RANGOON
Anyone wishing to visit Burma must land at Rangoon, for it is not only
the largest and most important of its seaports, but the only one that
has direct steamer communication with England, or by river traffic and
railways affords access to the interior. The harbour is formed by the
tidal estuary of one of the many mouths of the Irrawaddy. Here it is
very wide, and a large number of steamers and sailing ships ride at
anchor, loading or discharging their cargoes into lighters and
quaintly-shaped native boats.
Huge rafts of teak wood drift slowly downstream to the saw-mills below
the town, where trained elephants stack the logs with almost human
intelligence, and queer uptilted rowing boats, called "sampans," ferry
passengers across the river, or to the various vessels in the stream.
Long stretches of timber-built quays and iron-roofed "godowns" (or
warehouses) form the wharfs, upon which coolies of all nationalities
toil under the tropical sun. European officers in white drill and
sun-helmets superintend the loading of their vessels, longing to be
finished and away from a spot where everything vibrates and dithers in
the white glare.
On shore the smoke from the rice-mills adds to the already
overpowering sense of heat, while from across the water the noise of
hammered iron from the repairing yards completes a picture of bustle,
heat, and toil.
Yet Rangoon is a very pleasant place to live in, and as many of my
readers will, no doubt, have fathers or brothers in the East, they
will like to hear something about the place, and how people live
there.
Behind the quay and warehouses the city lies, well laid out in broad
streets and squares, and having many fine shops and buildings. The
houses are mostly of that curious half-Italian, half-Oriental style
which we find in almost all Southern and Eastern seaports. They are
usually painted white, with green shutters to the windows, and are
often surrounded by broad verandas. The roofs are generally of red
tiles, which look pretty among the dark foliage of the trees which
often line the streets, and in spite of "topee"[1] and umbrella,
pedestrians are thankful to avail themselves of their shade, for the
air is hot and the white glare of the streets is most trying to the
eyes.
[Footnote 1: Sun-helmet.]
People of all nations throng the thoroughfares and bazaars--Indians
and Singalese, Chinese and Burmans--and one's first impression is a
vague confusion of picturesque costumes and unaccustomed types of
mankind; for Rangoon is cosmopolitan to a degree, and can hardly be
called a Burmese town at all.
Anyone visiting Rangoon for the first time will, I think, be struck by
the many strange trades carried on in the streets, and it is
interesting to sit in the veranda of your hotel in the Strand and
watch the crowd as it passes. Here is a water-carrier, whose
terra-cotta water-jars are slung from a bamboo carried on his
shoulder, another man bears on his head a tray upon which a charcoal
fire is cooking a strong-smelling "tit-bit" some hungry labourer will
presently enjoy. Again, a Chinaman, perhaps wearing black skull-cap
and loose jacket and trousers, endeavours to tempt you to purchase the
fans or sunshades he is hawking. Huge baskets of coco-nuts or
vegetables, gaudily printed calicoes and haberdashery, cheap knives
and looking-glasses, and baskets of cool melons, are some of the
articles carried across the shoulders of the pedlars, while porters
pass to and fro bearing huge burdens from one warehouse to another.
Flocks of goats are driven from house to house to be milked at the
doorstep, and occasionally a hill-man may be seen wandering about in
the hope of finding a purchaser for the freshly-caught leopard he is
leading. What will, perhaps, most strike Europeans are the bullock
gharries by which the heavy traffic of the town is carried on. These
are carts curiously shaped and often carved, with large and very
wide-rimmed wheels. They are drawn by a pair of Indian bullocks, sleek
cream-coloured beasts with mild and patient eyes, and often bearing
enormous horns, which, somewhat after the shape of a lyre, stand four
feet above their heads.
Excepting for a single rein which is fastened to a ring through the
nose, no harness is used; but, instead, the cattle press against the
wooden yoke which is fixed to the pole of the cart, and is kept in
position by long pins which lie on each side of their necks.
One thing which distinguishes these bullocks from our own is their
hump, which nearly all Eastern cattle have. This hump not only enables
them the better to work under the yoke, but, as in the case of the
camel, is provided by Nature as a storing-place for surplus fat, upon
which they can unconsciously nourish themselves when pasturage or food
is scarce.
Large-turbaned Indian police keep order in the streets, where office
"chuprassies," or messengers, wearing their broad, coloured sash of
office across their shoulders, come and go upon their errands, and,
with the white-clad butler of a "Sahib" intent upon his marketing,
mingle with a crowd which is composed of all races and all stations of
life, from the wizened labourer in his loin-cloth to the wealthy baboo
or daintily-clad Burmese lady. It is a wonderful medley of strange
faces, costumes, and tongues, and among it all the self-sufficient
crow fights with the "pi" dogs over the garbage, to the amusement of
the children, who, often quite naked, play about the gutters.
No such crowd in England could possibly have the same charm, for here
dirt, hunger, and rags are always apparent, while there the dirt is
lost in the glorious sunshine, and, instead of rags, we find bright
colours, while the people, though often poor, seldom, if ever, go
hungry.
I have tried to give you some little idea of the life of the streets,
and now let us see something of the life of the "Sahib" in Rangoon.
[Illustration: A DAINTILY-CLAD BURMESE LADY. _Page 8._]
You boys and girls whose fathers are in India know that "Sahib" means
the Englishman, the merchant or official who carries on the business
affairs or government of the country, and many of you may remember
something of your very young days out there, before the time arrived
when it became necessary for you to leave the East and come to school
in England.
Well, I may say that the English "Sahib" works very hard indeed, and I
am afraid he is already busy at his office long before we in England
have thought of getting up. Somewhere about six o'clock, after a light
breakfast called "chota-hazri," he is at his office, which he seldom
leaves till the evening. The offices are large and airy, and all the
windows are shaded by jalousies, or grass mats, which in hot weather
are wetted so as to cool the air as it passes through them. Slung from
the ceiling in long rows over tables or desks are the "punkahs," or
fans, which a "punkah-wallah" outside in the veranda pulls to and fro
with a rope in order to keep the hot air moving, and prevent the flies
and mosquitoes from settling. Every one, though clothed in the
lightest suit, works with his coat off, and in many cases, so as not
to interrupt the day's routine, "tiffin," or lunch, is eaten in the
office. Work is hard, steady, and continuous, and no one who has not
been there knows how well our relations in the East earn its many
compensations.
Life there is not _all_ work, however, and its social conditions are
very attractive. From the time when his "tum-tum"[2] arrives at the
close of office-hours and the "Sahib" bowls merrily homewards, a new
life begins. Town becomes deserted, and the suburbs awake to offer
amusement and relaxation to the workers.
[Footnote 2: Dogcart.]
Let us accompany one of our friends on his way home. The sun is
declining and the air already much cooler, and the drive through the
shopping streets and the squares is very enjoyable. The town is soon
passed, however, and broad roads well shaded with many tropical
growths lead to cantonments, as the suburbs are called. Here are the
military lines as well as the bungalows of the residents. These
bungalows are generally large and comfortable-looking, and one can see
from their broad verandas and well-shaded windows that they are
designed for coolness. Nearly all are built of timber, and each stands
in its own compound, which is usually gay with flowers and well
provided with shade-trees. Separated from the house but connected with
it by a covered walk are the kitchens, and in a corner of the garden
are the stables, for horses are an essential in Rangoon.
As we drive along the quiet roads they gradually become animated. The
ladies, who have been resting indoors during the great heat of the
day, pass us on their way to their tennis-parties or other
engagements, while, in charge of picturesquely-clad Burmese or Indian
ayahs, the little ones take their evening walk. Groups of Burmans of
the better class with their wives promenade the cool avenues in happy
contentment, or wend their way towards Dalhousie Park. The whole scene
is pretty and domestic, and the roads themselves form beautiful vistas
in the evening light, which gilds the feathery crests of the coco-nuts
and gives added colour to the deep-toned foliage of the padouk and
other trees which fringe them. Song-birds which are strange to us
call each other from the groves, and in the bamboo clumps the
grasshoppers are beginning to sing, while floating in the air, which
is now fresh and cool, is the scent of many flowers from the gardens.
Dalhousie Park is one of the many attractions of Rangoon. It is large
and well laid out, with a very pretty lake, which winds among the
well-arranged groups of forest trees. There is a boat club here, and
gliding over the still water are many rowing boats and small sailing
craft. Swans and ducks are swimming about as the swallow skims the
surface of the water, breaking its deep reflections with a silver
streak. All the paths are thronged with people, some driving, others
on foot, and most of them presently congregate about the bandstand to
enjoy the music or exchange the gossip of the day. It is quite an
interesting sight. All the fashionable life of Rangoon is represented
here, and mingling with it are yellow-robed Buddhist priests and
natives of all classes; for the Burman loves to come here in the
evening, to listen to the band or watch the changing glory of the sky
as the sun slowly sets behind his beloved pagoda.
Now the sun has set, and every one hastily puts on overcoats or wraps
before driving home, for the air becomes suddenly cold, and neglect of
these precautions will probably result in fever.
Many adjourn to the gymkhana club before returning home. This is
principally a man's club, but here also on many days a band plays, and
the sight is a pretty one indeed as the children and their ayahs play
about the lawn, while their parents enjoy their tea at the little
tables scattered about it, before the falling dew drives the little
ones homewards, and their elders to the club-house for a game of
billiards or a chat.
All this side of Rangoon life is very pleasant and very interesting,
but it is not Burmese. Rangoon has for so long been a great trade
centre that the easy-going Burman is rather overshadowed; but as it is
typical of many foreign places where our fathers or brothers are
occupied, and where some of my readers may presently have to go, I
thought it would be interesting to give you this glimpse of European
life in India, and in the next chapter I will tell you something about
the Burmans themselves.