An English Girl's First Impressions of Burmah

Dances are necessarily unknown in such a small station as Remyo. An energetic bachelor did once make an effort to give one, but as the only available room was the ticket office at the railway station, the only available music the bagpipes of the Goorkhas, and the only available ladies five in number, he was reluctantly obliged to abandon the project.

A much enduring form of entertainment in Remyo is the musical afternoon, or evening party. The inhabitants assemble in turns at one of the three houses which boast a piano; but the repertoire of the combined station is limited, and as every one expects to sing on these occasions (ignorance of time and tune being considered no drawback), and further, intends to sing one or other of the few songs most popular in the station, things are not in any sense as harmonious as they should be.

This great eagerness to perform entailed much manœuvring to obtain first possession of the piano, and it was amusing to watch the expressions of mingled indignation and scorn on the faces of others less fortunate, when they recognised the prelude to what they each claimed as their own particular song.

The singer's triumph, however, was not without compensating disadvantages, his efforts being assisted by a distinctly audible chorus in undertone which would cling to him throughout the song in spite of his endeavours to throw off the encumbrance by means of abrupt changes of tempo, and variations in the air; and this professed appreciation of the performance evoked from the singer such gratitude as one would expect under the circumstances.

No! On the whole we did not "entertain" much in Remyo; we contented ourselves with quiet, domestic lives, enlivened but occasionally by such outbursts of wild revelry as I have described.

Chapter IX

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ADVENTURES

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"Things are seldom what they seem" – "H.M.S. Pinafore."

"I haven't braved any dangers, but I feel as if I knew all about it" – (Rudyard Kipling.)

—

But all this time I am wandering from the real subject of this book, i. e., myself and my adventures, and as wandering from the straight path is an unpardonable error, it behoves me to return speedily to my subject, and recount a few of the soul-stirring incidents which befell me during some of my many bicycling expeditions alone into the depths of the jungle.

This bicycling out of sight of human habitation, into the depths of the jungle, sounds rather a brave and fearless proceeding, so I will not correct the statement, but in parenthesis, as it were, I will remark that once only did I venture more than half a mile from Remyo, and that whenever I had turned the corner of the circular road, which shut out the last view of my brother's house, my heart sank, and I became a prey to the most agonising fears. Every instant I expected a tiger to bound upon me from the jungle at the side of the road, a cobra to dart out its ugly head from the overhanging branch of a tree, or a body of dacoits to pounce down upon me and carry me off to their lair in triumph. My mind was filled with useless speculation as to whether I and my bicycle would be swifter than a panther, and with what "honeyed words of wisdom" I should best allay the wrath of the "Burman run amuck," should fate throw one of these in my way.

I derived no pleasure from that lonely mile and a half of the circular road, which must be traversed before again arriving at the haunts of civilisation; I never entered upon it without a shiver of nervous expectation, or left it behind without a sigh of relief, and yet I was forced by my overweening craving for adventure, to ride out at every opportunity to explore this dreary waste of jungle! Like the great "Tartarin" of "Tarasconnasian" memory, my "Don Quixote" spirit drove me to seek adventures, however gruesome, while my "Sancho Panza" mind ever timidly pined for home and safety.

The first time my Quixotic expectations were fulfilled, was one evening when I was riding later than usual. The sun had set, and the short eastern twilight was rapidly darkening into night. I was cycling along quickly, eager to reach home before being overtaken by the gathering darkness, when suddenly, on turning a corner of the road, I saw, about a hundred yards in front of me, a long black thing, presumably a python, stretching half across the road, and curving up its huge head, as though ready to attack.

I do not suppose any bicycle ever stopped so abruptly as mine did at that moment, and I must confess that my descent from the machine was rapid rather than graceful.

After I had sorted myself and the bicycle, I stood up, my senses somewhat steadied by the sudden contact with mother earth, and considered the situation. The python did not appear to have moved much, and had, apparently, as yet taken no notice of my appearance; could it be asleep? I suppose pythons do sleep sometimes?

If I turned back, behind me lay three miles and more of jungle bordered road, full of endless possible dangers, which must be traversed before reaching safety, and it was growing so dark. In front, if I could but pass the python, I had but a quarter of a mile to ride and I should be in Remyo. I felt that I positively dared not face that long, dark, ride back; but dare I face the python? It still made no sign of movement; but possibly it was shamming sleep.

Then suddenly there came to me in my need, not a mysterious voice, but a timely recollection. It was a recollection of one of the stories told me by the versatile policeman; a story of how he had behaved successfully under similar circumstances, except that in his case the obstacle was a leopard. I determined to follow his example.

Summoning all my courage to assist me in performing this fearsome deed, I mounted my bicycle, and with beating heart and trembling limbs, I rode straight towards the reptile, ringing my bell, shouting, and making as much noise and commotion as possible. Straight on I rode, almost desperate with fear, – and then suddenly I ceased to shout, I stayed my reckless pace, and finished my ride in gloomy silence, for on nearer inspection the mighty python, the object of all my terror, turned out to be nothing more alarming than the fallen branch of a tree.

Another adventure (which but for my habitual prudence might have ended more seriously) befell me at almost exactly the same spot, but in the day time. I was riding along cheerfully, feeling particularly brave, when suddenly I beheld about a quarter of a mile in front of me three strange beasts.

They rather resembled to my mind rhinoceri, but each had two horns. I had never seen them before (I have no particular desire ever to see them again) and I had not the least notion what they might be; whether wild beasts of the jungle or tame household pets, but their personal appearance rather suggested the former. I dismounted hastily, and considered the matter. I did not wish to appear cowardly, even to my bicycle; on the other hand, being of a peaceful nature, I had no desire to enter into a hand-to-hoof struggle with three utterly unknown quantities.

On they came, usurping the whole of the road, with a sort of "push-me-aside-if-you-dare" look about them, which I found particularly unpleasant. Their gait was rolling and pompous, but they occasionally relieved the monotony of their progress by prodding one another playfully with their horns. This engaging playfulness of disposition did not appeal to me.

But I remembered the python incident, and scorned my fears, I would go on and face the beasts. I remounted, looked again at the horns of the advancing animals, thought of my family and friends, and then, somehow, my bicycle seemed to turn round by itself, and I found myself speeding as quickly in the opposite direction as any record breaker who ever rode.

On arriving home, I casually mentioned what I had encountered, and learned that my friends were "water buffalos," animals of the mildest disposition unless roused, but when roused, most unpleasant to encounter. They have frequently been known to pick up a dog with their horns, and break its bones over their backs. They can pick a mosquito off their backs with the tip of their horns, in fact they are quite skilled in the use of the latter, and had I not luckily decided to ride in the opposite direction when I encountered these enterprising beasts, they would, doubtless, have experienced no difficulty whatever in puncturing my tyre!

Ostensibly, their duty in this life is to draw the plough, but in reality they fulfil a far higher mission. To them, and to them only, it is given to draw contempt upon the superiority of the Anglo Indian: to compass the fall of the mighty.

For no sooner does a European appear riding in his pride by the river bed, where the water buffalo lies wallowing in the mud, than all the worst passions awake in the breast of the afore mentioned water buffalo, and he is instantly aroused to anger. He leaves the delights of the mud bath, and starts in pursuit of the white face, no matter who he may be. "Tell it not in Gath" but the water buffalo, being no respector of persons, has even been known to put to ignominious flight the "Indian Civilian" and the "Bombay Burman." The pursuit is long and determined, the attack almost inevitable, unless the pursued be rescued by the opportune advent of a native, for to the water buffalo the word of the Burman is law, while the word of the Anglo Indian is a mere nothing.

This then, "the scorning of the great ones," would seem to be the purpose of the water buffalos upon this earth. "How are the mighty fallen"! when the highest among the ruling race must trust for rescue to the interference of a five year old Burman.

One day, late in the afternoon, I sallied forth on my bicycle to a spot half a mile down the Mandalay road, where I had noticed a specially beautifully blossomed wild cherry tree. My intention was to rob the tree of its treasure, and bear the blossom home in triumph to decorate our drawing room for a dinner party that evening.

The place was quite deserted, so finding I could not reach the blossoms from the ground, I leant my bicycle against the tree trunk, and after much scrambling, and one or two falls, I succeeded in climbing the tree, and began to gather the flowers.

So absorbed was I in my two-fold task of holding on to my precarious perch, and breaking the branches of blossom, that I did not notice what was going on below. Imagine then my horror and astonishment, on looking down, to find my tree surrounded by about a dozen of the most extraordinary looking natives I had ever beheld. Their clothing was most scanty and they were covered from head to foot with elaborate "tattoo." They wore tremendously large Shan hats, their hair was long and matted, their teeth were red with betel juice, and most of them were armed with long Burmese "dahs" (knives). They had come silently along the road out of the jungle, and now stood in a circle round my tree, pointing, staring, and chattering vigorously in an unknown tongue.

Evidently I had fallen into the hands of a band of dacoits, and to judge by their appearance, they were gloating over their capture.

It was no dream this time – I assured myself of that by a series of violent and judicious pinches; no! it was grim, very grim, earnest. Escape appeared impossible. I told them in as much strong English as I could remember, to go away, but they neither understood nor heeded. I tried to recollect my Burmese, but could only remember words referring to food, and thought it better not to put that idea into their heads; they might be cannibals. I tried one or two shouts, but that made no impression on them. There seemed no hope; they still stood there, pointing and grinning savagely; they had evidently no intention of relinquishing their prey.

Then, trying to smile in a nervous and conciliatory manner, I slowly descended the tree. How I longed for false teeth, a glass eye, a wooden leg, or some other modern invention, with which people in books of adventure are wont to overawe the natives who thirst for their blood. Alas! I had nothing of the sort.

I could not, obviously, sit in the tree all night, so sadly and doubtfully I descended to throw myself on their mercy.

I reached the ground, and stood with my eyes shut waiting the end.

The end showed no intention of coming, so I opened my eyes, and discovered to my astonishment that not I but my bicycle was the object of all this attention. I was to them a matter of no interest whatever, but the cycle they could not understand.

Joyous with relief I hurriedly demonstrated the workings of my bicycle to this party of, not dacoits, but most harmless wood cutters, and then mounting rode away, followed for some distance by an awe-struck and admiring crowd. My fears as usual were unfounded, but the drawing room was not decorated with cherry blossom that or any other evening.

It is difficult, for those to whom the bicycle is now as common as blackberries, to imagine the astonishment with which the natives view the machine for the first time. In Remyo itself bicycles were well known, but frequently on the roads I met strangers from neighbouring villages, and the astonishment and terror depicted on their faces when they beheld me riding on this unknown thing was almost laughable. They would fall back into the ditch with their mouths open, and remain staring after me as long as I was in sight.

Once, I remember, I and another lady rode out to a little village in the jungle about three miles from Remyo. The road, a mere jungle track, was awful, but we succeeded at last in arriving at our destination. We left our cycles in the compound of the "hpoongyi kyaung," and climbed a neighbouring hill to see a quaint pagoda, which crowned its top. After thoroughly examining the pagoda, and the numerous images which surround it, we returned to our cycles.

What was our astonishment to find the entire population of the village assembled in the compound, all having apparently taken up their positions there, preparatory to seeing some entertainment. The Head of the village approached us humbly, and in a long speech explained that though he (evidently a travelled gentleman) had told his subordinates all about the wonderful machines we rode, yet they would not believe him. Would we, as a great condescension, mount and ride round the compound, that all might see that his words were true.

Willing to oblige him, I consented at once, mounted, and did a little "gymkhana business," rather cleverly, I thought, considering the rough ground. Imagine my astonishment and indignation, when the whole audience became convulsed with merriment, hearty, overwhelming merriment, rolling on the ground, and shrieking with laughter. I cannot explain the reason of it; I suppose they looked upon me as a sort of travelling acrobat, and their laughter was a sign of approbation of my tricks. But I was very angry. I had not gone out to Burmah to become the laughing stock of ignorant natives, so I said a hasty farewell to the "Thugyi," who seemed quite pleased with the reception his companions gave me, and rode out of the compound and away, followed by the amused shrieks of my audience. I would have shaken the dust of that village from my feet, but that is a difficult thing to achieve successfully on a bicycle.

The Burmans are a merry folk, but methinks at times their humour carries them too far.

Chapter X

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BEASTS AND REPTILES

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The animals came in one by oneTill Noah, he thought they would never have done.And they all came into the Ark.For to get out of the rain.—

Rats! Hamlin Town (with Bishop Hatto thrown in) cannot offer a comparison with our sufferings from these pestilent vermin.

During the day time they contented themselves with playing in twos and threes about the house, getting in the way of our feet, and generally making themselves a nuisance. But at night when we had retired to rest, they came in their hundreds, from their homes beneath the house, and to use an expressive Americanism "simply bought the place."

I am not naturally a "Mrs. Gummidge," but in this instance I am certain I suffered more than any others in Remyo. Why the rats should have preferred my room I know not, but undoubtedly they did. They gave balls every night on my dressing table, and organised athletic sports, chiefly hurdle races, on the floor. They had glorious supper parties on my trunks, leaving the whole place scattered with half-eaten walnuts, bits of biscuit, and morsels of cheese. They had concerts and debating societies in the still hours of the night, brawls and squabbles at all times; and true to tradition, made nests inside my Sunday hats, helping themselves to such of my finery as took their fancy.

As I have said, they came in their hundreds, and I was powerless against them. In vain did I sit up in bed and "shoo" and clap my hands, they would pause for an instant, as the revellers in Brussels paused when they heard the cannon of Quatre Bras, then: "On with the dance let joy be unconfined, no sleep till morn when rats and walnuts meet," and the noise would become more deafening than ever. I think they grew to enjoy my "shooings;" "the more noise the merrier" was evidently their motto; but one night when I dozed off after making myself particularly disagreeable, a large rat sprang upon my pillow, tore aside the mosquito curtains, and hit me violently with its tail. They are revengeful creatures.

And what appetites they had? Poison they scoffed at, but ate everything else that was not soldered up in tin boxes, (from our Christmas pudding, to the Baby's pelisses, and my best gloves). Their most criminal act of depredation, was in regard to my brother's pipe. It was a beautifully grained pipe which I took out from England for a Christmas present. On Christmas Eve the rats penetrated into the drawer where I kept it, tore away the wrappings, and set to work. In the morning nothing was left but the stem, the perforated and jagged remains of the bowl, and a little heap of chawed bits of wood. My brother was very angry when I broke the news to him, but it wasn't my fault, they were his rats; he ought to have had them under better control.

We got a dog, but he was useless. He was a pariah puppy, of respectable parents; a cheery, popular fellow, who had so many evening engagements among his friends in the village, that he could scarcely ever spare a night at home; and during the day time he mostly slept. My sister and I both disliked him, she because he would worry the Baby's legs, I because he developed such an unbounded devotion to my shoes.

He never attached himself to other shoes in this way, but mine he would not leave alone. He carried some off every day and hid them behind the furniture, or if he had a quiet ten minutes to himself, he buried them in the compound. Many a long lost shoe did we discover when turning out the drawing room, or digging up the flower beds. The others were amused at this frolicsome trait, but it was rather a stupid joke really.

I was assured by the inhabitants of Remyo that mosquitos are unknown there during the cold weather. If this be really the case, there must have been a special pilgrimage, and obviously I was the object of their attentions. Fresh from England, they welcomed me with a delight that ought to have been highly gratifying; nor could they do enough to show their unbounded appreciation of me. I obtained mosquito curtains, but I suppose I was clumsy in the manipulation of them, for I spent many a lively night in the company of two or three enthusiasts who kept me awake by their odious "ping-ping" song, and their still more odious attentions.

There is a district in Burmah, I am told, where the cattle are provided with mosquito curtains, and I can quite believe it, for if they can be so obnoxious in the hills in the cold weather, what must they be in the plains in the heat! All creatures have their work in this world, and I suppose the mosquito was created to subdue female vanity; one cannot well be vain with such a complexion as they gave me.

But let me quit this melancholy subject; it is impossible to be jocular with a mosquito, and strong language would be out of place in this book.

Rats are not the only creatures in Remyo with whom we were forced to share our meals. The place abounds in ants, beetles, and "creeping things innumerable," and all these must live; which necessity we recognised, but wished they could live elsewhere.

On the whole, I think the ant is the most objectionable of insects. There is a Burmese fable concerning an ant and a lion which tells how the ant was rewarded for assistance rendered to the lion, by receiving permission to go everywhere, and so that this prerogative may be fully exercised, the ant has, apparently, been gifted with matchless ingenuity in devising means to overcome all obstacles. Amongst other accomplishments it must have acquired the art either of swimming, flying or bridge building, for even the dishes of water, in the centre of which we placed our meals, were ineffectual.

The worthy Dr. Watts tells us to "go learn of the ant to be prudent and wise," but though it is with the most submissive humility that I venture to contradict such an authority on natural history as the gifted author of "How doth the little busy bee," yet I must confess that I do not recognise in the ants the first of the virtues indicated. They devastated a full box of chocolates in a single night, which surely was hardly prudent, unless they possess iron constitutions.

It was without doubt profitable for us to have constantly before us the example of the clever and industrious ant, and we tried to profit thereby, but at times we could not help feeling that the sluggard would have been the more acceptable companion; the ant is so painfully energetic, especially in the matter of absorbing food – the sluggard, I feel sure, had more regard for his digestion.

I never learned to distinguish the names of the innumerable crawling creatures whom we met at table at meal times. Their sole characteristic is greed, and they kept me continually reminded of the plagues of Egypt, for they came in unlimited numbers, settling on the food, darkening the air with their numberless forms, and devouring everything eatable! They are eminently objectionable, and I defy the most devout lover of natural history and "beasties" generally, to find any pleasure in their society.

One evening I was dining out, and towards the middle of dinner I perceived a large, hideous object nestling among the profuse flower decorations on the table. It didn't appear to me a very pleasant table companion, but as no one else remarked it, and as I dislike appearing disconcerted by the habits of strange countries, I said nothing about it so long as the creature remained quiet. But when at last it came out from its lair, and curling up its long tail made a run at me, I left the table hurriedly.

To my relief the other guests also displayed uneasiness, for the object of my dislike was a scorpion, which had, it was supposed, been brought into the room with the flowers, and had remained hidden from all eyes but mine until its unwelcome disclosure of itself. There ensued an exciting chase up and down the table after the animal, till it was at length caught between two table spoons and drowned in a finger bowl.

By little excitements of this kind the entertainments in Burmah are often enlivened. Some doubt has been cast upon this story by sceptical Europeans, but if any require proof, I can refer them to eminent members of the I. C. S., (men whom none would dare to doubt), who will assure them that such occurrences are frequent; in fact that the first place one would look for a scorpion would be among the flowers upon a dinner table!

When watching the antics of a plump good tempered Jim Crow, as he disports himself upon a pleasant English lawn, or when listening to his peaceful "cawing" among the shady trees on a hot summer's day, one little dreams that this same harmless, law-abiding creature, when exposed to the degenerating influences of the east, becomes transformed into the most disreputable vagabond upon the face of the earth.

The impudent thefts by jackdaws have long been famed, but no words can describe the unbounded presumption of the Burmese crows.

They are always on the watch, and if food be left for an instant in a room with open door or window, they enter, and settle on the table without a moment's hesitation, helping themselves to anything that takes their fancy, in the coolest manner imaginable. When the loogalays carry the dishes of food from the kitchen to the house, these same impish crows pounce down on them and bear away any tempting morsels, well knowing that the men have their hands full, and cannot make reprisals. They appear to know by instinct the approach of meal times, and settle in crowds on the veranda rail or the window ledge, ready to carry off the food directly one's back is turned, and in the meanwhile they pull faces at us, and make rude remarks, for all the world like a collection of vulgar little street boys.