An English Girl's First Impressions of Burmah

After breakfast, my brother assumed his most stern judicial expression and gave me to understand gently but firmly, that he refused to continue our journey under existing circumstances, and that if I really could not induce my pony to progress faster, I must mount that of the orderly, and leave the laggard to be dealt with by a male hand. I could not object; I was alone in a distant land far from the protection of my family; I could only agree to the proposal with reluctance, and disclaim all responsibility with regard to my own or the new pony's safety.

Accordingly, the saddles were changed, much to the dissatisfaction of the orderly, and I was speedily mounted on my new steed.

At first the exchange appeared to be an improvement. The pony had a brisk walk, and we progressed quite as rapidly as I wished. I began to feel an accomplished horse-woman, and when my brother suggested a two miles canter, I consented after but a few objections.

We started gaily, and we did canter two miles without a break, and the pony and I did not part company during the proceedings, but that is all I can say.

I have frequently heard foolish people talk of the unspeakable joy of a wild gallop, the delightful motion, the exhilaration of rushing through the air, with a good horse beneath you. Once I listened to such talkers with credulity, now I listen in astonishment. Our gallop was wild enough in all conscience, but after the first three minutes I became convinced it was the most uncomfortable way of getting about I had ever experienced.

I started elegantly enough, gripping my pummel tightly between my knees, and sitting bolt upright, but I soon gave up all ideas of putting on unnecessary "side" of that sort; this ride was no fancy exhibition, it was grim earnest.

I and the pony were utterly out of sympathy with one another, and I am sure the latter did all he could to be tiresome out of pure "cussedness." Whenever I bumped down, he seemed to bump up, and the result was painful; whenever I pulled the reins he merely tossed his head scornfully; and I am sure the saddle must have been slipping about (though it appeared firm enough afterwards), for I landed on all parts of it in turn.

To add to my troubles my sola topee became objectionable.

It was not an ordinary looking topee; it being my first visit to the East, of course I had procured an exceedingly large one, and in addition to its great size, it was very heavy and very ugly. I fancy it was originally intended to be helmet shaped, but its maker had allowed his imagination to run away with him, and when finished, it was the most extraordinary looking headdress that ever spoilt the appearance of a naturally beautiful person.

It resembled rather a swollen plum pudding in a very large dish, than a respectable sola topee.

It was so constructed inside as to fit no existingly shaped human head, and consequently required to be balanced with the greatest care. By dint of sitting very upright I had succeeded in keeping it on my head during the earlier stages of my journey, but now I had more important matters to think of than sola topees, and consequently it became grievously offended, and (being abnormally sensitive, as are most deformed creatures) it commenced to wobble about in a most alarming manner.

On and on we went. I had almost ceased to have any feeling in my legs and body, and began to wonder vaguely what strange person's head had got on to my shoulders, it seemed to fit so loosely. We flew past the second milestone, but my brother, who rode just ahead of me, absorbed no doubt in the joys of the gallop, never stayed his reckless course. I could not stop my pony, because both hands were, of course, engaged in holding on to the saddle. I lost my stirrup; it was never any good to me, but my foot felt lonely without it. My knees were cramped, my head ached, and finally my sola topee, unable longer to endure its undignified wobble, descended slowly over my face and hung there by its elastic, effectually blocking out everything from my sight.

I would have infinitely preferred to have fallen off, but did not know how to do so comfortably.

At last, with a mighty effort I crouched in the saddle, gingerly released one hand, pushed aside the topee from before my mouth, and yelled to my brother to stop. He turned, saw something unusual in my appearance, and, thank goodness! stopped.

It could not have lasted much longer; either I or the pony would have been obliged to give way. When I indignantly explained to my brother what the pony had been doing, all he said was that he hoped to goodness I had not given it a sore back. I know its back could not have been a quarter as sore as was mine! I did not gallop again that or any other day.

We spent the night in another "dâk" bungalow, consisting of three mat walled sleeping apartments, scantily furnished, and an open veranda where we dined. We dined off chicken variously disguised, and being very stiff and weary, retired early to bed.

During dinner, my brother casually remarked that on his last visit there he had killed a snake in the roof, and on retiring to my room I remembered his words and trembled.

I don't know much about snakes, save only that a "king cobra" alone will attack without provocation; therefore, if one is attacked, the reptile is almost certain to be a snake of that species.

What precautions should therefore be taken to defend one's life I have not ascertained, but I give the information as affording at any rate some satisfaction in case of attack.

The roof of my room was thatched, and looked the very dwelling place of snakes, and how could I possibly defend myself from attack (supposing king cobras inhabited that district), when they might drop down on me while I slept, or come up through the chinks and holes in the wooden floor, and bite my feet when I was getting into bed? The situation was a desperate one. What was to be done?

After half an hour, I was forced to abandon my plan of sitting up all night on the table, under my green sun-umbrella; the table was so rickety that I fell off whenever I dozed, and the situation became painful.

At last a new plan occurred to me. I took a wild leap from the table to the bed, and succeeded in rigging up a tent with the mosquito curtain props, and a sheet. Then, secure from all dangers from below or above, I fell fast asleep, and awoke next morning to find myself still alive and unharmed.

I am convinced that more than one cunning serpent that night returned foiled to its lair, having at last encountered a degree of cunning surpassing its own.

We made an early start next morning, as we had still twelve miles to ride before the day grew hot.

The orderly objected to ride further on a snail, and had put my saddle once more on my original pony, so I finished my ride without further mishap.

It was a delicious morning; the early lights and shadows of dawn and sunrise enhanced the beauty of the richly coloured jungle bordering the road. On all sides we were surrounded by the tall, dark, waving trees, and the thick green, pink, golden, and red-brown under-growth, save occasionally when the close bushes were cleared a little, and we caught tempting glimpses of shady moss covered glades, chequered by the sunlight peering through the thick leaves. Everything was very still, and except for the soft whisper of the jungle grass, a great silence brooded over all.

Suddenly there broke upon my ears a strange sound, weird, mystic, wonderful. It was a heavy, grating, creaking noise, more horrible than aught I had heard before. Nearer and nearer it came; and now it could be distinguished as the cry of some mighty beast in pain, for the first and fundamental noise was varied by shrill screams and deep, painful groans. Was it a wounded elephant? No! surely no living elephant ever gave voice to such terrible, awe-inspiring sounds. It must be some far mightier beast, some remnant of the prehistoric ages, which remained still to drag out a lonely existence, hidden from human eyes, in this far Burmese jungle.

But now it was close upon us; the noise was deafening, making day hideous; round the corner of the road appeared four huge, horns, two meek looking white heads, and – a bullock cart.

That was the sole cause of this hideous disturbance, of these ear-piercing shrieks which rent the air. As usual, the wheels of the cart were formed of solid circles of wood, not even rounded, and carefully unoiled, and from these emanated those horrible shrieks, groans, and creaks, which are the delight and security of the Burmese driver, and the terror of tigers and panthers haunting the road.

How eminently peaceful must be the life of the bullock-cart driver! He knows no hurry, no anxiety, no responsibility.

Hour after hour, day after day he jogs along, seated on the front of his cart, occasionally rousing himself to joke and gossip with friends he may meet on the way, or to encourage his team by means of his long bamboo stick, but more often he sits wrapped in a deep sleep, or meditation, trusting for guidance to the meek solemn-faced bullocks which he drives. His work is done, his life is passed in one long continuous, sleeping, smoking, and eating sort of existence; the thought of such a life of careless, uneventful, unambitious happiness, is appalling.

I grew somewhat weary of the frequent opportunities I had of studying the bullock carts and their drivers during that morning ride. Every cart jogged on its noisy way along the very centre of the road; but it is not meet that a Sahib and a representative of the great Queen should occupy anything but the very centre of the road when taking his rides abroad. Consequently whenever we met a bullock cart both cavalcades had to stop. It was a work of time to make the driver hear the orderly's voice, above the creaking of the wheels; more time was occupied in rousing him from his sleep, and explaining to him the situation; and more time again in explaining matters to the bullocks, and inducing them to drag the cart into the ditch.

It took five minutes to pass each cart, and as we met a great many that morning as we approached the village, our progress was considerably delayed. I should have preferred for the sake of speed to have ridden in the ditch myself; at the same time I am aware such opinions are unworthy of the relation of an Indian Civilian.

My entrance into Remyo, the future scene of my experiences, at half-past ten that morning was striking, though hardly dignified.

Picture to yourself a sorrowful, huddled figure, seated on a weary dishevelled looking pony, covered from head to foot with red dust, and surmounted by a large battered topee "tip-tilted like the petal of a flower." I had long ceased to make any pretence at riding. I sat sideways on my saddle, as one sits in an Irish car, grasping in one hand the pummel and in the other my large green sun umbrella, for the sun was terribly hot. How weary I was, and how overjoyed at arriving at my destination!

But even yet my troubles were not over. There was the house, there my sister waiting in the veranda to welcome me, but directly my pony arrived at the gate of the compound he stopped dead. Apparently it was not in the bond that I should be carried up to the door, and so no further would he go. I was too impatient to argue the matter, too weary to give an exhibition of horsemanship, so there was nothing to do but descend, walk up the compound, and tumble undignifiedly into the house, where the first thing I did was to register a vow that never again, except in a case of life and death, would I attempt to ride a Burmese pony.

Chapter V

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AN UP-COUNTRY STATION

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"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife." – (Gray.)

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I daresay that Remyo is very like other small up-country stations in Burmah, but to me it appeared to be the very end of the earth, so different was it from all I had expected. It stands in a small valley, surrounded by low jungle-clad hills. The clearing is perhaps three miles long by one and-a-half wide, but there always appeared to be more jungle than clearing about the place, so quickly does the former spread.

The Station is traversed crosswise by two rough tracks called by courtesy roads, and is surrounded by what is imposingly termed "The Circular Road." This road, but recently constructed, is six or seven miles long, and passes mostly outside the clearing, being consequently bordered in many places on both sides by thick jungle.

There is something infinitely pathetic to my mind about this poor new road, wandering aimlessly in the jungle, leading nowhere and used by no one. At regular distances there stand by the wayside tall posts bearing numbers. The lonely posts mark the situations of houses which it is hoped will, in the future, be built on the allotments which they represent. In theory, the circular road is lined with houses, for Remyo has a great future before it; but just at present, the future is travelling faster than the station, and consequently the poor road is allowed to run sadly into the jungle alone, its course known only to the dismal representatives of these future houses.

The only finished building near which this road passes is the railway station, a neat wooden erection, possessing all the requirements of a small wayside station, and lacking only one essential feature – a railway, for the railway, like the great future of Remyo, is late in arriving, and so the road and the railway station are left sitting sadly expectant in the jungle, waiting patiently for the arrival of that future which alone is needed to render them famous.

In Remyo itself there is a fair sized native bazaar, consisting of rows of unpleasant looking mat huts, each raised a few feet from the ground, with sloping overhanging roofs, and open sides. The road through the bazaar is always very dusty, crowded with bullock carts, goats, and dogs, and usually alive with naked Burmese babies of every age and size. Not a pleasant resort on a hot day.

Besides the bazaar, the station contains the Court House, the District Bungalow, and the Post Office; half-a-dozen European houses scattered up and down the clearing, and the club.

To the Anglo-Indians the club seems as necessary to existence as the air they breathe. I verily believe that when the white man penetrates into the interior to found a colony, his first act is to clear a space and build a club house.

The Club House at Remyo is a truly imposing looking edifice, perched high on the hill side, standing in a well kept compound, surrounded by its offices, bungalows, and stables. About the interior of the building I must confess ignorance, it being an unpardonable offence for any woman to cross the threshold. It may be that it is but a whited sepulchre, the exterior beautiful beyond description, the interior merely emptiness: I cannot tell.

At the foot of the Club House stands a tiny, one-roomed, mat hut, the most unpretentious building I ever beheld, universally known by the imposing title of "The Ladies Club." Here two or more ladies of the station nightly assemble for an hour before dinner, to read the two months old magazines, to search vainly through the shelves of the "library" for a book they have not read more than three times, to discuss the iniquities of the native cook, and to pass votes of censure on the male sex for condemning them to such an insignificant building.

It has always been a sore point with the ladies of Remyo that their Club House only contains one room. They argue that if half the members wish to play whist, and the other half wished to talk, many inconveniences (to say the least) would arise. As there are but four lady members of the club, this argument does not appear to me to be convincing, but I do not pretend to understand the intricacies of club life.

I have sometimes been tempted to believe that the ladies would really be happier without a club; possessing one, they feel strongly the necessity of using it, and though they would doubtless prefer sometimes to sit comfortably at home, every evening sees them sally forth determinedly to their tiny hut. There they sit night after night till nearly dark, and then, not daring to disturb the lordly occupants of the big house, to demand protection, they steal home nervously along the jungle bordered road, trembling at every sound, but all the time talking and laughing cheerfully, in order to convince everybody (themselves in particular) that they are not at all afraid of meeting a panther or tiger, in fact would rather prefer to do so than not. Truly the precious club is not an unmixed blessing!

There are a few wooden houses in Remyo, but the majority are merely built of matting, with over-hanging roofs. They are often raised some twenty feet above the ground, and present the extraordinary appearance of having grown out of their clothes like school boys.

The house in which my sister and her husband lived was a wooden erection of unpretentious appearance. I cannot say who was the architect, but a careful consideration of the construction of the house revealed to us much of his method.

In the first place he was evidently an advocate of the benefits of fresh air and light. The house was all doors and windows, not one of them, apparently, intended to shut, and not satisfied with this, the builder had carefully left wide chinks in the walls, and two or three large holes in the roof. The front door opened directly into the drawing-room, the drawing-room into the dining room, the dining-room into the bedrooms, and the bedrooms on to the compound again. Thus we were enabled in all weathers to have a direct draught through the house, and as Remyo is a remarkably windy place, much of our time was occupied in preventing the furniture from being blown away. Whenever anything was missing we invariably found it in the back compound, whither it had been carried by the wind. Life in such an atmosphere was no doubt healthy, but a trifle wearing to the nerves.

The compactness of the house was delightful. All the rooms led out of one another, and there were no inside doors, consequently one could easily carry on a conversation with those in other parts of the house without leaving one's chair or raising one's voice.

The only occasion on which we found this arrangement of the rooms inconvenient was when we stained the dining room floor. The stain did not dry for three days, and during that time all communication between the drawing room and bedrooms was entirely cut off, for the only way from one to the other was through the dining room, and that was impossible, unless we wished our beautiful floor to be covered with permanent foot marks.

Our architect was evidently a dweller in the plains, and the uses of a fireplace were unknown to him. In each of the small bedrooms he had built large open fireplaces, worthy of a baronial hall, while in neither of the sitting rooms was there the slightest vestige of a fireplace of any sort or kind whatever.

This was a little inconvenient. Naturally an affectionate and gregarious family party, we did not like to spend our evenings, each sitting alone before our own palatial bedroom fireplace; being properly brought up, and proud of our drawing room, we preferred to occupy it, and often, as I sat shivering while the wind tore through the rooms, whistling and shrieking round the furniture, and the rain poured through the roof, I wondered what was supposed to be the use of a house at all; we should have done quite as well without one, except, of course, for the look of the thing.

Modern inventions such as bells appear unknown in Remyo. If you want anything you must shout for it until you get it.

When calling on a neighbour you stand outside the front door, and shout for five minutes, if no one appears in that time, you assume they are not at home, put your cards on the doorstep or through a chink in the wall, and depart. It is a primitive arrangement, but still, not without advantages. If you don't wish to find people at home, you shout softly.

We were superior to all our neighbours in the possession of a bell. We hung it up in the compound near the servants' "go downs," and passed the bell rope through various holes in the walls, etc., to the dining room. I don't know where the bell originally came from, but I think it must have come from a pagoda, for it was undoubtedly bewitched. It rang at all hours of the day and night without provocation. Once it pealed out suddenly at midnight and rang steadily for half-an-hour, when it as suddenly stopped. This was probably caused by some birds swinging on the rope, but it was most uncanny.

The servants used to answer the bell at first when it rang in the day time, until the joke palled on them, and they became suddenly deaf to its call. They never answered it at night: I fancy they thought when they heard it then, that the house was attacked by dacoits or tigers and we were ringing for help, and they deemed it more prudent to remain shut up in their "go downs." When we attempted to ring the bell with a purpose, it invariably stuck somewhere and would not sound. We never ceased to feel proud of the possession of our bell, but ceased at last to expect it to be of any practical use.

When my sister first showed me over her house, my heart sank in spite of my ostensible admiration, for where was the kitchen? Did dwellers in Remyo eat no cooked food; must I be satisfied with rice and fruits? However, my doubts were soon set at rest when we visited the compound, for there stood a tiny tin shed, inside which was a broad brick wall, with three holes for fires, and what looked like a dog kennel, but which I learned was the oven. A fire was lighted inside the oven, and when the walls were red hot the burning logs were pulled out, the bread placed in, and walled up.

How anyone managed to cook anything successfully thus was a marvel to me. I had gone out to Remyo, fresh from a course of scientific cooking lectures, intending to rejoice the palates of the poor exiles with the dainty dishes I would cook for their edification. When I saw that kitchen, and when I learned that such a thing as a pair of scales did not exist in the station, all measuring being done by guess work, I gave up all hope of fulfilling my intention, and looked upon the native cook as the most talented gentleman of my acquaintance.

The furniture in Remyo is of the "let-us-pack-up-quickly-and-remove" type. It is of the lightest and most unsubstantial kind, and has the air of having seen many sales and many owners.

The most prominent article in nearly every house is the deck chair, faithful and much travelled chair, which has accompanied its master over the sea from England, and wandered with him into many a dreary little out-of-the-way village, where perchance he sees for months no fellow white man, and where his chair and pipe alone receive his confidences, and solace his soul in the utter loneliness of the jungle. No wonder then that the deck chair wears an important air, and regards other pieces of furniture, which probably change owners every six months, with contemptuous scorn.

The impossibility of having a settled home in Burmah is very pathetic. In Rangoon, the interior of the houses occasionally wear a settled and homelike appearance, but in the jungle, never. Everything is selected with a view to quick packing; pictures, ornaments, and useless decorations are reduced to a minimum, and only articles of furniture which are indispensable are seen. When one is liable to be moved elsewhere at four days' notice, there is no encouragement to take deep root, the frequent uprooting would be too painful.

This spirit of constant change seems to enter into the blood of the Anglo-Indian, for the housewife is perpetually moving her furniture, "turning her rooms round" so to speak, and she never seems to keep anything in the same place for more than a week!

After all, not Burmah, but England is looked upon as "Home." Even the man of twenty-five years service whose family, friends, and interests may be all centred in Burmah, who loves the life he leads there, and is proud of the position he holds, even he talks of what he will do when he "goes home," and in imagination crowns with a halo "this little precious stone set in the silver sea, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England," which no amount of fog, cold, monotony, and dreary oblivion in his after life here, ever dispels. However happy and prosperous the Anglo-Indian may be in his exile, going to England, is "going home."