A thousand miles on an elephant in the Shan States

by Holt S. Hallett

Muang Haut lies 154 miles from Hlineboay, and 743 feet above the sea. The river opposite the sala was 600 feet broad, the water 3 feet deep, and the banks 12 feet high.

After we had been thoroughly inspected by all the loafers about the place, who had luckily had the edge of their appetite taken off by the Bombay Burmah party, which had only left on the previous day, we were able to stroll about whilst dinner was being got ready. Seeing some fine cabbages in a Chinaman’s garden near our sala, we stopped to bargain for some. Imagine our surprise when he would not part with them under a rupee each. Expostulation was in vain—one of the gentlemen who had left the day before had paid him that price for one; that was the value, and no less would be taken for one. Cabbage-growing in the Shan States must be a lucrative business. In the gardens about the town I noticed cocoa-nut and Palmyra palms, custard-apple, guava, orange, citron, pummelo, plantains, and mango trees and sugar-cane, tobacco, turmeric, chillies, onions, pumpkins, and other ordinary plants seen in gardens. A woman was cutting up green tobacco-leaves for use by forcing them through a hole in a plank at the end of a small table, and slicing the leaves at the other side of the orifice.

On returning to the sala, Ramasawmy, Dr Cushing’s servant, came to interview him, and raised a bobbery. He was indignant. In the course of conversation with my boys, he had found out that each of them was receiving five rupees a month more wages than he had bargained for. Here was fat in the fire. It was shameful; he would not be treated so; he would leave that moment and return to Maulmain. It was useless Dr Cushing’s remarking that my boys were not in the same position as his boy, being only hired for the journey, whilst he had been with him for years, and had accompanied him on former journeys at the same wages. It was unjust. He would not stand it. He had told Portow and Loogalay, and they had laughed at him. He would not stop. He would go at once. Blubbering with passion, he proceeded to pack up his pah, sleeping-mat, and blanket, and would have left the sala with them if Dr Cushing, who remained as cool as a cucumber, had not told Portow and Shway Wai to prevent him from moving the things, and despatched a note to the head-man asking that the boy might not be allowed to leave the village with the elephant-men whom I had just paid off. The boy was bound to give him a month’s notice before leaving, and he must do what he was bound to do. The storm was merely a passing gust of temper, and Ramasawmy was at work again the next day as cheery as a lark and as brisk as a sparrow.

We were pleased to see our old acquaintances the sparrows and crows again. These birds are only seen in the neighbourhood of large villages and towns, where people most do congregate. I cannot better depict the strong sense of humour existing amongst the Shans than by relating their fable of the peacock and the crow, which runs as follows:—

STORY OF THE PEACOCK AND CROW.

In days of yore when time was young, and birds conversed as well as sung, the peacock and the crow were both grey birds. One day, at the suggestion of the peacock, they mutually agreed each to do its utmost to improve the personal appearance of the other. The crow, taking a paintbrush, some fine feathers, and beautiful colours, in an artistic manner performed his part of the bargain. Then handing the brush to the peacock, who was admiring himself in a placid pool, asked that bird to decorate him. The peacock, excited with admiration and conceit at his splendid appearance, for a long time turned a deaf ear to the remonstrances and pleadings of the crow. At length, taking the brush, he laid on the crow a layer of black as a ground-work for the other colours. Then strutting off to the pool he had another look at himself. Returning, he shrieked with laughter at the contrast, and dancing round the crow, displaying his lovely plumage, assured the justly incensed bird that he was such fun, he could not think of spoiling his appearance by further use of the brush.

View to the south from a hillock behind Muang Haut.

Before dinner I clambered up the southern hillock at the back of the town, and sketched the country from the base of a pagoda. To the south, fourteen miles distant, appeared Loi Kern, the northern flank of the great bulwark of hills and table-land through which the Meh Ping tears its way in stupendous gorges to the plains of Siam. One of its eastern peaks is crested by a pagoda of much sanctity, to which pilgrims from all parts gather. Between us and Loi Kern lay a great forest-clad plain, with short spurs jutting into it from the Bau plateau. The narrow rice-plain of Muang Haut could be seen winding like a large river through the forest. Turning to the west, Loi Kom loomed above the spurs, and between it and Loi Kern stretched Loi Pang Ma, the eastern flank of the Bau plateau. The pagoda on the hillock to the north and west of the one that I was sketching from is called Tat Oo-kyow, or the pagoda of the gemmed offering-box. Another pagoda cresting a neighbouring peak at the end of a spur is named Tat Loi Som.

In the evening I was amused by watching Veyloo and Jewan having a long conversation with a Zimmé Shan about the prices of things in that place. Every day they had learned a few words and sentences of Shan from Portow, and now, with the aid of expressive signs and gestures, were prepared to do battle with the stall-keepers in the bazaars.