An English Girl's First Impressions of Burmah

On some afternoons everyone will repair to the new polo and cricket ground, and walk up and down the new laid turf, discussing solemnly the drainage, and general advantages and disadvantages of the position; or, feeling energetic, will practise cricket, and the knowing ones will give exhibitions of tricky polo strokes.

The making of the polo ground was seriously delayed at first on account of the divergent opinions as to the best site, each declaring his selection to be the only one possible, and showering unlimited contempt upon all others. Every day we were dragged off to inspect a new spot, and all appeared to me so equally lacking in points of advantage, that I had no difficulty in impressing each new discoverer with my knowledge in such matters, by disparaging (in confidence) all other schemes than his.

Finally, a site was chosen, and while the ground was in course of construction, those whose views had been disregarded, derived the satisfaction (always to be had in such cases) of discussing the insurmountable obstacles to the selected proposal.

Some afternoons were devoted to rides. The jungle around Remyo is lovely, tho' not being there during the Rains, I did not see it to perfection. There are delightful rides in every direction, and exquisite views from the hills, whence can be seen for miles nothing but undulating waves of jungle, every colour from deepest reds and browns to the bright pink of the peach blossom, and the pale green of the feathery bamboos. It is a wonderful sight, this unbroken jungle, bordered in the far distance by the shadowy blue hills of the Shan States.

Sometimes we visited quaint pagodas, with their neighbouring pretty, many-roofed kyaungs where the yellow robed hpoongyis, wander in meditation, or study 'neath the shade of the palm and banana groves. The pagodas are all very similar in shape, and near to each is a tazoung full of images of Gaudama, with ever the same calm peaceful smile, denoting a philosophy superior to the cares and artificialities of the world around.

Sometimes we rode along narrow jungle paths, bordered by a tangled mass of bright coloured bushes and undergrowth, or by the tall, waving, jungle grass, which is always whispering. These paths lead to tiny collections of bamboo huts, surrounded by high fences to keep out dacoits and other marauders, where the unambitious native leads a peaceful, contented life, under the shadow of the bamboos and peepul trees; an uneventful existence, enlivened, perhaps, occasionally by a Pwé, or visit to a pagoda feast at a neighbouring village.

I enjoyed these expeditions, tho' they were ever fraught with danger to my limbs. Nothing would induce me again to mount a pony (I had had sufficient experience) so I accompanied the others on my bicycle.

Of late years many wonderful bicycle riders have exhibited their tricks to the public, but I am certain none have performed such extraordinary feats as are called for by the state of the Burmese roads, most of them mere jungle tracks, ploughed in every direction into deep ruts by the bullock carts. It was impossible to ride in the furrows, as they were not sufficiently wide to allow the pedals to work round, so I was obliged to perform a sort of plank riding trick along the top of the rut. Occasionally, my eminence would break off abruptly, and unless the bicycle succeeded in jumping the gap a fall was inevitable. Never had bicycle such severe usage, nor ever did such yeoman service as mine; but save an occasional twist of the handle bars, or a bent spoke, I never met with a serious accident, and I soon learned the art of "falling softly."

My anxieties, too, were increased by the mistaken kindness of my companions, who would persist in riding beside me and conversing. One man in particular (I have forgiven him, for I know he meant it kindly) would never consent to leave me to ride alone. He would trot along on his pony, either just beside, or worse still just behind me, when I felt I might fall at any moment, and that he could not help riding over me. He would chatter away gaily, while I, with agonised expression, struggled along, one eye on the road and one eye on the pony, scarce heeding his remarks, making the most hopelessly vague replies to his questions, and committing myself to I know not what opinions.

One day we actually took a walk. We ladies grew weary of our customary amusements, and though we had none of us done much walking since we left England, we hailed the new idea with delight. The men refused to accompany us (the English civilian in the East seems to forget how to walk) so we went with only a servant or two to carry our cameras, refreshments, and other necessities.

We walked about five miles thro' the jungle, to a little native village surrounded entirely by clumps of feathery bamboos, a most exquisite spot. We climbed a neighbouring hill where stood the inevitable pagoda and kyaung, and were rewarded by a perfect view.

Our photographic intentions were unfulfilled, for as we were about to focus our cameras, a jungle fire was set alight below, and the smoke, drifting across the valley towards us most effectually obscured our view. We were forced to be content with photographing one another, the most beautiful substitutes we could find.

We examined the pagoda, peeped into the kyaung, and tried to induce the hpoongyi to come out and be photographed; but the pious man, evidently a hermit, shut himself promptly into the inner recesses of his dwelling, and continued to read in a loud voice until we had taken our departure. We thought him unnecessarily suspicious, and should have been hurt had we not felt it to be really rather a compliment to our charms.

Our expedition was on the whole a success, but as we arrived home very hot and tired, having lost our way once or twice, we failed to convince the stay-at-homes that we had enjoyed ourselves without them.

One morning early, my sister and I were startled by a succession of shots which rang out close to the house. My brother was away in the district, making an official tour among the villages under his charge, so we were alone and unprotected. Hurrying to the window, what was our astonishment to see a band of Goorkhas, under command of one of the subalterns, of the detachment stationed at Remyo, defending our house against an unseen enemy who lurked in the neighbouring jungle, and kept up an incessant firing. My mind first flew to dacoits, then to French or Chinese (I knew there had been trouble on the border), then, on catching sight of one of the enemy, and recognising him also as a Goorkha, I knew mutiny must have broken out. Trouble of this kind always breaks out unexpectedly, I have heard.

Soon however, we were forced to suppose that it must be a revolution, for leading the enemy on to attack was the second of the two subalterns of the detachment. It was difficult to believe that this usually shy and retiring young man could be the leader of a disloyal rising, but there he was, excitedly encouraging his followers to attack the house.

We hastily prepared lint and bandages for the wounded, and watched with beating hearts the progress of the fight.

Suddenly, both sides ceased firing, the leaders advanced towards one another, conversed amicably together, evidently settled their differences, summoned their troops, and marched them home to breakfast. It was a sham fight.

This appears to be the favourite amusement of the officers who form the military element of Remyo society.

I was continually finding myself in the midst of desperate encounters when taking my rides abroad. It was rather disconcerting at first, but I grew accustomed to it in time, as one grows accustomed to anything, and would ride along the line of fire, with a coolness and indifference worthy of one of the old seasoned campaigners.

I suppose to those who live in a military district, sham fights are ordinary affairs, but I had never seen one before, and it struck me as very ludicrous to see these men, in most desperate earnestness, crouching in ambush, dodging behind trees, and crawling along under cover to escape the fire of their foes. The little Goorkhas become wildly excited, and it would not do to allow the two sides to come to close quarters, or the sham fight might develop into a real one.

The other European male inhabitants of Remyo, are the inevitable Indian Civilian and "Bombay Burman," whom of course I should not presume to analyse; two railway men (who seem superfluous as there is as yet no railway), a P.W.D. (Public Works Department) man, whose work, it seems, is to make roads (from my point of view as a cyclist they don't do him credit), an Engineer, and the Policeman.

This last was a mighty shikarri, who had hunted and shot every imaginable animal; who knew the habits and customs of all the beasts of the jungle, and after examining a "kill" would give a whole history of the fight between the tiger and its victim. He was a mighty talker too, and would converse for hours on any subject.

What he could not accomplish was to speak for three minutes without giving way to exaggeration; nor could he give an unvarnished reply to a plain question, so that in Remyo "if you want to know the time don't ask a policeman" is the popular aphorism.

The Engineer possessed the most striking characteristics amongst the men of the place. I have never met a man so full of information. He was one of those men who can give information on every conceivable subject, for if he knows nothing about it, he will invent a few facts on the spur of the moment, facts of which he is always justly proud.

I never quite made up my mind whether his actions were the outcome of a passion for practical joking, or a desire to be of use, but I try to believe the latter. When I punctured my bicycle tyre he insisted upon helping me to mend it. His process occupied the whole of an afternoon, and the front veranda and drawing-room; beyond this, it was too intricate to describe, except to say that it required all the available tooth brushes in the house, three basins of water, and a rupee piece, and necessitated, apparently, the cutting of a large hole in the inner tube, with a patent tyre remover he had invented out of a broken teaspoon.

On another occasion, he assured us he had a splendid plan for preventing our drawing room stove from smoking. We had been obliged to put a stove in the drawing room to make up for the absence of a fire place; it was a primitive affair, with a chimney that went through a hole in the wall, and it smoked "somethink hawful." Our friend tried his plan and a dozen others, each more wonderful and complicated than the last, and each necessitating fresh holes in the already perforated wall. Each plan too, resulted in increased volumes of smoke, and as the furniture and carpet were being rapidly ruined, and our whilom happy home was being broken up, we finally remedied the matter ourselves.

But the matter wherein our Engineer excelled himself, was in the matter of rose trees.

Hearing us one day express a wish for a rose garden, he declared at once that nothing was easier. He was departing for Rangoon in two days, and he would there procure and send to us rose cuttings, which we must plant in carefully prepared boxes of soil, follow the instructions which he would give us concerning their welfare, and we should soon have flourishing rose trees. Our gratitude was unbounded, we listened and carefully noted his instructions, and after his departure eagerly awaited the fulfilment of his promise.

In a few days a coolie delivered at our house, what I took at first to be twigs for fire wood, but on examining the letter accompanying them, I discovered they were the promised rose cuttings. I felt some doubts about them, but my sister had implicit faith in the Engineer (the stove incident came later), and would not listen to me.

So we planted the rose cuttings, and for six whole weeks did we tend them. All the instructions we carried out to the letter, watering twice daily and sheltering them from the sun by day, and from the cold dews by night, but all to no avail. Dead sticks they were, and dead sticks they remained, till at last convinced of the hopelessness of attempting to restore life to the withered things, we tore them up in desperation and burnt them.

My sister's faith in the Engineer, however, remained still unshaken, and she protested that the coolie must have lost the original bundle of rose cuttings, and substituted these twigs in their place. For my part I believe no such thing, and when I consider what passionate care and tenderness we lavished on those unresponsive pieces of wood, I do indeed feel disposed to "speak with many words."

Varied though the characters and interests of the Remyo inhabitants may be, in one particular they all agree, i.e. in their dislike of the Casual Visitor.

The casual visitor is supposed to ruin the servants, to monopolise the tennis courts, and golf links, to abuse the privileges of honorary membership of the club, to unjustly criticise the polo ground, and generally to destroy the peace and harmony of the station.

For the men, the advent of a lady visitor means calls, dinner parties, and the necessity of wearing best clothes, which fills them with horror. For the ladies, it means the advent of one who will possess the latest fashions from Rangoon (possibly from England), who will throw into the shade their gala costumes of the fashion of two years ago, who will trespass upon their prerogatives, rival their powers at tennis and golf, and generally interfere with their peaceful and innocent pursuits.

The arrival of visitors, therefore, is not welcomed as a rule, and though hospitably received and comfortably housed, they are not admitted into the inner life of the station until they have shown themselves quite innocent of the evil qualities which are imputed to them.

This unexpected unfriendliness on the part of the Remyoans has been brought about by the acts of two people, who once visited this happy valley, and departed again leaving deeply rooted indignation behind them. Of the first, a woman, it suffices to say that she amply justified the suspicions of the Remyo ladies. Her name is never mentioned by them without a significant look, and she is not a safe subject for discussion.

The crime of the second sinner against Remyo hospitality (a man) was of a different nature, and it is perhaps difficult for the female mind to grasp the enormity of the offence.

A large tiger had made its appearance in the neighbourhood, and a tiger shoot had been organised. All the arrangements were complete; the men were sure of success, and speculated which of their number would have the luck to kill. The evening before the shoot, a visitor on his way from a remote station, arrived in Remyo, and obtained permission to accompany the sportsmen. As he was reputed to be a very bad shot this was readily given, and there was allotted to him a position well out of the expected line of the beat. The tiger broke near the stranger's tree, and he killed it with his first shot, the promoters of the shoot never even getting a sight of the game.

The criminal impertinence of a mere stranger daring to kill their tiger roused the deepest feelings of indignation among the Remyoans. The laws of hospitality are above all, so the perpetrator of the crime was allowed to escape with his life and the tiger skin, but since that day strangers have been looked upon as suspicious interlopers, and prospective tiger shoots are not discussed in presence of the Casual Visitor.

I have given my impressions of the Remyo society candidly, perhaps a little too candidly; but lest any who read this book be disposed to hold the latter opinion, let me say one thing more.

The first, the last, and the most indelible impression left on my mind by all the Anglo-Burmans whom I had the pleasure of meeting, was the impression of a kindness, friendliness, and hospitality passing belief. The Anglo-Burmans, while retaining the best qualities of the English nation, seem to lose entirely that cold and suspicious reserve towards strangers, of which we are often so justly accused. They appear to have adopted those Eastern laws of hospitality, which lay so great a stress on the duty of entertaining strangers, and they cannot do enough to welcome those fellow countrymen who visit the land of their exile.

This characteristic kindness of the Anglo-Burmans is so universally acknowledged, that it is really superfluous to mention it, but as I spent six months among them, without encountering a single unkind look, word, or deed, I cannot let the opportunity pass without offering my tribute of gratitude to this most kind-hearted and generous people.

Chapter VII

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THE BURMESE

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"We are merry folk who would make all merry as ourselves." – "Yeomen of the Guard."

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On my first evening in Remyo I was sitting in the drawing-room, waiting for the announcement of dinner, when suddenly, the curtain across the doorway was pulled aside, and a native peered into the room. His movements were rapid and stealthy, and betokened a desire for escape or concealment. On seeing me he slipped past the curtain into the room, and crouched down, as tho' endeavouring to hide himself from without. Then in the same bending attitude, he glided past the uncurtained window, across the room where I sat lost in astonishment, and on reaching my chair, sank on to his knees, placed his raised hands together in a supplicating manner, and exclaimed in a deferential and prayerful voice "Sarsiar."!

For a moment I stared at him in wonder, unable to comprehend his attitude; and then in a flash I understood all.

He was in terrible danger, someone was pursuing him; to escape he had slipped into the house, and was now imploring me to conceal or to defend him. I had no thought of hesitation, whatever might be his crime he must not be left to the rough justice of his pursuers, he must be protected until the matter could be properly inquired into.

I sprang up and hurried to the window to reconnoitre; four natives stood in the road; no one else was in sight; perhaps the pursuers were already in the house.

"Sarsiar, sarsiar, thekinma," he repeated, (or something that sounded like that).

"All right, all right" I said soothingly: "don't be frightened, you're safe here," and so saying I quietly bolted the outer door, fastened the windows, and proceeded to put the room in a state of defence. My presence of mind evidently astonished him, he stared at me a moment and once more took up his cry of "Sarsiar, sarsiar".

"It doesn't matter though a dozen Sarsiars are after you," I cried impatiently: "you are quite safe here; so tell me who is this "Sarsiar," and what have you done to him?"

But the wretched man only became still more excited, he crouched lower than ever, he waved his arms, and burst into a torrent of Burmese eloquence, in which again and again, occurred the name of his pursuer, of this much dreaded "Sarsiar."

At last, being quite unable to either comprehend or calm him, I called aloud to my sister to come and reassure him in his own tongue. She came, exchanged a few hurried remarks with the fugitive, and then, to my utter astonishment and indignation, burst out laughing. I angrily demanded an explanation, and when she had recovered, she gave it.

The native was no terrified victim, flying from a savage foe, but the head boy announcing that dinner was ready!

The stealthy walk, the crouched air of concealment, the supplicating attitude, were merely expressions of respect, it being quite contrary to the Burman's idea of politeness to raise his head above that of his master.

This excessive politeness on the part of the Burman is highly commendable, but apt to be inconvenient. It is embarrassing to be waited on by a man who persists in scuttling about with his body bent almost double, and who sinks on his knees on every available occasion; it gives him an air of instability. Some were so full of respect as to dismount from their ponies and walk past the "Thekins" when they met us in the road. It must delay business immensely, but no true Burman would allow himself to be influenced by such a minor consideration.

The Burman is much given to contemplation. He is frequently seized with a fit of meditation in the midst of most important work, and will sit for hours, immovable, gazing steadily into vacancy, puffing at his huge cheroot, and thinking.

So, history relates, did Socrates sit for three days and nights, but Socrates, poor man, had no cheroot to soothe him. The results of Socrates' meditation on that particular occasion are unknown; so too are the results of the rapt meditations of the Burman. Never by word or deed does he betray what thoughts occupy his mind on these ever recurring occasions, but someday, who knows? he may be moved to speak, and then where will be the wisdom of the East and of the West, when compared with the wisdom of this contemplative nation? Surely it will become small and of no account, and be no more thought on!

For these fits of meditation are undoubtedly inspired! They may overtake him at any time, absorbingly, unexpectedly, in a manner highly inconvenient to all with whom he may come in contact.

I say he is liable continually to such attacks, but certain surroundings, and circumstances seem more conducive than others to such contemplative meditation.

For example, if despatched on an important message, such an attack almost invariably seizes him, and the messenger will remain for hours, seated by the road side lost in thought, while his impatient master sits raging and fuming at home, waiting in vain for an answer to his note. On such an occasion the Burman loses all sense of time, and his expression of naive astonishment, and patient martyr-like sufferance, when blamed for his delay, is utterly disarming.

Again, the dusting of a room is most conducive to meditation. I have frequently seen a native stand for half an hour or more, immovable, duster in hand, gazing from the window, lost in abstraction. But this trait, I am told by English housewives, is not confined to Burmese servants alone. Dusting, I conclude, has a soothing effect on the nerves.

When the Burman does work, he works with an energy and violence which is as astonishing as it is unnecessary. To see a loogalay in his energetic movements, dusting or tidying a room is a lesson to sluggards.

He takes his stand in the centre of the room, and performs a series of wonderfully intricate and far reaching flag signals with the duster. Then, after clearing away the broken china and other debris, he slowly makes a tour of the room, striking violently at each article of furniture once or twice with the corner of the afore-mentioned duster, and shaking the same menacingly in the face of every picture and ornament. Then he turns upside down the books and papers, carefully hides his mistress's work bag, and his master's favourite pipe, rearranges the furniture and the ornaments, which have come through scatheless, to suit his own taste, and the room is finished. In the matter of floor washing the Burman as a rule prefers to carry out the precepts stated in Mr. Chevallier's song: "What's the good of anything? Why nothing." To him it appears an act of supererogation to wash to-day the floor, which must certainly be dirtied again on the morrow.

But if he be induced, by the stern commands of his mistress to undertake the task, then indeed is it a day of mourning and discomfort for the whole household. No spring cleaning carried on by the most uncompromising and unsympathetic British matron, can approach the misery and upset caused by Burmese floor washing.

Every male member of the establishment, from the coolie who is mending the compound path, to the head boy, is recruited to the work, and reinforcements of "brothers" from the village are called in to assist. Every piece of furniture in the place is turned upside down, and then large cans of water are upset "promiscuous like" here and there, until the whole house is deluged. This accomplished, the concourse of servants commences to paddle about the house, rescuing books and cushions from the ravages of the flood, and flapping at the water with cloth and brooms. No definite scheme is adopted, but the chief idea seems to be to wet as much of the floor, walls, and furniture as possible. After this amusement has been pursued for about three hours, the floods are swept away through the drawing-room and out at the front door, and the damp and exhausted servants, after proudly announcing: "Floor much clean now, missis," retire triumphant, to rest their weary limbs for the remainder of the day. We did not often indulge our desire for cleanliness in this respect.