A Wayfarer in China
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Title: A Wayfarer in China
Author: Elizabeth Kimball Kendall
Release date: December 10, 2008 [eBook #27481]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WAYFARER IN CHINA ***
Produced by the Bookworm, Meredith Bach, <bookworm.librivox
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[Transcriber's Note: The index of this book lists general subject page
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Incorrect page numbers in the Illustrations list have been changed.]
A WAYFARER IN CHINA
[Illustration: THE LITTLE "FU T'OU" (CARAVAN HEADMAN)]
A WAYFARER IN CHINA
IMPRESSIONS OF A TRIP
ACROSS WEST CHINA AND MONGOLIA
BY ELIZABETH KENDALL
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY ELIZABETH KENDALL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published February 1913_
TO
THE HAPPY MEMORY OF MY MOTHER
THE ONE WHO
ALWAYS UNDERSTOOD
PREFACE
A word of explanation may help to an understanding of this record of a
brief journey in China, in 1911, in the last quiet months before the
revolution.
No one who has ever known the joy of hunting impressions of strange
peoples and strange lands in the out-of-the-way corners of the world can
ever feel quite free again, for he hears always a compelling voice that
"calls him night and day" to go forth on the chase once more. Years ago,
for a beginning, I pursued impressions and experiences in the Far West
on the frontier,--there was a frontier then. And since that time,
whenever chance has offered, that has been my holiday pastime, among the
Kentucky mountains, in the Taurus, in Montenegro, in India. Everywhere
there is interest, for everywhere there is human nature, but whoever has
once come under the spell of the Orient knows that henceforth there is
no choice; footloose, he must always turn eastwards.
But really to see the East one must shun the half-Europeanized town and
the treaty port, must leave behind the comforts of hotel and railway,
and be ready to accept the rough and the smooth of unbeaten trails. But
the compensations are many: changing scenes, long days out of doors,
freedom from the bondage of conventional life, and above all, the
fascination of living among peoples of primitive simplicity and yet of a
civilization so ancient that it makes all that is oldest in the West
seem raw and crude and unfinished. So when two years ago my feet sought
again the "open road," it was towards the East that I naturally turned,
and this time it was China that called me. I did not go in pursuit of
any information in particular, but just to get for myself an impression
of the country and the people. My idea of the Chinese had been derived,
like that of most Americans, from books and chance observation of the
handful of Kwangtung men who are earning their living among us by
washing our clothes. Silent, inscrutable, they flit through the American
scene, alien to the last. What lies behind the riddle of their impassive
faces? Perhaps I could find an answer. Then, too, it was clear, even to
the most unintelligent, that a change was coming over the East, though
few realized how speedily. I longed to see the old China before I made
ready to welcome the new. But not the China of the coast, for there the
West had already left its stamp. So I turned to the interior, to the
western provinces of Yunnan and Szechuan. Wonderful for scenery,
important in commerce and politics, still unspoiled, there I could find
what I wanted.
Of course I was told not to do it, it would not be safe, but that is
what one is always told. A long, solitary summer spent a few years ago
among the Himalayas of Western Tibet, in Ladakh and Baltistan, gave me
heart to face such discouragement, and I found, as I had found before,
that those who knew the country best were most ready to speed me onward.
And as the following pages show, there was nothing to fear. I had no
difficulties, no adventures, hardly enough to make the tale interesting.
It is true, I had some special advantages. I was an American and a
woman, and no longer young. Chinese respect for grey hair is a very real
thing; a woman is not feared as a man may be, and hostility is often
nothing more than fear; and even in remote Szechuan I met men who knew
that the American Government had returned the Boxer indemnity, and who
looked kindly upon me for that reason. If the word of certain foreigners
is to be trusted, I gained in not knowing the language; the people would
not take advantage of my helplessness. That seems rather incredible; if
it is true, the whole Western world has something to learn of China.
But I could not have done what I did without the wise and generous aid
of many whom I met along the way, Europeans and Chinese, officials,
merchants, and above all missionaries, everywhere the pioneers. To them
all I tender here my grateful thanks. And to the representatives of the
Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank wherever I met them, and also to those of
the Russo-Asiatic Bank I would express my gratitude for many courtesies
shown me.
As I look back I know it was worth while, all of it. Half a dozen months
count for little toward the real understanding of a strange
civilization, but it is something to have seen a great people in its
home, to have watched it at work and at play, for you have been forced
once again to realize that although "East is East and West is West," the
thing that most matters is the nature of the man, and that everywhere
human nature is much the same.
THE ORCHARD,
WELLESLEY, MASSACHUSETTS,
November, 1912.
CONTENTS
I. ACROSS TONKING 3
II. DAYS IN YUNNAN-FU 24
III. ACROSS YUNNAN 41
IV. THE CHIEN-CH'ANG 71
V. ON THE MANDARIN ROAD 101
VI. TACHIENLU 123
VII. THE LESSER TRAIL 139
VIII. ACROSS CHENGTU PLAIN 161
IX. OMEI SHAN, THE SACRED 180
X. DOWN THE YANGTSE 202
XI. FROM THE GREAT RIVER TO THE GREAT WALL 221
XII. THE MONGOLIAN GRASSLAND 236
XIII. ACROSS THE DESERT OF GOBI 256
XIV. URGA, THE SACRED CITY 276
XV. NORTH TO THE SIBERIAN RAILWAY 289
XVI. A FEW FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CHINA 308
INDEX 323
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE LITTLE "FU T'OU" (CARAVAN HEADMAN) (p. 6) _Frontispiece_
MAP OF CHINESE EMPIRE 3
A YUNNAN VALLEY 6
OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF YUNNAN-FU 6
MY SEDAN CHAIR AND BEARERS 32
A MEMORIAL ARCH NEAR YUNNAN-FU 32
MAP OF WEST CHINA 42
ON A YUNNAN ROAD: MY CARAVAN--THE MILITARY ESCORT 44
WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE GATEWAY--TEMPLE CORNER 60
LOLO GIRLS 80
"TAME, WILD" LOLOS 80
A MEMORIAL ARCH. SZECHUAN 92
FORTIFIED VILLAGE IN THE CHIEN-CH'ANG VALLEY 92
"MERCURY," MY FLEET COOLIE 106
CARRIER COOLIES 106
A GROUP OF SZECHUAN FARMHOUSES 114
A VIEW OF TACHIENLU 124
TIBETANS 124
LAMA AND DOG AT TACHIENLU 134
THE GATE OF TIBET 134
A WAYSIDE REST-HOUSE 146
A FORTIFIED POST 146
A ROADSIDE TEA-HOUSE 152
TEA COOLIE CROSSING A SUSPENSION BRIDGE 152
A FARMHOUSE IN CHENGTU PLAIN 162
MEMORIAL ARCH TO A "VIRTUOUS WIDOW," CHENGTU PLAIN 168
THE "REJECTION OF THE BODY" (CLIFF A MILE HIGH), MOUNT OMEI,
WEST SZECHUAN 196
IN THE YANGTSE GORGES 218
TARTAR WALL, PEKING 230
CARAVAN OUTSIDE THE TARTAR WALL 230
A POOR MONGOL FAMILY AND YURT 248
JACK AND HIS LAMA FRIEND 258
MY CARAVAN ACROSS MONGOLIA 258
HORSEMEN OF THE DESERT, NORTH MONGOLIA 268
A LAMA BOUND FOR URGA 278
A MONGOL BELLE, URGA 278
MY MONGOL HOSTESS 284
THE MONGOL HOUSE WHERE I STAYED IN URGA 284
LAMA AND HIS "WIFE" 298
My thanks are due to Robert J. Davidson, Esq., of Chengtu, Szechuan, for
kind permission to use the photograph of the Yangtse Gorges. Also to
Messrs. Underwood & Underwood, of New York, for the photographs of the
Tartar Wall, Peking. With these exceptions the illustrations are from
photographs made by myself on the journey. I should like to express here
my appreciation of the care and skill shown by the staff of the Kodak
Agency, Regent Street, West, in handling films often used under very
unfavourable conditions.
E. K.
SUGGESTIONS FOR PRONOUNCING CHINESE NAMES IN THE TEXT
In general vowels are pronounced as in Italian.
_a_ preceded by _w_ and followed by _ng_ is like _a_ in _fall_.
_ue_ like the French _u_.
_ai_ like _i_ in _mine_.
_ao_ like _ou_ in _proud_.
_ei_ like _ey_ in _they_.
_ie_ like _e-e_ in _re-enter_.
_ui_ with vowels distinct.
_ou_ with vowels distinct and stress on _o_.
Of the consonants, _ch_, _k_, _p_, _t_, _ts_ are softer than in English,
approaching respectively _j_, _g_, _b_, _d_, _dz_.
_hs_ is approximately _sh_ (hsien = she-en).
MONEY, WEIGHTS AND MEASURES
Tael, roughly two-thirds of a dollar gold.
Dollar or dollar Mex., about fifty cents gold.
Cash, about the twentieth part of a cent gold.
Li, a scant third of an English mile.
Catty, about one and one-third pounds avoirdupois.
A WAYFARER IN CHINA
_For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay._
[Illustration: CHINESE EMPIRE]
A WAYFARER IN CHINA
CHAPTER I
ACROSS TONKING
Three years ago West China seemed at the back of beyond. To make your
way in you had either to traverse the length of Upper Burma and then
cross the great rivers and ranges of western Yunnan, a weary month-long
journey, or else spend tedious weeks ascending the Yangtse, the monotony
of the trip tempered by occasional shipwreck. To-day, thanks to French
enterprise, you can slip in between mountain and river and find yourself
at Yunnan-fu, the provincial capital, after a railway journey of only
three days and a half from Haiphong, the port of Tonking.
When first planning a visit to West China, I set my heart on going in
from the west, for I had long wished to see the wild, picturesque
country that lies between the Burmese frontier and the Yangtse. Years
before, I had looked across the border and promised myself that some day
I would find out what lay on the other side. But when the time came the
difficulty of securing a Chinese interpreter in Burma forced me to go
to Hong Kong, and once there, lack of time made it necessary that I
should choose the shortest route into West China, and that was by way of
Haiphong and the Red River railway. After all, there were compensations.
Even a fleeting vision from the windows of a railway carriage gives some
idea of what the French are doing in their great Eastern colony.
Moreover, there could be no better starting-point for such a trip as I
had before me than the free port of Hong Kong, and the comfort of
arranging an outfit in a place where East and West meet untrammelled by
custom-houses is not to be despised. As a rule it is a mistake to bring
an elaborate outfit from home. Generally each place has worked out just
the devices that best serve its particular needs, and much of Western
travelling equipment does not fit in with the conditions of Eastern
life. Shoes and saddles the traveller from the West wisely brings with
him, and of course all scientific apparatus is best provided in Europe.
But in the main I found all that I needed, whether of Eastern or Western
manufacture, in Hong Kong, and at surprisingly low prices. Interpreter
and cook I had secured from Shanghai. The former, a Kiangsi man, was the
product of mission schools and a year in an American Western college. He
spoke English fairly well, and was sufficiently at home in the various
forms of Mandarin to get on in Yunnan and Szechuan. The cook had come
down the "Great River" from Chung-king with an English family returning
home, and was glad to work his way back, even though by a roundabout
route. Although he spoke no English, he understood European ways and was
quick to comprehend my wishes. And he proved a faithful, hard-working
fellow, and a very passable cook.
By the end of March my preparations were complete. The boat for Haiphong
was to leave at nine o'clock on the morning of the 29th, and the evening
before two sampans took me and my kit, together with the interpreter and
the cook, out to where she lay at her moorings. My belongings looked
rather formidable as they lay heaped up on the deck of the Sikiang, of
the Est Asiatique Francais line, but, after all, there was only a
moderate supply of stores, such as tea, jam, biscuit, sugar, cereals,
tinned meats and tinned milk, together with a few enamelled iron dishes
and the cook's stew-pans, all packed in wooden boxes. The bedding-roll
and clothing were put in camp-bags of waterproof canvas, while the
necessary maps and cameras and films were carried in suit-cases for
safe-keeping. An English cross saddle brought from Shanghai proved more
satisfactory for the small Yunnan ponies than would have been the
Mexican saddle which I had tried in vain to secure. Acting on a timely
word of warning I bought in Hong Kong a most comfortable sedan-chair,
a well-made bamboo affair fitted with a top and adjustable screens and
curtains to keep out either rain or sun. I had been told that I should
have no use for a tent, but that a camp-bed was a necessity, and so it
proved. The bed I took with me was of American manufacture; compact and
light, and fitted with a mosquito frame, it served me throughout all my
journeyings and was finally left in Urga in North Mongolia, on the
chance that it might serve another traveller a good turn. An important
part of my outfit, a small Irish terrier, arrived from Japan the next
morning, when I had about given him up. He was dropped into my waiting
sampan as his ship, homeward bound to Calcutta from Kobe, came into her
moorings, and we climbed up the side of the Sikiang not fifteen minutes
before she was off. All's well that ends well. We were safe on board,
and I had secured a gay little comrade in my solitary journeying, while
before Jack lay a glorious run of two thousand odd miles.
The mail boat to Haiphong, due to make the trip in fifty-three hours,
had once been a royal Portuguese yacht, but the only remaining traces of
her former glory were the royal monogram, "M.R.P.," conspicuous in glass
and woodwork, and her long, graceful lines, charming to look at, but not
well fitted to contend with the cross-currents of the China Sea. As the
only lady passenger I had very comfortable quarters, and the kindest
attention from French officers and Annamese stewards. The second
afternoon there came a welcome diversion when the boat put into
Kwang-chou-wan, two hundred miles southwest of Hong Kong, to visit the
new free port of Fort Bayard, the commercial and military station which
the French are creating in the cession they secured from China in 1898,
and which, if all goes well, is some day to rival Hong Kong. The Bay of
Kwang-chou is very fine, affording a safe harbour to the two or three
ships that were riding at anchor, or to two or three navies if need
came, but Fort Bayard displays as yet few signs of the prophesied
greatness. To while away the hours of waiting I went on shore and
wandered about the empty, grass-grown roads of the tiny settlement. To
the right as one walked up from the beach stretched a long line of
substantial-looking barracks, and many of the houses were of European
appearance, attractively set in large gardens. Above the whole towered a
rather pretentious two-spired church. The one native and business street
running parallel with the beach showed little life; people did not wake
up even at the coming of the fortnightly mail from Hong Kong, and the
native population seemed no more than sufficient to serve the needs of
the foreign element.
[Illustration: A YUNNAN VALLEY]
[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF YUNNAN-FU]
We were joined here by two or three French officials attended by an
escort of Annamese policemen. These latter had a decidedly ladylike,
genteel air with their hair smoothly brushed and twisted in a low knot
at the back of the neck, the whole bound round with a black kerchief
laid in neat folds. Their uniform was of dark blue woollen set off by
putties of a lighter blue, and their appearance was decidedly shipshape.
I talked with one of the Frenchmen returning from an official visit to
Fort Bayard. He seemed to have little faith in the new settlement,
declaring the Government had poured in money like water, and with no
adequate return.
It is more than a century since France began to interest herself in this
part of the world, dreaming dreams of an Eastern empire to offset the
one she had just lost in America. Then came the French Revolution, and
the dream went the way of many more substantial things, and it was not
until the days of the Second Empire that Napoleon III, looking east and
west, again took up the question. Little by little the French
strengthened their hold upon the Indo-China peninsula, and the final
contest came in the eighties, a part of the universal game of grab then
going on in Africa and Asia. Although China gave up her claim to the
territory a quarter of a century ago, it took many years longer to
pacify the country, and there is still something to be done. The cost in
men and money has been very great, and at one time the whole policy of
colonial expansion became so unpopular that it spelled political ruin
to the man most identified with it, Jules Ferry, "l'homme de Tonking."
The real history of Tonking dates from the administration of M. Doumer,
Governor-General of Indo-China from 1897 to 1902. During these five
years the Parisian printer, turned Radical politician and administrator,
showed what one able and determined man could do. When he arrived in the
East, piracy and brigandage were rife, there was an annual deficit of
some three million francs, and the feeble administration had done
nothing to develop the possibilities of the country. When he left, the
colony was upon its feet, lawlessness had been suppressed, the
administration reformed, and the deficit turned into a substantial
surplus. He had built towns and telegraphs, encouraged the native
industries of rice planting and silk culture, and by offering special
inducements to French enterprise had developed tea, coffee, and rubber
growing.
Nor did the energetic imperialist stop here. Believing that "a nation to
be great should be always striving to be greater," he began to develop a
vigorous forward policy which seemed to have as its goal nothing less
than the control of Yunnan and Southeast China. Colonial expansion was
necessary to the continued existence of France, he declared. In his last
report, looking back to the achievements of a past generation, he
concluded, "We are the same men, but we no longer believe in ourselves.
We act as if we were a vanquished people, and in any case we appear so
to the world. This is the result of our policy of effacement for which
must be substituted at all costs a policy of action which will permit us
to hold our rank."
It is true the forward policy did not originate with M. Doumer, for the
value of Tonking as the key to China had been recognized by French
statesmen before ever he put foot in the colony, but it was his task to
make that policy something more than a pious aspiration. Not only did he
set about making the French possessions the needed commercial and
industrial base for such an undertaking, but he also initiated the next
move in the game, the development of railway systems which would bring
French traders, and if need be French soldiers, into the heart of the
coveted territory. He worked out all the plans, urged them upon the
Government, and did more than any other man to secure the necessary
support of the French financiers; to-day railways linked up with Hanoi
and Haiphong have crossed the Chinese frontier at two points, Dong Dang
and Ho-k'ou.
The colony, to call it by its correct name, of Kwang-chou held an
important place in M. Doumer's scheme, and he predicted for it a
"brilliant future as a port of commerce." Like the rest of his party he
regretted the mistaken moderation of the Government in not acquiring at
the same time a lease of the island of Hainan. Something is being done
now to repair this unfortunate error by industriously developing French
hold upon that territory, and the big consulate and the French
post-office and hospital at Hoi-hou, the chief port, are significant of
future hopes, even if not justified by present conditions.
The following noon, after we left Kwang-chou, we were approaching
Haiphong through muddy red channels between the low-lying meadow lands
which here border the river Cua-Cam, on the right bank of which lies the
chief commercial centre of Tonking. But its days as a shipping port are
said to be numbered, because of the difficult approach. Much money has
been spent in efforts to improve the waterway, but with no satisfactory
results, and now it is proposed to create a new port in the beautiful
Baie d'Along, a little farther east. There was some doubt in my mind as
to the reception awaiting us. We had been told that the customs
inspection was severe, and we had many packages; no Chinese would be
admitted without passports, and I had neglected to provide any for my
men; there was a strict muzzling law on, and Jack had not even a collar.
But the graceful courtesy of the French officials smoothed away every
difficulty. We were bowed out of the custom-house with our packages
unopened. At the police headquarters, where I at once reported myself
with my Chinese men, we were met by one of my fellow passengers from
Kwang-chou who had hurried ahead to explain the situation, and thanks to
his efforts the lack of passports was kindly overlooked. As for Jack, he
was quickly furnished with all the equipment of the civilized
dog--muzzle, collar, chain--at one of the large outfitting-shops, of
which there seemed quite enough for the needs of the place.
Haiphong is an attractive town of some twenty thousand inhabitants, of
whom perhaps one thousand are Europeans. It is planned with an eye to
the future, like all French colonial centres, with broad streets and
imposing public buildings. But a deep calm brooded over everything;
there was no bustle in the thoroughfares, and the shops seemed
unvisited, nor did their proprietors show interest in attracting custom.
In one of the largest I offered a piastre, fifty cents gold, in payment
for a few picture post-cards, but they could not change the coin, and
seemed disinclined to make the effort to do it, so I went without my
cards. The Annamese, who form the bulk of the population, are attractive
in appearance, finer in feature and gentler in manner than the Chinese.
Save for a serious cast of face, they are much like the Burmese. Their
dress is quieter in tone than that of either their Burmese cousins or
their Chinese neighbours, and is severely utilitarian in cut, differing
little for men or women. The working dress of Haiphong was full, long,
square-cut trousers over which fell a sort of prolonged shirt slashed to
the waist. When at work the front panel was tucked up out of the way.
All alike wore huge straw hats tied under the chin.
But I saw little of Haiphong, as I left the same evening, and even less
of Hanoi, the capital, where we arrived at half-past ten, starting off
again before eight o'clock the next morning. I was sorry not to see more
of the latter place, for it is one of the finest cities in the Far East.
But I carried away a vision of a good hotel, an imposing capitol, and a
pretentious station, all set on wide streets lined with European-looking
houses surrounded by real green grass lawns. A twenty-minute run in a
rickshaw soon after dawn showed fine chaussees leading out into the
country and filled, even at this early hour, with crowds of country-folk
bringing their produce to market. I believe there are over one hundred
miles of metalled roads in the capital and the suburbs, all due to
untiring M. Doumer. But his most enduring monument in Hanoi is the fine
exposition buildings. When he went home to raise a second loan of two
hundred million francs for the development of the colony, the men to
whom he appealed naturally asked what were the resources of the country.
His convincing reply was the famous exposition of 1902.
There is one through train daily each way between Haiphong and
Yunnan-fu. The distance is about six hundred miles, and it took three
days and an evening to make the trip. There is no traffic by night, and
this seems to be the rule on these adventurous railways, for I met the
same thing on the Anatolian and Bagdad lines between Constantinople and
Eregli. The corridor trains are equipped with four classes. The first
was inferior to the same class on Continental lines, but that seemed to
matter little, for it was usually empty. As a gay young Englishman in
Yunnan-fu remarked, no one went first-class unless he was travelling at
some one's else expense. The second and third class were very good of
their kind, and the fourth was far and away the most comfortable
arrangement of the sort I had ever seen, with benches along the sides
and large unglazed window openings. Most of the passengers and all the
jollity went in this class. Everywhere there were other than human
travellers; birds, dogs, goats, and pigs were given room, always on
condition of having a ticket. I paid four dollars gold for my dog's
ticket from Haiphong to Yunnan-fu, but having paid, Jack's right in the
carriage was as unquestioned as mine, and I found this true in all my
railway travel in China.
The Tonking-Yunnan railway is a remarkable undertaking, and shows the
seriousness with which the French are attacking the problems of Far
Eastern colonization. The lower half of the line, which here follows up
the Red River valley, presented few serious engineering difficulties,
although calling for at least one hundred and seventy-five bridges on
the section south of Lao-kai, but it was almost impossible to secure
labourers for the construction work. Annamese refused to lend a hand,
and the Chinese died like flies from the malarial conditions. For a time
work was at a standstill, and in the end it had to be suspended during
the summer months. The upper part, on the other hand, especially that
section which runs through the Namti valley, tested to the utmost the
skill of the French engineers. And the cost was correspondingly great.
Even as it is, much of the embanking seems to be of a rather slight
character, and quite unfit to stand the tremendous tropical downpours of
the early summer months. After leaving China I learned that I had passed
over the line just in time, for the rains set in very early in the
summer of 1911, and for weeks traffic was fearfully interrupted by
landslips and broken bridges.
Whether the line will prove a financial success depends on some things
not wholly under control. The present customs regulations certainly tend
to check the development of trade in Tonking, and the transportation
rates are perhaps more than traffic can bear. The French, however, can
change their policy in these respects if they think best. But the
proposed construction by the Chinese Government of a railway connecting
Yunnan-fu and the West River valley would cut the ground out from under
their feet. For the moment, the Revolution has stopped the enterprise,
but it is certain to be taken up again, as there are no insuperable
engineering obstacles in the way, and every economic and political
reason for giving Yunnan an outlet to the sea through Chinese territory.
On leaving Hanoi in the early morning light we struck across a wide
fertile plain, beautifully cultivated; fields of rice alternating with
maize stretched away to a wall of feathery bamboo broken by stately
palms and glossy mangoes. After a little the country became more broken,
rolling near by, mountainous in the distance. The vegetation, dense and
tropical, hemmed in the line on both sides, but here and there charming
trails led away through the jungle to villages on higher land; a
delightful region to pass through, perhaps to live in if one were a
duck, but for human beings the steamy heat must be very depressing. At
Yun Bay the valley narrowed, and we drew nearer the mountains, but there
was no change in the atmosphere, and had not the sky been cloudy, we
should have suffered greatly from the heat.
My fellow travellers were chiefly officials of the civil administration
or connected with the railway, who chatted or slept or quietly drank
away the weary hours; for them there was no novelty in the trip to dull
the feeling of discomfort. At one small station a man who might have
been a planter got in, followed by an attractive-looking Annamese woman
carrying a little child. She cried bitterly as she waved good-bye to a
group of natives on the station platform. The man seemed well known on
the line, and was soon the centre of a group of his fellows who paid no
attention to the woman. After a while the trio went to sleep, the man on
the carriage bench, the woman and child on the floor. She was what is
euphemistically called a "cook" in Tonking; just another name for an
arrangement so often resulting from the lonely life of Europeans among a
slack-fibred dependent alien population. It is the same thing that
confronts the stray visitor to the isolated tea plantations of the Assam
hills, where young English lads are set down by themselves, perhaps a
day's journey from the next European. What wonder that they find it
difficult to hold fast to the standards and principles of the home that
seems so far away, or that if they once ignore their inherited
traditions, no matter in how slight a thing, there seems to be no
natural stopping-place short of the abyss. As once said to me an aged
American missionary, who perhaps had never worn an evening coat a dozen
times in his life, "A nice young fellow, clean in body and soul, comes
out from England, and finds himself shut up for the year on one of these
plantations, no one of his kind within reach. He means well, but the
test is too great. First he stops dressing for dinner. What's the use?
Then he gets careless about his manners. And the end of it all is
black-and-tan babies in the compound." Here in Tonking the woman is
perhaps as well off as in her native hut until the planter goes home or
brings out a European wife, but in some way or another there is usually
an untoward ending. As for the children, they go to swell the class that
is neither here nor there, and their lot is probably happier than that
of the unfortunate Eurasians of India, since race prejudice is far less
strong among the French than with the Anglo-Saxon.
At Lao-kai on the Tonking frontier I stopped over for a day's rest,
having learned that it boasted a comfortable European inn. The little
town is built on the opposite high banks of the Red River near its
junction with the Namti. Just across the latter stream lie China and the
Chinese town of Ho-k'ou. There is a distinct European aspect to Lao-kai,
and as a frontier post it has a good-sized garrison of the Annamese
Tirailleurs and the French Foreign Legion. The latter did not look as
black as they are painted, and it was hard to realize that behind their
friendly, courteous bearing were ruined careers; but the contrast of
their sturdy forms and weather-beaten faces with the slender figures and
delicate features of the Tirailleurs was very striking. I did not wonder
that the French soldiers have dubbed their Annamese companions-in-arms
the "Young Ladies." The inn, which was most efficiently managed by two
Frenchwomen, served as a sort of club for the Europeans of both Lao-kai
and Ho-k'ou, and incidentally also for innumerable dogs and cats. At
dinner each person was the centre of an expectant group of the
four-footed habitues of the inn, and no one seemed to object. Just
another instance of the liking of the most civilized peoples of the West
and the East, English, French, and Chinese, for pet animals.
A small church on the right bank of the river showed white among the
bamboos, and in the early evening the bells rang with a homelike sound.
Crossing by the ferry I found the place empty save for two Annamese
soldiers kneeling quietly and reverently. In going back and forth on the
ferry-boat as I did several times, I had a chance to observe the people.
As in the case of the Burmans the difference between men and women is
not marked; indeed, among the younger ones it is often difficult to tell
them apart. The great palm-leaf hat generally worn took me back to hot
Sunday afternoons in an old church in the Berkshire hills of
Massachusetts, when my restless little mind busied itself with wondering
what palm leaves looked like when they were not fans. I now had a chance
to see, for I was in the land of palms, and the church-going fans of my
childhood seemed to have transformed themselves into a universal
headgear. In shape the Annamese hat resembles a tea-tray with edges
three inches deep, and of the size of a bicycle wheel. In addition to
the band passing under the chin a small crown fits the head snugly, and
helps to keep the huge thing in place. Primarily it is a head-covering,
a protection against sun or rain, but incidentally it serves as a
windbreak, a basket-cover, a tray, or a cradle. Often French soldiers
crossed with me, and I noticed that they usually spoke Annamese
fluently, unlike Tommy Atkins in India, who rarely knows a word of the
vernacular; also they seemed to be on a friendly, not to say familiar
footing with the natives.
After a comfortable week-end's rest, I left Lao-kai in the early
morning, helped on my journey by those courtesies that so often in
strange lands convince one that "less than kin more than kind" quite
understates the truth. An Italian on his way down the river wired the
landlord of the best inn in Yunnan-fu of my coming, that I might be
properly met. That I had already done so myself did not at all take from
his kind thoughtfulness. Still another Italian of the Chinese customs
service joined me as we left Lao-kai, having come over from Ho-k'ou to
escort me across the frontier, that I might have no bother with my
luggage. Yet another of these kind strangers wired ahead to warn the
solitary American on the line of my coming, thus giving the two
compatriots a chance to exchange a few words at the station as the
train went through.
On leaving Lao-kai our way led up the valley of the Namti, a small
mountain river coming in from the east. The scenery was now much wilder,
and as we rose to higher levels the vegetation changed, the pathless
jungle which comes up to the very doors of Lao-kai gave way to sparsely
covered grass slopes, and they in turn to barren, rocky walls. It was
here that the French engineers encountered their most difficult
problems. We wound up the narrow valley in splendid loops and curves,
turning upon our tracks, running through numerous tunnels, and at one
time crossing a chasm so narrow and with sides so steep and precipitous
that it was found necessary to build the bridge in two parts, each
against the face of the cliff, and then gradually lower them until they
met above the river, three hundred and fifty feet below. Finally by an
almost intolerable gradient we topped the divide and found ourselves
overlooking a wonderful, well-watered plain five thousand feet above the
sea, and cultivated as far as the vision could carry with the care and
precision of a market-garden.
That night I spent at A-Mi-chou in a semi-Chinese inn. The cooking was
good, and, thanks to the thoughtfulness of a railway official who wired
ahead, I had one of the two good rooms of the house, the others being
given over to rats. This was truly China, and the European railway with
its Frenchified trains and stations seemed indeed an invasion, a world
apart. The French officials apparently shared this feeling, and had a
nice way of regarding themselves as your hosts and protectors.
All the next day we were crossing the great plateau of Yunnan, now
climbing a pass in the mountain-ranges that tower above the level, now
making our way up a narrow rocky valley, the gray limestone cliffs gay
with bright blue flowers and pink blossoming shrubs. Just what they were
I could not tell as the train rolled by. Mostly the road led through
long stretches of tiny garden-like fields, broken here and there by
prosperous looking villages half concealed in bamboo groves. The scenery
was very fine and varied; above, the rocky hills, below, the green
valleys. The mingling, too, of tropical and temperate vegetation was
striking. We were in latitude 24 deg. and 25 deg., about the same
as Calcutta, but at an elevation of nearly seven thousand feet, and the
combination seemed to work confusion among the growing things, for rice
and wheat were found not far apart, and here at last Heine's palm and
pine had come together.
Late on the second afternoon after leaving Lao-kai we were approaching
Yunnan-fu. Seen across the plain, the capital of the province looked
very imposing as it lay stretched along a low ridge running east and
west. Rice-fields interspersed with ruins, sad reminders of the
terrible Mohammedan rebellion of a generation ago, crowd up to the very
walls on the near side of the town. Outside the South Gate is the
station, and not far distant the Chinese house which an enterprising
French couple had turned into a very comfortable inn, where I stayed the
three days needed for arranging my caravan and seeing the sights of the
place.
CHAPTER II
DAYS IN YUNNAN-FU
The situation of Yunnan's capital is extraordinarily picturesque. It
stands in a wide plain, its northern wall running along a low rocky
ridge from which there is a charming view over city and lake to the
great mountains that skirt the plain on all sides. Lying at an elevation
of nearly seven thousand feet, it is blessed with a white man's climate.
Eighty-five degrees in the shade marks the highest summer temperature,
and the winters are just pleasantly bracing. Europeans who have
experienced the biting winds of Peking, the damp heat of Canton, or the
gray skies of Chengtu find in the bright days and cool breezes of Yunnan
some mitigation of their exile to this remote corner of the empire. The
city itself is not very attractive in spite of its many trees, for it
seems a network of narrow lanes, only broken here and there by a temple
enclosure or a stretch of waste land, the whole shut in by sound
thirty-foot high walls; nor are there any sights of special interest,
with the exception of a rather fine Confucian temple. But the country
roundabout affords many charming excursions. The waters of the lake,
some twenty-three miles in length, once perhaps washed the west wall,
but it is gradually silting up, and to-day it is five miles away and is
reached by heavy sampans which ply the narrow canals that intersect the
rice-fields. Farm buildings, tea-houses, and temples buried in groves of
bamboo are dotted over the plain, which is crossed at intervals by high,
stone-paved dykes lined with trees. The rich cultivation of the lowland
is in sharp contrast with the surrounding hills, bare and barren save
where the presence of a temple has preserved the forest.
Yunnan-fu, with a population of some eighty thousand, seems a fairly
prosperous town. Copper is found on the neighbouring hills, and the
metal-work of the place is famous, although by law all copper mined must
be sent to Peking. But the importance of the city depends mainly upon
its trade. It is the centre of a large though rather scantily populated
district abounding in the great staples, rice, beans, and millet, as
well as in fruit and vegetables. Formerly Yunnan stood in the forefront
of opium-producing provinces, but when I was there not a poppy-field was
to be seen. The last viceroy, the much respected Hsi Liang, the one
Mongol in the Chinese service, himself not an opium smoker, had shown
great determination in carrying out the imperial edicts against its use
or production, and rather unwillingly Yunnan was brought into line with
the new order. Under his successor, Li Ching Hsi, a man known to be
given over to the use of the drug, unwilling converts hoped for better
days, only to be disappointed. After a more or less serious effort to
reform, he announced that he was too old to change, but the province had
a long life before it, and must obey the law. So he made amends for his
own short-comings by enforcing the restrictions almost as vigorously as
his predecessor had done. What was true at that time in Yunnan was also
the case in Szechuan. Although always on the watch for the poppy,
nowhere did I see it cultivated. Probably in remote valleys off the
regular trails a stray field might now and then have been found,
innocently or intentionally overlooked by the inspector, but in the main
poppy-growing had really been stamped out; and this where a generation
ago that careful observer, Baber, estimated that poppy-fields
constituted a third of the whole cultivation. Credit where credit is
due. Manchu rule may have been weak and corrupt, but at least in respect
of one great popular vice it achieved more than any Western power ever
thought of attempting. Certainly not last among the causes for its
overthrow was the discontent aroused by its anti-opium policy. And now
it is reported that individualism run mad among the revolutionary
leaders has led to a slackening in the enforcement of the rules, and the
revival of poppy cultivation.
For half a century Yunnan has known little peace. Twenty years long the
terrible Mohammedan rebellion raged, and the unhappy province was swept
from end to end with fire and sword. Marks of the devastation of that
time are everywhere visible. Hardly had it been put down when the war
with the French in the eighties again involved Yunnan. Later came the
outbreak of the tribesmen, while the Boxer movement of the north found a
vigorous response here. Bloodshed and disorder have given the country a
set-back from which it is only beginning to recover.
But the coming of the railway has brought fresh life to Yunnan, and the
prospects for the future economic development are very promising. In the
capital there were many signs of a new day. The Reform movement had
taken good hold in this remote corner of the empire. A hospital with
eight wards and under Chinese control was doing fine work. Schools were
flourishing, and there was even a university of sorts. The newly
organized police force pervaded the whole place and was reputed quite
efficient. But it was the new military spirit that most forced itself
upon you; you simply could not get away from it. Bugle practice made
hideous night and day. Everywhere you met marching soldiers, and the
great drill ground was the most active place in the town. Dread of the
foreigner underlies much of the present activity and openmindedness
towards Western ideas. The willingness to adopt our ways does not
necessarily mean that the Chinese prefer them to their own, but simply
that they realize if they would meet us on equal terms they must meet us
with our own weapons. Writing of the Boxer rising, Sir Charles Eliot
summed up the Chinese position in a sentence, "Let us learn their tricks
before we make an end of them." Now it might read, "Let us learn their
tricks before they make an end of us." The drilling soldiers, the modern
barracks, the elaborately equipped arsenals, as well as the military
schools found all over China to-day, show which one of the Western
"tricks" seems to the man of the Middle Kingdom of most immediate value.
At the military school of Yunnan-fu they have a graphic way of enforcing
the lesson to be learned. A short time ago the students gave a public
dramatic performance, a sort of thing for which the Chinese have decided
talent. One of the scenes showed an Englishman kicking his Hindu
servant, while another represented an Annamese undergoing a beating at
the hands of a Frenchman. The teaching was plain. "This will be your
fate unless you are strong to resist." The English and French consuls
protested formally, and the proper apologies were made, but no one
believes that the lesson was forgotten.
It is not to be wondered at that the people of Yunnan are alive to the
danger of foreign interference, for they see the British on the west and
much more the French on the south, peering with greedy eyes and
clutching hands over the border. In the last fifteen years commissions
of the one and the other have scoured the province with scarcely so much
as "by your leave," investigating the mineral resources and planning out
practicable railway routes. Within the capital city the French seem
entrenched. A French post-office, a French hospital, French shops,
hotels, missions, and above all the huge consulate, are there like
advance posts of a greater invasion. There is an ominous look to these
pretentious establishments holding strategic points in this or that
debatable territory. Take the French consulates, here in Yunnan-fu and
in Hoi-hou, or the Russian in Urga, the North Mongolian capital, they
have more the aspect of a fortified outpost in a hostile country than
the residence of the peaceful representative of a friendly power.
And Yunnan is beginning to move. For some time past the Government has
been considering seriously the project of a railway across the province
on the east to the Si Kiang and Canton, and just before I arrived in
Yunnan-fu two engineers (significantly enough Americans) started
northwards to make the preliminary surveys for a line connecting the
capital with the Yangtse. If these two schemes can be carried through
under Chinese control, good-by to the hopes of the French. Just at the
time that I was in Yunnan there was much excitement over the Pien-ma
matter, a boundary question between the province and Burma. A boycott
of British goods had been started which would have been more effective
if there had been more goods to boycott, but it indicated the feeling of
the people, and the viceroy, Li Ching Hsi, was winning golden opinions
for the stand he took in the matter, which, however, did not save him
from ignominious deportation by the Revolutionary party only a few
months later.
But whatever the feeling towards foreigners in the mass, the individual
foreigner seemed to meet with no unfriendliness on the part of the
people in Yunnan-fu, and apparently official relations were on a cordial
footing. I found the Bureau of Foreign Affairs ready to do all it could
to smooth my way across Yunnan, but perhaps that was due in part to the
fact that the chief of the bureau had been for several years consul in
New York. By arrangement I called one afternoon, in company with a
missionary lady, upon his wife. Threading our way through narrow,
winding streets, our chairs turned in at an inconspicuous doorway and we
found ourselves in a large compound, containing not so much one house as
a number of houses set down among gay gardens. The building in which we
were received consisted apparently of two rooms, an anteroom and a
reception room. The latter was furnished in the usual style (invariable,
it seems to me, from country inn to prince's palace), heavy high
chairs, heavy high tables ranged against walls decorated with kakemonos
and gay mottoes; only in the centre of the room was a large table
covered with a cloth of European manufacture on which were set out
dishes of English biscuits and sweets. Our hostess, dressed in a
modified Chinese costume, received us with graceful dignity. Her
fine-featured face bore a marked likeness to many that one meets on the
street or in the church of an old New England town, and its rather
anxious expression somewhat emphasized the resemblance. She spoke with
much pleasure of the years she had spent in America, and her daughter,
who had been educated in a well-known private school in New York, looked
back longingly to those days, complaining that there was no society in
Yunnan-fu; but she brightened up at a reference to the arrival of a new
and young English vice-consul, hoping that it might mean some tennis. It
was an unexpected touch of New China in this out-of-the-way corner.
Before we left, two younger children were brought in, both born in
America, and one bearing the name "Daisy," the other "Lincoln," but
already they were forgetting their English.
During my three days in Yunnan-fu,[1] through the kindness of the
British Consul-General I was given a chance to make one or two
excursions into the surrounding country. An especially charming trip
that we took one afternoon was to Chin Tien, or "Golden Temple," a
celebrated copper temple about five miles out. Near the town our chairs
were borne along the narrow earth balk between the bean- and
rice-fields, but farther on our way led over the top of a high dyke
lined with trees. We mounted by a charming winding road to the temple,
set high on the hillside among its own groves of conifers, the courts of
the temple, which rose one behind the other, being connected by long,
steep flights of steps. In the upper court we were met by the friendly
priests, the quiet dignity of their reception being somewhat disturbed
by the din of the temple dogs, goaded almost to madness at Jack's
imperturbable bearing. Chinese temples rarely offer much of interest;
the construction is usually simple and their treasures are few, but
everything is freely shown, there are no dark corners, and the spacious
courts gay with flowers are full of charm. The sacred images which they
contain are generally grotesque or hideous. Not often does one show a
trace of the gracious serenity that marks the traditional
representations of Buddha; on the other hand, they are never indecent.
[Illustration: MY SEDAN CHAIR AND BEARERS]
[Illustration: A MEMORIAL ARCH NEAR YUNNAN-FU]
While I was seeing a little of Yunnan-fu and its people, the
preparations for my overland trip were moving forward, thanks chiefly
to the kind helpfulness of Mr. Stevenson, of the China Inland Mission.
For many years a resident of the province, and wise in the ways of the
country and of the country-folk, his advice served me at every turn.
Engaging the coolies was of course the matter of chief importance. On
them would depend the success of the first stage of my journey, the two
and a half or three weeks' trip to Ning-yuean-fu in the Chien-ch'ang
valley. A representative of the coolie "hong," or guild, a dignified,
substantial-looking man, was brought to the inn by Mr. Stevenson. After
looking over my kit carefully (even the dog was "hefted" on the chance
he might have to ride at times), he decided the number of coolies
necessary. As I wished to travel fast if need came, I threw in another
man that the loads might be light. The average load is seventy or eighty
catties, a catty equalling about one pound and a quarter. In Yunnan the
coolies generally carry on the shoulder the burden, fairly divided,
being suspended from the two ends of a bamboo pole. For myself I had
four men, as I had a four-bearer chair, the grandest of all things on
the road save the mandarin's chair with its curved poles raising the
occupant high above the common herd. At first I did not realize the
significance of the number, although I marked the interest with which my
interpreter inquired how many bearers I should have. What I did
appreciate was the extreme comfort of my travelling arrangements.
Seated in my chair, which was open above and enclosed below, and
furnished with a water-proof top and with curtains that could be lowered
to protect me against sun or rain, wind or importunate curiosity, I felt
as though on a throne. Under the seat was a compartment just large
enough for dressing-bag, camera, and thermos bottle, while at my feet
there was ample room for Jack. For my interpreter there was a two-bearer
chair, with which he was vastly discontented, and I, too, had my doubts
about it, although our reasons were not the same. He felt it beneath his
dignity to travel with two bearers only; I feared that it was too great
a burden for two men, even though the chair was light and the Chinese
literatus, small-boned and lacking in muscle, is no heavy burden.
Anyway, the arrangement did not work well, and at Ning-yuean-fu the
interpreter was provided with a closed chair and three bearers, to his
own satisfaction and to mine also, again for different reasons.
A sedan-chair is too luxurious to be long endurable, so I added a pony
to our caravan, purchased, from a home-going Dane of the customs
service, for forty-four dollars Mexican. The Yunnanese ponies are small
and sturdy, and as active as cats. They are all warranted to kick, and
mine was no exception. Although he was described as a gentleman's steed,
he had the manners of a pack-horse. I doubt if any one of our party
escaped the touch of his hoofs, and it was a joy to see him exchange
salutations with the ponies we met on the trail. However, he was
sure-footed and willing, and although hardly up to so long a trip as
mine, yet with care he came out very well at the end. But it required
constant watchfulness to make sure that he was properly watered and fed,
even though most of the time I took along a coolie for no other purpose
save to look after the horse, and lead him when I was not riding. And to
the very last it meant an order each time to insure that the girths were
loosened and the stirrups tied up when I was out of the saddle. When we
started from Yunnan-fu our caravan was made up of thirteen coolies,--six
chair-men, six baggage-carriers, and a "fu t'ou," or head coolie, whose
duty it was to keep the others up to their work, to settle disputes, or
to meet any difficulty that arose. In short, he was responsible both to
me and to the hong for the carrying-out of the contract which had been
duly agreed upon. In my limited experience, the fu t'ou is a great
blessing. I found mine capable, reliable men, adroit in smoothing away
difficulties and very ready to meet my wishes. As for the contract, that
was a serious matter. Each detail was carefully entered in a formidable
document, the route, the stages, the number of men, the amount to be
paid, and the how and where of payment. The hong had one copy and I
another which was handed over to the fu t'ou at the end of the trip,
that he might show it to the chief of the hong as proof that he had
carried out the contract. Each coolie was to receive $7.00 Mexican, or
about $3.50 gold, for his journey from Yunnan-fu to Ning-yuean-fu,
reckoned usually as sixteen stages. About one third the amount was to be
paid before starting, the remainder in specified sums at stated
intervals en route. I had no concern with the men's daily food, but from
time to time I was expected to give them "pork money" if they behaved
well. It would have been cheaper, I believe, to have hired coolies off
the street, but far less satisfactory, for the hong holds itself
responsible to you for the behavior of its men. And in their turn the
coolies pay a definite percentage of their earnings to the hong.
My stores and bedding and other things were packed in large covered
baskets insecurely fastened with padlocks. As time went on, covers
became loose and padlocks were knocked off by projecting rocks, but
nothing was ever lost or stolen. To keep out wet or vermin I had the
baskets lined with Chinese oiled cotton, perishable but cheap, and
effective as long as it lasts. Other sheets of the same material were
provided for use in the inn. One was laid on the floor and my camp-bed
set up in the middle of it, while others were spread over the wooden
Chinese beds with which the room was generally well supplied, and on
them my clothes, saddle, etc., were placed. When new the oiled cotton
has a strong, pungent odour, not pleasant but very effective against
vermin.
A most important item was the money to be used on the journey. I had an
account with the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank at Shanghai, and wherever
there were Europeans it was possible to get checks cashed, but from
Yunnan-fu to Ning-yuean, a journey of two and a half weeks or more, I
should be quite off the track of foreigners. Fortunately Yunnan is
waking up in money matters as well as in other ways, and has a silver
coinage of its own; moreover, one that the inhabitants are willing to
accept, which is not always the case, as I found later to my cost. With
the help of native bankers I was duly furnished with a supply of Yunnan
dollars, akin to Mexican dollars in value, and I obtained also some
Szechuan coins to use when I entered that province. In addition I became
the proud possessor of some seventy dollars in Hupeh money. This I was
told would pass anywhere after crossing the Yangtse. When I reached
Ning-yuean-fu, however, I found that no one would take it save at a heavy
discount. Unwilling to burden myself with it longer, I decided to let
the Chinese bankers have it, even though at a loss, but when they
discovered that the money was in twenty-cent pieces they would have
nothing to do with it at any price. So I carried it some two thousand
miles farther, to Hupeh itself. But even there it was not willingly
accepted. In the railway offices at Hankow not more than forty cents
would be received in small coins. If your ticket cost $10.50, you paid
for it in unbroken dollars, giving the railway a chance to unload some
of the undesirable change upon you. In the end I found myself reduced to
peddling twenty-cent pieces among friends and friends of friends. For
small change on my journey I carried rolls of copper cents, while the
cook festooned himself with long ropes of copper "cash," about twenty to
the American cent.
By the arrangement of the Foreign Office two soldiers were detailed to
escort me across Yunnan. It is by the wish of the officials rather than
at the traveller's request that this escort is given. The Chinese have
learned through an experience not wholly to our credit that injury or
even annoyance to the European may bring a punishment quite out of
proportion to the harm done; so to avoid difficulties the official is
inclined to insist upon sending soldiers with the foreigners passing
through his district, and the traveller as a rule perforce accepts the
arrangement. If he refuses, he will find it more difficult to secure
redress for any loss or injury suffered. For my part I did not feel
inclined to object. The expense is borne by the Government, save for the
customary tip, and in more ways than one I found my escort useful. At
irregular intervals they were changed. When we reached the end of the
last stage for which they were detailed, I gave them my card to carry to
the proper local official. This was replied to by sending a new pair
bearing the official's card.
Some of the men were old-time soldiers, hardly to be distinguished from
yamen runners in their untidy black and scarlet jackets decorated with
bold lettering on the back; and their weapons consisted simply of
something that might be described as a small sword or a huge
carving-knife in a leather sheath. After entering Szechuan I was usually
accompanied by quite real soldiers, men of the new service, fairly
shipshape in khaki and putties and carrying up-to-date guns. But whether
of the old order or of the new, I found the men at all times very
courteous and friendly, and ready to do any little service that came
their way. It was the duty of one man to stay with me, while the other
looked after the baggage coolies. As more at home in the particular
district through which we were passing, they were often very helpful to
my coolies in pointing out a short cut or in finding our intricate way
across the fields. Sometimes one was sent in advance to make sure of the
best quarters the village where we were to pass the night could afford,
and they often showed great zeal in tidying up the room for my coming.
The preparations consisted usually in stirring up the dust of ages on
the floor, a proceeding I did not like, and in ruthlessly tearing out
the paper that covered the lattice opening, of which I much approved.
Glass is rarely seen in West China, and the paper excluded both light
and air, but never the gaze of the curious, as a peephole was very
easily punched. On the march my escort, quick to notice my interest in
the flowers, were active in bringing me huge nosegays gathered along the
trail, so that my chair was often turned into a gay flowery bower; and
they sometimes showed their love for dogs, or perhaps sought to prove
their zeal in my service, by picking up Jack and carrying him for the
half-hour, to his great disgust, as his sturdy legs were untiring, and
equally so was his desire to investigate every nook and corner. "Little
fu t'ou," the coolies called him, because of the careful watch he kept
for any stragglers of the caravan.
[1] The words "fu" and "chou" and "hsien," attached to so many
Chinese place-names, are terms denoting administrative divisions. "Fu"
may be translated prefecture, "chou," department, and "hsien," a
district. The towns having these terminations are the headquarters of
the respective divisions.
CHAPTER III
ACROSS YUNNAN
My departure was set for the 8th of April, and by half-past four of that
morning the coolies, marshalled by the hong man, were at the door; but
it was after nine before we were really under way. It is always a
triumphant moment when one's caravan actually starts; there have been so
many times when starting at all seemed doubtful. Mine looked quite
imposing as it moved off, headed by Mr. Stevenson on his sturdy pony, I
following in my chair, while servants and coolies straggled on behind,
but, as usual, something was missing. This time it was one of the two
soldiers detailed by the Foreign Office to accompany me the first stages
of my journey. We were told he would join us farther on. Fortunately Mr.
Stevenson was up to the wiles of the native, and he at once scented the
favourite device for two to take the travelling allowance, and then, by
some amicable arrangement, for only one to go. So messengers were sent
in haste to look up the recreant, who finally joined us with cheerful
face at the West Gate, which we reached by a rough path outside the
north wall.
[Illustration: WEST CHINA]
Here I bade Mr. Stevenson good-bye, and turned my face away from the
city. Once more I was on the "open road." Above me shone the bright sun
of Yunnan, before me lay the long trail leading into the unknown. Seven
hundred miles of wild mountainous country, six weeks of steady
travelling lay between me and Chengtu, the great western capital. The
road I planned to follow would lead nearly due north at first,
traversing the famous Chien-ch'ang valley after crossing the Yangtse.
But at Fulin on the Ta Tu I intended to make a detour to the west as far
as Tachienlu, that I might see a little of the Tibetans even though I
could not enter Tibet. I did not fear trouble of any sort in spite of a
last letter of warning received at Hong Kong from our Peking Legation,
but there was just enough of a touch of adventure to the trip to make
the roughnesses of the way endurable. Days would pass before I could
again talk with my own kind, but I was not afraid of being lonely. "The
scene was savage, but the scene was new," and the hours would be filled
full with the constantly changing interests of the road, and as I looked
at my men I felt already the comradeship that would come with long days
of effort and hardship passed together. These men of the East--Turk,
Indian, Chinese, Mongol--are much of a muchness, it seems to me; pay
them fairly, treat them considerately, laugh instead of storm at the
inevitable mishaps of the way, and generally they will give you
faithful, willing service. It is only when they have been spoiled by
overpayment, or by bullying of a sort they do not understand, that the
foreigner finds them exacting and untrustworthy. And the Chinese is an
eminently reasonable man. He does not expect reward without work, and he
works easily and cheerfully. But as yet he was to me an unknown
quantity, and I looked over my group of coolies with some interest and a
little uncertainty. They were mostly strong, sound-looking men; two or
three were middle-aged, the rest young. No one looked unequal to the
work, and no one proved so. All wore the inevitable blue cotton of the
Chinese, varying with wear and patching from blue-black to bluish-white,
and the fashion of the dress was always the same; short, full trousers,
square-cut, topped by a belted shirt with long sleeves falling over the
hands or rolled up to the elbow according to the weather. About their
heads they generally twisted a strip of cotton, save when blazing sun or
pouring rain called for the protection of their wide straw hats covered
with oiled cotton. Generally they wore the queue tucked into the girdle
to keep it out of the way, but occasionally it was put to use, as, for
example, if a man's hat was not at hand to ward off the glare of the
sun, he would deftly arrange a thatch of leaves over his eyes, binding
it firm with his long braid of black hair. On their feet they wore the
inevitable straw sandal of these parts. Comfortable for those who know
how to wear them, cheap even though not durable (they cost only four
cents Mexican the pair), and a great safeguard against slipping, they
seemed as satisfactory footwear as the ordinary shoes of the
better-class Chinese seemed unsatisfactory. Throughout the East it is
only the barefooted peasant or the sandalled mountaineer who does not
seem encumbered by his feet. The felt shoe of the Chinese gentleman and
the flapping, heelless slipper of the Indian are alike uncomfortable and
hampering. Nor have Asiatics learned as yet to wear proper European
shoes, or to wear them properly, for they stub along in badly cut,
ill-fitting things too short for their feet. Why does not the shoemaker
of the West, if he wishes to secure an Eastern market, study the foot of
the native, and make him shoes suited to his need?
Our order of march through Yunnan varied little from day to day. We all
had breakfast before starting at about seven, and we all had much the
same thing, tea and rice, but mine came from the coast; the coolies
bought theirs by the way. At intervals during the forenoon we stopped at
one of the many tea-houses along the road to give the men a chance to
rest and smoke and drink tea. Sometimes I stayed in my chair by the
roadside; more often I escaped from the noise and dirt of the village to
some spot outside, among the rice- and bean-fields, where the pony could
gather a few scant mouthfuls of grass while I sat hard-by on a turf
balk and enjoyed the quiet and clean air. Of course I was often found
out and followed by the village-folk, but their curiosity was not very
offensive. Generally they squatted down in a semi-circle about me,
settling themselves deliberately to gaze their fill. If they came too
near I laughed and waved them back, and they always complied
good-naturedly. The little children were often really quite charming
under the dirt, but until they had learned to wash their faces and wipe
their noses I must confess I liked them best at a distance.
[Illustration: ON A YUNNAN ROAD: MY CARAVAN]
[Illustration: ON A YUNNAN ROAD: THE MILITARY ESCORT]
At noon we stopped at a handy inn or tea-house for tiffin and a long
rest. I was ordinarily served at the back of the big eating-room open to
the street in as dignified seclusion as my cook could achieve. Rice
again, with perhaps stewed fowl or tinned beef, and a dessert of jam and
biscuit, usually formed my luncheon, and dinner was like unto it, save
that occasionally we succeeded in securing some onions or potatoes. The
setting-forth of my table with clean cloth and changes of plates was of
never-failing interest to the crowds that darkened the front of the
eating-house, and excitement reached a climax when the coolie, whom my
cook had installed as helper,--there is no Chinese too poor to lack some
one to do his bidding,--served Jack his midday meal of rice in his own
dish. Then men stood on tiptoe and children climbed on each other's
shoulders to see a dog fed like--the Chinese equivalent of Christian.
They never seemed to begrudge him his food; on the contrary, they often
smiled approvingly. We were thousands of miles away from the
famine-stricken regions of eastern China, and through much of the
country where I journeyed I saw almost no beggars or hungry-looking
folk. In the afternoon we stopped as before at short intervals at some
roadside tea-house, for the coolies generally expect to rest every hour.
Our day's stage usually ended in a good-sized town. I should have
preferred it otherwise, for there is more quiet and freedom in the
villages. But my coolies would have it so; they liked the stir and
better fare of the towns, and the regular stages are arranged
accordingly. Our entrance was noisy and imposing. My coming seemed
always expected, for as by magic the narrow streets filled with staring
crowds. Through them the soldiers fought a way for my chair, borne at
smart pace by the coolies all shouting at the top of their voices. I
tried to cultivate the superior impassiveness of the Chinese official,
but generally the delighted shrieks of the children at the sight of Jack
at my feet, and his gay yelps in response, "upset the apple cart." There
was a rush to see the "foreign dog." I gripped him tighter and only
breathed freely when with a sharp turn to right or left my chair was
lifted high over a threshold and borne through the inn door into the
courtyard, the crowd in no wise baffled swarming at our heels,
sometimes not even stopping at the entrance to the inner court, sacred
(more or less) to the so-called mandarin rooms, the best rooms of the
place. I could not but sympathize with the innkeeper, the order of his
establishment thus upset, but he took it in good part; perhaps the
turmoil had its value in making known to the whole world that the
wandering foreigner had bestowed her patronage upon his house. I am sure
he had some reward in the many cups of tea drunk while the crowd
lingered on the chance of another sight of the unusual visitor. Anyway
we were always made welcome, and no objections were offered when my men
took possession of the place in very unceremonious fashion, as it seemed
to me, filling the court with their din, blocking the ways with the
chairs and baskets, seeking the best room for me, and then testing the
door and putting things to rights after a fashion, while the owner
looked on in helpless wonder.
In the villages one stepped directly from the road into a large
living-room, kitchen, and dining-room in one, and out of this opened the
places for sleeping. The inns in the towns are built more or less after
one and the same pattern. Entrance is through a large restaurant open to
the street, and filled with tables occupied at all hours save early dawn
with men sipping and smoking. From the restaurant one passes into a
stone-paved court surrounded usually by low, one-story buildings,
although occasionally there is a second story opening into a gallery.
Here are kitchens and sleeping-rooms, while store-rooms and stables are
tucked in anywhere. In the largest inns there is often an inner court
into which open the better rooms.
While the cook bustled about to get hot water, and the head coolie saw
to the setting-up of my bed, I generally went with the "ma-fu," or horse
boy, to see that the pony was properly cared for. Usually he was handy,
sometimes tethered by my door, often just under my room, once overhead.
Meanwhile the coolies were freshening themselves up a bit after the
day's work. Sitting about the court they rinsed chest and head and legs
with the unfailing supply of hot water which is the one luxury of a
Chinese inn. I can speak authoritatively on the cleanliness of the
Chinese coolie, for I had the chance daily to see my men scrub
themselves. Their cotton clothing loosely cut was well ventilated, even
though infrequently cleansed, and there hung about them nothing of the
odour of the great unwashed of the Western world. I wish one could say
as much for the inns, but alas, they were foul-smelling, one and all,
and occasionally the room offered me was so filthy that I refused to
occupy it, and went on the war-path for myself, followed by a crowd of
perplexed servants and coolies. Almost always I found a loft or a
stable-yard that had at least the advantage of plenty of fresh air, and
without demur my innkeeper made me free of it, although I expect it cut
him to the heart to have his best room so flouted.
Generally I went to bed soon after dinner; there was nothing else to do,
for the dim lantern light made reading difficult, and anyway my books
were few. But while the nights were none too long for me, the Chinese,
like most Asiatics, make little distinction between day and night. They
sleep if there is nothing else to do, they wake when work or pleasure
calls, and it was long after midnight when the inn settled itself to
rest, and by four o'clock it was again awake, and before seven we were
once more on the road.
In Yunnan, or "South of the Clouds," as the word signifies, you are in a
land of sunshine, of wild grandeur and beauty, of unfailing interest.
Its one hundred and fifty-five thousand square miles are pretty much on
end; no matter which way you cross the country you are always going up
or going down, and the contrasts of vegetation and lack of it are just
as emphatic; barren snow-topped mountains overhang tiny valleys,
veritable gems of tropical beauty; you pass with one step from a waste
of rock and sand to a garden-like oasis of soft green and rippling
waters. Yunnan's chequered history is revealed in the varied peoples
that inhabit the deep valleys and narrow river banks. Nominally annexed
to the empire by Kublai Khan, the Mongol, in the thirteenth century,
ever since the Chinese people have been at work peacefully and
irresistibly making the conquest real, and now they are found all over
the province, as a matter of course occupying the best places. But they
have not exterminated the aborigines, nor have they assimilated them to
any degree. To-day the tribes constitute more than one half the
population, and an ethnological map of Yunnan is a wonderful patchwork,
for side by side and yet quite distinct, you find scattered about
settlements of Chinese, Shans, Lolos, Miaos, Losus, and just what some
of these are is still an unsolved riddle. To add to the confusion there
is a division of religions hardly known elsewhere, for out of the
population of twelve millions it is estimated that three or four
millions are Mohammedans. To be sure, they seem much like the others,
and generally all get on together very well, for Moslem pride of
religion does not find much response with the practical Chinese, and the
Buddhist is as tolerant here as elsewhere. But the Mohammedan rebellion
of half a century ago has left terrible memories; then add to that the
ill-feeling between the Chinese and the tribesmen, and the general
discontent at the prohibition of poppy-growing, and it is plain that
Yunnan offers a fine field for long-continued civil disorder with all
the possibility of foreign interference.
The early hours of our first day's march led us along the great western
trade route, and we met scores of people hurrying towards the capital,
mostly coolies carrying on their backs, or slung from a bamboo pole
across their shoulders, great loads of wood, charcoal, fowls, rice,
vegetables. Every one was afoot or astride a pony, for there was nothing
on wheels, not even a barrow. The crowd lacked the variety in colour and
cut of dress of a Hindu gathering; all had black hair and all wore blue
clothes, and one realized at once how much China loses in not having a
picturesque and significant head covering like the Indian turban. But
the faces showed more diversity both in hue and in feature than I had
looked for. In America we come in contact chiefly with Chinese of one
class, and usually from the one province of Kwangtung. But the men of
Yunnan and Szechuan are of a different type, larger, sturdier, of better
carriage. It takes experience commonly to mark differences in face and
expression among men of an alien race, and to the Asiatic all Europeans
look much alike, but already I was discerning variety in the faces I met
along the trail, and they did not seem as unfamiliar to me as I had
expected. I was constantly surprised by resemblances to types and
individuals at home. One of my chair coolies, for example, a young,
smooth-faced fellow, bore a disconcerting likeness to one of my former
students. But fair or dark, fine-featured or foul, all greeted me in a
friendly way, generally stopping after I had passed to ask my coolies
more about me. My four-bearer chair testified to my standing, and my
men, Eastern fashion, glorified themselves in glorifying me. I was a
"scholar," a "learned lady," but what I had come for was not so clear. A
missionary I certainly was not. Anyway, as a mere woman I was not likely
to do harm.
The road after crossing the plain entered the hills, winding up and
down, but always paved with cobbles and flags laid with infinite pains
generations ago, and now illustrating the Chinese saying of "good for
ten years, bad for ten thousand." It was so hopelessly out of repair
that men and ponies alike had to pick their way with caution. Long
flights of irregular and broken stone stairs led up and down the
hillsides over which my freshly shod pony slipped and floundered
awkwardly, and I always breathed a sigh of relief when a stretch of hard
red earth gave a little respite. It was neither courage nor pride that
kept me in the saddle, but the knowledge that much of the way would be
worse rather than better, and I would wisely face it at the outset. If
it got too nerve-racking I could always betake myself to my chair and,
trusting in the eight sturdy legs of my bearers, abandon myself to
enjoying the sights along the way.
Our first day's halt for tiffin was at the small hamlet of P'u chi. The
eating-house was small and crowded, and my cook set my table perforce
in the midst of the peering, pointing throng. I was the target of scores
of black eyes, and I felt that every movement was discussed, every
mouthful counted. As a first experience it was a little embarrassing,
but the people seemed good-humoured and very ready to fall into place or
move out of the way in obedience to my gestures when I tried to take
some pictures, not too successfully. Here for a moment I was again in
touch with my own world, as a runner, most thoughtfully sent by Mr.
Stevenson with the morning's letters, overtook me. According to
arrangement he had been paid beforehand, but not knowing that I knew
that, he clamoured for more. The crowd pressed closer to listen to the
discussion, and grinned with a rather malicious satisfaction when the
man was forced to confess that he had already received what they knew
was a generous tip. Chinese business instinct kept them impartial, even
between one of their own people and a foreigner.
That night we stopped, after a stage of some sixty li, about nineteen
miles, at Erh-tsun, a small, uninteresting village. The inn was very
poor, and I would have consoled myself by thinking that it was well to
get used to the worst at once, only I was not sure that it was the
worst. My room, off the public gathering place, had but one window
looking directly on the street. From the moment of my arrival the
opening was filled with the faces of a staring, curious crowd, pushing
each other, stretching their necks to get a better view. My servants put
up an oiled cotton sheet, but it was promptly drawn aside, so there was
nothing for me to do but wash, eat, and go to bed in public, like a
royal personage of former times.
It was a beautiful spring morning when we started the next day. We were
now among the mountains, and much of our way led along barren hillsides,
but the air was intoxicating, and the views across the ridges were
charming. At times we dropped into a small valley, each having its
little group of houses nestling among feathery bamboos and surrounded by
tiny green fields. Dogs barked, children ran after us, men and women
stopped for a moment to smile a greeting and exchange a word with our
coolies. As a rule, the people looked comfortable and well fed, but here
and there we passed a group of ruined, abandoned hovels. The explanation
varied. Sometimes the ruin dated back more than a generation to the
terrible days of the Mohammedan rebellion. In other cases the trouble
was more recent. The irrigating system had broken down, or water was
scant, or more frequently the cutting-off of the opium crop had driven
the people from their homes. But in general there was little tillable
land that was unoccupied. In fact, the painstaking effort to utilize
every bit of soil was tragic to American eyes, accustomed to long
stretches of countryside awaiting the plough. At the close of the
troubles that devastated the province during the third quarter of the
nineteenth century it is said that the population of Yunnan had fallen
to about a million, but now, owing in part to the great natural increase
of the Chinese, and in part to immigration chiefly from overpopulated
Szechuan and Kwei-chou, it is estimated at twelve million. At any rate,
those who know the country well declare there is little vacant land fit
for agriculture, that the province has about as many inhabitants as it
can support, and can afford no relief to the overcrowded eastern
districts. This is a thing to keep in mind when Japan urges her need of
Manchuria for her teeming millions.
We stopped for tiffin at Fu-ming-hsien, a prosperous-looking town of
some eight hundred families. As usual, I lunched in public, the crowd
pressing close about my table in spite of the efforts of a real,
khaki-clad policeman; but it was a jolly, friendly crowd, its interest
easily diverted from me to the dog. Here we changed soldiers, for this
was a hsien town, or district centre. Those who had come with me from
Yunnan-fu were dismissed with a tip amounting to about three cents gold
a day each. They seemed perfectly satisfied. It was the regulation
amount; had I given more they would have clamoured for something
additional. That afternoon we stopped for a long rest at a tiny, lonely
inn, perched most picturesquely on a spur of the mountain. I sat in my
chair while the coolies drank tea inside, and a number of children
gathered about me, ready to run if I seemed dangerous. Finally one,
taking his courage in both hands, presented me with the local substitute
for candy,--raw peas in the pod, which I nibbled and found refreshing.
In turn I doled out some biscuits, to the children's great delight,
while fathers and mothers looked on approvingly. The way to the heart of
the Chinese is not far to seek. They dote on children, and children the
world over are much alike. More than once I have solved an awkward
situation by ignoring the inhospitable or unwilling elders and devoting
myself to the little ones, always at hand. Please the children and you
have won the parents.
We stopped that night at Che-pei, a small town lying at an elevation of
about six thousand feet. My room, the best the inn afforded, was dirty,
but large and airy. On one side a table was arranged for the ancestral
family worship, and I delayed turning in at night to give the people a
chance to burn a few joss sticks, which they did in a very
matter-of-fact fashion, nowise disturbed at my washing-things, which
Liu, the cook, had set out among the gods.
Our path the next day led high on the mountain-side and along a
beautiful ridge. We stopped for an early rest at a little walled
village, Jee-ka ("Cock's street"), perched picturesquely on the top of
the hill. Later we saw a storm advancing across the mountains, and
before we could reach cover the clouds broke over our heads, drenching
the poor coolies to the skin, but they took it in good part, laughing as
they scuttled along the trail. The rain kept on for some hours, and the
road was alternately a brook or a sea of slippery red mud; the pony,
with the cook on his back, rolled over, but fortunately neither was
hurt; coolies slid and floundered, and the chair-men went down, greatly
to their confusion, for it is deemed inexcusable for a chair-carrier to
fall. Toward the end of the day it cleared and the bright sun soon dried
the ways, and we raced into Wu-ting-chou in fine shape, the coolies
picking their way deftly along the narrow earth balks that form the
highway to this rather important town. Our entrance was of the usual
character, a cross between a triumphal procession and a circus
show,--people rushing to see the sight, children calling, dogs barking,
my men shouting as they pushed their way through the throng, while I sat
the observed of all, trying to carry off my embarrassment with a
benevolent smile. I am told that the interest of a Chinese crowd usually
centres on the foreigners' shoes, but in my case, when the gaze got down
to my feet, Jack was mostly there to divert attention.
Rain came on again in the night and kept us in Wu-ting-chou over the
next day. The Chinese, with their extraordinary adaptability, can stand
extremes of heat and cold remarkably well. Hence they are good
colonizers, able to work in Manchuria and Singapore, Canada and Panama.
But rain they dislike, and a smart shower is a good excuse for stopping.
Fortunately for all, the inn was unusually decent. Steps led from the
street into an outer court, behind which was a much larger second court,
surrounded on all sides by two-story buildings. My room on the upper
floor had beautiful views over the town, more attractive at close range
than most Chinese towns. The temples and yamen buildings were
exceptionally fine, while the houses, of sun-dried brick of the colour
of the red soil of Yunnan, had a comfortable look, their tip-tilted
tiled roofs showing picturesquely among the trees.
I spent the rainy forenoon in writing and in leaning over the gallery to
watch the life going on below. After the first excitement people went
about their business undisturbed by my presence. At one side cooking was
carried on at a long, crescent-shaped range of some sort of cement, and
containing half a dozen openings for fires. Above each fire was a
bowl-shaped depression in the range, and into this was fitted a big iron
pot. The food of the country is generally boiled, and is often seasoned
with a good deal of care. Barring the lack of cleanliness, the chief
objection to the cooking of the peasant-folk is the failure to cook
thoroughly. The Chinese are content if the rice and vegetables are
cooked through; they do not insist, as we do, that they be cooked soft.
In the smaller inns my men prepared their food themselves, and some
showed considerable skill. One soldier in particular was past-master in
making savoury stews much appreciated by the others.
Wu-ting-chou being a place designated for the payment of an instalment
of wages, and also the time having come for pork money, my coolies had a
grand feast, after which they devoted themselves to gambling away their
hard-earned money in games of "fan t'an." As they played entirely among
themselves the result was that some staggered the following day under
heavy ropes of cash, while others were forced to sell their hats to pay
for their food. I could only hope that the next pay-day would mean a
readjustment of spoils.
In the afternoon it cleared, and I went out in my chair, escorted by two
policemen, to a charming grove outside the walls, where I rested for a
time in a quiet nook, enjoying the views over the valley and thankful to
get away from the din of the inn. Curling up, I went fast asleep, to
wake with an uncomfortable sense of being watched; and sure enough,
peering over the top of the bank where I was lying were two pairs of
startled black eyes. I laughed, and thereupon the owners of the eyes,
who had stumbled upon me as they came up the hill, seated themselves in
front of me and began to ply me with questions, to which I could only
answer with another laugh; so they relapsed into friendly silence,
gingerly stroking Jack while they kept a watchful eye on me. What does
it matter if words are lacking, a laugh is understood, and will often
smooth a way where speech would bring confusion. Once, years ago in
Western Tibet, I crossed a high pass with just one coolie, in advance of
my caravan. Without warning we dropped down into a little village above
the Shyok. Most of the people had never before seen a European. I could
not talk with them nor they with my coolie,--for he came from the other
side of the range,--nor he with me. But I laughed, and every one else
laughed, and in five minutes I was sitting on the grass under the walnut
trees, offerings of flowers and mulberries on my lap, and while the
whole population sat around on stone walls and house roofs, the village
head man took off my shoes and rubbed my weary feet.
When I emerged from my retreat I found that a priest from the
neighbouring temple had come to beg a visit from me. It turned out to be
a Buddhist temple on the usual plan, noteworthy only for a rather good
figure of Buddha made of sun-dried clay and painted. The priest was
inclined to refuse a fee, saying he had done nothing, but he was keen to
have me take some pictures.
[Illustration: WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE GATEWAY]
[Illustration: WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE CORNER]
The next three days our path led us across the mountains separating the
Yangtse and Red River basins. We were now off the main roads; villages
and travellers were few. To my delight we had left for a time the paved
trails over which the pony scraped and slipped; the hard dirt made a
surer footing, and it was possible to let him out for a trot now and
then. The start and finish of the day were usually by winding narrow
paths carried along the strips of turf dividing the fields or over the
top of a stone wall. I learned to respect both the sure-footedness of
the Yunnan pony and the thrift of the Yunnan peasant who wasted no bit
of tillable land on roads. From time to time we crossed a stone bridge,
rarely of more than one arch, and that so pointed that the ponies on the
road, which followed closely the line of the arch, clambered up with
difficulty only to slide headlong on the other side. The bridges of
these parts are very picturesque, giving an added charm to the
landscape, in glaring contrast to the hideous, shed-like structures that
disfigure many a beautiful stream of New England.
Our way led alternately over barren or pine-clad hills, showing
everywhere signs of charcoal burners, or through deep gorges, or dipped
down into tiny emerald valleys. At one point we descended an
interminable rock staircase guarded by soldiers top and bottom. Formerly
this was a haunt of robbers, but now the Government was making a
vigorous effort to insure the safety of traffic along this way. Our
stay that night was in a tiny hamlet, and a special guard was stationed
at the door of the inn to defend us against real or fancied danger from
marauders.
It was still early in April, but even on these high levels the flowers
were in their glory, and each day revealed a new wonder. Roses were
abundant, white and scentless, or small, pink, and spicy, and the ground
was carpeted with yellow and blue flowers. From time to time we passed a
group of comfortable farm buildings, but much of the country had a
desolate look and the villages were nothing more than forlorn hamlets,
and once we stopped for the night in a solitary house far from any
settlement. A week after leaving Yunnan-fu we entered the valley of the
Tso-ling Ho, a tributary of the Great River, and a more fertile region.
As I had been warned, the weather changed here, and for the next
twenty-four hours we sweltered in the steamy heat of the Yangtse basin.
From now on, there was no lack of water. On all sides brooks large and
small dashed down, swelling the Tso-ling almost to the size of the main
river itself. At one spot, sending the men on to the village, I stopped
on the river bank to bathe my tired feet, and was startled by the
passing of a stray fisherman, but he seemed in no wise surprised, and
greeting me courteously went on with his work. China shares with us the
bad fame of being unpleasantly inquisitive. Would the rural American,
happening upon a Chinese woman,--an alien apparition from her smoothly
plastered hair to her tiny bound feet,--by the brookside in one of his
home fields, have shown the same restraint?
At five o'clock that same day we reached the ferry across the Yangtse,
too late to cross that night. I was hot and weary after a long march,
and the only place available in the village of Lung-kai was a cramped,
windowless hole opening into a small, filthy court, the best room of the
inn being occupied by a sick man. Through an open doorway I caught a
glimpse into a stable-yard well filled with pigs. On one side was a
small, open, shrine-like structure reached by a short flight of steps.
In spite of the shocked remonstrances of my men I insisted on taking
possession of this; the yard, though dirty, was dry, and at least I was
sure of plenty of air. Fresh straw was spread in the shrine and my bed
set up on it; the pigs were given my pony's stable, as I preferred his
company to theirs; and I had an unusually pleasant evening, spite of the
fact that the roofs of the adjoining buildings were crowded with
onlookers, mostly children, until it grew too dark for them to see
anything.
We crossed the Yangtse the next day on a large flat-bottomed boat into
which we all crowded higgledy-piggledy, the men and their loads, pony
and chairs. The current was so swift that we were carried some distance
downstream before making a landing. At this point, and indeed from Tibet
to Suifu, the Yangtse is, I believe, generally known as the Kinsha
Kiang, or "River of Golden Sand." The Chinese have no idea of the
continuing identity of a river, and most of theirs have different names
at different parts of their course, but in this case there is some
reason for the failure to regard the upper and the lower Yangtse as one
and the same stream, for at Suifu, where the Min joins the Yangtse, it
is much the larger body of water throughout most of the year, and is
generally held by the natives to be the true source of the Great River.
Moreover, above the junction the Yangtse is not navigable, owing to the
swift current and obstructing rocks, while the Min serves as one of
China's great waterways, bearing the products of the famous Chengtu
plain to the eastern markets.
After leaving the ferry we followed for some miles the dry bed of a
river whose name I could not learn. The scene was desolate and barren in
the extreme, nothing but rock and sand; and had it not been cloudy the
heat would have been very trying. But we were now among the Cloud
Mountains, where the bright days are so few that it is said the Szechuan
dogs bark when the sun comes out. After a short stop at a lonely inn
near a trickle of a brook we turned abruptly up the mountain-side, by a
zigzag trail so steep that even the interpreter was forced to walk. As
I toiled wearily upward, I looked back to find my dog riding comfortably
in my chair. Tired and hot, he had barked to be taken up. The coolies
thought it a fine joke, and when I whistled him down they at once put
him back again, explaining that it was hard work for short legs. At one
of the worst bits of the trail we met some finely dressed men on
horseback, who stared in a superior way at me on foot. The Chinese sees
no reason for walking if he has a chair or pony. What are the chair and
the pony for? They must lack imagination, or how can they ride down the
awful staircases of a West China road, the pony plunging from step to
step under his heavy load? I doubt if they realize either the pony's
suffering or the rider's danger. I did both, and so I often walked.
After a climb of three thousand feet we came out on a wide open plateau,
beautifully cultivated, which we crossed to our night stopping-place,
Chiang-yi, nearly seven thousand feet above sea level.
We started the next morning in the rain, which kept up pretty much all
day. The country through which we now passed was rather bare of
cultivation and of inhabitants, but the wealth and variety of flowers
and shrubs more than made amends. Nowhere have I seen such numbers of
flowering shrubs as all through this region, a few known to me, but most
of them quite new. It was with much gratification that I learned at a
later time of the remarkable work done in connection with the Arnold
Arboretum near Boston in seeking out and bringing to America specimens
of many of China's beautiful trees and plants. At the head of one small
valley we passed a charming temple half buried in oleanders and
surrounded by its own shimmering green rice-fields, and a little farther
on we came to a farmhouse enclosed in a rose hedge some twelve feet high
and in full bloom. There was no sign of life about, and it might have
served as the refuge of the Sleeping Princess, but a nearer inspection
would probably have been disillusioning.
We stopped that night at Ho-k'ou, a small place of which I saw little,
for the heavy rain that kept us there over a day held me a prisoner in
the inn. I had a small room over the pony's stable, and I spent the
forenoon writing to the tune of comfortable crunching of corn and beans.
The rest of the day I amused myself in entertaining the women of the inn
with the contents of my dressing-case, and when it grew cold in my open
loft I joined the circle round the good coal fire burning in a brazier
in the public room. Every one was friendly, and persistent, men and
women alike, in urging me to take whiffs from their long-stemmed tobacco
pipes. All smoke, using sometimes this long-stemmed, small-bowled pipe,
and sometimes the water pipe, akin in principle to the Indian
hubble-bubble. In this part of Szechuan I saw few smoking cigarettes,
but thanks to the untiring efforts of the British American Tobacco
Company, they are fast becoming known, and my men were vastly pleased
when I doled some out at the end of a hard day.
From Ho-k'ou it was a two days' journey to Hui-li-chou, the first large
town on my trip. The scenery was charmingly varied. At times the trail
led along high ridges with beautiful glimpses down into the valleys, or
affording splendid views to right and left, to the mysterious, forbidden
Lololand to the east, and to the unsurveyed country beyond the Yalung,
west of us, or again it dropped to the banks of the streams, leading us
through attractive hamlets buried in palms and bamboo, pines and cactus,
while the surrounding hillsides were white or red with masses of
rhododendron just coming into flower. Entering one village I heard a
sound as of swarming bees raised to the one hundredth power. On inquiry
it turned out to be a school kept in a small temple. While the coolies
were resting I sent my card to the schoolmaster, and was promptly
invited to pay a visit of inspection. It proved to be a private school
of some thirty boys and one girl, the master's daughter. They were of
all ages from six years upwards, and, I was told, generally stayed from
one to five years at school. Instruction was limited to reading and
writing, and two boys were called up to show what they could do. To
ignorant me they seemed to do very well, reading glibly down their
pages of hieroglyphics.
At another stop I had a talk with the village headman. He was elected
for one year, he told me, by the people of the hamlet, comprising about
forty families. He confessed his inability to read or write, but his
face was intelligent and his bearing showed dignity and self-respect.
Petty disputes and breaches of the peace were settled by him according
to unwritten custom and his native shrewdness; and he was also
responsible for the collection of the land tax due from the village.
The people in this part of Szechuan seemed fairly prosperous, but the
prevalence of goitre was very unpleasant. The natives account for it in
various ways,--the use of white salt or the drinking of water made from
melting snow.
On the 20th of April we reached Hui-li-chou. The approach to the town or
group of towns which make up this, the largest place in southern
Szechuan, was charming, through high hedges gay with pink and white
flowers. In the suburbs weaving or dyeing seemed to be going on in every
house. Sometimes whole streets were given over to the dyers, naked men
at work above huge vats filled with the inevitable blue of China. After
crossing the half-dry bed of a small river we found ourselves under the
great wall of Hui-li proper. Turning in at the South Gate we rapidly
traversed the town to our night's lodging-place near the North Gate, the
crowds becoming ever denser, people swarming out from the restaurants
and side streets, as the news spread of the arrival of a "yang-potsz"
(foreign woman). The interest was not surprising, as I was only the
third or fourth European woman to come this way, but it was my first
experience alone in a large town, and the pressing, staring crowd was
rather dismaying; however, I found comfortable companionship in the
smiling face of a little lad running beside my chair, his swift feet
keeping pace with the carriers. I smiled back, and when the heavy doors
of our night's lodging-house closed behind us, I found the small gamin
was inside, too,--self-installed errand boy. He proved quick and alert
beyond the common run of boys, East or West, and made himself very
useful, but save when out on errands he was always at my side, watching
me with dog-like interest, and kowtowing to the ground when I gave him a
small reward. The next morning he was on duty at dawn, and trotted
beside my chair until we were well on our way, when I sent him back. I
should have been glad to have borrowed or bought or stolen him.
Hui-li-chou, with a population of some forty thousand, is in the middle
of an important mining region, both zinc and copper ore being found in
the neighbouring hills in good quantity; but the bad roads and
government restrictions combine to keep down industry. In spite of its
being a trading centre the inns are notoriously bad, and we were
fortunate in finding rooms in a small mission chapel maintained by a
handful of native Christians. In the course of the evening some of them
paid me a call. They seemed intelligent and alert, and although in the
past the town has had an unpleasant reputation for hostility to
missions, conditions at the present time were declared to be
satisfactory.
CHAPTER IV
THE CHIEN-CH'ANG
The second day after leaving Hui-li-chou we entered the valley of the
Anning Ho, a grey, fast-flowing stream whose course runs parallel with
the meridian like all the others of that interesting group of rivers
between Assam and eastern Szechuan, the Irrawaddy, the Salween, the
Mekong, the Yangtse, the Yalung. The Anning, the smallest of these, lies
enclosed in a wilderness of tangled ranges, and its valley forms the
shortest trade route between Szechuan and the Indo-Chinese peninsula.
For about eight marches, north and south, it runs through a district
known as Chien-ch'ang, celebrated throughout China for its fertility and
the variety of its products. At the lower end the valley is very narrow,
and level ground is limited, but the gentle slopes on either side are
beautifully cultivated in tiny terraced fields. Farther north, however,
in the neighbourhood of Ning-yuean-fu, the valley widens out into a
broad, open plain. Apparently in this favoured region tropics and
temperate zone meet, for I never saw before such motley vegetation. Rice
and cotton alternate with wheat and maize and beans, while saffron and
indigo fit in anywhere. Fruits, too, of many kinds are abundant. A
short time ago the poppy made every turn brilliant, but to-day imperial
edicts, ruthlessly enforced, are saving the Chinese unwillingly from
themselves, and the poppy has disappeared from sight. In spite of
complaints it would seem as though the Chien-ch'ang farmers, better than
many in West China, could support the loss of that remunerative crop,
for their resources, properly exploited, seem almost exhaustless.
Mulberry trees are grown about every village and farmhouse, and the silk
export is of considerable value to the community.
But one of the most interesting products of this region has lost much of
its importance in late years. All over China, but especially in this
part of Szechuan, there grows a tree of the large-leaved privet species.
On the bark of the branches and twigs are discovered attached little
brown scales of the size and shape of a small pea. When opened in the
spring they are found to contain a swarming mass of minute insects.
Toward the end of April, the time when I passed through this region,
these scales were being carefully gathered and packed in small parcels,
and already the journey northward was beginning. Porters bearing loads
of about sixty pounds were hurrying up the valley, often travelling only
by night to save their precious burden from the burning sun's rays which
would cause too rapid development. Their destination was Chia-ting,
which lies on the Min River at the eastern edge of a great plain, the
home of the so-called "pai-la shu," or "white wax tree," a species of
ash. The whole countryside is dotted over with this tree, so cut as to
resemble the pollard willow. On arrival the scales are carefully made up
into small packets of twenty or thirty scales each, wrapped in leaves
and attached to the branches of the white wax tree. After a short
interval the insects emerge from the scales and secrete a waxlike
substance, covering the boughs and twigs with a white deposit about a
quarter of an inch thick. This is carefully gathered, and after
purification by boiling is made up into the small cakes of commerce to
be put to various uses. It forms an important ingredient in sizing and
polish, and also in giving a gloss to silk; but especially it is valued
as imparting a greater consistency to tallow for candles, as it melts
only at a temperature of 160 deg. Fahrenheit. But the Standard Oil
activities have dealt a serious blow to the white wax industry. Kerosene
is now in general use where there is any lighting at all, and whereas
formerly ten thousand coolies annually hurried up the valley carrying
scales to Chia-ting, we now saw only a few hundred.
A generation ago Chien-ch'ang was perhaps the least known part of all
China to the outside world. About the middle of the thirteenth century
the Mongol, Kublai Khan, acting as general of the forces of his
brother, Genghis Khan, went through here to the conquest of Tali, then
an independent kingdom in the southwest, and the untiring Venetian
following in his train noted a few of the characteristics of Caindu, the
name he gave both to the valley and the capital city. Six centuries
elapsed before the next traveller from the West came this way. In the
late seventies Colborne Baber, Chinese Secretary of the British
Legation, traversed the valley from north to south, being the first
European since the time of Marco Polo to enter Ning-yuean-fu, save for an
unfortunate French priest who arrived a few months earlier, only to be
driven out with stones. At that time, according to Baber, "two or three
sentences in the book of Ser Marco to the effect that after crossing
high mountains he reached a fertile country containing many villages and
towns, and inhabited by a very immoral population," constituted the only
existing description of the district.
In spite of the importance of this route it remained until a few years
ago very insecure. Overhung almost its entire length by the inaccessible
fastnesses of Lololand, the passing caravans dared journey only with
convoy, and even then were frequently overwhelmed by raiders from the
hills, who carried off both trader and goods into the mountains, the
former to lifelong servitude. The Ta Liang Shan, or "Great Cold
Mountains," the country of the independent Lolos, is a mountainous
region extending north and south some three hundred miles, which
constitutes to this day an almost impenetrable barrier between east and
west, crossed voluntarily by no Chinese, unless in force, and from which
but one European party has returned to tell the tale. On the outskirts
of this territory a little mission work has been undertaken with some
success, but as yet no real impression has been made upon the people.
Chinese hold upon the country is limited to an occasional more or less
ineffective punitive expedition organized after some unusual outrage,
such as the murder, a few years back, of Lieutenant Brooke, the English
explorer. Naturally the Government does not care to assume any
responsibility for the foolhardy foreigner bent on risking his life.
Lieutenant Brooke went without permission, and during my stay in
Ning-yuean I learned that two French travellers had just sought in vain
for leave to attempt the crossing of the mountains to Suifu.
Within Lololand, of course, no Chinese writ runs, no Chinese magistrate
holds sway, and the people, more or less divided among themselves, are
under the government of their tribal chiefs. The little that is known of
this interesting race has been learned from the so-called tame Lolos who
have accepted Chinese rule, and are found scattered in small villages
in the western part of Szechuan and Yunnan, being perhaps most numerous
in the neighbourhood of the Anning and Yalung rivers, where an
appreciable proportion of the population is of aboriginal or mixed
aboriginal and Chinese stock. Accepting Chinese rule does not generally
mean accepting Chinese customs. They hold to their own language and
religion, one a dialect akin to Tibetan, and the other a form of
animism. It is very easy to distinguish conquerors and conquered, for
the Lolos are darker as well as taller and better formed than the
Chinese. Their features are good and they have a frank, direct
expression which is very attractive. In dress also they have not
conformed to the ways of their masters. Instead of a queue the men wear
the hair in a horn above the forehead, while the women hold firmly to
the feminine petticoats, surrounded though they are by the trousered
Chinese women. Nor do they bind their feet, but stride bravely along on
the feet nature gave them.
What these people really are is one of the unsettled ethnological
problems of the East, but probably they are of the same stock as the
Shans and Burmese. Even their proper appellation is in doubt. The
Chinese call them Lolos, which means simply "barbarians" or "wild men."
By the people themselves the term is regarded as insulting, and one
should avoid using it before them; but they are not agreed among
themselves on a common name, and use ordinarily local tribal names.
Half a dozen years ago travellers were warned against the dangers of the
road, but since then matters have been taken vigorously in hand by the
Chinese authorities. Guard-houses have been erected at short intervals,
the passes are strongly fortified, and a large force of well-trained men
is stationed permanently in the valley. The journey can now be made in
entire safety, but there are numerous signs of past dangers, and the
precautions taken are very evident. Perhaps I was made especially
conscious of possible danger because, as my interpreter said, though the
officials were careful to secure the safety of every one of us, they
were particularly anxious that nothing should happen to me; not, of
course, from any personal concern for the foreigner, but because the
foreigner's Government has such a way of making things unpleasant if
anything happens to him.
From Hui-li-chou northwards I was escorted by real soldiers, quite of
the new service. They looked rather shipshape in khaki suits and
puttees, and their guns were of a good model, but they handled them in
careless fashion at first, belabouring laden ponies and even coolies who
were slow in getting out of the way of my chair. I am told that they are
very ready to lord it over their countrymen when escorting Europeans,
taking advantage of the fearful respect in which the foreigner is held.
I checked them vigorously at the time, and before the next morning's
start I called them up, and with the aid of the interpreter harangued
them to the effect that I was pleased to see that they knew how to use
their guns, and if need came I hoped they would give a good account of
themselves in China's defence, but in the mean time they should be very
slow to use their weapons on men or beasts, and if I saw them do it
while they were with me they would get no "wine money." The soldiers
took my orders very meekly, and the bystanders (there are always
bystanders in China) grinned approvingly.
The first two marches out from Hui-li led over the range into the Anning
valley, a high, rocky trail without much vegetation for the most part,
but after we struck the river, cultivation was almost continuous, one
hamlet following fast on another. This part of the valley is available
for irrigation, and the skill and ingenuity shown in making use of the
water supply is nothing short of marvellous. At one point we ascended a
long, wide, gentle slope all laid out in tiny fields, and well watered
from two large, fast-flowing streams. But where did they come from, for
the slope ended abruptly in a sharp, high precipice overlooking a gorge
through which flowed the Chin Ch'uan, a tributary of the Anning. But on
turning a corner at the head of the slope we saw that from high up on
the mountain-side an artificial channel had been constructed with
infinite labour, bringing water from the upper course of the stream to
the thirsty fields below.
Late on this same day the trail crossed a bare, rocky hillside, at one
point passing between masses of stone ruins; something like a tower to
the right, and on the left a sort of walled enclosure. I had lingered
behind to gather a nosegay of the small blue flowers that marked the
day's march. As I approached I saw some twenty or thirty men clad in
long white or black cloaks hanging about the ruins, and my big chair
coolie, who had constituted himself my special protector, coming to meet
me, hurried me by without stopping. When I joined the interpreter, who
was waiting for me at a discreet distance, I learned that the men were
Lolos, "half-tame wild men," employed by merchants and others to guard
this rather dangerous place where the trail approached somewhat closely
the territory of the independent Lolos. In spite of protests I went
back, accompanied by the big coolie and a soldier, to take some
pictures. A few of the men ran away, but most made no objection and
good-humouredly grouped themselves at my direction while I photographed
them as best I could in the waning light. Their independent bearing and
bold, free look interested me, and I should have been glad to talk with
them, but the interpreter was disinclined to come near, and it was
doubtful, too, if they could have spoken Chinese well enough to have
been understood.
The 25th of April was our last day into Ning-yuean-fu, and I was glad; it
was getting very hot, and the coolies were tired from their long
journey. Several were hiring substitutes from the village-folk, paying
less than half what they received from me. To avoid the heat we were off
before sunrise. Often on that part of the trip we started in the
half-light of the early dawn, and there was something very delightful in
our unnoticed departure through the empty, echoing streets of the
sleeping town where, the evening before, the whole population had been
at our heels. And outside the stifling walls the joy of another day's
ride through a new world was awaiting me.
For a time we followed up the narrow, winding valley, gradually opening
out until we turned off to cross the low hills that barred the southern
end of the Ning-yuean plain. Every inch of ground was under cultivation,
but as yet few crops were up. Mulberries, however, were ripening fast,
forerunners of the abundant fruit of this region. Shortly before tiffin
we crossed a stream over which the bridge of stone was actually being
repaired. In China, as elsewhere in Asia, it is a work of merit to
construct a new building or road, but waste of time to repair the old. I
wondered if by any chance some high official was expected, for the East
fulfils quite literally the Scriptural injunction, "Prepare ye the way
of the Lord, make straight his path before him"; more than once I
realized the advantage of following in the footsteps of the great.
[Illustration: LOLO GIRLS]
[Illustration: "TAME, WILD" LOLOS]
Toward the end of the day we crossed a spur of the hills, and descended
abruptly into the Ning-yuean plain; half concealed among the trees lay
the town, while off to the southeast sparkled the water of the lake
noted by Marco Polo. As we sat resting for a few moments at a tea-house,
I saw galloping towards us two horsemen, Europeans, the first I had seen
for nearly three weeks. They turned out to be Mr. Wellwood and Dr.
Humphreys, of the American Baptist Mission, who had ridden out to make
me welcome. An hour later we crossed the parade ground outside the city
gate, and shortly, turning in by a building of unmistakable European
architecture, found ourselves in the mission compound. It was most
delightful to be again among my own kind, and the three days spent in
Ning-yuean while I was reorganizing my little caravan for the next stage
were very enjoyable, barring the excessive heat.
Ning-yuean-fu is the largest town in this part of Szechuan, having a
population of perhaps fifty thousand. It is surrounded by a well-built
wall, high and broad and nearly three miles in length. Within are few
buildings of interest, due perhaps to the fact that about fifty years
ago it was almost demolished by an earthquake. According to tradition,
the same thing happened in the early part of the Ming period, when the
town, which, so it is said, then stood in the hollow where the lake now
lies, was first shaken by an earthquake and then overwhelmed by a rush
of water from underground. Later a new city was built on the present
site. If the natives are to be believed, the ruins of the drowned city
may still be seen on calm days lying at the bottom of the lake, while
after a storm beds and chairs of strange patterns are sometimes found
floating about on the water.
Even this remote corner of China shows the influence of the new
movement, and Western ideas are making their way. Something had been
done to improve the city schools, and I can testify to the desire of the
military force stationed at Ning-yuean to form itself on European models,
for the morning's sleep was broken by the vigorous bugle practice of the
band, and at every turn one met soldiers, marching along with a good
deal of vim. The large parade ground was given over in the afternoon to
the testing and speeding of ponies. We rode out there one day, and I was
pleased to see that the interest and wise ways of the missionaries in
horseflesh were much appreciated by the owners of the ponies, men of a
class not easily reached by the ordinary channels of mission work.
As my contract with the Yunnan hong was only to Ning-yuean-fu, it was
necessary to make new arrangements here. My old men had expressed a wish
to go on with me, but in the end only one did so, the others disliking
the detour to Tachienlu which they knew I had in mind. Moreover, it
would have been necessary for them to register in the Ning-yuean hong,
which they were not anxious to do, nor was the hong anxious to have
them. So I let them go, well contented with their "wine money," which
was, indeed, outrageously large. Soon after starting from Yunnan-fu I
had realized that the men were inclined to ask for a day's halt more
frequently than I liked, as I was anxious to push ahead, knowing that
the spring rains were shortly due. I did not know then the custom of the
road, which decrees no payment at all if it is the coolies who insist on
stopping, although a small payment, usually five cents gold, is the rule
for each day of halt for your convenience. So I felt that my only check
upon the men was to hold out a reward. Accordingly I offered them a
definite tip and a good one, if they would get me to Ning-yuean-fu at a
certain day, which they did, making the journey, as I learned later,
simply in the ordinary time. I was advised not to pay them the sum
promised, as they were profiting by my ignorance, and it might make me
trouble afterwards. But I reasoned that my ignorance was my own fault;
they had not asked, I had offered the reward, and I was sure the evil of
a broken promise was greater than any bad precedent. So the men got
their tip, and I am certain I gained by the reputation I thus acquired
of keeping my word. I never again gave such rewards, but I always had
good service.
I was sorry to see the Yunnan men go; they were sturdy, willing fellows,
quick to learn my ways. In particular, one of my chair coolies, the big
fellow called Liu, I should have been glad to keep on, in spite of
unexpected revelations at Ning-yuean. He had made the trip from Yunnan
with Mr. Wellwood a few weeks earlier, behaving well, but after
receiving his pay he got gloriously drunk and was expelled from the inn,
whereupon he turned up at the mission, still drunk. As he was not taken
in, he proceeded to tear up the chapel palings and make himself a
nuisance. So after repeated warnings he was turned over to the police,
who shut him up for a night and then gave him a whipping. Probably he
had learned a lesson, for he made me no bother. This was the only case
within my own knowledge of a coolie's giving trouble through drinking.
Out-of-the-way travel in the East is much simpler for being among
non-drinking people. Years ago I made a canoeing trip in northern Maine
with two friends. Almost we were forced to rob the traditional cradle
and grave to secure guides warranted sober--the only sort safe for a
party of women; but in the East that question is scarcely considered,
and personally I have never had any difficulty.
The men that I took on at Ning-yuean were on the whole younger and
smaller than the Yunnan men, but they too did their work well. The new
fu t'ou was a Chengtu man of a type quite unlike the others, tall,
slender, well made, and with decidedly good features. He seemed young
for his post, but soon showed himself quite equal to the task of keeping
the men up to the mark, and of meeting any difficulty that arose.
To my surprise I was able to buy oil for our lanterns on the street
here. One does not think of the Standard Oil Company as a missionary
agency, but it has certainly done a great deal to light up the dark
corners of China, morally as well as physically, by providing the people
with a cheap way of lighting their houses. Formerly when darkness fell,
there was nothing to do but gamble and smoke. Now the industrious
Chinese can ply his trade as late as he chooses.
I was sorry to say farewell to my kind hosts, but it was good to get
away from the trying heat of Ning-yuean plain, all the more oppressive
because of the confined limits of the mission quarters set in the heart
of the city. The only escape for the missionaries during the hot months
was to a temple on one of the surrounding hills. I was glad to learn
that land had been secured at a little distance from the present
compound for more spacious accommodations. People at home do not realize
the difficulty of getting fresh air and exercise in a Chinese town.
Walking inside the walls is almost impossible because of the dirt and
crowds, while near the city all unoccupied land is usually given over to
graves. In Ning-yuean really the only chance for exercise short of a
half-day's excursion, perhaps, was on the city wall, where I had a
delightful ride one afternoon.
It was the morning of April 29, when we finally started, my caravan
being now increased to seventeen men, as I had advanced the interpreter
to a three-bearer chair and given his old one to the cook, who as a
Szechuan man should have been able to walk. But he seemed hardly up to
it,--in fact he gave me the impression of an elderly man, although he
owned to forty-one years only. It needs a trained eye, I imagine, to
judge of the age of men of an alien race.
On passing out from the suburbs of the town, charmingly embowered in
fruit orchards, we struck across the open, treeless plain. There was
little land that could be cultivated that was not under cultivation, but
as yet the fields lay bare and baked in the burning sun, waiting the
belated rain, as this part of the valley cannot be irrigated, owing to
the lie of the land. Rain fell the first night, and after that neither
the soil nor I could complain of dryness. Our first stop was at Li-chou,
a small, comfortable town at the head of the valley, with a bad inn. It,
not Ning-yuean, which lies a little off the main trail, is the centre of
the carrying business between Yunnan and the north, and from this time
on, we found the village population everywhere chiefly occupied as
carrier coolies.
Our first day from Li-chou was a short stage, and we had a long,
leisurely tiffin at Sung-lin, where there was an exceptionally good inn.
The proprietor was away, but his wife, who was in charge, seemed very
competent and friendly, and took me into their private rooms, fairly
clean and airy, and quite spacious. In one was a large, grave-shaped
mound of cement-like substance. On inquiry I learned that it enclosed
the coffin and body of the mother of the proprietor. She had been dead a
year, but the body could not receive final burial until his return. The
Chinese custom of keeping unburied their dead awaiting a propitious
moment strikes one as most unpleasant and unwholesome, but the worst
consequences are usually avoided by hermetically sealing the ponderous
coffin. In Canton the House of the Dead is visited by all travellers. It
is a great stretch of small buildings set in flower gardens, each room
commanding a definite rent, and usually occupied by the waiting dead,
whose fancied wants are meantime carefully supplied. The dead hand rests
heavy on China. Not merely is much valuable land given over to graves,
and the hills denuded of forest to make the five-inch coffin boards, but
the daily order of life is often unduly sacrificed to the departed.
On my way from Calcutta to Hong Kong there joined us at Singapore the
Chinese Consul-General at that place. He was returning with his family
to Canton to attend the funeral of his mother. In talk with him I
learned that he had been one of that famous group of students who came
to America in the seventies, only to be suddenly recalled by the Chinese
Government. He had since acted as Secretary to the Chinese Legation in
Washington, and was quite at home in Western ways. In his dress he
combined very effectively both Chinese and occidental symbols of
mourning, his white coat-sleeve being adorned with a band of black
crape, while in the long black queue he wore braided the white mourning
thread of China. He expected to be at home for some months, and during
that time, so he told me, it would be unsuitable for him to engage in
any sort of worldly business.
We were now leaving behind the close cultivation of the Chien-ch'ang;
the valley grew narrower, hemmed in by higher and more barren mountains,
but the wild roses made beautiful every turn. One village that we passed
was quite surrounded by a hedge of roses several feet high, and all in
full bloom. My second night from Ning-yuean-fu was not much better than
the first, for the inn at Lu-ku, a rather important little town, was
most uncomfortable; but a delightful hour's rest and quiet on the river
bank before entering the town freshened me up so much that the night
did not matter. One march to the north of Lu-ku, up the valley of the
Anning, lay the district town of Mien-ning, reached by a rough trail
that finally wandered off into the inextricable gorges of the Ta Tu Ho.
It was in these wild defiles that the last contests of the Taiping
rebellion were fought. I looked longingly up the valley, but my way
turned off to the right, following the pack-road to the ferry at Fulin.
At once on starting the next morning we passed out of the main valley
into a narrow gorge with precipitous sides opening from the east. The
trail wound upwards along the mountain-face, often hewn out of the rock
and scarcely more than five feet wide, and at one point it was barred
effectually by heavy gates. They opened to us, but not on that day half
a century ago when the Taiping leader, Shih Ta-k'ai, failing to force
his way through, turned back to meet defeat in the wilds above
Mien-ning-hsien.
All along the road we met signs of our nearness to the country of the
Lolos. There was much uncultivated land, and the population seemed
scanty, but officials and soldiers were numerous, while guard-houses
dominated the trail at short intervals. The village type was not always
pure Chinese, and occasionally we met people unmistakably of another
race. At Teng-hsiang-ying, or "Strong-walled Camp," where we stopped for
the night, both soldiers and Lolos were much in evidence. We were here
about two thousand one hundred feet below the summit of the great pass
through which the raiders in times not far past made their way into
fertile Chien-ch'ang. After getting settled in the inn, I went for a
walk, carefully guarded by two soldiers especially detailed for the
purpose by the Yamen. In one alley I noticed Lolo women spinning in the
doorways, and with the aid of the soldiers, who seemed to be on very
friendly terms with them, I succeeded in getting a picture of two. In
feature and colour they might have passed for Italians, and their dress
was more European than Chinese in cut. On their heads they wore the Tam
o' Shanter-like cap of black stuff, common among these people, bound on
with their long braids, and their coats were of the usual felt. Their
skirts, homespun, were made with what we used to call a Spanish flounce.
According to Baber, the Lolo petticoat is of great significance. No one
may go among the independent Lolos safely save in the guardianship of a
member of the tribe, and a woman is as good a guardian as a man. Before
setting out she puts on an extra petticoat, and the traveller thus
escorted is sacred. But if the guarantee is not respected she takes off
the garment, spreading it on the ground, and there it remains, telling
to all the outrage that has been committed, and appealing to Heaven for
redress. Altogether the women that I saw had a rather attractive,
feminine look, and their manner, though timid, was not cringing. People
who know them best have a good word for the Lolos, but few Europeans
have come much in contact with them. Those I saw looked miserably poor.
Missionaries declare that the hand of the official is heavy upon them,
and of course the persistent, hard-working Chinese are certain to have
acquired the best land.
The next day we crossed the Hsiao Hsiang Ling, or "Little Elephant
Pass," fortunately in fine weather. The approach from the south was very
beautiful. For a number of li our road led through a deep, narrow gorge,
following up a fine rocky stream. The flowers and blossoming shrubs were
wonderful; masses of white and of pink azaleas clothed the lower slopes,
and there appeared now for the first time a bush bearing long,
feather-like sprays of fragrant white blooms. From time to time we
passed a guard-house, and soldiers were everywhere, some on guard,
others practising exercises, others lounging. At one place a group had
gathered about a fellow who was playing rather nicely an instrument
resembling a mandolin. He seemed gratified at my interest, and readily
repeated his music for me. As seen in passing, the guard-houses looked
clean and substantial, vastly superior to the ordinary Chinese abode.
But the country had a rather forbidding aspect as we marched farther up
the valley, fit setting for deeds of outrage and bloodshed; its
character seemed symbolized in the head of a Lolo robber set up by the
wayside.
The final climb to the pass was over gentle, grassy slopes. At the top,
nearly ten thousand feet above sea level, the way led through a strongly
fortified post where I stopped for a few moments to enjoy the wide view,
northwest to the nearer mountains of the Tibetan range, and east to the
dark peaks of the Ta Liang Shan. On the northern side of the pass the
descent is long and tiring, a succession of steep zigzags and rocky
staircases. At the time of day when I crossed, the lines of carriers and
baggage ponies were almost continuous. There were guard-houses at
intervals of three li, and at each a special detail of two soldiers came
out, and, saluting me properly, fell into position, one in front and one
behind, to be replaced at the next post by two others. As we descended
to lower levels the valley widened out slightly, giving room for a few
hard-wrung fields surrounded by broad stone walls reminding one of New
England, and now and then we passed a lonely farmhouse built of stones
and enclosed in a rather ineffective defence of wattles. But villages
were few, hardly more than hamlets that had grown up about the military
posts. All were walled, and where the highway passed through the
village, dividing it in two, each half was enclosed in its own high wall
of mud and stones. Moreover, many of the houses were of fortress-like
construction, three stories high, and with only a few slits for
windows. Once or twice we passed through an open bazaar strongly walled
and with a fortified gate at either end, serving as a brief
resting-place for the caravans hurrying over this dangerous stretch of
road.
[Illustration: A MEMORIAL ARCH. SZECHUAN]
[Illustration: FORTIFIED VILLAGE IN THE CHIEN-CH'ANG VALLEY]
As we travelled northward we saw fewer of the fine stone bridges of the
south; the construction was now generally of wood, not unlike in outline
the disfiguring structures of New England, but improved by open sides
and a picturesque curly roof of tiles. Usually they were approached by a
flight of steps, showing conclusively, if proof were needed, that there
were no wheeled vehicles to consider. And, indeed, traffic generally was
of limited character after we left the pass. Occasionally we overtook
coolies hurrying along with their precious loads of white wax insects,
or bending under long, thick pine or cypress boards, sometimes towering
high above their heads or else strapped across their shoulders, forcing
them to move crab-fashion along the narrow trails. On inquiry I learned
that deeply embedded in the soil of the hills are found huge trees, rows
of sprouts marking their location. These are dug up with much effort and
sawn into boards which are in great request for the ponderous Chinese
coffins. It would seem as though the supply must be inexhaustible, for
when Sir Alexander Hosie came this way, a generation ago, he noted the
same traffic and received the same explanation. With the prohibition of
the poppy, the region has for the moment little export trade, while the
imports seem to consist mainly of military supplies for the Chien-ch'ang
garrisons. However, the road is in unusually good condition, for the
whole way from Teng-hsiang-ying to Yueeh-hsi, our next stop, a distance
of perhaps thirty-five miles, is well paved with broad flags. As we drew
near to the town the valley opened a little, affording a glimpse of a
snow peak to the north, while toward the southeast we look up a narrow
gorge into Lololand, the border being but some fifteen miles away. This
is almost the only break in the flanking hills that wall in the
Forbidden Land. Yueeh-hsi itself lies in the centre of a rock-strewn
plain broken by a few rice-and maize-fields, and is important as a
military post guarding the trade route against this easy way of attack.
The best room of the inn smelt to heaven, but on investigation I found
an open loft which proved very possible after ejecting a few fowls.
The following day our march led us through a narrow valley bare of
people and cultivation. Following this was a welcome change to steep
climbs over grass-covered slopes broken by picturesque ravines. I tried
to get a picture of a coolie, bearing a huge nine-foot-long coffin
plank, whom we overtook on the trail. A handful of cash and cigarettes
won his consent, but in spite of my men's efforts to calm his fears,
the poor fellow cringed and trembled so, as I got my camera into
position, that I gave it up. I felt as I might feel if I kicked a dumb
animal.
Our night's stop was at Pao-an-ying,--like so many other hamlets of this
region, little more than a camp-village, and showing its origin in the
termination "ying" or "jin," meaning regiment. My room at the inn looked
out directly on the street, and there was neither quiet nor privacy to
be had, so I went out for a walk, escorted by a soldier and a coolie.
Discovering a secluded screened place in a graveyard, I fell asleep on
the top of a tomb, and my men near by did the same; but presently I was
awakened by Jack's barking, to find myself the centre of a crowd of some
fifty men silently watching me, and down the hillside I saw others
coming, so I gave it up and took a stroll through the town, inspecting
the provision shops.
We were off the next morning in the dark. At first the road was wild and
picturesque. The track was unusually good, and steep, well-constructed
zigzags carried us up and down the hills. Later the valley opened, and
we ascended gradually over beautiful slopes gay with rhododendron and
iris. The clouds above the mountains were very fine, but presently rain
came on, continuing off and on all day.
Late in the afternoon we came in sight of Haitang, a walled town perched
picturesquely on the side of a hill. A temple outside the wall looked
attractive, and I should have visited it had it not been for the rain
which now set in in good earnest. So, instead, I inspected the inn,
which seemed unusually interesting. There was the ordinary entrance
court roofed over, and behind that an inner court open to the sky and
surrounded by galleried buildings. Off from this led a long, high
passage into which opened a number of superior rooms. Mine was quite
elaborately furnished with carved bedstead and chairs and tables, and
best of all, it had a door opening directly on to the city wall, where I
could step out and get a breath of fresh air free from observation.
Here I had my first experience of the "squeeze." On directing the
interpreter to give the fu t'ou the coolies' pork money, I learned that
on the previous occasion the man had kept an undue proportion of it.
Apparently a certain squeeze was regarded as legitimate, but he had
transgressed the accepted bounds. I hardly knew how to meet the
difficulty. Of course I could have paid the coolies directly, but it was
most desirable to maintain the fu t'ou's authority over them. Finally,
in true Chinese fashion, the interpreter worked out a scheme by which
the fu t'ou's "face" might be saved, and yet the coolies not be
defrauded. Going out into the court where the men were lounging, he
called loudly to the fu t'ou to come for the coolies' money, naming the
sum I intended to give, about one hundred cash to a man. In the face of
this there was nothing for the fu t'ou to do but give to each his
rightful share, which he did with a very sulky air. Afterwards I had a
talk with the man, telling him that my idea of a good fu t'ou was one
who kept the men up to their work, and at the same time did not bully or
mulct them of their hard-earned money. Such a man would get a good
reward at the end. My reputation for lavishness stood me here in great
stead, for henceforth there was no difficulty on this score. I might be
"squeezed," but at least my coolies were not. The fu t'ou, however,
tried to get even with the man who told, by discharging him. Fortunately
I learned of this, again through the interpreter, and put a stop to it.
The idea of the squeeze seems to be ingrained in the Chinese. How
difficult it is to eradicate was shown by the delight of a missionary at
Chung-king over the low price for which his trusty Christian clerk had
secured a boat for me. For once he felt sure no commission could have
been taken.
During all this part of my trip I carried no coined silver, only rough
lumps of bullion of varying size, converting them into cash as I needed.
The rate of exchange varied from place to place, and I was sometimes
warned to put off visiting the money-changers until the next town. Of
course the visitor stands to lose anyway, and I am sure that in the
course of a long journey through China you would see your money vanish
in the mere process of change, quite aside from the money you spent.
Rain fell all the next day, but it could not take from the charm of the
road, which led much of the time along the bottom of a deep, narrow
gorge, the steep sides clothed to the very top with tropical green
flecked with splendid splashes of pink and white azaleas, while by the
side of the path were masses of blue iris, and of small yellow and red
flowers. We reached our night's resting-place, P'ing-i-p'u, early in the
afternoon, and in spite of the rain I went for a walk. By dint of
peremptory commands, reenforced by the rain, I shook off my military
escort, who for the last few marches had dogged my steps at every turn,
moving when I moved, stopping when I stopped. To be sure, they had been
very thoughtful of my comfort, helping me in and out of my chair,
gathering the new flowers which appeared each day, keeping up a brazier
fire in my room when it was damp, but I was tired of being treated as
either a suspect or a royal personage, and as we were now well beyond
the limit of Lolo raids I demanded the freedom of being alone. I found
quiet in an overgrown graveyard, with charming views down stream and up
the near hillsides cultivated in tiny scallops to the very top, although
the slopes were so steep that each plot was shored up with a strong
stone wall to keep the crop of maize and buckwheat from slipping down
into the river.
As we passed out of the village the next morning at six o'clock we heard
the hum of the boys in the government school already at work. Apparently
Young China was wasting no time. For perhaps twenty li we followed down
a fine stream, the way rather dangerous from the rocks which now and
then detached themselves from the steep overhanging hillsides. After a
time an ascent of one thousand feet brought us in sight of the Ta Tu,
which we reached some time after noon by a gradual descent of two
thousand feet, through a narrow valley to Ta-shu-p'u. Fine clumps of
bamboo and groups of palm now cheered our sight, and fruit of several
sorts--cherries, pears, loquats--was becoming abundant. It was very
refreshing, although scarcely of a fine quality, and usually gathered
before it was ripe. The place looked quiet and attractive, but half a
century ago the last scenes of the Taiping rebellion were enacted here,
when the remnants of Shih Ta-k'ai's force were surrounded and
slaughtered.
Later in the day I went for a stroll to inspect the shops, accompanied
by my interpreter, and it was on this occasion that I met with the only
instance of unfriendliness (that I recognized) in all my journeying in
West China. At one shop I noticed an interesting bronze dragon. The
interpreter, who had a rather objectionable habit of fingering the
wares, began examining it. Thereupon the merchant came forward and
snatched it from his hands, and when we passed that way again on our
return, he came out before his shop and waved us off vigorously with his
flapping sleeves. The interpreter said that the man disliked foreigners,
but admitted that he did not wish to have his things handled.
CHAPTER V
ON THE MANDARIN ROAD
For once the sun was shining gloriously as we descended the one long
street of Ta-Shu-p'u, lined with food-shops, to the ferry across the Ta
Tu Ho, here about six hundred feet wide. Unlike the crossing of the
Yangtse at Lung-kai, where we were the only ones to be ferried over, we
found ourselves here in a crowd of coolies and ponies impatiently
waiting their turn, for we were now on a main travelled road. The two
great flat-bottomed boats were loaded to the brim, and the crossing was
safely accomplished to the tune of much shouting and kicking (by the
ponies). Sitting at ease in my chair I enjoyed the grand views up and
down the river, which here swings out from the cliffs in a splendid
curve. Above and below the ferry the Ta Tu runs through a wild,
little-known region. Few trails cross the precipitous mountains that hem
in its turbulent waters, which are navigable for short distances only by
timber rafts, and even on these the dangers of the journey are so great
that the owners of the timber are expected to bind themselves to provide
coffins in case of a fatal accident.
On the farther side we landed on a stretch of shingle, across which we
picked our way for a mile to the prosperous trading centre of Fulin,
lying on the right bank of the Liu Sha, or "River of Flowing Sand," a
small stream flowing into the Ta Tu from the north. Our path led outside
the town on the top of a narrow earth embankment, which bordered an
irrigating ditch carried along the side of the hill. I should gladly
have got off, but there was no chance to dismount save into the water on
the one hand or into the valley thirty feet down on the other. But I
think you can trust the Yunnan pony anywhere he is willing to go, and
mine did not hesitate. In fact, he never balked at anything asked of him
save once at a shaky "parao," or footway, constructed along the face of
the cliff on timbers thrust into holes bored in the solid rock, and
another time when he refused a jump from a boggy rice-field to the top
of a crumbling wall hardly a foot wide with another bog on the other
side.
Fulin was crowded with coming and going coolies and I could hardly force
my way through, but one gets used to staring crowds, and I had long
since abandoned the practice of taking refuge in my chair on entering a
town, save at the largest ones. Then it was certainly pleasanter and
perhaps safer to make my way through the throng enthroned high on the
shoulders of my coolies, but in the villages I walked or rode my pony as
chance served. Even in the smallest places our entrance was the signal
for an uproar. The scores of dogs--big, gaunt pariahs--that infested
every village, greeted us as we passed through the gate with a chorus of
barks, sending the word down the line. To his credit be it said, Jack
paid little attention to them, tittupping along, head up, tail up, only
when they came too close turning on them with a flash of white teeth
that sent the cowardly brutes flying and brought cries of delight from
the village folk who crowded nearer to inspect the strange dog, so
small, so brave, and so friendly.
Seen from within, Fulin was not attractive and I escaped outside leaving
my men to get their breakfast, which they generally had at about nine
o'clock, for the Szechuan order of day is not like that of Yunnan. We
were on the road often before six o'clock, and my cook always succeeded
in getting me some tea before starting, but the coolies fasted until
eight or after, when they stopped for a hearty breakfast. At noon there
was usually a second long halt, this time for me and the pony, but the
coolies took nothing more save the hourly cups of tea until we reached
our night's stopping-place about the middle of the afternoon. The start
at dawn was delightful; less so getting into the town with half an
afternoon before me, and I made it the rule to stop a mile or so outside
the town for a nap in peace and quiet, but the quiet was hard to find.
Generally there was a retired nook not too far from the trail, most
times a graveyard, but then came the difficulty of getting there
unobserved, for if seen we were sure to be tracked. Oh, the races I have
run, playing hide-and-seek with the crowd, stealing under a village wall
like a thief, hiding behind a little shrine, and the end was always the
same,--to be wakened from my first nap by Jack barking at a large blue
spot a little distance off, which slowly resolved itself into a stolid
line of villagers.
For a few miles we followed up the left bank of the Liu Sha, whose
waters were turbid with the red soil of Szechuan. The fertile bottom
lands were carefully cultivated with rice, and on the higher ground
maize and sugar-cane were growing. Dotted about the fields were clumps
of mulberry and orange trees, and the flanks of the enclosing mountains
were covered with a sparse growth of oak and pine.
After a time we climbed by a long, steep rock staircase to another
valley some fifteen hundred feet above the level of Fulin and into
cooler weather and clearer air. Just before entering Han Yuean Kai, where
we spent the night, we passed under a very beautiful "pailou," or
memorial arch, built of stone and elaborately carved with spirited
figures representing historic scenes. The workmanship and variety of
these arches are very remarkable. They abound all over Szechuan,
especially in the Chengtu plain, and usually commemorate the good deeds
of an official (his best act, perhaps, was setting up this memorial to
himself), or the virtues of some woman whose merit lay almost invariably
in many years, or many children, or above all in remaining a widow. I
have heard of a pailou in Kwangtung province in honour of a woman marked
out among women for her years, her goodness, and above all for her many
descendants, who numbered six sons, forty grandsons, one hundred and
twenty-one great-grandsons and two great-great-grandsons.
Han Yuean Kai is on the mandarin road that connects Chengtu and Ya-chou
with the frontier. Here we entered a new magistracy, and it was
necessary to send to Ch'ing Ch'i, the district headquarters, for a fresh
relay of soldiers. One of those who had come with me from Ta-shu-p'u
started at once on our arrival at Han Yuean Kai about the middle of the
afternoon, and made the journey, twenty-five li each way, to Ch'ing
Ch'i-hsien and back before night, bringing with him the two men who were
to go on with me. Truly the West China man is no weakling.
During the next day we were following the great tea-road, the road by
which most of the twelve million pounds of brick tea consumed by the
guzzling Tibetans is carried to the frontier market at Tachienlu. At all
hours of the day straggling lines of men or ponies or mules were in
sight, toiling along under their precious burdens. Between Ya-chou, the
starting-point of this traffic, and Tachienlu there are two high passes
to cross, seven thousand feet above the level where the journey begins,
and the whole length of the road is a wearisome succession of ups and
downs. And the loads carried are extraordinary. Baron von Richthofen
says, "There is probably no road in the world where such heavy loads are
carried by man across high mountains." The oblong package, called "pao,"
in which the tea is made up, weighs perhaps eighteen pounds, and,
according to the German traveller, ten or eleven form an average load.
But Baber declares that he had often seen a coolie carrying eighteen
pao, and on one occasion a man with a load of twenty-two, certainly
equivalent to four hundred pounds. I saw nothing like that, but I passed
many a poor wretch sweating under a burden of two hundred and
twenty-five or two hundred and fifty pounds. Day after day they creep
along, rarely covering more than six or seven miles a day. Every four
hundred yards they rest, but the loads are taken off only at noon and
night. At other times they relieve themselves for a moment from the
intolerable strain by placing an iron-shod crutch under the load. On the
march they carry this in the hand, tapping the ground as they go, and
all along the road the granite pavement is worn into holes from the taps
of centuries. The load, which is fastened to a framework attached to
the carrier's back, towers high over his head, and is usually surmounted
by his wide-brimmed hat fastened at such an angle as to give him
protection against rain and sun. Even Chinese ingenuity has failed to
devise a way by which he can wear it properly on his head. Some of them
fanned themselves vigorously as they walked, with respectable black,
old-lady fans, and the contrast with their hard, begrimed faces and
sturdy frames was very comical. The men looked worn and exhausted, and
their work is killing, although I believe they outlast the
chair-bearers; but they were patient and cheerful like the rest, ready
to laugh and share their cold lunch of corn-cake with the little foreign
dog who begged so prettily.
[Illustration: "MERCURY," MY FLEET COOLIE]
[Illustration: CARRIER COOLIES]
I wondered how many of them were opium smokers. To the untrained eye the
signs were not very plain. Among my coolies was one whom I dubbed
"Mercury," so untiring and fleet of foot was he, carrying his load of
eighty pounds or so with apparent ease, and showing much pride in
keeping near my chair, while usually the carrier coolies lagged far
behind. I was told he was the worst smoker of the whole lot. In my
caravan of seventeen men, seven, including the fu t'ou, used opium. As a
rule they limited themselves to one pipe at night, while five years ago
travellers complained that a long halt at noon was demanded by the
smokers. The fu t'ou was making a valiant effort, with the aid of
anti-opium pills, to break off the habit; it was getting too expensive,
he said, especially for a married man. In a number of towns places were
pointed out where these pills were sold by the Government. Those who
know, say they are often as pernicious as the drug itself.
The majority of my men, eleven to be precise, were married, and eight
had children. I was interested to note the discreet and indirect way in
which this information was procured for me by the interpreter. Such
matters are not mentioned in public in China, any more than in India.
My own chair-men, so it happened, were all gay young bachelors, ready to
squander their earnings on anything that took their fancy,--beads or
tobacco, hats or cakes, especially cakes. There was a particular sort,
very sweet with pink frosting, that was a great delicacy, costing two
cents Mexican apiece. I had to speak pretty emphatically to one of the
men who was trying to win Jack's favour by feeding him with the costly
cookies. "But the little dog likes them," he said.
The Chinese generally, unlike the Hindu, is very ready to spend on his
food if he has the money. He will live on less than nothing if put to
it, but given the chance he does not stint himself. At short intervals
on the road were tea-houses and restaurants of the simpler sort
especially planned to cater to the coolie class, but they were often
not unattractive. Sometimes they were substantial buildings open to the
street, and set out with tables on which were ranged dishes of
vegetables and curries and cakes, while in the background was a big
cauldron of rice cooking over the fire. Occasionally the tea-house was
nothing more than a section of the highway roofed over with mats or
leafy boughs. On a handy bench was placed a basin of steaming water for
the visitor to bathe hands and face before drawing up to the table. It
gave me a pleasant surprise to see the Chinese making of the daily
repast a jolly social function, instead of each squatting on the ground
in a corner, devouring his solitary bowl of rice as is the fashion of
most Eastern peoples.
I found much interest in noting the food of my men, the variety and cost
of it, and I whiled away many an hour of waiting, in questioning
innkeepers and provision dealers. A good bowl of rice, called "cat's
head" and costing twenty cash, or one cent gold, was usually the _piece
de resistance_. This in hand, a man fished out with his chopsticks
tidbits from various dishes set out on the table,--beans, cabbage,
lettuce, peppers, etc., all cooked. Good hot boiled potatoes in their
jackets were sometimes to be had at four cash each, or a bowl of stewed
turnips at the same price. Beans in some shape were an important part of
every menu. You could get a basin of fresh beans for ten cash, dried
bean-cake for five, beans cooked and strained to a stiff batter for
making soup for seven cash the ounce, while a large square of white
bean-cake was sold for one copper cent. A saucer of spun rice or millet,
looking much like vermicelli, with a seasoning of vinegar, cost five
cash. Bowls of powdered grain mixed with sugar were much in demand. So,
too, for those who could afford them, large round cakes at thirty cash
for two. Ground pepper (the Chinese are very fond of pepper in any form)
was sold at one cash the tiny package, and sugar for three cash the
square inch. Almost every coolie had tucked in about his load a large
flat cake of coarse corn-meal or maize mixed with water, which he
munched as he went along. In Tachienlu, my supply of biscuits having
given out, I had my cook buy some of these; split open and toasted, they
were not at all bad. Tea, of course, was to be had everywhere; a pinch
of tea-leaves in a covered cup and unstinted boiling water cost from
five to twenty cash a cup, and most refreshing I found it. On the whole,
the food looked attractive, and the fact that whether liquid or solid it
was almost invariably boiled must have much to do with saving the people
from the legitimate consequences of their sins against sanitary laws.
The Chinese have no principles against eating between meals if they can
find anything to eat, and there was temptation all along the road.
Beside a wayside well, under a spreading tree, would be placed a small
table tended perhaps only by a tiny maiden, and set out with pieces of
sugar-cane or twigs of loquats or carefully counted clusters of peanuts
or seeds, five pieces for a cash.
Our second night from the ferry was spent at Ni T'ou, a rather important
frontier village, and attractive with picturesque red temples and
pailous. A good sleep in an unusually comfortable inn prepared us for
the stiff climb to come. The morning broke grey and the clouds rested
low on the mountains, but at least we were spared a start in the rain.
The road was so steep and rough that I preferred to walk, and soon
getting ahead of my men I did not see them again until midday, and I had
a good morning all to myself among the hills. Occasionally I passed
through a little hamlet, people and dogs all turning out to greet my dog
and me. Once a whole village emptied itself into the fields to show me
the way up the hillside. My cold lunch I ate at the head of a wild gorge
by a solitary shrine half buried in clumps of bushes, and beautiful with
masses of iris. The last part of the climb to Fei Yueeh Ling, or "Fly
Beyond Pass," led through an uninhabited glen down which rushed a fine
stream turning the horizontally placed wheels of a ruined mill. Hurrying
up the rocky zigzag I stood alone at the top of the pass, nine thousand
feet above the sea. Before me I knew towered range upon range, peak
above peak, one of the finest views the earth affords, but alas,
everything was blotted out by thick white clouds, and I could scarcely
see ten feet away.
It was maddening to think of the wonders that lay behind that
impenetrable wall, but there was nothing to do but to descend by a trail
as steep and slippery as the one by which I had just climbed, for the
cold, drenching mist showed no signs of lifting. It was on this slope
that Rockhill, the American explorer, met a pilgrim on his way to Lhasa.
Starting in the Chusan archipelago near Ning-po, he had already spent
seven years on the way, and it would be two more before he could attain
his goal, which was not to be wondered at, as with every two steps he
prostrated himself full length on the ground before the little altar he
carried with him. With this primitive mountain world his act was in
weird harmony, but there was an incongruity almost stunning in the sight
of a Hindu carrying out a similar vow in one of the crowded business
streets of Europeanized Calcutta. I nearly stepped on him as I came out
one day from the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank.
Just before reaching Hua-lin-ping, or "Phoenix" Flat, where we were to
spend the night, I espied across the narrow valley to our right a
picturesque temple perched at the top of a high wooded cliff. As it was
still early in the afternoon, I turned off from the trail, and,
accompanied by the interpreter, scrambled down the slope, gay with pink
azaleas, to a charming wooden bridge spanning the torrent. After a sharp
pull through a fine forest, we came out in front of the temple, which
was dedicated to Kuan Yin: by the way, it is rather significant that
China's favourite deity is the Goddess of Mercy. The place seemed
deserted, and we wandered about at will. Apparently extensive repairs
were going on, and roofs and gods alike were being refurbished. After a
time an old priest turned up, who took us through the timber-built
monastery behind the temple. Here, he told us, well-to-do people of the
neighbourhood often spent a few weeks in summer, to escape the damp heat
of the valley. The practical Chinese do not hesitate to put their sacred
places to use, and they serve in turn for schools, political gatherings,
summer resorts.
I was half a mind to cry a halt, the place looked so attractive, and all
the more when on stepping out of a door there opened before me a
wonderful vision of heaven-kissing mountains. While we were inside the
clouds had lifted, revealing the whole line of the great peaks that
stand as sentinels at the eastern end of the vast Tibetan plateau.
Westward from that snow-topped line there is no low land until you reach
the plains of India. For a few minutes we stood spellbound, and then the
clouds shut down again, leaving only a glorious memory to cheer the
descent through a grey, dripping world.
A generation ago Hua-lin-ping was an important frontier post, but to-day
its broad, barrack-lined street is deserted and grass-grown, for the
vanguard of effective Chinese occupation is steadily pushing westward
into the tribes country. We started the next morning under clouds of
more than one sort; rain was falling, the ma-fu, whom I had been dosing
for a day or two, had given out, and had to be left behind as well as
one of the coolies, and the fu t'ou was cross at having to shoulder the
latter's load. Early on this day we again came to the Ta Tu, having
descended five thousand feet from the top of the pass; and for the rest
of this stage and all the next one we followed up the wild valley of
this beautiful river, which may be said to form the real geographical
and ethnographical boundary between China and Tibet. Wherever the valley
opened out a little, there was the invariable garden-like cultivation of
the Chinese; fruit and nut trees abounded, mulberry, peach, apricot, and
walnut, and the fields showed good crops of maize, beans, and
sugar-cane. But up from the narrow fertile strip of river bank towered
on either hand barren mountains, their precipitous granite sides gashed
here and there by deep gorges in and out of which the trail wound with
sharp turns and steep descents. The grey, forbidding mountains, showing
hardly a foothold for man or beast, tree or house, matched the grey,
swirling river, here unnavigable even for rafts. Thrust back by the
land, offered only a watery grave by the river, it seemed no country for
man to seek a home, and yet the scattered Chinese hamlets were gay and
full of life, and the tea-houses at every turn were doing a good
business.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF SZECHUAN FARMHOUSES]
At Leng Chi, where we stopped for breakfast, I fled from the noisy
restaurant to a small temple across the road, its outer court filled
full of coffins, whether occupied or not, I could not say. A nice old
priest promptly found me out, and taking me into an inner room made me
comfortable with cups of tea. The buzz of voices told that a school was
in session near by, and at the request of the teacher, a good-looking
young man, I paid it a visit. Some twenty boys were hard at work on the
classics and mathematics, undisturbed by the weird-looking gods around
them. They seemed wide awake, and showed real disappointment that I
could not stop to see a display of their skill in gymnastics. Every
good-sized village seems to boast a school of sorts, and not a few do
something for the girls.
The rain was falling as we approached Lu Ting Ch'iao, and that meant a
long evening cooped up in a noisy, ill-smelling inn, so in desperation I
took refuge under a large tree just outside the town where bushes
screened me from the passers on the road. My men had long since made up
their minds that I was rather mad, so they left me in peace, only
posting one of the soldiers in a temple near by to keep watch and ward;
but there was no need, for most of the people hereabouts are Tibetan,
and they have little of the pertinacious curiosity of the Chinese,
whether because of better manners or because less alert I do not know.
And it was well I cut short my stay in the inn, for it was about the
worst I had come across, as I took pains to inform the landlord the next
morning. But there was no choice. Lu Ting Ch'iao, or the "Town of the
Iron Bridge," derives its importance as well as its name from its
location, and it was crowded to overflowing with east- and west-bound
travellers, officials, merchants, soldiers, coolies, for all traffic
must cross the Ta Tu here, the one point spanned by a bridge. Indeed,
according to Mr. Archibald Little, this is the only bridge across any
one of the many large rivers that unite to form the Great River. It is
of the suspension sort, built in 1701, in the reign of that energetic
ruler, Kang Hi, and is three hundred and eleven feet long. The nine
cables of charcoal-smelted iron that compose it are anchored at the ends
in the usual Chinese fashion. On these are laid loose planks to serve as
a footway, while the only guard is a shaky chain on either hand. When
the wind swoops down the gorge, as it does most afternoons, the whole
structure swings uncomfortably, and I wondered at the nonchalance with
which heavily laden coolies and ponies crossed. But such as it is, this
is the one connecting link between China and Tibet, for ferrying across
the upper reaches of the Ta Tu is impracticable most of the year.
After passing the bridge we kept up a narrow trail that clung to the
face of the cliff, often cut out of the granite rock. There were no
villages, but we passed through one or two hamlets set in a small
alluvial fan such as is often seen in Western Tibet, only there the fan
ended with a steep precipice two or three hundred feet above the river,
while here it sloped gently down to the water's edge.
Occasionally we saw across the Ta Tu on the left bank a village
unmistakably Tibetan: no trees; grey, flat-roofed, fortress-like houses,
often reached only by a ladder; with few signs of life to be seen even
with a glass, there was a forbidding aspect to these places in marked
contrast to the bustle of a Chinese village.
We were now skirting the lower slopes of the Ta Shueh Shan, or "Great
Snow Mountains," the outposts of the Tibetan plateau, but we were too
hemmed in to catch a glimpse of the higher ranges, save once, when a
break in the mountain wall afforded a brief, magnificent view of the
snowy peaks towering more than fifteen thousand feet above our heads.
Then another turn in the road shut us in again between grey cliff and
grey river and grey sky. Toward the end of the day a sharp bend to the
left took us away from the Ta Tu into the wild gorge through which
flows the Tarchendo, and with a rough scramble we dropped down into the
pretty little village of Wa Ssu Kou, the "Ravine of the Tile Roof
Monastery." At the extreme western end of the one long street we found
comfortable quarters in a new, clean inn. Like so many of these villages
of wood with shingled roofs, Wa Ssu Kou seems to burn down once in so
often, which has at least the advantage that there is less chance for
dirt to accumulate.
Strolling out from the inn after a wash, I found myself in the fine
gardens that border the river, separated from the water, here level with
the bank, only by a narrow strip of shingle. Men and women were hard at
work even after nightfall. Each plant is brought up by hand, as it were,
and there is no waste of fertilizer; by spoonfuls the precious stuff is
applied to each root instead of being scattered over the ground. Just
across the river towered a precipitous cliff two thousand feet high,
quite overshadowing the village, which looked very small and helpless by
contrast. Up the face of the cliff zigzagged a steep trail, finally
disappearing over the top, and I looked longingly after it, for on this
side the river direct Chinese government ends. The other bank is the
country of the tribesmen, people of Mantzu stock living under the rule
of their tribal chiefs. Northwards from Wa Ssu Kou the Ta Tu changes its
name to Chin Ch'uan, or "Golden Stream," and the whole region is known
as the Chin Ch'uan country, and is famous in Chinese history as the
scene of one of the most hardly fought campaigns against the tribes.
On my return to Wa Ssu Kou a week later a free half-day gave me a chance
for a little run over the border. Guided by a respectable villager I
crossed the rickety bridge over the Tarchendo and after a breathless
climb came out on the top of the cliff, where I overlooked a wide
rolling plateau sloping steeply to the Ta Tu on the east, and enclosed
north and west by high mountains. The country seemed barren and almost
uninhabited, as though removed by hundreds of miles from the hard-won
prosperity and swarming life of the line of Chinese advance to
Tachienlu. Only occasionally did we meet any one, Chinese or Mantzu, and
there was no stir about the few dwellings that we passed, all high,
fortress-like buildings of stone. This whole region is almost unknown to
Europeans, and the few Chinese who go there are generally passing
traders. According to Hosie, they are allowed to take temporary wives
from the women of the country on payment of a sum of money to the tribal
head, but they must leave them behind when they depart.
The next day we ascended the valley of the Tarchendo to Tachienlu, a
distance of about twenty miles. There is a rise of thirty-five hundred
feet on this stage, but so gradual is the ascent that one realizes it
only in watching the stream, which is almost continuous rapid and
cataract. For miles there was scarcely a square yard of smooth water.
The only means of crossing from one bank to the other is by the rope
bridges, of which I saw three. Several times I had a chance to watch
some one making the trip. From a bamboo rope securely anchored on either
bank with heavy rocks, a sling-seat is suspended by means of a section
of bamboo which travels along the rope. Seated in the sling the weight
of the voyager carries him more than halfway across, but after that he
must haul himself up by sheer force. A slip would mean certain death,
and it is said that often on reaching the middle of the stream the
impulse to let go is uncontrollable. Hardy Western explorers have
frequently confessed their dread of these bridges, which are found
throughout the mountains of eastern Asia, but I saw men and women
crossing as though it were all in the day's work. But then the Chinese
have no nerves, you know.
Fortunately the need of crossing here did not seem very imperative, for
there was little sign of life on the north bank of the Tarchendo.
Indeed, on our side there were no villages for the whole distance, only
a few hamlets and now and then a solitary rest-house. The river is so
closely shut in by the mighty rock walls on either hand that there is
scarcely room for more than the narrow trail. There were a good many
walnut trees and willows, and I occasionally saw a meagre patch of
barley or Indian corn, but even the Chinese would be hard put to wring a
living here were it not for the coolie trade. In fact, every other house
seemed to be a restaurant or tea-house. At one the soldier who had
escorted me from Ni T'ou covered himself with disgrace by getting into a
quarrel. Rain was falling, so I stayed in my chair while the coolies
were drinking their everlasting cups of tea. Suddenly there was a great
outcry, every one pitching in, and I saw the soldier seize the innkeeper
by the queue, belabouring him vigorously with the flat of his short
broad sword. I called to the interpreter to interfere, but either he did
not hear me or would not obey; so I scrambled out of my chair as best I
could (a woman, as an inferior being, must always step over the side
pole; to touch the pole that rests on the coolie's shoulder would cause
him to have sores), and, throwing myself into the fray, hauled the
soldier off. I knew, for I had tested it, that the edge of his sword was
sharp. When the excitement had died down, I learned that the whole
trouble rose from the innkeeper's demanding payment for four cakes,
while the soldier insisted that he had eaten only three. Who had the
right of it I do not know, but I read the man a lesson at so misbehaving
himself when escorting a lady, a truly Western point of view which was
probably Greek to him, but anyway he seemed greatly downcast at my
rebuke, and for the rest of the day hung about in an apologetic way,
occasionally mutely laying a bunch of flowers on the arm of my chair as
a peace offering.
CHAPTER VI
TACHIENLU
Tachienlu is surely _sui generis_; there can be no other town quite like
it. Situated eight thousand four hundred feet above the sea, it seems to
lie at the bottom of a well, the surrounding snow-capped mountains
towering perhaps fifteen thousand feet in the air above the little town
which, small as it is, has hardly room to stand, while outside the wall
there is scarcely a foot of level ground. It is wedged into the angle
where three valleys come together, the Tar and the Chen rivers meeting
just below the town to form the Tarchendo, and our first view of the
place as we turned the cliff corner that here bars the gorge, was very
striking, grey walls and curly roofs standing out sharply from the
flanking hillsides.
Within the walls of Tachienlu, China and Tibet meet. As we made our way
through the long, dirty main street, here running parallel with the Tar
which comes tumbling down from the snow-fields of the Tibetan range, I
was struck at once by the varied aspect of the people. The dense crowd
that surged through the streets, some on horseback and some on foot, was
more Tibetan than Chinese, but the faces that peered out from the shops
were unmistakably of the Middle Kingdom. Groups of fierce-looking
fellows, clad in skins and felt, strode boldly along, their dark faces
bearing indelible marks of the hard, wild life of the Great Plateau.
Many of them carried weapons of some sort, for the Chinese have scorned
to disarm them. Among them walked impassively the blue-gowned men of the
ruling race, fairer, smaller, feebler, and yet undoubtedly master. It
was the triumph of the organizing mind over the brute force of the lower
animal. Almost one man in five was a red-robed lama, no cleaner in dress
nor more intelligent in face than the rest, and above the din of the
crowd and the rush of the river rose incessantly weird chanting and the
long-drawn wail of horns from the temples scattered about the town.
Lamaism has Tachienlu in its grip, and I could have fancied myself back
in Himis lamassery, thousands of miles away on the western frontier of
Tibet. It was an extraordinarily picturesque scene, full of life and
sound and colour.
Marco Polo described the territory lying west of Ya-chou as "Thibeth,"
and a century ago the Chinese frontier stopped at Tachienlu, but to-day
Batang, a hundred and twenty-five miles to the west as the crow flies,
is the western limit of Szechuan. In actual fact, however, direct
administration by the Chinese stops at the Ta Tu, on the right bank of
the river the people being governed by their tribal chiefs. Tachienlu
is in the principality of the King of Chala, whose palace is one of the
two or three noteworthy buildings in the place, and the Tibetan
population of some seven hundred families, not counting the lamas, is
directly under his authority. But there is a power behind the throne,
and the town is really governed by the Chinese officials, for it is the
key to the country to the west, and the Imperial Government has long
been awake to the importance of controlling the great trade and military
road to Lhasa. What the effect of the Revolution will be upon the
relations of China and Tibet remains to be seen. Already Chao Erh Feng,
the man who as Warden of the Marches had made Chinese rule more of a
reality in Lhasa than ever before, has fallen a victim to Manchu
weakness; hated by Chinese and Tibetan alike, he met his death at the
hands of a rebellious soldiery in January, 1912.
[Illustration: A VIEW OF TACHIENLU]
[Illustration: TIBETANS]
Between Tachienlu and Lhasa lie many hundred miles of barren, windswept
plateaus and perilous mountain passes. There are, I believe, at least
ten of these passes higher than Mont Blanc. Connection between the two
places is over one of the most difficult mountain roads in the world,
yet it was by this route that the Chinese finally conquered Tibet in the
eighteenth century, and to-day most of the trade goes the same way.
Those who deny the Chinese all soldierly qualities must have forgotten
their achievements against the Tibetans, let alone the still more
extraordinary military feat of their victory over the Gurkhas of Nepal,
when a force of seventy thousand men of the Middle Kingdom crossed the
whole width of the most inaccessible country in the world, and, fighting
at a distance of two thousand miles from their base, defeated the crack
warriors of the East.
The China Inland Mission has a station at Tachienlu, but to my
disappointment the two missionaries were away at the time of my visit,
and although their Chinese helpers made me welcome, providing a place
for me in one of the buildings of the mission compound, I felt it a real
loss not to talk with men who would have had so much of interest to
tell. Moreover, I had been looking forward to meeting my own kind once
more after two weeks of Chinese society. Fortunately another traveller
turned up in Tachienlu about the time I did, an English officer of the
Indian army, returning to duty by a roundabout route after two years'
leave at home. As he too was installed in the mission compound we soon
discovered each other, and I had the pleasure of some interesting talk,
and of really dining again. Eating alone in a smelly Chinese inn cannot
by any stretch be called dining. I found that Captain Bailey had gone
with the Younghusband expedition to Lhasa, and was now on his way to
Batang with the hope of being able to cross Tibet from the Chinese side.
We had an enjoyable evening comparing experiences. I was impressed, as
often before, by the comfort a man manages to secure for himself when
travelling. If absolutely necessary, he will get down to the bare bones
of living, but ordinarily the woman, if she has made up her mind to
rough it, is far more indifferent to soft lying and high living,
especially the latter, than the man. One thing I had, however, that
Captain Bailey lacked,--a dog,--and I think he rather envied me my
four-footed companion. I know I begrudged him his further adventure into
the wilds beyond Tachienlu. Months later I learned that although he did
not reach Lhasa as he had hoped to do, his explorations in the
little-known region between Assam and Tibet and China had won him much
fame and the Gill Medal awarded by the Royal Geographical Society.
Thanks to Captain Bailey I suffered no inconvenience from the absence of
the missionaries on whom I had relied for help in getting a cheque
cashed, as he kindly introduced me to the postmaster, to whom he had
brought a letter from the English post-commissioner at Chengtu, and this
official most courteously gave me all the money I needed for the next
stage of my journey. The Imperial Post-Office was in 1911 still under
the same management as the customs service, and was marked by the same
efficiency. All over China it had spread a network of post-routes, and
by this time, unless the Revolution has upset things, as it probably
has, there should be a regular mail service between Tachienlu and Batang
and Lhasa. To be sure, the arrangements at Tachienlu were rather
primitive, but the surprising thing was that there should be any
post-office at all. When I went for my letters the morning after I
arrived, I was shown a large heap of stuff on the floor of the little
office, and the interpreter and I spent a good half-hour disentangling
my things from the dusty pile, most of which was apparently for members
of the large French mission in Tachienlu. I was sorry not to have a
chance to meet representatives of the mission, which has been
established for a long time, and works, I believe, among both Tibetans
and Chinese, the Protestants confining themselves to the Chinese
community. Nor was I more successful in learning about the Protestant
work, owing to the absence of the missionaries on a journey to Batang.
But I was greatly impressed by the truly beautiful face and dignified
bearing of a native pastor who called upon me at my lodgings. Fine,
serene, pure of countenance, he might have posed for a Buddha or a
Chinese St. John. In my limited experience of the Chinese, the men who
stand out from their fellows for beauty of expression and attractiveness
of manner are two or three Christians of the better class. Naturally
fine-featured and of dignified presence, the touch of the Christian
faith seems to have transformed the supercilious impassiveness of their
class into a serenity full of charm. It is a pity that it is not more
often so, but the zeal of the West mars as well as mends, and in
imparting Western beliefs and Western learning carelessly and needlessly
destroys Eastern ideals of conduct and manner, often more reasonable and
more attractive than our own. The complacent cocksureness of the
Occidental attitude toward Oriental ways and standards has little to
rest on. We have reviled the people of the East in the past for their
unwillingness to admit that there was anything we could teach them, and
they are amending their ways, but we have shown and show still a
stupidity quite equal to theirs in our refusal to learn of them. Take,
for example, the small matter of manners,--if it be a small matter. More
than one teacher in America has confessed the value of the object lesson
in good breeding given by the chance student from the East, but how few
Westerners in China show any desire to pattern after the dignified,
courteous bearing of the Chinese gentleman. I have met bad manners in
the Flowery Kingdom, but not among the natives.
It had been a long, hard pull from Ning-yuean-fu; two weeks' continuous
travelling is a tax upon every one, but at no place had we found
comfortable quarters for the whole of the party, and as the men
preferred to push on, I was not inclined to object. But usually a
seventh-day rest is very acceptable to them; so we were all glad for a
little breathing-space in Tachienlu. The servants and coolies spent the
first day in a general tidying-up, getting a shave, face and head, and
having their queues washed and combed and replaited. Some also made
themselves fine in new clothes, but others were content to wash the old.
As none of them, with the exception of the fu t'ou, had ever been in
Tachienlu before, they were as keen to see the sights as I was, and in
my rambles about the town the next two or three days, I was greeted at
every turn by my coolies, enjoying to the full their hard-earned
holiday.
There was less to see of interest in Tachienlu than I had expected. The
shops are filled mainly with ordinary Chinese wares, and my efforts to
find some Tibetan curios were fruitless, those shown to me being of
little value. I imagine it is a matter of chance if one secures anything
really worth while. At any rate, neither the quaint teapots nor the hand
praying-wheels that I was seeking were forthcoming. Nor could I find any
decent leopard skins, which a short time ago formed an important article
of commerce, so plentiful were they. But at least I had the fun of
bartering with the people, whom I found much the most interesting thing
in Tachienlu, and thanks to the indifference or the politeness of the
Tibetan I was able to wander about freely without being dogged by a
throng of men and boys. Chinese soldiers were much in evidence, for this
is naturally an important military post as well as the forwarding depot
for the troops stationed along the great western trade route to Batang
and Lhasa. The Chinese population under their protection, numbering some
four hundred families, mostly traders, looked sleek and prosperous.
Evidently they made a good living off the country, unlike the Tibetans
who were generally dirty and ragged and poor in appearance. I must
confess that I was disappointed at the latter. In spite of their hardy,
muscular aspect and bold bearing, I did not find them attractive as do
most travellers. They lacked the grotesque jollity of the Ladakhis of
Western Tibet, their cousins in creed and race, and I met nothing of the
manly friendliness which marked the people of Mongolia whom I had to do
with later. Never have I seen men of more vicious expression than some I
met in my strolls about Tachienlu, and I could well believe the stories
told of the ferocity shown by the lamas along the frontier. Very likely
the people are better than their priests, but if so, their looks belie
them. There is rarely a man--or a people--so low as to lack a defender,
and it is a pleasing side to the white man's rule in the East, that if
he be half a man he is likely to stand up for the weak folk he governs.
It may be due to pride of ownership, or it may be the result of a
knowledge born of intimate acquaintance, but whatever the cause, no
race is quite without champions in the white man's congress. Captain
Bailey who had had long experience of the Tibetans in administrative
work on the northeastern borderland of India, was no exception, and he
defended them vigorously. I had no knowledge to set against his, but
when he declared that they were a clean people it seemed to me he was
stretching a point, for I should have thought their dirt was as
undeniable as it was excusable in the burning sun or biting cold of
their high plateaus.
Practically all the traffic between China and its great western
dependency passes through Tachienlu, and the little town is full of
bustle and stir. From Tibet are brought skins and wool and gold and
musk, to be exchanged here for tobacco and cloth and miscellaneous
articles, but tea, of course, forms the great article of trade, the
quantity sent from Tachienlu annually amounting to more than twelve
million pounds. Conspicuous in the town are the great warehouses where
the tea is stored, awaiting sale, and there are numerous Tibetan
establishments where it is repacked for the animal carriage which here
replaces the carrier coolies from the east. Among the Chinese the trade
is mostly in the hands of a few great merchants who deal with the women
representatives of the Tibetan priesthood who practically monopolize the
sale in their country, deriving a large income from the high prices
they charge the poor people to whom tea is a necessity of life.
When I grew weary of the confusion and dirt of the narrow streets I was
glad to escape to the hillside above my lodgings. The mission compound
is small and confined, affording no room for a garden, although fine
masses of iris growing along the walls brightened up the severity of the
grey stone buildings; but a little climb behind the mission house
brought me to a peaceful nook whence I could get a glorious view over
the town and up and down the valley, here so narrow that it seemed
possible to throw a stone against the opposite hillside.
The first fine morning after my arrival I made an early start for the
summer palace of the King of Chala, situated about eight miles from
Tachienlu in a beautiful, lonely valley among the mountains. This is the
favourite camping-place of Chengtu missionaries, who now and then brave
the eleven days' journey to and fro to exchange their hothouse climate
for a brief holiday in the glorious scenery and fine air of these
health-giving uplands. We were mounted, the interpreter and I, on ponies
provided by the Yamen, one worse than the other, and both unfit for the
rough scramble. After traversing the town, first on one side and then on
the other of the river which we crossed by a picturesque wooden bridge,
roofed in but with open sides, we passed out at the South
Gate--Tachienlu has no West Gate--and found ourselves in a small suburb
with a few meagre gardens. A mile farther along we crossed the river
again by a striking single arch bridge, known as the "Gate of Tibet." We
were now on the great trade route to Lhasa, but between us and the
mysterious city lay many days of weary travel.
From time to time we met groups of Tibetans, men and women,
rough-looking and shy, with the shyness of a wild animal. Generally
after a moment's pause to reassure themselves, they answered my greeting
in jolly fashion, seeming quite ready to make friends. Occasionally the
way was blocked by trains of ox-like yaks, the burden-bearers of the
snow-fields, bringing their loads of skins and felt and musk and gold.
Astride of one was a nice old man who stuck out his tongue at me in
polite Tibetan fashion.
[Illustration: LAMA AND DOG AT TACHIENLU]
[Illustration: THE GATE OF TIBET]
After an hour's ride we left the highway and turned into a beautiful
green valley, following a very bad trail deeper and deeper into the
mountains, the soft meadows gay with flowers forming a charming contrast
to the snow-peaks that barred the upper end of the valley. We came first
to the New Palace, a large rambling building having no more
architectural pretensions than an ordinary Chinese inn. As the king's
brother, who makes his home there, was away, I saw nothing more of the
place than the great courtyard filled with mangy, half-starved dogs
and unkempt men. Not far off is one of the great attractions of the
place, at least to the natives,--a hot sulphur spring. To the
disappointment of my Tibetan guide I declined to visit it, preferring a
leisurely cold lunch on the bank of a rushing stream which was
vigorously turning a large prayer-wheel, a cylinder of wood inscribed
many times over with the mystic words of the Buddhist prayer, "Om mani
padme hum," oftenest repeated perhaps of all prayers. Each revolution of
the wheel was equivalent to as many repetitions of the words as there
were inscribed on the wood. So night and day, while the stream runs,
prayers are going up for the king,--and truly he needs them, poor man,
between the bullying of his Chinese overlords and the machinations of
turbulent lamas. Other indications of the Buddhist's comfortable way of
getting his prayers said for him are found all about Tachienlu. From
temple roof and wayside rock flags bearing the same legend wave in the
breeze, each flutter a prayer, and just outside the city we rode by a
long stone wall, much like those of New England, only its top was
covered over with inscribed stones. If you passed by, having the "mani"
wall on your right hand, each inscribed stone would pray for you; hence
the trail always forks to suit the coming and the going Buddhist, and I
remember well the insolent pride with which my Mohammedan servants
always took the right hand when passing these walls in Ladakh.
A mile farther up the valley we came to the Old Palace, a collection of
hovels banked with piles of manure. Far more attractive than the royal
residence were some tents not far off, where a band of Tibetans,
retainers of the prince, were encamped. They came out to greet us in
friendly fashion, pointing out a blind trail up the valley where we
could get better views of the snow-peaks; but we had to turn back, sorry
though I was to leave the spot, parklike in its beauty of forest and
meadow, a veritable oasis in a wilderness of rock and ice. It was more
like home than anything I had seen in West China, for there were
stretches of fine, grassy meadows where the royal herds of cattle were
grazing, and all at once I realized that it was weeks since I had seen a
field of grass or real cows. It is the great lack in this country. Pigs
abound, and fowls, but there is no place for cattle, and the horses live
on beans and corn, or more likely on leaves and twigs.
Priest-ridden Tachienlu boasts many temples and lamasseries, and the
last day of my stay I paid a visit to one of the largest, not far from
the South Gate. It was a wide, rambling, wooden building standing near a
grove of unusually fine trees, a sort of alder. The approach was not
unattractive, flowers growing under the walls and about the entrance.
Once inside the portal, we found ourselves in a large courtyard paved
with stone and surrounded by two-story galleried buildings. Facing us
was the temple, scarcely more imposing in outward appearance than the
others. On one side a group of half-naked lamas were gathered about an
older man who seemed to be relating or expounding something, whether
gossip or doctrine I could not tell, but I should judge the former from
their expressions. They paid little attention to us, nor did others
strolling about the yard, but the big dogs roaming loose were not
backward in their greeting, although to my surprise they did not seem at
all ferocious, and treated my imperturbable little dog with distant
respect. Earlier travellers recount unpleasant experiences, but perhaps
the lamas have learned better in late years, and fasten up their
dangerous dogs if visitors are expected. Afterwards I saw in another
inner courtyard a large, heavy-browed brute adorned with a bright red
frill and securely chained. He looked savage, and could have given a
good account of himself in any fight.
While I was waiting for permission to enter the temple, I inspected the
stuffed animals--dogs, calves, leopards--suspended on the verandah. They
were fast going to decay from dust and moth, but I was told that they
were reputed sacred. The temple, which we were forced to enter from a
side door, was large and high, hung with scrolls and banners and filled
with images, but it was so dark that I found it difficult to discern
much save a good-sized figure of Buddha, not badly done.
At the invitation of an old lama, a friend of our guide, I was invited
to a large, disorderly dining- or living-hall on the upper floor, where
we were very courteously served with tea, Chinese fashion. The old man
had a rather nice face, and I tried to learn a little about the place,
but conversation through two Chinese intermediaries, one speaking
imperfect English and the other bad Tibetan, was not very satisfactory,
and I soon gave up the attempt. I did succeed, however, in making the
lama understand my wish to hire some one to cut for me a praying-stone,
to which he replied that there were plenty outside, why did I not take
one of them? I had thought of that myself, but feared to raise a storm
about my ears. Now, acting on his advice, I made a choice at my leisure
and no one objected. Under the double restraint of an unusually strong
prince, backed by Chinese officials, the priests of Tachienlu are less
truculent than farther west, but at best Lamaism rests with a heavy hand
upon the Tibetans; it is greedy and repulsive in aspect and brutalizing
in its effects; wholly unlike the gentle, even though ignorant and
superstitious, Buddhism of China.
CHAPTER VII
THE LESSER TRAIL
At Tachienlu I reached the western limit of my wanderings; not the
western boundary of China, nor yet of my desire, but my time was nearly
spent; in less than four months I had to be back in England; moreover,
late summer was not a favourable season for descending the Yangtse. So
with a longing glance up the great Lhasa trail I turned my face
eastwards; but it is always wearisome to retrace one's steps, and a
chance remark of Captain Bailey set
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