Four years in Upper Burma

by W. R. Winston

The Burmans are also exceedingly fond of the drama. For every conceivable event that can by any ingenuity be made a special occasion, there must be what is called a pwè. I have known a pwè in honour of a birth, and I have known one given to celebrate a death—the execution of a noted dacoit leader, who had been a great curse to the neighbourhood, and had long defied justice—and for almost any occasion occupying an intermediate position between the two, one of these dramatic performances would not be out of place. There are no permanent buildings used as theatres. The performance takes place in the open street. The temporary erection used as the stage is constructed of the useful and indispensable bamboo. It is set up in the street, and extends frequently halfway across it. The rest of the thoroughfare is blocked up with the couches the spectators bring from their homes to sit upon; and traffic is almost suspended in that direction for the time being. All this preparation takes place during the day. The play begins after dark, and goes on until towards sunrise. Temporary stalls for the sale of food are set up at the edge of the crowd, and the people by hundreds make a night of it. The dramas are founded on tales which Gautama (Buddha) told of his five hundred and ten previous existences, or on events in the lives of kings and heroes. The dialogue is chiefly recitative, interspersed with solos, choruses and dancing. Instrumental music accompanies the singing. There is always the clown or jester on these occasions, who has his turn in the course of the performance, and roars of laughter greet the broad jokes he furnishes. The whole performance is free. The custom is for some person to hire the players, and bear the expense of the entertainment, inviting his friends, and throwing it open to all. Pickled tea is handed round among the guests on these occasions as a kind of dessert, mixed with salt, garlic, assafœtida and a few grains of millet seed. It has an anti-soporific effect, and so serves to keep them awake, to listen to the drama.

The Burman is a firm believer in amusement, in relaxation, in holidays. He sees no good in a too strenuous and incessant application to the serious business of life. He likes to take life easily, and to see plenty of change. Even his religious duties usually blend amusement with the seeking after merit. The numerous festivals and religious observances serve for frequent holidays, and whatever he may fancy in the way of diversion. The Burman is indolent, casual, unstable and uncertain, and not to be depended upon. He does not readily conform to discipline or restraint, and it is found very difficult to make a soldier or a policeman of him. It is difficult to get him into a routine of any kind. He makes a very indifferent servant. In Burma the British Government cannot depend upon Burmans in the constitution of the police force, but finds it necessary to man the greater part of the police ranks with natives of India, enlisted chiefly from among the fighting races of the Punjab.

In mitigation of the indictment against the Burman that he is loose, careless and lazy, it is urged that he is fettered by the multiplicity of lucky and unlucky days, and various astrological difficulties, which we do not appreciate. But when every allowance is made for these things, it must be found a true bill against him. This is one of the weak points in his character.

Even in school life this feature of the national character abundantly manifests itself. The boys, instead of keeping to one school, are fond of attending school after school, changing from one to another, until they have gone the round of all within their reach, when they will start to go the round again. One might almost suppose they thought there was a school where they could learn by magic, and that they were in search of that school. Such a crying evil has this become in Burma, that stringent rules have had to be framed by the Department of Public Instruction to check this incessant migration.

If the Burman has the faults of a careless, happy-go-lucky race, he has the virtues also. He has been called the Irishman of the East. His manners have the ease and the polish of a “gentleman born.” He is most affable and approachable, and in religion tolerant of the opinions of others. He is hospitable, and will help the destitute stranger without making too many inquiries. I met one day in Mandalay an English sailor, who had made his way up from Rangoon with another man. They had done the last two hundred miles on foot. They were both quite destitute, and yet they had travelled all that distance, for the most part of it far from any Englishman, and that, too, when the country was in a most disturbed state on account of dacoits, and without knowing a word of Burmese. They had simply passed on from village to village, their wants being supplied by the Burmans where they halted. That this should have been possible speaks well for the kind-hearted hospitality of the Burmans.

If it is one of the marks of a gentleman to be able in an easy and natural manner to place himself on a level with you, the Burman has this in a high degree. The native of India makes a twofold mistake here. His outlandish notions of etiquette lead him to cringe and crouch before the European, to an extent which is sometimes offensive, whilst at the same time his caste leads him in his heart of hearts to hold himself immeasurably above him. The Burman makes neither of these mistakes. With fine tact he steers a medium course, and ranges himself alongside.

The first Burmese servant I had, a typical Burman, was a fine illustration of this capacity of the race to “make themselves at home” with the foreigner. He did me the honour to take a fancy to my tooth brush. I was not aware of it. He did not purloin it, he only made use of it. The way it came to light was the discovery of him one day, standing before the looking-glass, in the act of using the implement in the orthodox manner. How long the two of us had been using the tooth brush conjointly I cannot say, for I never cared to inquire. I preferred to think it was only that once! He had it to himself ever after.

A story is told that aptly illustrates that buoyancy of temperament which constitutes one feature of the Burmese easy-going character. Some years ago a fire occurred in Mandalay—no uncommon thing. Amongst the bamboo houses it spread with terrible swiftness, until a large number were destroyed. Yet the very next evening they were observed to have rigged up a rude stage among the charred stumps of their house posts, and they spent the night in witnessing one of their dramatic performances, and laughing heartily as usual at the jests of the clown. Few people would have had the heart to go through with that pwè under the circumstances.

With a rich country, a sparse population, and a warm climate, the conditions of life are easy. The Burman has no struggle to get a living. Riches have little attraction for him. He has no desire to hoard. What he has to spare he spends, either in building a monastery, or a pagoda, or on some humbler work of merit which shall secure him an advantage in the next birth.