Round the Wonderful World

by G. E. Mitton

Leaning over the vessel's side I see some of the gummy bodies, mere hollow shells now, transparent and fragile, sticking on to the black paint about the bows. The creatures are white ants who come out of holes in the ground at this time of year. Our lights attracted a new-born swarm. At least that must have been it, because we weren't plagued with them again in the same way, though the captain says that in the wet season it is impossible to sit on the deck at all in the evenings because of the multitude of winged things.

"But then you haven't got any hair," I hear Joyce's cheerful voice saying on the deck. You evidently reply something, for she rejoins at once, "Oh yes, it's in plaits, but they might stick in them! I've always had a creepy horror of crawly things sticking in my hair."

"Cut it off," you suggest brutally.

This is a cargo boat. We had much to see at Mandalay; we visited the Aracan Pagoda and Golden Temple, we went up to the hill-station, Maymyo, and on to the Gokteik Gorge, spanned by one of the highest trestle bridges in the world, and when we arrived back at Mandalay we found that the passenger boat had just left, so we came on by this one, the China, which is really just as comfortable and not so crowded. She is fitted with bathrooms and comfortable cabins with little beds in them, and on the spacious upper deck are two immense mirrors so placed that all the sights on the shore are reflected in them. You can sit in a lounge-chair and watch them flash past like a continuous cinematograph.

The Irrawaddy flows right through Burma, cutting it in half, as the Nile does Egypt; and it is rather like the Nile, but, of course, not nearly so long, not so long even as the Ganges, though steamers can go up it for nine hundred miles, equal to the length of England and Scotland put together! The river is wide and shallow in places, sometimes as much as two miles across, and at these places great care has to be taken not to run on sandbanks; there is much poling and shouting out of soundings, and when we do stick, a boat rows out with an anchor and drops it, and after a while we ride up to the anchor and there we are!

There is far more vegetation to be seen on the banks than in Egypt, and the life in the villages is much more attractive. The houses are perfectly beautiful—at a distance. They are built of dark wood, and stand on posts, with wide verandahs and thatched roofs, are nearly always embowered in great trees, and have a luxuriant growth of plantains and trees around. The spires of the pagodas and the pinnacles and roofs of the choungs generally rise up somewhere in the picture, and in the evening, when the whole village comes down to the water, the scene is charming. The cattle stand knee-deep and the people bathe and wash their clothes and drink heartily of the muddy stream, and then slip on dry garments, after which the women and girls stream up the steep banks, carrying red chatties of water on their heads. All are lively, full of play and chaff. Their life is a happy one, because perfectly simple and natural; no one need starve and no one wants to be rich.

All day the steamer floats along, generally winding slowly across and across the river wherever a little red flag stuck up on the banks tells that there are a few cases or barrels or packets to be taken down to the market. At one place it is let-pet, or pickled tea, though the plant from which the stuff is made is not really a tea-plant. Burmans love it, and no feast is complete without it, indeed a packet of let-pet is an invitation to something festive.

It is early afternoon and quite hot and still as we circle toward the shore where the red flag hangs drooping; people in gay clothes are dabbed about like little splashes of colour on the whity-yellow sand. Suddenly there is a splash, and from our bows, which are high up in the air, one of the Lascars, dressed in blue dungaree trousers, drops feet first into the water like a stone; while he is in the air another follows and another, until there are half a dozen of them in the water, and they go across to the shore, paddling with each hand alternately as a dog does with his paws. They are carrying a line ashore. They always jump off like this at every landing-place. They shake themselves like dogs as they land, and the sun soon dries their one and only garment. But it takes a good while before the line is fixed up to the captain's liking!

Then the people swarm across the plank into the great barge, or flat, tied alongside of us, and a shouting sing-song begins as men and girls alike hurry up and down carrying on board sacks of monkey-nuts. They work hard and untiringly and always good-humouredly; the popular notion that the Burman is a lazy fellow is based on the fact that he won't work if he can help it, but when he has to he does it with goodwill. A funny little incident occurs. The captain, walking down his own gangway, is run into by a coolie who is heading up the plank with a sack on his shoulders; wrathfully the captain sends him and his sack flying, and they both land in deep water. That is nothing, however, for every Burman can swim, and no one bears any ill-feeling about it.

Crowds of little boys and girls are dancing and splashing about on the edge of the water with infinite glee. A mother comes down with her baby and goes into deep water with the tiny thing clinging to her; suddenly she lets it go, and swimming with one hand holds it up with the other while it kicks spasmodically like a little frog. The babies learn to swim before they can walk.