CHAPTER XXVII.
KIANG DOW—INVASIONS OF BURMESE SHANS—PRECIPITOUS HILLS—MUANG HĂNG UNDER THE BURMESE—VIANG CHAI—CATCH A KAMAIT—ENTERING MONASTIC LIFE—INQUISITIVE PEOPLE—REACH MUANG NGAI—VIEW UP THE RIVER—A SHAN PLAY—VISIT THE GOVERNOR—LEAVE MUANG NGAI—HOT SPRINGS—LOI PA-YAT PA-YAI—A STORM IN THE HILLS—DRAINAGE FLOWING IN THREE DIRECTIONS—UNDERGROUND STREAMS—DIFFICULT PASS—SINKAGE OF GROUND—A SACRED CAVE—LEGEND OF TUM TAP TOW—VISIT THE CAVE—AN UNPLEASANT NIGHT—LARGE GAME—THREATENED WITH BEHEADING—LEGEND OF THE HARE-LIP—BUILDING A HOUSE—CHINESE FORTS—TRICHINOSIS—REACH MUANG FANG.
The city of Kiang Dow, which is barely a quarter of a mile square, is situated 37 miles from Zimmé, and is 1254 feet above the sea. The whole province contains only 250 houses, 75 of which are in the enclosure. The city is said to have been resettled in 1809 by seven householders from Ban Meh Lim, which we passed eight miles from Zimmé, and was destroyed by Chow Phya Kolon, a Burmese Shan chief, in 1869 or 1870. On his retiring, it is said to have been at once reoccupied. According to the governor of Viang Pow, whom I subsequently met at that place, two invasions of the country occurred in recent years: one in 1868–69, when Chow Phya Kolon, the chief of Mokmai, a Burmese Shan State to the west of the Salween, burned six villages in his State; and another in 1872, when the same chief again invaded the district, and burned two villages. Chow Phya Kolon was said to be living in 1884 as an acolyte in a monastery in Moné.
About this time, 1868–72, there appears to have been a general downward pressure of the Ngios (Burmese Shans), for, besides the above-mentioned movements, Chow Phya Roy Sam—whose brother A-Chai is at present the chief of Muang Hăng, a State in the upper valley of the Meh Teng—burned Muang Ngai, and drove the Zimmé Shans out of the province in 1869; and as I have previously stated, the upper valleys of the Meh Ping, Meh Teng, and Meh Pai, have been resettled by Burmese Shans, and are under the rule of their chiefs.
Sketch of Loi Kiang Dow and Loi Nan.
Whilst the elephants were being unloaded, I crossed the river so as to sketch Loi Kiang Dow, which lies nearly due east and west, and is seen on end from the city. It rises, like the rock of Gibraltar, straight up from the plain, to five times the height of that rock, and can be seen on a clear day from the neighbourhood of Zimmé, 36 miles distant, looming up over the hills, through which the river has cut its way. Its crest towered up apparently to more than a mile above the plain, and we guessed its altitude to be 8000 feet above the sea, or considerably higher than that of the great hill behind Zimmé.
The sun was setting over the great precipitous hill as I sketched it, and I had hardly completed its outline and that of Loi Nan (the Lady’s Hill), which lies parallel to it, and due west of Ban Meh Kaun, before the sun went down, forcing me to take the angles the following morning. On the north side, as seen from beyond Muang Ngai, Loi Nan looks like a gigantic fortress frowning over the plain.
In the evening the governor of Kiang Dow, who has the title of Pau Muang (Father of the State), came with his brother to pay us a visit, and gave us some information about trade-routes and the upper course of the river. He told us that the Burmese Shans held the upper valleys of the Meh Ping and Meh Teng, and that the villages in Muang Hăng belonged to them. The nearest Ngio villages on the Meh Ping were two days’ journey up the valley, and were called Ban Sang, and Tone Pa Khom. The road to Muang Hăng, he said, passed in a defile through the hills, and crossed no range. Mr Gould, who subsequently visited this Muang, found this information was correct.
The next day being Sunday, I halted, according to agreement with my missionary companions, who made it a rule never to travel on Sunday, unless it was necessary to do so. Before breakfast we strolled to the ruins of a city called Viang Chai, some distance from Kiang Dow, where we found a pagoda 25 feet square, built of laterite that appeared to be of ancient date. This Viang was surrounded by a rampart and two ditches, one 40 feet wide and 15 feet deep, and the other 20 feet wide and 10 feet deep. There are said to be three Viang Hau (Chinese cities or forts) in the neighbourhood. When returning, I noticed a man resembling a Kamook, but with wavy hair, sitting with a group of people who were gazing at us; and on inquiry I was glad to learn that he was a Kamait, and seized the opportunity to arrange for taking his vocabulary early the next morning. In the afternoon Dr M‘Gilvary and Mr Martin held a service, after which we wandered about and had a talk with the villagers.
The following morning the Kamait came accompanied by two companions. I was surprised to find that the Kamait language has a closer affinity to Bau Lawah than to Kamook, although the Kamooks and Kamaits have long been close neighbours. The three languages are evidently derived from a Mon stock. I was so taken up with the translation of the Kamait’s vocabulary, that on its conclusion I gave orders for the loading of the elephants, altogether forgetting that we had not had our early morning’s meal, and was humorously remonstrated with by my companions. This was soon served, and we left the city by the north gate.
After passing through some rice-fields and a teak-forest, we crossed a low flat-topped spur for about a mile, when we came to the Huay Sai, a small stream which forms the boundary between Kiang Dow and Muang Ngai. Fresh flowers had been placed on an altar erected on the stream-bank. Just before crossing the stream a road leaves the path for Muang Fang. The boundary cuts the path at 40 miles from Zimmé. A mile farther we came to Ban Meh Kaun, and breakfasted in its temple.
A play had been held the previous night at the village in honour of two young men who had become acolytes at the monastery. The temple grounds were crowded with visitors from the neighbouring villages, and a great many offerings had been made to the monks. These were heaped up in the temple, and consisted of new yellow garments, three-cornered and oblong pillows, mats, rugs, water-jars, and tastily arranged bouquets of flowers. Some of the nosegays were built up round the stem of the fruit of a plantain into the form of a large cone.
On visiting the temple to bargain with the abbot for two handsomely worked three-cornered pillows that my companions had set their hearts on, he told us that the receipts accruing to him from the play were over a hundred rupees. In conversation with the monks, Dr M‘Gilvary was told that it would most likely be countless ages before they would attain the much-wished-for state of Nirvana, and that one transgression at any time might relegate them to the lowest hell to begin again their melancholy pilgrimage. After hearing this I could not help thinking of the young men newly entered into the monastic order—who were sitting devoutly on the raised dais, telling their beads and muttering religious formulæ,—how hopeless their task seemed to be! a very labour of Sisyphus. Yet there they were, attired in new yellow robes, with a scarf of new red print calico crossing their breast and left shoulder, sitting each on a new mat, with a new betel-box and water-jar before him, trying to look solemn whilst enjoying what must have been the sweetest moments of their life, surrounded by numerous admirers, who seemed to envy them their vocation.
Returning to breakfast at the temple, we were followed by an inquisitive but good-natured crowd of men, women, and children, who, after watching the boys dish up our meal, gazed at our mode of eating, and watched every morsel that we put into our mouths, wondering why we did not eat, like them, with our fingers, and had clean plates, and knives and forks, for every course.
After breakfast I gave the children a treat of biscuits and jam, and distributed a few hanks of beads amongst them, whilst Dr M‘Gilvary preached to the people outside the temple. We then had the elephants loaded, and left for Muang Ngai, which was only a mile distant. Passing through the city, we camped for the night at two salas outside the north gate.
The city of Muang Ngai is surrounded, like Kiang Dow, with a strong stockade, and contains 100 houses. It is situated a mile to the west of the Meh Ping, near where the river alters its direction from south-east to due south. The view up the valley of the river is shut in by a low plateau covered with high-tree forest on the right; in front, as far as the eye can reach, three sharp peaks are seen on the horizon, in the direction of the source of the river, which is said to lie nearly due north-west, about 50 miles distant in an air-line; to the left, the country appeared a jumble of hills, all dwarfed by Loi Nan, which stood up thousands of feet above the plain, with its bold precipitous head facing the city at a distance of about six miles.
After sketching the hills, I visited the remains of the ancient city of Kiang Ngai, which lies three-quarters of a mile to the north-west, and is said to have been built by the Lawas, under a chief named A-Koop-Norp, who is still worshipped as the guardian spirit of the district, and has pigs sacrificed to him. On returning to Muang Ngai we had dinner, and were invited by a Shan gentleman to a play that he was giving that evening in the open air.
The play turned out to be far inferior to any that I had seen in Burmah. The only performers were three young men, dressed in their ordinary costume, who were squatted on a mat waving lighted tapers, whilst they chanted some legend or romance. The actors were accompanied by musicians playing on the Laos organ or pipes. When tired of the dreary performance, we accepted the invitation of one of the head-men, an old acquaintance of Dr M‘Gilvary’s, to visit his house, which overlooked the play, where we soon had a larger audience than was present at the performance, and were served with rice wafers and molasses cakes, handed to us on red lacquered wooden salvers.
View up the valley of the Meh Ping from Muang Ngai.
A great stack of pillows, mats, water-bottles, betel-boxes, fans, and other articles, lay in the corner of the verandah ready to be offered at the monastery the next day. Before we left, the son of the governor came to tell us that his father would be pleased if we paid him a visit that evening, as he had heard we were leaving early the next day.
We accompanied the young man, and were courteously received by the governor, Chow Phya Pet (Pet is Shan for a diamond), a fine-looking old gentleman, seventy-eight years of age, who said he had resided in the city ever since he was twenty-five years old, when there were only two houses in it. The city had been burnt by the Ngios (Burmese Shans) fifteen years before, in 1869. The Ngios were under the leadership of Roy Sam, the governor of Muang Hăng, the State in the upper valley of the Meh Teng. Muang Hăng was subsequently deserted, but had lately been resettled by A-Chai, a brother of Roy Sam, and now had twenty houses in it. Another play was being acted at the governor’s, and we recognised one of our mahouts amongst the performers.
The governor told us that his Muang contained 2000 inhabitants, chiefly witches who had been turned out of Zimmé; other people were therefore reluctant to settle there, being afraid that the witches might work them harm. Amongst his people were 200 fighting (or full-grown free) men. Some of the teak-forests belonged to the Chow Che Wit, and one to Chow Ootarakan of Zimmé. The forests are worked by our Burmese subjects.
Leaving Muang Ngai the next day, we turned east, and crossed a low table-topped hill formed of soft sandstone, until we reached the Meh Ping. When crossing the river (which was 100 feet broad and 10 feet deep, with 1¾ foot depth of water, and a sandstone bed), I was amused by seeing the leading man on foot pull his foot quickly up as he stepped in a hot spring, but not saying a word for fear the others should miss doing likewise. The crossing lay 43½ miles from Zimmé, and 1444 feet above the sea. Small canoes can reach this place, but cannot proceed farther up the river.
From the river we crossed a low spur, and ascended through a teak-forest along the south bank of a stream called the Meh Na Oi, until we reached the crest of the plateau, and passed through a gap in Loi Pa-Yat Pa-Yai,—the limestone cliffs that fringe the edge of the plateau, which lies 300 feet above the bank of the Meh Ping. Pa means rocks; and Yat and Yai, in a straight line. The line of cliffs is precipitous on both sides, and lies nearly due north and south. Pine-trees were occasionally seen in the forest.
For the next six miles we skirted the eastern face of the cliffs, the streams on our right draining into the Meh Pam, which enters the Meh Ping a mile to the south of Muang Ngai. As we left the cliffs to descend to the Meh Poi, a heavy shower of rain came down on us like a deluge, from a low-lying cloud which capped some of the neighbouring peaks. The broken rainbows on the mist, and the battle between sunshine and cloud amongst the crags and peaks, made such a scene of beauty and grandeur that even the stolid elephant-drivers stopped their animals and shouted with delight.
We halted for the night at Pang Pau, on the banks of the Meh Poi, which lies 2357 feet above the sea. This stream rises a few miles off to the north-west, not far from the gap through which the Huay Sai passes from Muang Hang. The Huay Sai, flowing to the Meh Ping, which empties into the Gulf of Siam, and the Meh Hang, which enters the Salween, flowing into the Indian Ocean, both rise in the same plain, which is only separated from the Meh Fang, which drains into the Cambodia river, flowing into the China Siam by the range we were about to cross.
Next morning, after crossing the Meh Poi, we ascended a spur to the Pa Too Din (or Earthen Gate), the pass over Loi Kyoo Pa Săng. During the ascent it was raining heavily. The crest of the pass is 58¾ miles from Zimmé, and 2645 feet above the sea; and the hill is composed of a soft sandstone.
Descending the slope for a quarter of a mile, we reached the bottom of the valley, which is said to be merely a long pocket in the hills, its drainage passing in underground passages beneath them. From the bottom we immediately commenced to ascend to the Pa Too Pa (or Stone Gate), which we reached after a toilsome climb of just one hour, the horizontal distance being barely half a mile. The slope was formed of hard blocks of traprock, with an outcrop of non-crystalline metamorphic rock. The path up the ravine was so steep and slippery in places that it seemed impossible for any animal less agile than a man to ascend it. Our elephants proceeded slowly but surely, keeping, like links in a chain, so close together, that one felt if one should slip he would carry the others with him. The path is not more than 18 inches broad, and is strewn with great rocks. It is said to be the most difficult pass in the country. Its crest lies 59½ miles from Zimmé, and 2916 feet above the sea. Mr Archer gives the altitude as 2750 feet above the sea; and Mr Gould, as 1600 feet above Zimmé. There may be a slight error in my height on account of atmospheric disturbance and a dense mist.
Not far from the head of the pass, on the northern side, are two natural wells called Hoo Low, of great depth—one 6 feet and the other 10 feet in diameter. A pebble took four seconds in reaching the bottom. Two miles of easy descent among limestone hills brought us to the plain of Nong Vee-a, bounded on the north-west by a fine precipitous hill of mural limestone, called Loi Tum Tap Tow, rising about 1200 feet above the plain.
Four miles from the summit of the pass, two great depressions in the ground, called Boo-arks, occur,—one 250 feet in diameter and 25 feet deep; and the other, 300 feet long, 250 feet broad, and 8 feet deep. These have evidently been caused by the subsidence of the ground into underlying caverns in the limestone formation. Near these we left the path and crossed the plain for about half a mile to visit the sacred cave of Tum Tap Tow, which is situated not far from the north end of the hill. It was in this cave, according to M‘Leod, “where the last Buddh (Gaudama) is said to have rested after a surfeit of pork which caused his death.” Further particulars of this legend accounting for the name of the cave were related to us, whereby it appears that, on hearing of Gaudama’s death, a number of his disciples shut themselves in this cave, and contemplated his perfections so intently as to become unconscious of the pangs and cravings of hunger, and thus also attained Neiban (Nirvana)—the state of forgetfulness and perfect rest.
On dismounting at the foot of the hill, we camped for breakfast, and then started on foot to the cave amidst a heavy shower of rain. Before we had proceeded 50 feet, we found that we should have to wade nearly up to our waists in the icy-cold water flowing out of the face of the hill, and therefore returned to rearrange our toilets. I put on a Burmese Shan costume, topped by a waterproof coat; Mr Martin wore a flannel shirt under a coat, and a Siamese panoung or petticoat; whilst Dr M‘Gilvary draped himself in a gossamer waterproof, and carried a pair of sleeping-drawers to put on when he reached the cave. None of us wore shoes or stockings, and the sharp fragments of limestone in the path made us walk very gingerly.
After leaving the brook, we scrambled up a slope of shattered limestone and great blocks that had tumbled down from the cliff until the path lay up the face of the precipice, when it became so difficult as to make me rather dread the return journey. On reaching the entrance, we found it ornamented with stuccoed figures of spirits, having bird bodies, and elephant tusks and trunk in lieu of a beak.
Inside was a lofty cavern lighted by a natural skylight. On a raised platform in the cave was a great reclining image of Buddha, some 30 feet long, and around it a number of figures representing his disciples. Numerous small wooden and stone images of Buddha had been placed by pious pilgrims about the platform. Pillows, mattresses, robes, yellow drapery, flags, water-bottles, rice-bowls, fans, dolls, images of temples, dolls’ houses for the spirits, and all sorts of trumpery, were lying together, with fresh and faded flowers that had been offered to the images, and were strewn in front of them. A steep ladder led up to niches near the roof of the cave, in which other images were enshrined.
My companions, who were full of ardour, determined to explore the inner recesses of the cave, and accordingly lighted their torches and proceeded farther into the bowels of the earth, whilst I enjoyed a quiet smoke amongst the gods. Down they went, creeping through narrow low passages, over rocks, and along ledges, with chasms and pits lining their path as the cave expanded, bottomless as far as they could judge by the faint light of their torches, but really not more than 20 or 30 feet deep, until they could get no farther, and had to return, having proceeded about an eighth of a mile.
Two deer sprang up from the long grass close to us when we were returning to the camp, where we were glad to change our clothing and have a good rub down after our wade through the icy water. Before we had finished, the rain again came down in torrents, and we had to climb into our howdahs to complete our toilets.
The Boo-arks mark the western edge of the great plain through which the Meh Fang runs on its way to join the Meh Khoke, which passes Kiang Hai, and enters the Meh Kong, or Cambodia river, below Kiang Hsen. Two miles to the north-east of the Boo-arks we reached the Meh Fang, and camped for the night. The river at our camp was 30 feet wide and 6 feet deep, with 1½ foot of water. Our crossing was 65½ miles from Zimmé, and 1747 feet above the sea. Much of the plain, as well as the low plateaux fringing it, are covered with teak-forest, and many of the trees are of great girth. A small deer sprang up from the long grass nearly at my elephant’s feet as I approached the camp.
Here we passed the most unpleasant night we had yet spent, as we were troubled with rain, heat, and mosquitoes. The elephant-drivers, being piqued with my Madras boys ordering them about, chucked their clothes and bedding into a puddle. The boys dawdled as usual, instead of at once erecting their leafy shelter for the night, and they and their bedding got thoroughly drenched, and we had to make arrangements for their comfort in our tent. To increase our misfortunes, our Shan followers had appropriated our fowls on the sly, and we had to be satisfied with tinned soups and meats. The first leeches we had seen on the journey were found on our ankles when we took off our boots.
Next morning we continued our march down the plain, passing some brick ruins and a Viang Hau, or Chinese fort. A mile beyond the fort we reached Ban Meh Kih, where the road to Zimmé viâ Viang Pow and Muang Ken joins the route. The village, the first that we had seen since leaving Muang Ngai, contained only sixteen houses. At another village we were told that game was very plentiful. Wild cattle, larger than buffaloes, come in droves from the hills to graze in the plain, and rhinoceros and elephant roam about the hills. Pigs were, however, the greatest pest of the country, as they rooted up the crops.
We halted for the night at Ban Meh Soon, a village situated near two Viang Hau, and in a good-sized rice-plain. The Viang Hau to the south of the village was the smallest that I had seen, being only 300 feet square. It is surrounded by a ditch 30 feet broad and 15 feet deep. A hundred cattle, laden with tobacco and pepper for Zimmé, were encamped near the house we put up in. We had been travelling all day through a fine plain many miles broad. Our camp was 76½ miles from Zimmé.
After we had settled ourselves in the empty house, a villager came to inform us that the house belonged to the chief of Muang Fang, and that anybody who slept in it would have his head cut off. As rain was threatening, we determined to risk the penalty; and we were soon glad we had done so, as the rain poured down in torrents.
On the head-man of the village coming to pay his respects, he told us that the Meh Fang flooded its banks on both sides between Ban Meh Soon and Ban Meh Mou, but that the inundation only lasts a day and a half. A similar flood happens between the city of Muang Fang and the Meh Khoke. Every basket of rice sown in his fields yielded at least a hundred-fold. He said the country was full of ancient cities whose names had been generally lost. Viang Ma-nee-ka was situated about 12 miles to the north-east of Muang Fang.
The legend attached to Viang Ma-nee-ka relates that a governor of Muang Fang had a daughter who would have been lovely if she had not been so unfortunate as to be born with a hare-lip. When she grew up, the thought of her deformity so preyed upon her mind that she left the city and made her home on the banks of the Meh Ai (the river of Shame), and founded the city of Ma-nee-ka (Hare-lip). There is a superstition that joints of bamboo cut for drinking the water of the Meh Ai should be cut straight across; if cut diagonally, the drinker will incur a hare-lip.
In connection with the new house we were in, I asked the head-man how long it would take in building. In answer, he said it took one man five days to make the thatch for a house 25 feet square; and three men five days to make the mat and bamboo floor and walling, cut the bamboos and posts, and build the house, including a verandah 10 feet square. More men could complete the house in less time. In walking about not far from the village, Mr Martin came across the lair of a tiger in the high grass, and Dr M‘Gilvary found the tracks of wild hog.
We were awakened the next morning to the sound of gibbons wailing in the neighbouring forest, and were detained for about an hour and a half owing to one of our elephants having strayed in search of pastures new. Soon after starting we passed through a Viang Hau, where huge teak-trees were growing, and met a caravan of fifty oxen laden with tobacco for Zimmé, having brought rice thence for the new settlers in Muang Fang. One of the leading oxen wore a mask, formed like a cage, of thin strips of wood painted red, and surmounted by a bunch of pheasant-tail feathers; another had a mask made of tiger-skin, and surmounted by peacock’s plumes.
We halted for a few minutes at the village of Ngio-Kow, containing ten houses, and found many of the people suffering from trichinosis, owing to their having feasted on a wild hog, which they had pickled and eaten raw. We subsequently learned that all the people of Viang Pow had suffered from the same cause two years before, and that it had caused the death of two of them.
Continuing through the forest and some large savannahs, we reached Muang Fang and passed through the fortified courtyard into the city, where we halted at a rest-house which was placed at our disposal.