Beth Ellis - An English Girl's First Impressions of Burmah

Thus it will be clear to all that the accusations are unfair, seeing that the gossip indulged in by the ladies at the Gymkhana is merely the outcome of circumstances, inventions being notoriously the children of necessity. It is obvious that were each lady in Burmah provided with every magazine and paper that her heart could desire, gossip would speedily cease to exist, – in the Ladies' Clubs.

The most extraordinary vehicle that ever existed is the Rangoon "ticca gharry." For inconvenience, discomfort, and danger, it has never been surpassed. It has been excellently described as "a wooden packing case on wheels." I suppose it is a distant and unfashionable relation of the modern four wheeler, with wooden shutters in place of windows; very narrow, noisy, and uncomfortable. It is usually drawn by a long-tailed, ungroomed and brainless Burman pony, and is driven by one of the most extraordinary race of men that ever existed.

The "Gharry Wallah's" appearance – but it is scarce meet to describe his appearance to the gentle reader; we will say his appearance is unusual. His mind and character have gained him his well earned right to be counted among the eccentricities of the age. He is sublime in his utter indifference to the world at large, in the cheerful manner in which he will drive, through, into, or over anything he happens to meet.

But his most noted characteristic is utter indifference to the wishes of his "fare."

I have often wondered what are the secret workings of the "Gharry Wallah's" mind. He cannot imagine, (no man, intelligent or otherwise, could imagine) that a human being drives in a "gharry" for the pure enjoyment of the thing; and yet he never seems to consider that his "fare" may desire to go to any particular destination. 'Tis vain to explain at great length, and with many forcible gestures, where one wishes to go; "he hears but heeds it not." The instant one enters the vehicle he begins to drive at a great rate in whatever direction first comes into his mind. He continues to drive in that direction until stopped, when he cheerfully turns round and drives another way, any way but the right one.

No one has yet discovered where he would eventually drive to; many have had the curiosity but none the fortitude to undertake original research into the matter.

It is presumed that, unless stopped, he would drive straight on till he died of starvation.

Occasionally, by a judicious waving of umbrellas it may be possible to direct his course, but that only in the case of a very young driver. I have sometimes wondered whether perchance the pony may be the sinner, and the driver merely an innocent and unwilling accomplice. I cannot tell.

But this I can say, if you crave for danger, if you seek penance, drive in a "ticca gharry," but if you desire to reach any particular destination in this century, don't.

With the exception of a few leisure hours spent at the Gymkhana, the ladies of Rangoon devote their time and energy to writing "Chits."

At first I was filled with a great wonder as to what might be the nature of these mysterious "Chits." I would be sitting peacefully talking with my hostess in the morning, when suddenly, a look of supreme unrest and anxiety comes over her face: "Excuse me, a moment" she exclaims, "I must just go and write a chit."

She then hastens to her writing table, rapidly scribbles a few words, gives the paper to a servant, and then returns to me with an expression of relief and contentment.

But scarce five minutes have elapsed, ere the look of anxiety again returns; again she writes a "chit," and again becomes relieved and cheerful, and so on throughout the day.

And this, I discovered was the case with nearly every European lady in the country. I suppose it must be some malady engendered by the climate, only to be relieved by the incessant inditing of "chits." I myself never suffered from the ailment, but should doubtless have fallen a victim had I remained longer in the country.

The contents and destination of these "chits" seem to be of little or no importance; so long as notes be written and despatched at intervals of ten minutes or so during the day, that is sufficient. What finally becomes of these "chits" I cannot pretend to say; whether they are merely taken away and burnt, or whether they have some place in the scheme of creation, I never discovered.

Nor do I know whether the male population suffers from the same malady. Does the Indian Civilian, seated in his luxurious chamber in that awe-inspiring building of his, does he too spend his life in writing "chits"? Does the "Bombay Burman," in some far off jungle, "alone with nature undisturbed," does he too sit down 'neath the shade of the feathery bamboo, or the all embracing Peepul tree, and write and despatch "chits" to imaginary people, in imaginary houses, in an imaginary town?

I know not, it is futile to speculate further upon the matter. The mystery of "chit" writing is too deep for me.

I would gladly have remained longer in Rangoon, but it might not be. Mine was no mere visit of pleasure; I had travelled to Burmah in search of adventure, such as is scarcely to be met with in the garden party, dinner party, and dance life of Rangoon. And so, one hot afternoon, with anxious beating heart, I said "Good bye" to security and civilisation, and set forth on my journey to Mandalay!

The distance by rail from Rangoon to Mandalay is 386 miles, and it takes twenty-two hours to accomplish the journey. Trains, like everything else in this leisurely country, are not given to hurrying themselves. "Hasti, hasti, always go hasti" is the motto for Burmah. As an example of the unintelligible nature of the language I may explain that "Hasti" means "slow!"

It is a pleasant journey however, for the carriages are most comfortable, and the scenery through which the rail passes affords plenty of interest to a new comer.

I enjoyed my journey, therefore, immensely. I left Rangoon about five o'clock in the afternoon, well provided with books, fruit and chocolates for the journey, and under the protection of a hideous Madrassee Ayah.

I believe she was in reality a worthy old creature, but she was so exceedingly ugly, so very unintelligible (though most persistent in her efforts at conversation) and so intolerably stupid, that I could not feel much affection for her, and I only consented to put up with her company as a protection against the thieves who haunt the various halting places along the line, ready to steal into carriages and carry away all the portable property of the traveller. I had heard such blood curdling stories of these train thieves that I should have felt quite nervous about undertaking the journey, had I not fortunately disbelieved them.

I do not for an instant believe my ayah would have been any real protection, for whenever we stopped she was seized with an overpowering hunger, and spent all her time bargaining with the vendors of bananas, huge red prawns, decayed fish, dried fruits, cakes, and other horrible articles, who swarmed upon the stations.

These delicacies, and others which she prevailed upon my tender heart to buy for her, she wrapped up in a large red pocket handkerchief, and hid under the seat; what was their final fate I cannot pretend to say, but for her sake I trust she didn't eat them.

She was a much travelled lady and had visited many of the towns along the route, and persisted in waking me up at all odd hours of the night, to point out the houses where her various Mem-Sahibs had lived, or the bungalows inhabited by the commissioners, matters in which I was not at all interested.