I can offer no plausible theory to account for the traditional unhealthiness of the Salwen valley. To all appearance its verdant hills and broad slopes ought to be covered with cultivation and with the homes of thousands of industrious farmers. As it is, not a soul lives in the whole of that splendid stretch of country except a few despised Shan or Pa I tribesmen, who are apparently the only people who can dwell there and thrive. Most travellers dash across as if they were flying for their lives,[358] and consider themselves fortunate if they are not struck down before they reach the heights overlooking the further side of the valley. Baber's account of its terrors, as they were described to him, is well worth quoting. "The morrow's journey would lead us across the Salwen—a river, to the native mind, teeming with portent and mystery. In western Yunnan this river is always spoken of with a certain awe. Governor Ts'ên himself had warned us to cross its valley with all haste. Often had we been told of the many varieties of malarious exhalations which shroud the hollow after sunrise: fogs, red, yellow and blue, of which the red is the most deadly and the blue next in the scale of mortality. General Thunder, who had never previously crossed, came to notify to us that he had determined to start before daylight, so as to get well beyond the river before the sun was up. Luckily for us, he said, the deadly flood was now spanned by a suspension bridge, but before its construction travellers had to pass in boats. In those days a gruesome monster, resembling in shape a huge blanket, would issue from the depths, and, wrapping passengers and boat in his fœtid folds, would sink back into his native abyss."[359]
THE SALWEN VALLEY
How far back these superstitions may be traced is difficult to say. Certainly in Marco Polo's time, in the thirteenth century, they were widely current; for, though he himself obviously did not cross the valley, he describes the whole region as "full of great woods and mountains which 'tis impossible to pass, the air in summer is so impure and bad; and any foreigners attempting it would die for certain." That travellers descending from the high Yunnan plateau into a steamy valley only 2,400 feet above sea-level may be seriously inconvenienced by the sudden change of temperature,[360] and perhaps become liable to attacks of fever, is not improbable; but as none of my own party succumbed to sickness, I am inclined to think that the Salwen has been unjustly maligned. My friend the Peking Times correspondent has told us "there can be little doubt that the deadliness of the valley is a tradition rather than a reality." In view of Dr Morrison's well-known accuracy, I am content to accept his opinion as the true one, more especially as it coincides with my own. Being a man of scientific and medical skill he would surely have sought out and annihilated Baber's blanket-fiend if it had existed.
After crossing the suspension bridge, which is similar in construction to those already noticed but is in two sections, I came to a small Pa I hamlet and a temple. Being in no hurry, and anxious to give the noxious vapours of the valley every opportunity of doing their worst on me, I paid a long visit to the temple and waited about an hour for the arrival of my caravan. I was told that the indigenous inhabitants of the valley were gradually increasing in numbers and bringing more of the land under cultivation, and that they were ruled by a t'u ssŭ or tribal chief who dwelt on the right bank of the river at a place about 10 miles to the south. A path leads thither along the river-bank.
RAINBOW IN THE SALWEN VALLEY
The upward climb on the west side of the valley was not arduous, and the mules made the ascent without much difficulty in spite of the fact that a very heavy shower of rain turned the road into a running stream. It was curious to watch the rain-storm in the shape of a dense grey cloud rushing southwards through the valley. On looking back towards the river, then a couple of thousand feet below us, we had a fine view of the silver waters of the Salwen sparkling in brilliant sunshine; in a moment they were hidden by a rolling mass of dark vapour, out of which arose a strange parti-coloured rainbow in which orange and blue-green predominated. Its perfect arch crossed the whole breadth of the river-bed where the valley was narrowest, spanning the river like a fairy bridge. In five minutes the storm rolled on and the rainbow faded away, leaving me with the impression that I had never seen anything more beautiful or more strange. The fancy occurred to me that it was perhaps some such natural phenomenon as this that gave rise to the tradition recorded by Baber about the tinted fogs that varied in deadliness according to their colour.
We were all in a very wet and draggled condition when we arrived at the wretched wattle-and-mud hamlet of Hu Mu Shu, after a climb of about 3,100 feet above the level of the river. When we started next morning it was still raining, and in half an hour the clothes that we had dried with difficulty were again wet through. Our path lay to a great extent through thick forest, and the dripping of the leaves was almost as troublesome as the rain itself. We had a steady climb of about 3 miles to the hamlet called Hsiang Po ("Elephant's Neck"), and a further climb of 1,500 feet to the summit of a pass 8,730 feet high. There is a wooden gateway at the top. From here the road descends for about a mile, then ascends again and undulates, and finally goes rather steeply down to the hamlet of T'ai P'ing, where we halted for our midday rest. Pheasants abound in this district, but the jungle is so thick that it is hardly possible to leave the pathway in search of game. Our host at T'ai P'ing possessed some valuable European articles in the shape of a glass oil-lamp and two empty claret bottles probably left behind by some traveller more amply provided than myself with good things. The descent to the Shweli or Lung River was a steep and slippery ride in the course of which we descended about 3,500 feet. The river is crossed by a suspension bridge of the usual type. A mile or two further on we came to the village of Kan-lan-chan, where we spent the night in a very dirty inn.
Next day's stage presented no features of special interest. Early in the afternoon I descended to the T'êng-yüeh plain, which is studded with more or less prosperous villages, and soon caught sight of the semi-European buildings of the Chinese Imperial Customs and—more welcome still—the Union Jack floating over the gates of the British Consulate. There I was most hospitably received and entertained by Mr Ottewell, Acting British Consul, and enjoyed a two days' rest.
PROJECTED RAILWAYS FROM BURMA
T'êng-yüeh is to be the terminus of the proposed British railway from Bhamo, regarding which negotiations have been in progress for some considerable time. That the trade between Burma and China by this route requires some stimulus is unquestionable. The officials in charge of the T'êng-yüeh Customs informed me that the volume of trade annually passing through their hands was not showing any elasticity, and that the Customs revenue barely served to defray the expenses of the establishment. Whether the railway will stimulate the trade to any very great extent is questionable; for caravans bound for Burma have already surmounted all serious obstacles, in the shape of mountain and flood, by the time they have reached T'êng-yüeh, so that as far as they are concerned a railway would merely shorten by a few days a journey which already might have lasted months. Local traffic between the two termini will probably be found fairly remunerative, though very large returns can hardly be expected. If the railway could be carried on to Tali-fu, its ultimate success would be a certainty; but the engineering difficulties are very great, and the amount of capital required for construction would be enormous. From Tali-fu several branch lines might be constructed, one going south to the Kunlon ferry (a route which has already been surveyed) to meet the existing British line from Mandalay to Lashio, and another going north to Li-chiang. The main line should, of course, be carried eastwards to Yunnan-fu, which will very soon be in railway communication with French Indo-China and the port of Haiphong. The branch line from Tali-fu to Li-chiang—following the route traversed by myself[361]—would meet with no great difficulties, and would pass through a series of rich and populous valleys. Even if Li-chiang were a terminus it is probable that the local traffic would amply justify such a railway; though it would be better still if further branches could be carried on to Wei-hsi in the west, in order to intercept the Tibetan trade, and to Hui-li-chou or Ning-yüan-fu on the east, to tap the trade of the Chien-ch'ang valley, which might eventually include a great deal of the foreign trade of Ssuch'uan. It must be admitted that all these lines—with the exception of the branch from Tali to Li-chiang—would be very costly to construct and to keep in repair. Meanwhile British enterprise seems content to restrict itself to the short line between Bhamo and T'êng-yüeh. This railway will doubtless fully justify its existence, but it is absurd to suppose that such a line will seriously compete with the French lines in the east of the province, or will have any appreciable effect in deflecting the trade of Yunnan from Tongking to Burma.[362]