[CHAPTER XIV]
LI-CHIANG TO TALI-FU
I was now bound for Tali-fu, having bargained with a new set of muleteers to take me there in five days. I was anxious to press on as rapidly as possible, not only because I was now on ground that had several times been traversed and described by other Europeans, but also because the rainy season was just beginning, and might seriously hamper my movements in crossing the mountains and rivers beyond Tali-fu. I had not yet decided whether to proceed to Burma by the T'êng-yüeh-Bhamo route or to attempt to reach Lashio (the terminus of the British Shan States railway system) by Yün-chou and the Kunlon Ferry. My host, M. Perronne, was a thorough believer in the deadly unhealthiness of the Salwen valley in the rainy season, and assured me that it would be madness to attempt to cross it till the autumn. I decided, however, to wait till I reached Tali-fu before coming to a decision.
SHOOTING A MUD-DEVIL
From Li-chiang my road lay in a westerly direction over a portion of the plain that I had not yet traversed. Roses, meadow-sweet, primroses and other wild-flowers made the hedges smell of England. We left the plain behind us by crossing a low range of hills from which we descended into another plain called the Lashi-Pa, in which there is a small lake. Here I was shown a path that leads west towards the Ashi Ferry on the Yangtse, only a few miles distant, and so leads to Chung-tien and Atuntzŭ.[269] The last-named place, I may mention incidentally, is said to exist no longer, part of it having been destroyed by a gigantic landslip, and the rest having been demolished in the recent war between the Chinese and the lamas. The landslip appears to have been an extraordinary occurrence, and was perhaps caused by an earthquake. Torrents of mud and stones tore like an avalanche down the side of the mountain at the base of which Atuntzŭ was situated, demolishing houses, destroying all growing crops, and burying alive whole families. The local officials dealt with the catastrophe in an interesting and characteristic manner. Possessed, apparently, by the idea that the moving masses of mud were directed and controlled by a malevolent devil, they armed themselves with muzzle-loading guns and bows and arrows, and went out and shot the mud. In due time the torrent ceased to flow, and no doubt it was universally believed that the devil had been slain by arrows and bullets. The harm already done, unfortunately, was irreparable, and what remained of the town has since, as I have said, fallen a prey to warfare.
My road instead of going west to the Yangtse bore away southwards to the left of the lake, and brought us about midday to the village of Shang La Shih or Upper Lashi, where I lunched. The plain contains several other villages, but its soil seems hardly so rich as that of the plain of Li-chiang. In the afternoon, after crossing a pass of no great elevation, we dropped down to a third valley and stopped for the night at the hamlet of Kuan Hsia, also called P'o Chiao.[270] About here I observed a good deal of ruddy soil, which reminds one of the red sand-stone basin of Ssuch'uan. There is also a small lake or tarn. During the whole of the next day we traversed the same valley, passing through many prosperous and populous villages. The valley is indeed only a narrow strip of fertile land between more or less barren ranges of hill, but what there is would be amply sufficient to support a very large population. The road is very fair, and at one time was probably an excellent highway. There are the remains of drinking-fountains along the road, and many of the bridges are still admirable and substantial pieces of work. It would I think be a mistake to say that all the decay is traceable to the ravages of the Mohammedan rebellion of the seventies. The decay had probably set in—here as elsewhere in China—long before that lurid episode had drenched the province of Yunnan in seas of blood.
MIN-CHIA
On leaving the Li-chiang plain we had left behind us the country of the Mo-so or Lashi, and had entered a district that is perhaps chiefly inhabited by a race known to the Chinese as Min-chia,[271] which simply means "the people" or "the families of people." The mystery that surrounds the origin of all the tribes I have mentioned clings no less obstinately to the Min-chia. They are a very interesting and amiable people, fair in face, and with clear bold eyes that do not shun to meet the gaze of a stranger. The women, if less handsome and imposing than the tall women of eastern Tibet, have a grace and prettiness of their own, that would, I feel sure, be found exceedingly attractive by impressionable Europeans. Two days north of Tali-fu I saw a Min-chia child who would be considered beautiful in any western country. She was standing alone in a poppy-field, singing a song in a language that was certainly very different from Chinese.
"Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things
And battles long ago."
But the subject of the song mattered little. The child made as pretty a picture as I had ever seen in China.