THE GOLDEN PAGODA
It is hot and still, we have passed across a place of broken tangled
undergrowth and come out into a rather untidy courtyard, where some
sneaking yellow pariah dogs barked at us until I cut at them with my
stick, when they ran away and barked again from a safe distance. There
seems to be no one else here but ourselves. A great tree covered with
glorious magenta flowers stands on one side. It is our old friend the
bougainvillea, but here it grows into a great tree instead of a creeper.
It is backed up by the dark foliage of many mango trees. In front of us
is a large house which seems to rise in many storeys, and the roof of
each storey is carved and decorated, so that it shows up like lacework
against the sky. The house stands on legs, so that the under part is
quite open, and a broad flight of wooden steps leads up to a verandah on
the first floor. Stop to examine the carving on the balustrade. It is
wonderful! Figures of tigers, dragons, peacocks, monkeys, and elephants
are all set among foliage and cut out very deeply.
When we arrived in Burma yesterday we came up the river Irrawaddy, which
at its mouth is called the Rangoon River. What seemed like low green
banks are really swamps filled with rushes growing high and strong; as
we passed between them suddenly we saw afar off a gleam of gold, and by
staring hard we made out a great tower against the sky. We are going to
visit it presently, but just now I want you to see something else quite
funny. Step softly on the broad wooden verandah and peep round that
corner.
There squats an old man with a perfectly bald head, smooth as a billiard
ball; he wears a loose garment of dull yellow stuff which forms a sort
of skirt and is draped across one shoulder as well, falling over his
honey-coloured chest. He is all yellow, except for his round, shining
black eyes, very like glistening balls of jet. On the ground in front of
him, lying full length on their little stomachs, are about a dozen small
boys. You thought they were girls? I don't wonder! Each one has a
feathery tuft of hair in the middle of his head standing up like carrot
tops, except for this the little skull is closely shaven all round. They
all have skimpy white jackets and skirts from which their skinny little
yellow legs stick out kicking in the effort to master their tasks. In a
loud sing-song jabber they are repeating something which they read off
the slates they hold in front of them. It would be funny to learn
lessons lying flat on the floor, wouldn't it? But these boys have never
sat on chairs in their lives; they will have to learn that as an
accomplishment if they go into business offices when they are older.
The old _poongyi_, or monk, is the teacher. This beautiful carved wooden
building is the house where the monks live, and it is called a _choung_.
In the morning, very early, the monks wander forth, dressed in yellow
robes and carrying begging-bowls and fans. They do not beg, however,
they are much too proud; they merely stop and stand about where there
are houses, and the people rush to pour food into their bowls. It is a
privilege for them to be allowed to do this, as they are supposed to
"gain merit" by so doing. Nearly all the Burmese are Buddhists, and
these men are Buddhist monks.
[Illustration: A POONGYI, OR MONK.]
You would never guess what the fans are for; they are to put up as
screens to shield the faces of the monks when they pass a woman, for
they are not supposed ever to look at a woman, it is too frivolous! When
the begging-bowls are full they generally contain a strange mixture, for
everyone pours in anything he or she happens to have; there will
certainly be rice, both cooked and raw, peas, perhaps fish, and this may
be wrapped up in a leaf to keep it separate, which is necessary when it
is curried; then there will be some cakes or cucumbers; possibly, in the
season, mangoes and plantains. One of the greatest delicacies of the
Burmese is a horribly smelly stuff called _ngape_, made of rotten fish
laid in salt; no feast is complete without it.
The monks are supposed to live on what they get in their begging-bowls,
but, as a matter of fact, in wealthy monasteries they don't; they empty
it out for the pariah dogs, which explains why so many dogs always hang
around the monasteries.
The Burmese have some funny notions; one is that they do not like anyone
else's feet to be above their heads, so they build their houses on posts
and do not use the ground floor. It looks as if there were many more
storeys rising above the first floor where they live, but that is a
sham; the roof is only built to look like that, and is hollow inside. In
most of the monasteries there are schools, and the little boys are
taught in them, as you see here. Besides this, every boy, when he gets
to a certain age, must spend a time, longer or shorter, in the
monastery. It may be only a few days or weeks and it may be years,
according to the ideas of his parents, but while he is there he has to
wear the yellow robe and carry the begging-bowl, and what to a growing
boy must be most trying of all, he is not allowed to eat anything after
midday!
That old fellow has caught sight of us; he is getting up and seems quite
pleased to welcome us. It is a good thing we brought Ramaswamy with us,
for he can speak Burmese and interpret for us; the monk knows no
English. The little boys spring to their feet and stand gazing at us
with wide eyes, delighted, as any boys would be, at getting an
interruption to their lessons. They gradually come round us and begin to
laugh and even to touch our clothes, but the old monk sends them all
away and leads us into the wooden rooms of the monastery that open off
the verandah. Several monks here are lying lazily about on mats
half-asleep, but in a moment they all surround us, and for the first few
minutes we experience rather an eerie sensation. Coming in from the
bright sunshine outside everything seems very dim, and these curious men
with their shaven heads and beetle eyes come close up to us and press
upon us, pawing us and pointing to a great image of Buddha shining out
in a ghostly way from a shrine at the end of the hall.
There are many little candles burning before it, most of them sticking
to the ground by their own grease. One of the monks takes one up and
holds it so that we can see the image, about twice life-size, seated in
that calm attitude of the sitting Buddha, with crossed legs and one hand
on the lap, while the other hangs loosely down. There is a serene
self-satisfied smirk on the marble face, which looks more like that of a
woman than a man. Ramaswamy explains to us that this is a very specially
holy Buddha, and that the little dabs of gold splashed here and there
about him are the offerings of the faithful; they are simply bits of
gold-leaf stuck on. Gold-leaf is expensive, for it is real gold beaten
very thin, and these little bits represent much self-denial on the part
of many poor people. A Burman's great object in life is to "gain merit"
for a future existence, for he thinks that he will live again and again
many times in different forms, and that as he behaves in this life so he
will be born again into a better or worse state in the next; if he is
very bad he runs the risk of becoming a snake or some other repulsive
reptile. He is not afraid of overdoing the merit, as the ancient
Egyptian was; the more he can pile up for himself the better, and the
way in which he does this is to feed the poongyis, build choungs and
pagodas, and set up or adorn figures of Buddha.
The priests at this choung own a priceless relic; it is no less than a
hair of Buddha! After some persuasion they are induced to show it to us.
They bring a great casket, which is solemnly unlocked, showing another
inside, and again another, and at last we get down to a little glass
box with an artificial white flower in it, round which is wound a long
and very wiry white hair. I should say many of the same sort could be
got from any long-tailed white horse!
[Illustration: BUDDHA.]
On a table near are various offerings, and among them we see a rather
greasy pack of ordinary playing-cards and a soda-water bottle, besides
several saucers of waxy white blossoms of the frangipani flower, such as
we saw in Ceylon, emitting a very strong scent. The soda-water bottle
and playing-cards look rather dissipated, but they are quite serious
offerings, given by somebody who thinks them rare and interesting. Our
ears for some time past have told us that an extraordinary amount of
ticking is going on, and now that our eyes have become accustomed to
the light, we can see numerous clocks on brackets and tables; these are
of all sorts and sizes, including a 2s. 11d. "Bee" clock, cuckoo clocks,
and even one large "grandfather." In between and about them, on the
floor and on the shelves, are lamps large and lamps small, some brass,
some china, and some glass!
The clocks are all going hard, ticking away as if they were running a
race to see which could get ahead of the other. It is a funny medley!
The monks are lazy enough and pass half their days asleep, but if they
keep all these clocks wound up someone must have something to do. These
are all offerings, and the more the better; no monk can ever get enough
lamps or clocks to satisfy him!
We pass down and out into the courtyard, and all the monks follow us in
a body and gently edge us toward some ponds or tanks where fat tortoises
lie on the banks or float lazily in the stagnant water.
There is a man sitting on the side selling balls of rice and bits of
bread. Just as we come up a graceful Burmese woman buys a ball and
throws it into the water. In an instant what looks like a voracious army
of huge spiders floats up from below and attacks it, and as the ball of
rice dissolves and falls apart every grain disappears. Looking more
closely we see that they are not spiders at all, but a curious kind of
fish with long feelers growing out all round his mouth and nose. As he
thrusts up his mouth to the surface, with all the feelers wriggling, the
rest of his body is unseen, and the appearance is exactly that of a
round spider with wriggling legs. Buy a bit of crust and see the fish
dart at it and simply tear it to pieces; they scramble at it from all
sides, pushing and nibbling, and in less time than you could imagine
every crumb is gone!
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN PAGODA.]
The woman is laughing, and we laugh back at her. She is short and very
neat, with her shining black hair coiled round her head and secured by
two big pins, while a dainty spray of flower falls down on one side. Her
face looks quite light coloured, for it is thickly covered with a kind
of soft yellow powder, and she has a brilliant gauzy scarf across her
little white jacket and falling down over her tight rose-pink silk
skirt. As she walks away with a curious shuffle we see that she has on
the quaintest shoes, with red velvet caps and no heels; but the caps are
so much too small for her feet that she has had to leave the little toe
outside! This is a fine dodge, and Mah Shwe can say she takes twos or
threes in shoes with truth, even if her feet are much larger!
The monks are standing in a solemn group near their staircase when we go
back, and when I suggest to Ramaswamy we should give them something he
disagrees vigorously. "Not touching money, Master, only food and rice,
no money." All right, we won't tempt them, and I put back the rupee I
had taken out. You must have noticed already that the money here is the
same as in India. Then we climb into the miserable little box on wheels
which is waiting for us; it is the only cab we can get here, and calls
itself a ticca-gharry. The little rat of a pony seems a very long way
off; it is a tight squeeze for us inside, and there is certainly no room
on the box beside the hairy-legged native for Ramaswamy, but he hops up
on a board there is behind for the purpose, and hangs on as we jolt away
to the Golden Pagoda.
The first thing we see when we arrive at it are two enormous monsters,
not like any animal in existence, made of white plaster with glaring red
eyes. They have dragons' heads and tigers' bodies and are most terribly
ferocious. These guard the entrance to the pagoda and are called
leogryphs. Between them there is a long ascent rising to the pagoda
platform. The place is like a bazaar with people in their gay clothes
coming and going, and the sun glinting through between the pillars at
the open spaces. It is difficult to tell the difference between men and
women, for all alike wear skirts and jackets, and you never see a man
with a beard, hardly ever with a moustache. But the true distinction is
that the men have a gay handkerchief called a _goungbaung_ wound round
their heads, and the women wear no head covering, and, as you have seen,
they never think of veiling their faces, like the Mohammedan women. The
men's head-gear is very different from that we saw in India; it is not a
huge and heavy erection, but just a silk or cotton scarf twisted up and
tucked in, and very often there is a "bird's nest" of dark hair sticking
out in the middle of it, for the men's hair is long as well as the
women's, but they roll it up so that it is not seen.
[Illustration: THE LEOGRYPH.]
Everyone is very bright and friendly, and the girls who are selling all
sorts of little tawdry things on the stalls by the stairs call out to us
persuasively to buy from them. On the whole the place is clean, and
there is no bazaar smell, only a certain sharp wood-smoke flavour and
the scent of many flowers. But at the foot of every white column are
horrible deep-red stains that look as if some little animal had been
slaughtered there. It is not so bad as that. You remember we saw a man
whose mouth was stained red with chewing betel-nut, which he did in the
same way that some of the roughest men in England chew tobacco? These
are the stains of that betel-nut, for nearly everyone here has the
nasty habit.
Up the steps we pass, higher and higher, and come out on to a great
platform which looks like a street, for it is lined with buildings on
all four sides and in the middle too; but rising above those in the
middle is the great pagoda, the Shwe Dagon,--_shwe_ means golden,--and
this is the most wonderful thing in Burma.
It is so wide at the base that it takes quite a long time to walk round
it, and then it goes up in a bell-like curve, tapering to a steeple
little less than the height of St. Paul's Cathedral. At the very top of
all, so high that we can only see it by cricking our necks, is an iron
cage called a _htee_, meaning "umbrella," decorated with swinging bells.
Listen for a moment and perhaps you can hear them as the wind sways them
about. No, the air is too still to-day. Deep in the innermost chamber of
the pagoda are no less than eight hairs of Buddha, besides other relics
of other Buddhas who lived before the last.
The marvel of it is that this great monument is pure gold from top to
bottom. Much of it is covered with thin plates of real gold, and the
rest, yards and yards of it, is plastered with gold-leaf.
Did you see that red glint from the top as the sun caught the htee at an
angle? That was probably a real ruby, for it flashed out like a sword
blade. There are many real stones set up there, and the htee alone cost
L50,000!
Coming back to earth, look at the glitter on all these shrines that line
the platform on both sides. Though it looks like a street it isn't
really, for there are no houses, only shrines and temples. That one
close to us is dazzling to look at. No, those blue and red flashes are
not from real jewels; examine them and see. The shrine is encased with
little pieces of looking-glass, some red and some blue and some plain,
all fitted in together like mosaic.
The next is made of the wonderful carved woodwork the Burmans do so
well, and it is gilded all over; for my own part I prefer the dark teak
ungilded, but still this looks very handsome among the rest. That tall
post like a flagstaff, with streamers flying from it, is a praying-post;
can you make out the figure like a weather-cock at the top? It is a
goose instead of a cock, and doesn't tell the direction of the wind. It
is the sacred goose. The brilliance of all this detail takes one's
breath away. On every side we see the people worshipping, and yet it is
not a festival day, for then we should hardly be able to move for the
crowds on the platform--where there are tens now there would then be
thousands. The worshippers drop down quite simply on the pavement before
a favourite shrine and hold up their hands toward it, sometimes with an
offering of flowers in them, or even a big taper. There is a woman
passing smoking a monstrous "green" cigar. It is a huge thick roll of
light-coloured stuff like shavings, about as long as your arm from elbow
to wrist, and as thick as a man's finger. She has to open her little
round mouth wide to get the end in. It is not filled with pure tobacco,
but a chopped mixture of all sorts; even you could smoke it without any
harm. Why yes, women smoke here almost all day, and children too. They
do say the mothers give the babies-in-arms a whiff, but I haven't seen
that myself!
Set up everywhere are coloured umbrellas with fringes of coloured beads,
as large as those used for tents on lawns sometimes. We peer into
numberless shrines as we pass and see Buddhas of every sort peeping at
us out of the dim interiors; there are Buddhas of brass, Buddhas of
marble, Buddhas of alabaster, Buddhas coated with white paint, and
Buddhas covered with gold. Most of them are seated, always exactly in
the same position as the one we saw far away in Ceylon. This is
supposed to signify Buddha as he sat under the Bo tree meditating.
Others show him standing with one hand upraised, and this is to show
Buddha as he was when teaching, and others are lying down, but these are
the least common. They are supposed to show Buddha when he passed into
eternal calm.
Pink is by far the favourite colour for the people's clothes, and it is
very vivid, like the colour seen in striped coco-nut cream, but white is
also much worn, and there is some yellow in orange shades. Many of the
Burmese wear a shirt of maroon check, just like a check duster; these
are their workaday clothes, on festivals they generally manage to come
out in silks.
Come round now to the back of the shrines that line the platform on the
outer side, here there is another open space, and on it are bells as
large as church bells; they hang between two posts. Take up one of those
deer's horns lying beside that one and stroke it hard. It gives out a
clear musical note. Try now the piece of wood, that sounds different.
Everyone who passes stops to strike one or the other of the bells, they
want to call the attention of the "good nats," or spirits, to the fact
that they are at the pagoda! In this shed is an enormous bell large
enough to hold half a dozen men. I don't think you'll be able to make
much effect with a deer's horn on that. It is the third largest in the
world, and once was in the bottom of the Rangoon River, for the English
were carrying it away when it toppled over and sank. Engineers tried to
raise it, but failed, because of its enormous weight; but the Burmans,
after some time, were allowed to try, and somehow managed to succeed,
and not only so, but they hauled it right up here! It does look as
though there were something weird about its positive refusal to be
carried away!
Along the edge of this part of the pagoda are a number of wooden
platforms raised a foot or two from the ground, for the use of those who
come from long distances, and on them many families are lying or
sitting. On one sits a tiny boy with a quizzical intelligent little
face. His top-knot sticks up like an out-of-curl feather. Beside him is
a still smaller mite who cannot be more than two; he has little silver
bangles on his fat wrists and ankles, and a strip of cotton rolled round
his dumpy body, while papa and mamma and numerous aunts are seated on
the platform behind gravely smoking.
[Illustration: ON THE PLATFORM OF A PAGODA.]
I stop to light a cigarette close to this family, and in an instant the
elder lad holds out his hand timidly. Just to see what he will do I give
him a cigarette; he takes it with a self-possessed courtesy and looks at
me, politely waiting for a light. I hand him the box and he strikes a
match and bows a little as he returns it; even the children have
excellent manners. Drawing in a great whiff of smoke he sends it out
through his little round nose in keen enjoyment. But the fat baby has
suddenly become alive to what is going on, and crawling on the top of
his brother clamorously demands a smoke more loudly than if he were
asking for sweets. The bigger boy hands him the cigarette. He knows
quite enough not to put the lighted end in his mouth, and in a second is
puffing so vigorously that the cigarette burns away like a furnace; when
his brother sees this he makes a desperate effort to recover it, but the
fat baby pushes him off with one hand, while he clings to the cigarette
with the other, and, turning away his head, smokes harder than ever.
We are both reduced to fits of laughter by this time, and the family on
the platform are enjoying the joke too. Seeing that there are likely to
be difficulties, I solve them by producing another cigarette for the
elder boy, and the fat baby is left in full possession of the first one.
The last sight we have of him is as he violently resists a grown-up
sister who is trying to take away the stub!