Nearly opposite the mouth of the Meh Li is a fine monastery called Wat Ta Sala, after the sala, “traveller’s rest-house,” that has been erected a little higher up the river, and a little beyond, at the village of Fang Min, we passed three large spider undershot water-wheels.
The axle or boss of each wheel was of hard wood, about 3 feet long and 5 inches in diameter. From this radiated two rows, about 2 feet apart, of spokes from 10 to 12 feet long. The two rows were joined together at the top by paddles made of bamboo matting, 2 feet broad by 1 foot deep. The spokes, each formed of one-third of a split bamboo, were connected together at the periphery of the wheel by a light lattice-work formed of strips of bamboo, on the under side of which were fastened joints of bamboo about 1 foot long to serve as buckets to bring up the water. The lower part of the wheel was immersed for 3 feet in the current, and the water was emptied into a trough near the top, from whence it was conveyed to the gardens and fields. The boss of the wheel worked upon two light trestles made of wood. The wheel was so light that it required little current to set it in motion. I passed 220 of these spider-web wheels between Ta Sala and Zimmé. Similar water-wheels are found in the Chinese provinces of Kweichau and Ssuchuan, as well as in Upper Burmah and the Shan States. They are used for pounding and grinding rice as well as for irrigation, and lifting water for household purposes. It is a singular spectacle to watch several of these wheels, placed within a few feet of each other, in ceaseless motion, their shafts humming loudly, and the water splashing and sparkling all over them.
Just above Fang Min, between it and the monastery of Ban Dong, which lies on the east of the river, favoured by a long stretch of the river which enabled me to see over the tops of the trees lining the banks, I caught sight of the Loi Hoo-a Soo-a, “the mountain of the tiger’s head,” so called from the aspect of a precipice on its western extremity. Beyond it, twenty miles distant to the north-west, lay Loi Pah Kung, an undulating hill or plateau of great height, a monarch among the mountains, forming part of the main range of the Zimmé hills.
After passing three villages and another fine monastery, we reached the northern mouth of the Meh Li and halted for the night. The banks in the neighbourhood are very low, frequently not more than five and a half feet in height, and must at times be subject to inundation.
The early morning is the most enjoyable part of the day in the Shan States, and is delightful during a boat-journey. As the sun pours its rays through the trees, a flood of light is shed upon the thickets on the opposite bank of the river, displaying, amongst glistening dewdrops, a wonderful variety of beautiful hues and colours. The birds are singing their morning orisons; the doves are cooing from the tall cotton trees, which are shedding showers of scarlet lily-shaped blossoms; the jungle-fowl crowing from their bamboo fastnesses; blue jays flop along from tree to tree, croaking as they fly; gaudy woodpeckers tap at the old tree-trunks in search of their morning’s meal; divers, springing from the water, speed for a few yards and dart in again; snipe, plover, and snippets are strutting on the sandbanks, and kingfishers flash in the sunlight like living gems. The whole scene teems with music, life, and light. The breeze rustling in the tree-tops, the deliciously cold morning air bathing one’s face, and the universal enjoyment around us, wafts care away, renews our youth for the time, and we enjoy the pleasures of paradise.
Loi Hoo-a Soo-a with Loi Pah Kung in the background.
Starting soon after six, we passed through Loi Law, a village which nestles in gardens of graceful palms and fruit-trees, and lines both sides of the river. The air was scented with the fragrance of orange and pummelo blossoms; bells tolled by the breeze tinkled from the pagoda, and the sound of children’s voices, joined with the deeper tones of men chanting their morning’s devotions, were wafted to us from the monastery. Girls tripped gaily along the banks with their water-jars balanced on their heads; children who could barely walk dragged great buffaloes along by their nose-rings; pariah dogs barked at us; and the impudent crows scolded us from the banks for breaking into the harmony of the scene.
Ten minutes after leaving the village, I halted to sketch Loi Hoo-a Soo-a and Loi Pah Kung; and a mile farther on ascended Loi Noi, a small granite knoll on the west bank that is crested by a pagoda, in order to settle the position and make a drawing of the hills in the valley of the Meh Li. Between us and Loi Ta Mau and Loi Chang Moo, “the mountain of the crouching elephant,” so called from its appearance, the whole plain for a distance of thirty miles appeared to be one great forest with a few small isolated hills cropping up here and there, the area under cultivation being entirely hidden by dense fringes of trees. The Zimmé plain is at its broadest at Loi Noi, and feathers off thence to both ends. Its total length from the gorge beyond the Meh Teng to Loi Chang Moo is seventy miles.
