Ten years in Burma

by Julius Smith

The heat increased from January onward. The work became very laborious, largely owing to failure to get rest at night. In May, I began to be troubled with a strange numbness in my arms. This gradually spread to most of the muscles of the body, and began to affect my head seriously. At the same time, the heat, especially any direct ray of the sun, caused very distressing nervous symptoms. Having all my life worked hard, and having a body that had stood almost all kinds of strain and seemed none the worse for it, I at the beginning expected to throw off these symptoms quickly. But when I did not succeed in this, I consulted physicians and found that they were puzzled as much as myself. Had it been possible to go to some cooler place and take rest at the beginning of this disorder, it is likely that I could have met the difficulty and overcome it quickly; but there was no chance to leave the work, no place to go to, and no one to relieve me. Steadily for five months the trouble increased, until it was impossible even to read in an attentive way, though under the excitement of a Sabbath’s congregation I could talk to the people. In October, only a little over nine months after landing in Burma, Bishop Thoburn peremptorily ordered me to the hills of India for a change. He temporarily supplied my place at Rangoon.

I left Rangoon on the evening of the 10th of October on this painful flight for health. My wife remained and did hard service, all too hard as the case proved, to give the English congregations attention during my absence. This early flight from my work with the uncertainties of my ailment, and the long distance to the Indian Hills, which as we supposed at the time, was the nearest place to get above the heat of the plains, and the condition of the work in my absence, and the added burden to my wife, all combined to give the occasion a serious aspect.

I took passage on a little vessel of the British India Steam Navigation Company, which has a large fleet of steamers in these tropical waters. I traveled after this many times on steamers of this company, and always found the trip of four days to Calcutta very interesting. The sea breeze modifies the heat until you can be in comparative comfort. The officers are usually courteous, but somewhat reserved, for the most part. Perhaps this show of dignity is assumed to support the important office they hold. It may be that it is a National characteristic also. The engineers, who number about the same on each ship as the officers, and have about as much responsibility, and are equally capable men, are usually very free and sociable. The officers are generally Englishmen, and the engineers Scotchmen. I have been greatly surprised to find how approachable most Scotchmen are. Being of a social disposition myself, I usually get in touch with both classes; but I have secured the most friendly response from the Scotch. This has been generally true on land also.

The Bay of Bengal is a stormy water during the monsoon, from May until October. At the latter time the wind turns into the northeast, and one or two cyclones generally form as it turns the rain currents back to the southwest, from whence they came. Our captain was nervous as we rounded the land and made for the open sea, lest we be met by a cyclone. But instead of a storm, the sea was as smooth as a sea of glass all the way to the mouth of the Hoogli River, where we enter the last portion of our voyage. It may not have been noticed that many great seaports are really a great way from the sea, on rivers. More than that, they are usually not on the main stream, but on some subordinate branch of the many mouths of the great rivers. So it is with the Hoogli, which is not the largest of the many mouths of the Ganges. These river mouths, however, are very large streams, partly made by the inflow and outflow of the tides. The tides alone make navigation to Calcutta by ocean-going vessels possible, as there is not enough water on the shoals except with high tide. Calcutta is up the Hoogli River one hundred and twenty miles. One naturally wonders why such a city is so far from the sea. I, at least, have had to content myself without a reason, and like many things Indian, accept that “which is,” and that “which remains as it is,” because it “has been.” The approach to Calcutta by river is very dangerous. The number of ships that have sunk, often with some of the passengers and crew, make a startling history of tragedy. Some places on the river have permanent names for the sunken ships that are buried in its sands. The currents and the tides conflict often, and drive the vessel onto some newly-made bar, and this overturns the great ship, which immediately begins to sink. Three ships have gone down in this river in ten years, one of them with much loss of life. After the vessel sinks well into the sand it rights up again, and lifts its masts out of the water, to remain for years a solemn monument to the tragedy of the river. Usually all life-boats are swung loose and the ports all closed as the ship moves up or down the river at these most dangerous parts. There are specially-qualified pilots, highly paid, who take ships through this river, and they are held to the severest account. An accident, whether the pilot is to blame or not, calls for heavy penalties.

The river has its charming scenery. The country is flat; but the quaint conical Bengali houses that line the shore, with their carefully-laid thatch roofs, the cocoanut and date palms growing in great luxuriance on the alluvial deposit of the river front, and the wide reaches of the rich rice-fields, through which the winding river makes its way, all present a picture of rare tropical interest and beauty.

Villages increase as you approach the city, and great oil refineries and weaving establishments and manufactories increase as you near the city. Some miles below the city the traveler begins to see a great many ships, both sailing vessels and steamers, and as he enters the harbor it is amidst a very forest of towering masts. The shipping that goes in and out of Calcutta, carrying every flag under heaven, is enormous.

I was greatly interested in seeing for the first time this most important city in Southern Asia, if not in all the Orient. My stay was too brief to get a fair view of the city, but enough to see that it is as reported, “a city of palaces.” It is also a “city of hovels,” in which multitudes of people do business and live in as great contrast to the palatial surroundings, as can be found anywhere on the face of the earth.

After a very brief visit with Bishop Thoburn and other Calcutta missionaries, I made my way up country. This took me over the fertile plains of Bengal, through the sacred city of Benares, though without a stop until I reached Lucknow. Here I had a short rest, and then proceeded to Bareilly and was the guest for a day of Dr. and Mrs. Scott, and visited our theological school. In this visit I began an acquaintance with our missionaries and our mission interests in these great centers, which has extended through the years with great profit to myself, and an enlargement of view of our Southern Asiatic missions, that I could not have otherwise had. The heat of North India is much modified by October; but as I was making for the mountains, with a feverish desire to get where it was cool, I pushed on rapidly. The railway journey ended at Katgodam, from whence I was to take a pony and go by marches to Almora, the capital of Garwal, four ordinary days’ travel into the hills. All over the Indian Empire the Government has built on every road public rest-houses, where the traveler can get shelter, and usually food, at a very reasonable price. I had only the afternoon to climb the eight miles to Bhim Tal, my first stage of the journey. I traveled with light equipment; but in all parts of India one must carry his bedding with him, even if he is going to an Annual Conference. “Entertainment” among friends means many good things, but seldom includes bedding, much less so among strangers. I secured a pony to ride; but when it came to the bedding I had to hire a coolie to carry that. I had great difficulty in getting a coolie to go four days’ march back into the mountains. I could not speak a word of the language, and this was a hindrance. I found a friendly native who could talk for me. I secured a strong man for four cents a day. This was an enhanced price exacted because I was a stranger.

I went steadily up the mountains, and with every degree of cooler air I felt cheered. At last at beautiful Bhim Tal, a lake at an elevation of perhaps five thousand feet, I came to the bungalow and had a good supper. Bedtime came, and still the coolie did not come. I had to borrow some blankets of a native and lay down, but not to sleep, as any one accustomed to the country could have foretold. My coolie did not arrive until sunrise.

During that day I had a view of the majestic mountains, that lives with me still. At about ten o’clock in the morning, after an inspiring climb up and still up, I came to the mountain pass, and turning a corner, the great snowy range of the Himalaya Mountains rose into a cloudless sky. The sunlight was reflected from the snow up into the blue heavens. Sublime are these mountains! Three peaks near together range between twenty-two thousand and twenty-five thousand feet, while the snowy range is visible for hundreds of miles. It was a great experience. Having never been among the mountains until that journey, and then to have eyes, mountain hungry, feast of these piles of majestic heights, thrilled me as no view of nature ever has done. I have seen many beauties of natural scenery, and some of nature’s sublimity, but never have I seen the equal of that view that burst on my enraptured vision that glorious October day.