ON A CARGO BOAT
[Illustration: DANCING GIRL, BURMA.]
Did you ever see anything like it in your life? I never did.
We are on a steamer coming down the Irrawaddy River from Mandalay, and
it is our first evening on board. We are not the only passengers, there
are also a widow lady and her daughter, a girl a few years older than
you, but still in pigtails, whose name is Joyce. We were all four
sitting very comfortably after dinner on the deck, which is roofed in,
making a fine open room like a verandah, when a few large,
light-coloured moths appeared; then, as if by magic, the whole deck was
suddenly alive with them. They banged against the glass of the lights,
thumped into our faces, and whirled around exactly like a thick
snowstorm with very large flakes.
"It's one of the plagues of Egypt," you yell.
Joyce screams, pulls her long plaits round her face to prevent the moths
catching in them, and dives for her cabin. Everyone follows suit, and
soon anxious voices can be heard asking, "How many got in with you?"
It is impossible to shut the port-hole, and in less time than I can tear
off my clothes my tiny room is as bad as the deck.
Luckily there are mosquito-curtains, and glad of them we are, as we can
hear the loathsome soft-bodied creatures blundering about outside them.
Lo! in the morning they are all gone, and when I get on deck, and ask
the captain, a stern soul from Aberdeen, where they have disappeared to,
he points to the river. "Where would they be? Overboard, of course.
Dead, every one of them. They live but a day."
Leaning over the vessel's side I see some of the gummy bodies, mere
hollow shells now, transparent and fragile, sticking on to the black
paint about the bows. The creatures are white ants who come out of holes
in the ground at this time of year. Our lights attracted a new-born
swarm. At least that must have been it, because we weren't plagued with
them again in the same way, though the captain says that in the wet
season it is impossible to sit on the deck at all in the evenings
because of the multitude of winged things.
"But then you haven't got any hair," I hear Joyce's cheerful voice
saying on the deck. You evidently reply something, for she rejoins at
once, "Oh yes, it's in plaits, but they might stick in them! I've always
had a creepy horror of crawly things sticking in my hair."
"Cut it off," you suggest brutally.
This is a cargo boat. We had much to see at Mandalay; we visited the
Aracan Pagoda and Golden Temple, we went up to the hill-station, Maymyo,
and on to the Gokteik Gorge, spanned by one of the highest trestle
bridges in the world, and when we arrived back at Mandalay we found that
the passenger boat had just left, so we came on by this one, the
_China_, which is really just as comfortable and not so crowded. She is
fitted with bathrooms and comfortable cabins with little beds in them,
and on the spacious upper deck are two immense mirrors so placed that
all the sights on the shore are reflected in them. You can sit in a
lounge-chair and watch them flash past like a continuous cinematograph.
The Irrawaddy flows right through Burma, cutting it in half, as the Nile
does Egypt; and it is rather like the Nile, but, of course, not nearly
so long, not so long even as the Ganges, though steamers can go up it
for nine hundred miles, equal to the length of England and Scotland put
together! The river is wide and shallow in places, sometimes as much as
two miles across, and at these places great care has to be taken not to
run on sandbanks; there is much poling and shouting out of soundings,
and when we do stick, a boat rows out with an anchor and drops it, and
after a while we ride up to the anchor and there we are!
There is far more vegetation to be seen on the banks than in Egypt, and
the life in the villages is much more attractive. The houses are
perfectly beautiful--at a distance. They are built of dark wood, and
stand on posts, with wide verandahs and thatched roofs, are nearly
always embowered in great trees, and have a luxuriant growth of
plantains and trees around. The spires of the pagodas and the pinnacles
and roofs of the choungs generally rise up somewhere in the picture, and
in the evening, when the whole village comes down to the water, the
scene is charming. The cattle stand knee-deep and the people bathe and
wash their clothes and drink heartily of the muddy stream, and then slip
on dry garments, after which the women and girls stream up the steep
banks, carrying red chatties of water on their heads. All are lively,
full of play and chaff. Their life is a happy one, because perfectly
simple and natural; no one need starve and no one wants to be rich.
All day the steamer floats along, generally winding slowly across and
across the river wherever a little red flag stuck up on the banks tells
that there are a few cases or barrels or packets to be taken down to the
market. At one place it is _let-pet_, or pickled tea, though the plant
from which the stuff is made is not really a tea-plant. Burmans love it,
and no feast is complete without it, indeed a packet of let-pet is an
invitation to something festive.
It is early afternoon and quite hot and still as we circle toward the
shore where the red flag hangs drooping; people in gay clothes are
dabbed about like little splashes of colour on the whity-yellow sand.
Suddenly there is a splash, and from our bows, which are high up in the
air, one of the Lascars, dressed in blue dungaree trousers, drops feet
first into the water like a stone; while he is in the air another
follows and another, until there are half a dozen of them in the water,
and they go across to the shore, paddling with each hand alternately as
a dog does with his paws. They are carrying a line ashore. They always
jump off like this at every landing-place. They shake themselves like
dogs as they land, and the sun soon dries their one and only garment.
But it takes a good while before the line is fixed up to the captain's
liking!
Then the people swarm across the plank into the great barge, or flat,
tied alongside of us, and a shouting sing-song begins as men and girls
alike hurry up and down carrying on board sacks of monkey-nuts. They
work hard and untiringly and always good-humouredly; the popular notion
that the Burman is a lazy fellow is based on the fact that he won't work
if he can help it, but when he has to he does it with goodwill. A funny
little incident occurs. The captain, walking down his own gangway, is
run into by a coolie who is heading up the plank with a sack on his
shoulders; wrathfully the captain sends him and his sack flying, and
they both land in deep water. That is nothing, however, for every Burman
can swim, and no one bears any ill-feeling about it.
Crowds of little boys and girls are dancing and splashing about on the
edge of the water with infinite glee. A mother comes down with her baby
and goes into deep water with the tiny thing clinging to her; suddenly
she lets it go, and swimming with one hand holds it up with the other
while it kicks spasmodically like a little frog. The babies learn to
swim before they can walk.
Joyce is seized with a brilliant idea. "Mother," she cries, "those toys
we bought in the bazaar! Mayn't I give them to the children?"
Taking leave for granted she flies into her cabin and returns with two
gaily painted wooden animals whose legs move on strings; there is a
yellow tiger with a red mouth, and a purple monkey. Joyce stands as high
as she can on the rail and makes the tiger jump its legs up and down. A
yell of delight from the children on the shore shows that she is
understood. They plunge into the water like porpoises, and after a
minute Joyce drops the tiger straight down. It is a good distance to
swim, some fifty yards, perhaps, and the little black heads bob up and
down frantically as the youngsters make desperate attempts to get
through the water.
Good! Go it! Two little boys about equal size are well ahead of the
others and rapidly nearing the prize. It is just a toss-up which gets
it; they grab simultaneously, but their fingers close on empty water.
The tiger has disappeared, sucked down by something into the depths! Has
it been eaten by a fish?
No, there it is, having risen to the surface again some yards distant,
grasped by a thin little arm. The owner of the arm emerges the next
instant, shaking back her long black hair. It is a small girl, who
actually dived under the boys and snatched the prize away! She deserves
it, and holding it on high lies on her back and kicks her way back to
land with her legs. She is a magnificent swimmer. They all follow her
and crowd around her on the shore while she dangles the treasure in the
sun, but no one attempts to take it from her.
[Illustration: BURMESE BOYS.]
At the moment everyone has forgotten that there may be more forthcoming,
and when Joyce holds up the purple monkey only one tiny podgy fellow
sees it, and slipping silently into the water exerts himself
tremendously to get well out before the others discover him. He swims
slowly, for he is very small, and when he is half-way across the others
are after him like a pack of hounds; but he gets the monkey, and turns
his bright eager face up to us radiant with delight. One of the elder
boys carries his treasure back for him, and by the way the little fellow
yields it up readily it is quite evident that he is not in the least
afraid of its being taken from him. His faith is justified, for he gets
it back directly he lands, and then the children dance round the two
lucky ones, singing and making such a noise that a troop of anxious
parents hurry down to find out what is the matter. Those toys will be
treasures for many a long day.
The steamer screeches and we are off once more. Soon we see a great
sugar-loaf hill in the distance, also a perfect forest of pagodas of all
shapes and sizes along the river bank. This is Pagahn, a celebrated
place, now deserted and melancholy. Imagine a strip of ground eight
miles long and two broad, covered by hundreds of pagodas; it is said
there are nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, but no one could
count them, for half of them are mere heaps of stones, so possibly there
may be one more to make a round number! Pagahn was once a capital city,
and the then Burman king pulled down some of the pagodas to build up the
defences of his walls when he heard that a Chinese king was coming to
attack him; but of course he got the worst of it after such an impious
act, as anyone would guess, and since then the place has been deserted.
Some of the largest pagodas have been restored, which is rather a wonder
in Burma as restoration does not make for "merit." You can see the
snow-white outlines rising gracefully in the middle of the rough line of
uneven buildings. Unluckily, instead of stopping here we go across the
river and anchor at Yenangyaung, where there is a very strong smell of
something. "I know," Joyce declares, wrinkling up her smooth little
nose. "It's lamp oil."
She is right, it is petroleum; there are here wells of it, from which it
bursts up with great force sometimes, like a geyser.
If we had been on a tourist steamer we should have visited Pagahn, but
then we should have missed seeing much human life.
An evening later the captain comes up to say that there is a pwe, or
play, going on in the village near which we have anchored for the night,
and wouldn't we like to go to see it? This is a grand chance, because
Burmese pwes are very funny things indeed. The people have them at every
chance,--births, weddings, deaths, and festivals, none are ever complete
without a play!
We dine early, and, accompanied by the captain, set out afterwards, all
four of us, for the village. The moon is getting up but is not bright
yet, and we can see the trees standing up against a deep blue night sky,
with the big bright stars winking at us through the palm fronds. The
village street is deserted, and long before we reach the end of it where
the pwe is going on we hear an exciting clash of cymbals and bang of
drums which sets you and Joyce dancing.
At last, right in the roadway, between the thatched houses, we see a big
crowd, and coming up to it find every man, woman, child, and baby
belonging to the village seated on the ground or lying in front of a
small platform. The platform is simply a few loose boards standing on
some boxes, and when anyone walks across it the boards jump up and down.
In front are the footlights, a row of earthenware bowls filled with oil,
with a lighted wick floating in each one.
The Burman who is giving the pwe and has sent us the message about it
comes forward and leads us to the front courteously. He is a portly man
with a dress of rich silk so stiff it would stand by itself, and a large
fur cape, like those worn by coachmen in England, over his shoulders,
for the evenings are sharp. In following him through the crowd we find
great difficulty in avoiding stepping on arms and legs which seem to be
strewn haphazard on the bare earth, the owners being partly covered up
with mats or rugs. Most of the men are squatting gravely with
bath-towels over their shoulders--they make convenient wraps. Men and
women alike are smoking either huge green cheroots or small brown ones.
Our seats are right in front of the stage and consist of a row of
soap-boxes. Joyce's mother clutches me in horror. "I can't sit down
there," she says with a gasp; "I shall fall over." The captain
misunderstands her and gallantly tries one himself, saying, "It holds
me, Madam." As he is at least sixteen stone in weight this sends Joyce
off into fits of irrepressible giggles, luckily drowned by the band,
which is making an ear-splitting noise--"La-la-la, la-la-la!" One man
bangs an instrument like those called harmonicons, with slats of metal
set across it all the way up. Another is seated inside a tub, the rim of
which is entirely composed of small drums; another cracks bamboo
clappers together in an agonising way, while clarionets do their best,
and a pipe fills in all the intervals it can find.
A girl with a very coquettish gold-embroidered jacket, which stands out
behind like two pert wings in the same way as those worn by the
princesses at the garden-party, is rouging her face close to us; she
gets it to her liking by leaning over the footlights and gazing in a
little hand-mirror, then she takes up an enormous cigar which lies
smoking beside her and puffs away contentedly till her turn comes.
Two clowns are taking their part; we can't understand a word they say,
but their humorous faces and comic gestures are irresistibly funny.
Suddenly Golden-Jacket puts down her cigar, springs to her feet, and
gets across the shaking boards with marvellous serpentine movements in a
skirt tighter even than a modern one, literally a tube wound around her
legs. Then, waving her long thin hands and arms so that ripples seem to
run up and down them, she sings in a thin shrill voice a long song,
while one of the clowns breaks in with "Yes, yes" and "Come on," meant
for us and greatly appreciated by the audience. As the song wends toward
its end, Golden-Jacket looks behind her more than once, and at last
stops and says something out loud.
"She's telling the villain to hurry up or she won't wait for him,"
explains the captain, who understands Burmese. "She is in a forest. You
see the branch of a tree stuck between the boards there? That's the
forest. She went to meet her lover, the prince, for she is a princess,
of course, but the villain has done his job, and now he's going to catch
her."
[Illustration: IN THE PLAYHOUSE.]
The princess trills out some more lines, and the villain, who has
apparently been having great difficulties with his costume at the back
of the stage, in full view of the audience, steps heavily forward,
making the boards bounce right up. When she sees him she shrieks and
faints in his arms. He makes a long speech holding her. The clowns
appear again. The heroine shakes herself free, and with great
self-possession squats down once more on the edge of the stage and
resumes her cigar until her turn comes again. The branch of the tree is
pulled up, and in its place is put a box with a piece of pink muslin
over it, while three men in long robes come in and sit down, one on the
box and the other two on the boards beside him, and they all talk
interminably. The band, which has only stopped impatiently while the
actual speaking was going on, clashes in wildly at every possible
interval and now drowns the voices altogether for a few minutes, just to
remind us it is there. The men on the stage continue repeating their
parts, whether it plays or not, and apparently they are so long winded
that the plot does not suffer at all from the sentences which are lost
in the noise.
"That's her father, the king," explains the captain. "He is taking
counsel from his ministers how to recover his daughter and punish the
villain. She's a boy, of course--they all are."
We can hardly believe it! The slender form, the graceful movements, the
long thin fingers, the wonderful management of that terrible skirt, the
coquettish movements! You can hardly imagine any British boy doing it,
can you?
We are beginning to have about enough of it after a couple of hours,
though the Burmans themselves comfortably settle down all night, and
there are pwes that go on for days. What with the clashing music, the
thick smoke in the air, the strange language, and a kind of dreaminess
over everything, it is too much for Joyce, and she suddenly flops her
head down on my shoulder in a profound slumber, hugely to your delight.
Her mother's cry of "Joyce!" brings her to herself with a crimson face,
and I see you get a surreptitious kick for giggling, which you richly
deserve!
We make a move, thank the Burmese entertainer, explain we have to be off
early in the morning, and try to get out without setting our feet on
anyone's head!
[Illustration: A BURMESE PLAY.]
"Why, it has been snowing!" you cry in amazement as we get clear. It
does look like it. The moon is full and white, high in the heavens, and
shows up the dust which lies thickly over the village in a mantle of
white.
I think Joyce is asleep most of the way back. "I feel as if I were
drugged," she says as we haul her up the gangway.
Next day at sunrise we are off.
After golden hours of placid slipping down the shining waterway we pull
up at about five for the night, and having finished tea we four sally
forth for a walk, little dreaming what is going to happen.
Joyce's mother is a most attractive woman. She is well read, very keenly
alive, and has travelled a great deal. She and I have much in common,
and, I must say, as I help her across the paddy fields I forget all
about you two.
It is not until we turn to go home that I miss you.
"They can't be far," I say reassuringly, and give a loud cooee, but
there is no response.
"They can't possibly come to harm here," I say. "There is nothing to
hurt them," and I shout again.
"Perhaps they have circled round and gone back to the ship another way,"
Joyce's mother suggests, and we turn. Darkness falls very quickly here,
and it is dark before we get on board, but in answer to our anxious
questions we find no one has seen anything of you.
Joyce's mother is very brave and sensible, but I can see that her heart
is torn with anxiety. I try to comfort her by telling her that you are
as good as a man, and have been brought up to look after yourself, but
it makes little difference. She agrees, however, to remain on the
steamer while the captain and I and a couple of Lascars with lanterns go
forth again.
What a night we have of it! We wander far and wide, calling and waving
the lights with no result, and when we come back in the grey dawn, with
troubled hearts, there is still no news.
"Someone has taken them in," says the captain. "They're queer fellows,
these Burmans; they daren't go out at nights for fear of spooks. You'll
see they'll bring them safely back in the morning."
And he is right, for, as the sky flashes rosy red, we see you afar off
coming across the fields. A sight you are, indeed, as you come nearer,
with your torn clothes and scratched faces! But Joyce's mother gives a
cry of joy and precipitates herself across the flat and along the
gangway, hatless, and clasps her daughter in her arms as if she would
never let her go again. You and I are not so emotional, but I'm jolly
glad to see you again!
You shall tell your story in your own words. I wrote it down exactly as
you told it to me, so that your people might have it.
[Illustration: THE FIRST THING WE SAW WERE TWO HUGE ELEPHANTS.]