A few months later I formed one of a small party who embarked on a more important expedition than the last named, although we traversed the same road. It is a journey which has frequently been made since, from Simla to Cashmere, going as far into the land of the Great Llama as the inhabitants will allow the stranger to do—which is not very far; but, in the early sixties there were but few white men who had even skirted Thibet. In the afternoon of life, when stirring the fire has become preferable to stirring adventure, it seems (to the writer at all events) very like an attempt at self-slaughter to have travelled so many hundreds of miles along narrow goatpaths, with a khud (precipice) of thousands of feet on one side or the other; picking one’s way, if on foot, over the frequent avalanche (or “land slip,” as we called it in those days) of shale or granite; or if carried in a dhoolie—which is simply a hammock attached by straps to a bamboo pole—running the risk of being propelled over a precipice by your heathen carriers. It is not the pleasantest of sensations to cross a mountain torrent by means of a frail bridge (called a jhula) of ropes made from twigs, and stretched many feet above the torrent itself, nor to “weather” a corner, whilst clinging tooth and nail to the face of a cliff. And when there is any riding to be done, most people would prefer a hill pony to a yak, the native ox of Thibet. By far the best part of a yak is his beautiful silky, fleecy tail, which is largely used in Hindustan, by dependants of governors-general, commanders-in-chief, and other mighty ones, for the discomfiture of the frequent fly. A very little equestrian exercise on the back of a yak goes a long way; and if given my choice, I would sooner ride a stumbling cab-horse in a saddle with spikes in it.
But those days were our salad ones; we were not only “green of judgment,” but admirers of the beautiful, and reckless of danger. But it was decidedly “roughing it.” As it is advisable to traverse that track as lightly laden as possible, we took but few “Europe” provisions with us, depending upon the villages, for the most part, for our supplies. We usually managed to buy a little flour, wherewith to make the inevitable chupati, and at some of the co-operative stores en route, we obtained mutton of fair flavour. We did not know in those days that flesh exposed to the air, in the higher ranges of the Himalayas, will not putrefy, else we should have doubtless made a species of biltong of the surplus meat, to carry with us in case of any famine about. So “short commons” frequently formed the bill of fare. Our little stock of brandy was carefully husbanded, against illness; and, judging from the subsequent histories of two of the party, this was the most miraculous feature of the expedition. For liquid refreshment we had neat water, and thé à la mode de Thibet. Doctor Nansen, in his book on the crossing of Greenland, inveighs strongly against the use of alcohol in an Arctic expedition; but I confess that the first time I tasted Thibet tea I would have given both my ears for a soda and brandy. The raw tea was compressed into the shape of a brick, with the aid of—we did not inquire what; its infusion was drunk, either cold or lukewarm, flavoured with salt, and a small lump of butter which in any civilised police court would have gained the vendor a month’s imprisonment without the option of a fine.
The people of the district were in the habit of gorging themselves with flesh when they could get it; and polyandry was another of their pleasant customs. We saw one lady who was married to three brothers, but did not boast of it. Thibet is probably the most priest-ridden country in the world, and ought to be the most religious; for the natives can grind out their prayers, on wheels, at short intervals, in pretty much the same way as we grind our coffee in dear old England.
But we reached the promised land at last; and here at least there was no lack of food and drink. Meat was cheap in those days; and one of the party, without any bargaining whatever, purchased a sheep for eight annas, or one shilling sterling. Mutton is not quite as cheap at the time of writing this book (1897), I believe; but in the long ago there were but few English visitors to the land of Lalla Rookh, and those who did go had to obtain permission of the Rajah, through the British Resident.
With improved transit, and a railroad from Rangoon to Mandalay, matters gastronomic may be better in British Burmah nowadays; but in the course of an almost world-wide experience I have never enjoyed food less than in Pagoda-land during the sixties. And as a Burmese built house was not a whit more comfortable than a tent, and far less waterproof, this subject may well be included in the chapter headed “Camping Out.” Fruits there were, varied and plentiful; and if you only planted the crown of a pine-apple in your compound one evening you would probably find a decent-sized pine-apple above ground next—well, next week. At least so they told me when I arrived in the country. This fruit, in fact, was so plentiful that we used to peel the pines, and gnaw them, just like a school-boy would gnaw the ordinary variety of apple. But we had no mutton—not up the country, that is to say; and we were entirely dependent upon Madras for potatoes. Therefore, as there was only a steamer once a month from Madras to Rangoon, which invariably missed the Irrawaddy monthly mail-boat, we “exiles” had to content ourselves with yams, or the abominable “preserved” earth-apple. The insects of the air wrestled with us at the mess-table, for food; and the man who did not swallow an evil-tasting fly of some sort in his soup was lucky.[9] As for the food of the Burman himself, “absolutely beastly” was no name for it. Strips of cat-fish the colour of beef were served at his marriage feasts; and he was especially fond of a condiment the name of which was pronounced nuppee—although that is probably not the correct spelling, and I never studied the language of that country—which was concocted from a smaller description of fish, buried in the earth until decomposition had triumphed, and then mashed up with ghee (clarified—and “postponed”—butter). There was, certainly, plenty of shooting to be obtained in the district; but, as it rained in torrents for nine months in every year, the shooter required a considerable amount of nerve, and, in addition to a Boyton suit, case-hardened lungs and throat. And, singularly enough, it was an established fact that if loaded for snipe you invariably met a tiger, or something else with sharp teeth, and vice versa. Also, you were exceptionally fortunate if you did not step upon one of the venomous snakes of the country, of whom the hamadryad’s bite was said to be fatal within five minutes. I had omitted to mention that snake is also a favourite food of the Burman; and as I seldom went home of an evening without finding a rat-snake or two in the verandah, or the arm-chair, the natives had snake for breakfast, most days. The rat-snake is, however, quite harmless to life.
I have “camped out” in England once or twice; once with a select circle of gipsies, the night before the Derby. I wished merely to study character; and, after giving them a few words of the Romany dialect, and a good deal of tobacco, I was admitted into their confidences. But the experience gained was not altogether pleasing, nor yet edifying; nor did we have baked hedgehog for supper. In fact I have never yet met the “gippo” (most of them keep fowls) who will own to having tasted this bonne bouche of the descriptive writer. Possibly this is on account of the scarcity of the hedgehog. “Tea-kettle broth”—bread sopped in water, with a little salt and dripping to flavour the soup—on the other hand, figures on most of the gipsy menus. And upon one occasion, very early in the morning, another wanderer and the writer obtained much-needed liquid refreshment by milking the yield of a Jersey cow into each other’s mouths, alternately. But this was a long time ago, and in the neighbourhood of Bagshot Heath, and it was somebody else’s cow; so let no more be said about it.
I fear this chapter is not calculated to make many mouths water. In fact what in the world has brought it into the midst of a work on gastronomy I am at a loss to make out. However here it is.