief-catcher,
both synonymous in Burmah, where a policeman is feared not for his
authority, but for the blackmailing such office permits him to levy
upon wrong-doers and innocent upon whom suspicion rests.
We had many companions on the road to Rangoon. On every side were
Burmans on foot, on horse, and in the low-roofed box-like carts,
which creaked and groaned as the gentle, curved-horned beasts drew
them along. We passed Indians who walked hand-in-hand, and Chinese
gardeners who swung along at a rapid pace, though their backs were
bowed with the weight of fresh vegetables. Bicycles did not seem to
attract much attention in the motley throng, the only persons acting
as though our presence was unusual being the women bathing around the
stone-topped wells, and they only because the icy waters that dashed
and poured over their bodies had caused the only garment they wore,
a short, scant skirt, to cling closely to their limbs, revealing
every outline of symmetrical figures.
The craze for wheeling had just reached an interesting stage in Rangoon
at the time of our visit. The demand for machines exceeded the supply,
and as a result there was to be seen every morning and evening the
most interesting parade of antiquities ever witnessed outside of a
bicycle show. American machines of modern make were a close second to
the new English product, but wheels entitled to the utmost respect
due to old age formed the creaking, groaning majority. The riders,
too, were curious, the Europeans first in numbers, Eurasians second,
and the Indian-Chinese-Burman, the mongrel of all Asia, making up
the balance. The positions, too, some of the riders assumed were
remarkable. The "hump" had not reached the far East, the rat-trap pedal
and toe-clip were unknown, and with handle-bars wide as the horns
of a Texas steer, seats suspended on coil after coil of spring, low
and set far back over the rear wheel, the tread eight and ten inches
wide, the riders reversed the "hump" and appeared to be sitting on the
dorsal vertebra, pumping much as a bather swimming on his back. There
were many places of historical interest in and around Rangoon, and
as all points were available by cycle, our good old wheels were kept
busy. The turning point of our morning spins, the teak lumber yards,
permitted sights which would delight the little folks at home as much
as they secured the attention of tourists here. Elephants, great, huge,
dirty fellows, void of all the tinsel trappings of the circus, were
the attraction, as daily they performed the most arduous labor which
in America is done by cranes and derricks. In harness of chains, the
beasts drew enormous logs from the river to the carriage at the saws,
and with ropes wound around their trunks they dragged the rough slabs
into a yard and piled them in precise heaps. With trunk coiled as a
cushion against their tusks, they pushed enormous pieces of timber
into the proper places, each piece being placed in exact position,
with the ends carefully "trimmed." Gentle and meek as the laborers
are in appearance, as, with flapping ears and timid little eyes,
they obey their commands, they sometimes become mutinous. In the
McGregor yard, which we visited one morning, we were shown one of the
largest and best workers of the herd, who had just been released from
"jail." He had been in confinement four months, laden with chains,
deprived of delicacies, and treated as a criminal, simply because he
had wantonly walked upon and then tossed his keeper into the air. The
beast apparently realized the disgrace which had been heaped upon
him, for he obeyed his new master without even pausing to blow dust
on his back or plaster his huge sides with cooling, fly-proof mud.
With the advent of English rule in Burmah, native athletic sport
degenerated, and became supplanted in time by horse races of most
corrupt nature. When I state that the racing is corrupt I have but
to cite two instances which occurred at the meeting of the Mandalay
Club during our visit to that city. A captain in Her Majesty's army
placed 3,000 against 1,000 rupees that a certain horse, which we
will designate as A, would win over the field presenting two horses,
B and C. Of the latter, C was clearly outclassed, consequently the
race was between A and B. You may judge of the bookmakers' surprise
when they learned in the afternoon that the gallant captain was to
ride B, the horse he had bet against. The race had but one possible
outcome, A won. Another race was started and finished in absolute
darkness. No lights were used on the tracks, the horses were dark
in color, and the jockeys the same, but the judge readily named the
winner, and the bookmakers lost again.
A native prize fight is even more remarkable, though always conducted
"on the square." I do not know the rules governing the ring in
Burmah, but so few methods of attack are barred that one need not
bother himself on that point. Biting, hair-pulling and kicking a
fallen opponent are the only prohibited acts. I was invited to be
present at a series of combats which took place in the arena near
the Shway Dagon pagoda in Rangoon. Facing each other, the fighters
stood a pace apart, the referees opposite each other, also, forming
a square. The referees clapped their chests, the combatants smote
themselves likewise, there was a great roar of voices, and before I
could really notice how it happened, the fighters were wriggling on
the tanbark. A flash of dark skins through the sun's rays, the clapping
sounds of palms on necks, backs and thighs, a catherine wheel of legs,
arms, heads and tanbark, and the round was over. Separated by the
referees, the men retired to their corners, drank bottles of soda
water, took fresh chews of betel nut, and good-naturedly listened
to the gratuitous advice from their friends in the audience. The
referees called round two by slapping their chests. The fighters
were more cautious as they went at each other, the up-country man
opening the round by kicking his antagonist in the chest. A vicious
uppercut with a swinging knee was next landed by the local man, and
as it reached the curry and rice department of the up-country man,
events looked bright for Rangoon. Blows, swung right and left, up
and down, were delivered like a man chopping wood. The Rangoon man
made a supreme effort to feint, and in doing so he actually struck
something, and unexpectedly ended the bout. Leaping high in the air,
he kicked the up-country man square on the nose. The blood flew, and
the fight was over. Blood drawn, if only from a scratch, constitutes
a victory for the unbled one, and two minutes later the fighters had
received their reward, coins tossed into the ring by spectators.
Two years to a day after leaving Chicago we walked up the gang-plank of
the steamship "Africa," booked for Calcutta, only three days across
the formidable Bay of Bengal. Mrs. McIlrath developed her usual
attack of sea sickness, though the water was unruffled, and was kept
in her cabin for the entire voyage, leaving me to occupy the daylight
hours wandering among the deck passengers. The first impression one
receives on landing at the port of Calcutta is that the city is one
vast cab stand. "Gharries," as the natives' hacks are called, line
the walks, crowd the streets, rest under the shades of trees in parks,
and stand at the curb in front of hotels and shops. The dust, rattle
and bang caused by these shaky, dirty vehicles, which are dragged
about by horses at snail's pace, is a nuisance second only to the
tram cars, and one which would be tolerated only by custom-bound,
"strictly-in-form" Englishmen. Streets in Calcutta wander aimlessly
along, similar to the rail fences in Indiana, and the buildings,
uniformly of staff-covered brick, are of every imaginable size and
shape, as if architects were of one mind in determining to try all
kinds in an effort to obtain one adapted to the climate. Sidewalks,
roads and paths are packed with white-clad natives, barefooted and
bareheaded, in the awful glare of heat, which strikes horses dead,
unless their heads are protected, yet none of the blacks appear to
suffer. Doors of hotels and shops are kept open, but hanging in the
apertures are heavy mats of a peculiar grass, which coolies wet with
pails of water, and by which means the air is cooled. Everywhere the
heat is talked about and guarded against, and yet, with huge fans
swung constantly over one's head, with cooling draughts on a table by
your side, the perspiration pours from every part of the body. One
hundred and ten degrees in the shady corridors of the Continental
hotel, the coolest in all India, 98 degrees at night, and this was
the country we crossed on bicycles, involving over 2,000 miles'
travel, and beyond the pale of ice or daily clean clothes! Bicycles
are ridden extensively in Calcutta, comparatively speaking more
than 3,000 wheels being enumerated in the tax list at the time I
was in the city. There are, however, only about three months in the
year favorable to riding--December, January and February. In other
months cycling is tolerable only between the hours of 5 and 8 in the
morning and evening. This, of course, applies only to the Europeans,
and not to the natives, who ride in the intense heat of midday without
the slightest difficulty. A sight calculated to arouse laughter in a
wooden cigar sign is one of the proud possessors of an old solid-tire,
with hammock saddle and wide handle-bars, as he plows along the road,
making erratic dives, like misbalanced kites.
The most frequented road is a short strip on the Maidan, an enormous
clearing, five and seven-eighths miles in circumference, in which is
situated Fort Williams. Roads of fine macadam skirt the park, and amid
cricket, golf and football grounds are statues and columns erected
to Englishmen who have performed satisfactory duties in India. Eden
Garden, at one end of the Maidan, is a beautiful spot, and here,
morning and evening, a well-directed band plays sweet music to charm
Calcutta's conglomerated inhabitants. Cycling in early evening along
the Strand is also gratifying. The street is crowded with women in
white and red robes, silver anklets and bracelets, their head and
matchless figures but faintly concealed by flimsy togs. Burning ghats
are also erected on the river shore. The Calcutta burning ghats on
the Strand road affords accommodation for the cremation of sixteen
bodies simultaneously. In appearance, the crematory is unpretentious,
simply a low-roofed structure divided into an alcove, and two waiting
rooms for mourners. The Inter Ocean cyclists visited the crematory,
and were shown throughout the establishment by an aged Hindoo,
who superintended the force of men who kept going the coals under
fifteen pyres. Not of less interest, but far less disagreeable, is a
distinctively Calcutta feature. Kali ghat. This is a temple devoted
to Kali, goddess of destruction, reputed in Hindoo lore to possess a
thirst for blood, and to appease and propitiate whom live sacrifices
are made. Formerly human beings were offered, but under British rule
the custom was abolished, and kids and goats substituted. Decapitation
is the method offered, and as fast as sacrifices are brought forward,
the bleeding little things are seized by the ears, the priest makes
a cutting slash with a heavy knife, and the headless trunk is thrown
to the ground. We witnessed the religious rites of Japanese and
Chinese, and we had seen the medicine-dances of the American Indians,
but nothing approaches the furious fanaticism and the frenzy of the
Hindoo at Kali ghat. Men shouted themselves hoarse, women screamed and
tore each other's clothes at the shrine of the goddess. It took the
assistance of half a dozen hired blacks to force for us an entrance
into the temple, and rushes of worshipers were so great that thrice we
were swept back ere we obtained a glimpse of the hideous deity. Her
face and figure a blood red; with multiple arms swaying like the
tentacles of an octopus; her face distorted with blood red tongues;
a necklace of skulls about her throat, the goddess Kali is indeed
the representation of destruction. Gross, hideous and repulsive as
was the figure, the effect was heightened by the maddened crowd,
who, with wild shrieks, tossed offerings of flowers at the fiendish
idol in their effort to escape from the calamities, believed in their
pagan minds, to be brought about by neglecting to satiate the goddess'
greed for bloodshed and crime. Amid such surroundings it was not to
be wondered at that our minds reverted to the fact that "ghazi," the
assassination of Christians, is still in vogue in India, and that one
of the devout worshipers might easily plunge a knife in our backs,
and thus earn his way to Hindoo heaven with ease and glory. I can
assure my readers that we felt easier and more comfortable when once
more in our gharry and the horses on a dead run en route back to the
hotel. We learned from a priest at the ghat why Calcutta is so named,
the title being a British corruption of Kalikata, the name bestowed by
the Emperor Akbar, in 1596, in commemoration of the proximity of Kali
ghat. We were in Calcutta two weeks before the cycling fraternity knew
of our arrival. When they finally discovered our presence, we floated
along on a wave of popularity. Cyclists, dealers and agents were our
daily companions and callers. American machines were well-known and
liked, and wood rims and single-tube tires were looked upon with doubt,
but after an inspection of the hardest-used pair of wheels the world
ever knew, wood rims and single tubes took on the ascendency.