TALI-FU TO BHAMO

At Tali-fu I found it impossible to hire mules or coolies for a journey to the Kunlon ferry, though during the cool weather the transport question would have presented no difficulty. To travel from Tali to YÜn-chou, on the south of the Mekong, would have occupied, I was told, only seven days, and another twelve days' march would have brought me through the valley of the Nam Ting to the Salwen ferry at Kunlon, the boundary of British territory. From there it is but four or five easy stages through the jungle to the British post of Lashio,349 the headquarters of the Superintendent of the North Shan States, and from that point I could have taken train to Mandalay. In summer, however, and especially after the commencement of the rains, the Tali muleteers regard a journey through the Nam T'ing valley and the Shan jungles of the frontier as very deadly, and I found that even an offer of treble the usual pay would not induce a single man to come forward. The crossing of the Salwen valley on the way to Bhamo is also considered a very dangerous performance in the hot season; but that, after all, is a matter of a few hours only, and there is no superstitious dread of any other part of the journey. I found it necessary, therefore, to abandon all idea of travelling to the Kunlon ferry, and rather reluctantly decided to take the well-known trade-route to Bhamo, through Yung-ch'ang and T'Êng-yÜeh.

So many Europeans in recent years have traversed this route that it is unnecessary for me to describe, in any detail, the characteristic features of a road which we all know so well from the graphic accounts of such experienced travellers as Baber, Colquhoun, Captain Gill and Dr Morrison. South-western China bears much the same appearance to-day as it did thirty years ago, and it may be doubted whether it was very different in the days of Marco Polo, though probably the roads were better. There is therefore very little need for me to describe this part of my journey with any minuteness.

I left Tali-fu on 25th May, and passed through the southern fortress-city of Hsia Kuan—where the trade is much brisker than at Tali-fu itself—after an easy ride of 6 or 7 miles. There my road left the lake and struck west into a ravine, and a few miles further on I reached the village of Ho Chiang-p'u. Next day we passed through Yang Pi, crossed a suspension bridge which was undergoing repair, and after a fairly stiff climb spent the night in a hamlet near the summit of a pass. On the 27th we crossed another pass of no great elevation, rode through T'ai-p'ing-p'u and one or two other small hamlets, and descended into a deep ravine in order to cross the Ch'ing Lien river by a suspension bridge, which, according to an inscription, was reconstructed in the eighteenth year of the present reign (1892), with funds raised by the public.350 A few miles beyond, we halted for the night in the village of Huang-lien-p'u. Some arduous climbing the next day brought us to the small town of Yung P'ing, which, a year previously, had suffered terribly from the floods of a neighbouring river. As no inn was habitable, I was given accommodation in a schoolhouse.

On the 29th I left Yung P'ing by a new road, only recently opened to traffic, passed the villages of Hsiao T'ien Pa situated amid rice-fields, Hsiao Hua Ch'iao ("Little Flower Bridge"), and Ta Hua Ch'iao ("Big Flower Bridge"). Above the last-named village and overlooking it is a temple (the San ShÊng Kung), in which I lunched. In the afternoon we climbed a steep pass from which an equally steep descent led to the village of Sha Yang, where we halted. Immediately on leaving this village next day we ascended and crossed a low ridge, and descended into a small valley cultivated with rice. We crossed a stream by a three-arched bridge built in 1888, called the "Stone Bridge of the Cry of the Phoenix" (FÊng Ming Shih Ch'iao). Beyond this is a row of stone tablets, some commemorating the virtues of incorruptible officials, and others recording the names of those who had subscribed funds for building the bridge.

At the top of the next steep pass, which overlooks the deep trough through which flows the Mekong river (called by the Chinese the Lan Ts'ang Chiang351), there is a rather large temple much patronised and enriched by successful traders. The descent to the river's edge is very steep. "A series of short and dangerous zigzags," says Baber, "leads down to a bold suspension bridge of 60 yards span, striding the river at its issue from the darkest of gorges. The perpendicular walls are not 100 yards apart; from our confined position we did not venture to estimate their height."352 Only the day before my arrival a man had been killed by a boulder which fell on his head as he was wending his way down to the river. One of my escort casually mentioned this to me just after we had passed the fatal spot. The man had been buried that morning close to the place where he was killed. The boulder was supposed to have been dislodged by a deer or a goat. On the east bank of the river, close to the bridge, is a stone tablet or shrine dedicated to the Spirit of the Mountain, and an inscription in which the bridge is described as the T'ai P'ing Ch'iao ("Great Peace Bridge"). The bridge is covered by a wooden arcade, from the roof of which are suspended several pien or boards bearing appropriate inscriptions in huge gilt letters. One of them has the four words, Shan Kao Shui Ch'ang ("The mountain is lofty and the river is long")—which remark if wanting in imaginative insight at least expresses an obvious truth concisely and to the point. The cliffs on the west side of the river are likewise covered with short inscriptions, carved deeply into the rock. One of the largest of all consists of the four words, JÊn Li So T'ung353 ("Made a thoroughfare by the labour of man"). The construction of this great bridge is indeed an engineering feat of which any people might well be proud.

On leaving the river we had a stiff climb over a fairly well paved road to P'ing P'o, the inhabitants of which ought to be excellent mountaineers. They cannot go out of doors in any direction without having to ascend or descend a steep mountain-side. A further climb of nearly 3 miles, partly beside the bed of a stream which in the rainy season is said to be a foaming torrent but in dry weather is absolutely non-existent, brought us to our destination for the night in the village of Shui Chai. In the neighbourhood of this village I found some tombstones of a kind I had not hitherto seen, though I met with many similar ones thereafter. They are like stone drums or cylinders stuck end-wise into the ground, but slightly convex on the top. On some of the grave-tablets are inscribed the words, Chia Ch'Êng ("The City Beautiful").

So far throughout my journey I had been remarkably fortunate as regards weather. The rainy season in western Yunnan usually begins early in May, yet, except for some snow-storms, one day's rain at Li-chiang, and two or three heavy showers after leaving Tali-fu, I had met with nothing but the most brilliant sunshine. I knew, however, that once the rains began in earnest they would continue incessantly for many weeks to come, and for this reason I was anxious to reach Bhamo as quickly as possible. What became of the weather after I had reached the Irrawaddy valley was a matter of indifference: aprÈs moi le dÉluge! The next stage after Shui Chai was the city of Yung-ch'ang, and as I had to pay off my Tali muleteers there, and engage others to take me on to T'Êng-yÜeh, I sent on my servant post-haste to Yung-ch'ang to make the necessary arrangements in advance in order that I might not have to waste a day. Following him more leisurely, I left Shui Chai and rode along a winding road for about 6 miles to the summit of a pass from which we had a good view of a portion of the Yung-ch'ang plain. This range of hills separates the watershed of the Mekong from that of the much-dreaded Salwen. Soon after crossing the pass our road led us down the left side of a small mountain stream, and it was interesting to reflect that its waters were destined, like myself, for British territory. The first village on the west side of the pass was Niu Chio Kuan. It consisted of two huts in Baber's time, and though it has since then quintupled in size it is by no means an imposing centre of population. A mile further down the slope we reached Kuan P'o, a larger village, whence we descended to the edge of the Yung-ch'ang plain, and passed by the side of the village of Shih K'o Ts'un, which possesses a rather handsome and imposing temple, the Kuang Tsun Ssu.354 I may note here that as one enters western Yunnan a tendency to over-decoration and ornateness in the architecture of temples is observable, but on the whole the effect is generally rather pleasing than otherwise, as carved and decorated doorways and fantastic gables often relieve the sordid meanness of the village dwelling-houses. No doubt the influence of non-Chinese races, akin to the Burmese or Shans, has been at work here.

The next village was Pan Ch'iao, a prosperous-looking place with a street of shops and many new buildings and ferocious dogs. One of the dogs, however, came to sorry grief in a conflict with my own bull-terrier, which—I will say it to his credit—seldom took the trouble to fight unless his antagonists were at least two in number. On leaving this village we were in full view of Yung-ch'ang city, with its curious pyramidal hill in the background. We entered by the north gate early in the afternoon. Within the city it almost seemed as though we were still traversing country roads, for we passed many wide open spaces, cultivated plots and a few isolated cottages, and the prickly pear was flourishing where one might have expected to find shops and paved streets. However, the whole city did not present this forlorn appearance, for a turning to the right brought us to a busy and populous quarter, and a further turn to the left led us into a lane in which inns abounded, showing that the city fostered a certain amount of trade.

I expected to find a fair assortment of foreign articles for sale here, but there were few. Tinned pineapples from a Chinese firm in Singapore, bearing a distinguished-looking label with the Royal Arms and the British lion, were to be bought for the equivalent of ninepence a tin; and "Finest Mineral Wax Candles, specially made for India," and sold by a well-known Rangoon firm, were also to be had for about one shilling per packet of five.

We have seen that the district of which Tali-fu is the centre, is the Carajan of Marco Polo. Its western limit appears to have been the Mekong river, and west of that was the old kingdom or state which Marco calls the Province of Zardandan. To its capital he gives the name of Vochan, and this city has been identified with Yung-ch'ang. This is the "Golden-Teeth" country, so named because the inhabitants were said to cover their teeth with thin movable plates of gold. Of this custom no vestige remains, and it is uncertain whether the people are represented by Shans or by some race connected with the Kachins. The inhabitants of the district were evidently regarded by the Chinese till quite modern times as an inferior race, for there is in the Chinese Penal Code a law to the effect that immigrant Chinese, visiting Yung-ch'ang for purposes of trade, must not ally themselves by marriage with the "outer barbarians" of that neighbourhood. The extraordinary practice known to us by the name (popularised by Tylor) of Couvade apparently existed in Yung-ch'ang in Marco Polo's time; and as he was doubtless unaware of its prevalence in many other parts of the world his testimony on the subject may be regarded as trustworthy. "And when one of their wives," says Marco, "has been delivered of a child, the infant is washed and swathed, and then the woman gets up and goes about her household affairs, whilst the husband takes to bed with the child by his side, and so keeps his bed for forty days; and all the kith and kin come to visit him, and keep up a great festivity. They do this because, say they, the woman has had a hard bout of it, and 'tis but fair the man should have his share of suffering."355 Whether this explanation of the custom is the true one is perhaps open to doubt. It is hardly flattering to the kith and kin, who presumably did their best to relieve the man's monotony, and make matters as pleasant as the somewhat singular circumstances permitted.

The annals of Yung-ch'ang should prove of exceptional interest to the student of Chinese history, for they cannot but throw a flood of light on the relations between the various tribes and states that have striven for the mastery of western Yunnan and the great valleys of the Mekong and Salwen. Its first annexation to the Chinese empire may be assigned to the year 1277, when a great battle—vividly described by Marco Polo356—was fought in the Yung-ch'ang plain between the army of the Great Khan and the ambitious king of Mien, or Burma, the main strength of whose army consisted in a host of elephants. "Then might you see swashing blows dealt and taken from sword and mace; then might you see knights and horses and men-at-arms go down; then might you see arms and hands and legs and heads hewn off: and besides the dead that fell, many a wounded man, that never rose again, for the sore press there was. The din and uproar were so great from this side and from that, that God might have thundered and no man would have heard it! Great was the medley, and dire and parlous was the fight that was fought on both sides; but the Tartars had the best of it."

The population of Yung-ch'ang is still a very mixed one, but the Chinese language is spoken and understood by all classes, and the dialect differs little from that of the metropolitan province. The observant Marco Polo noticed among the people of Zardandan the prevalence of the custom of tatooing the body and legs: a custom which to this day is universal among the Shans and Burmese and allied races.

On arrival at my inn I found that all arrangements for the next stage of my journey had been duly made, and on the following morning I set out with two new riding mules—one for myself and one for my servant—and two baggage mules. The muleteers undertook to get us to T'Êng-yÜeh in five days, and kept their word. Our road led through the city past a temple dedicated to the God of Wealth and out of the south gate. I noticed the date "Kuang HsÜ xxvi" (1900) on some of the bricks of the city wall, showing that a restoration had taken place recently. Unfortunately the authorities take no steps to prevent weeds and shrubs from growing in the interstices and on the parapet, and the roots must in course of time seriously affect the stability of the structure. Outside the gate we passed a Kuan Yin temple and went through a small suburb. The road then lay for about 4 miles southward over the plain and through the village of Wo Shih Wo (the "Sleeping Lion's Den"). The name is derived from a cave a few hundred yards above the village. The smell of the innumerable bats, not to mention the disquieting possibility of arousing the lion from his slumbers, would make the cave a disagreeable place to explore. The cave evidently penetrates some distance into the hill, though from the entrance it is difficult to say how far, as there is a turn to the left. It was very dark, and I did not venture far into the interior, as there was a steep slope made slippery by the constant dripping of water from the roof. The descent would have been easy enough—

so I left the attempt to the next traveller.

From here the road wound steadily but not steeply up and over a range of hills, and brought us to the village of Hao Tzu P'u. We continued the ascent to the summit of a pass, and in the course of the corresponding descent reached the village of LÊng Shui Ching ("Cold Water Well"). Another 5 or 6 miles brought us down to a level plain and to our halting-place—the large village of P'u Piao. Here I found the accommodation bad, though it is a regular stage and there are several inns.

The next stage was a very short one, only about 7 miles, but it brought us to the edge of the "Valley of the Shadow of Death"—the chasm through which flows the Salwen—and my men would not dare to cross it unless they were quite fresh and had dosed themselves well with quinine. The road from P'u Piao offers no difficulties. The only villages we passed were several which bore the collective name of Fang Ma Ch'ang. Baber describes this place as being a ruined hamlet, but it has risen from its ashes since his day. Even as late as Baber's time this district was the scene of sanguinary strife between the imperial forces and a noted rebel chief. Baber actually saw the rebel camp on the hills opposite the road in the Fang Ma Ch'ang valley. No wonder he passed villages in ruins. Two miles further brought us to the end of our short stage—the miserable hamlet of Ta Pan Ching. A short distance behind it, on the slope of a wooded hill, is a small rock-temple. In it there are four sedent figures and two standing. A semicircular brick wall is built in front of them, so that their view, if they had eyes to see, would be distinctly circumscribed and lacking in variety. Just above the shrine, and nearly hidden by trees, is a picturesque little temple, and close by are a few graves.

Next morning, after dosing my men and myself with all the quinine that was likely to be good for us, I began the long winding descent into the valley of the Salwen, the Chinese name for which is the Lu Chiang or Lu Tzu Chiang.357 I started on foot half an hour before my men, and did not see them until we all foregathered at the river. Soon after starting I came upon a stream of running water by the side of which was a tablet bearing a Chinese inscription to the effect that the water was dangerous to drink. Is it possible that the streams of this valley really contain some vegetable or mineral poison, and that it is from this fact that the valley derives its terrible reputation? The height of Ta Pan Ching above sea-level is 4,500 feet, while the bed of the Salwen lies at about 2,400; the actual descent was therefore 2,100 feet. It is not very steep, for the Salwen valley at this point is very much broader than that of the Mekong in the same latitude. After an easy and pleasant walk I reached the suspension bridge feeling quite as free from sickness as when I started.

I can offer no plausible theory to account for the traditional unhealthiness of the Salwen valley. To all appearance its verdant hills and broad slopes ought to be covered with cultivation and with the homes of thousands of industrious farmers. As it is, not a soul lives in the whole of that splendid stretch of country except a few despised Shan or Pa I tribesmen, who are apparently the only people who can dwell there and thrive. Most travellers dash across as if they were flying for their lives,358 and consider themselves fortunate if they are not struck down before they reach the heights overlooking the further side of the valley. Baber's account of its terrors, as they were described to him, is well worth quoting. "The morrow's journey would lead us across the Salwen—a river, to the native mind, teeming with portent and mystery. In western Yunnan this river is always spoken of with a certain awe. Governor Ts'Ên himself had warned us to cross its valley with all haste. Often had we been told of the many varieties of malarious exhalations which shroud the hollow after sunrise: fogs, red, yellow and blue, of which the red is the most deadly and the blue next in the scale of mortality. General Thunder, who had never previously crossed, came to notify to us that he had determined to start before daylight, so as to get well beyond the river before the sun was up. Luckily for us, he said, the deadly flood was now spanned by a suspension bridge, but before its construction travellers had to pass in boats. In those days a gruesome monster, resembling in shape a huge blanket, would issue from the depths, and, wrapping passengers and boat in his foetid folds, would sink back into his native abyss."359

How far back these superstitions may be traced is difficult to say. Certainly in Marco Polo's time, in the thirteenth century, they were widely current; for, though he himself obviously did not cross the valley, he describes the whole region as "full of great woods and mountains which 'tis impossible to pass, the air in summer is so impure and bad; and any foreigners attempting it would die for certain." That travellers descending from the high Yunnan plateau into a steamy valley only 2,400 feet above sea-level may be seriously inconvenienced by the sudden change of temperature,360 and perhaps become liable to attacks of fever, is not improbable; but as none of my own party succumbed to sickness, I am inclined to think that the Salwen has been unjustly maligned. My friend the Peking Times correspondent has told us "there can be little doubt that the deadliness of the valley is a tradition rather than a reality." In view of Dr Morrison's well-known accuracy, I am content to accept his opinion as the true one, more especially as it coincides with my own. Being a man of scientific and medical skill he would surely have sought out and annihilated Baber's blanket-fiend if it had existed.

After crossing the suspension bridge, which is similar in construction to those already noticed but is in two sections, I came to a small Pa I hamlet and a temple. Being in no hurry, and anxious to give the noxious vapours of the valley every opportunity of doing their worst on me, I paid a long visit to the temple and waited about an hour for the arrival of my caravan. I was told that the indigenous inhabitants of the valley were gradually increasing in numbers and bringing more of the land under cultivation, and that they were ruled by a t'u ssu or tribal chief who dwelt on the right bank of the river at a place about 10 miles to the south. A path leads thither along the river-bank.

The upward climb on the west side of the valley was not arduous, and the mules made the ascent without much difficulty in spite of the fact that a very heavy shower of rain turned the road into a running stream. It was curious to watch the rain-storm in the shape of a dense grey cloud rushing southwards through the valley. On looking back towards the river, then a couple of thousand feet below us, we had a fine view of the silver waters of the Salwen sparkling in brilliant sunshine; in a moment they were hidden by a rolling mass of dark vapour, out of which arose a strange parti-coloured rainbow in which orange and blue-green predominated. Its perfect arch crossed the whole breadth of the river-bed where the valley was narrowest, spanning the river like a fairy bridge. In five minutes the storm rolled on and the rainbow faded away, leaving me with the impression that I had never seen anything more beautiful or more strange. The fancy occurred to me that it was perhaps some such natural phenomenon as this that gave rise to the tradition recorded by Baber about the tinted fogs that varied in deadliness according to their colour.

We were all in a very wet and draggled condition when we arrived at the wretched wattle-and-mud hamlet of Hu Mu Shu, after a climb of about 3,100 feet above the level of the river. When we started next morning it was still raining, and in half an hour the clothes that we had dried with difficulty were again wet through. Our path lay to a great extent through thick forest, and the dripping of the leaves was almost as troublesome as the rain itself. We had a steady climb of about 3 miles to the hamlet called Hsiang Po ("Elephant's Neck"), and a further climb of 1,500 feet to the summit of a pass 8,730 feet high. There is a wooden gateway at the top. From here the road descends for about a mile, then ascends again and undulates, and finally goes rather steeply down to the hamlet of T'ai P'ing, where we halted for our midday rest. Pheasants abound in this district, but the jungle is so thick that it is hardly possible to leave the pathway in search of game. Our host at T'ai P'ing possessed some valuable European articles in the shape of a glass oil-lamp and two empty claret bottles probably left behind by some traveller more amply provided than myself with good things. The descent to the Shweli or Lung River was a steep and slippery ride in the course of which we descended about 3,500 feet. The river is crossed by a suspension bridge of the usual type. A mile or two further on we came to the village of Kan-lan-chan, where we spent the night in a very dirty inn.

Next day's stage presented no features of special interest. Early in the afternoon I descended to the T'Êng-yÜeh plain, which is studded with more or less prosperous villages, and soon caught sight of the semi-European buildings of the Chinese Imperial Customs and—more welcome still—the Union Jack floating over the gates of the British Consulate. There I was most hospitably received and entertained by Mr Ottewell, Acting British Consul, and enjoyed a two days' rest.

T'Êng-yÜeh is to be the terminus of the proposed British railway from Bhamo, regarding which negotiations have been in progress for some considerable time. That the trade between Burma and China by this route requires some stimulus is unquestionable. The officials in charge of the T'Êng-yÜeh Customs informed me that the volume of trade annually passing through their hands was not showing any elasticity, and that the Customs revenue barely served to defray the expenses of the establishment. Whether the railway will stimulate the trade to any very great extent is questionable; for caravans bound for Burma have already surmounted all serious obstacles, in the shape of mountain and flood, by the time they have reached T'Êng-yÜeh, so that as far as they are concerned a railway would merely shorten by a few days a journey which already might have lasted months. Local traffic between the two termini will probably be found fairly remunerative, though very large returns can hardly be expected. If the railway could be carried on to Tali-fu, its ultimate success would be a certainty; but the engineering difficulties are very great, and the amount of capital required for construction would be enormous. From Tali-fu several branch lines might be constructed, one going south to the Kunlon ferry (a route which has already been surveyed) to meet the existing British line from Mandalay to Lashio, and another going north to Li-chiang. The main line should, of course, be carried eastwards to Yunnan-fu, which will very soon be in railway communication with French Indo-China and the port of Haiphong. The branch line from Tali-fu to Li-chiang—following the route traversed by myself361—would meet with no great difficulties, and would pass through a series of rich and populous valleys. Even if Li-chiang were a terminus it is probable that the local traffic would amply justify such a railway; though it would be better still if further branches could be carried on to Wei-hsi in the west, in order to intercept the Tibetan trade, and to Hui-li-chou or Ning-yÜan-fu on the east, to tap the trade of the Chien-ch'ang valley, which might eventually include a great deal of the foreign trade of Ssuch'uan. It must be admitted that all these lines—with the exception of the branch from Tali to Li-chiang—would be very costly to construct and to keep in repair. Meanwhile British enterprise seems content to restrict itself to the short line between Bhamo and T'Êng-yÜeh. This railway will doubtless fully justify its existence, but it is absurd to suppose that such a line will seriously compete with the French lines in the east of the province, or will have any appreciable effect in deflecting the trade of Yunnan from Tongking to Burma.362

At T'Êng-yÜeh I paid off the Tibetan servant who had accompanied me from Tachienlu, and the muleteers who had come from Yung-ch'ang, and engaged new mules and coolies to take me to Bhamo. I resumed my journey on 8th June. The path soon leaves the plain and mounts through extensive graveyards and over barren hills. Later in the day we descended, gradually but steadily, to a valley, narrow, but very extensively cultivated with rice and dotted with many villages. In many cases the recent rains had caused the inundated rice-fields to overflow into the road, which was often quite submerged. I lunched at the small village of JÊ Shui T'ang, which, as its name implies, possesses a natural hot spring. We had now left the Yunnan plateau behind us, and had descended to the plains that slope gradually downwards towards the Irrawaddy. For the rest of the way to Burma I found that the vast majority of the population were Shans and Kachins, whose picturesque dresses are a pleasant contrast to the drab-coloured garments that generally content the less Æsthetic Chinese. The women are remarkable for their headgear, which is similar to that worn by the isolated Shans whom I had seen in the Salwen valley. It consists of a tall dark turban that looks like a kind of antediluvian gentleman's top-hat that has been cruelly sat upon. Unfortunately the Shans, both men and women, are much given to disfiguring their mouths by chewing betel-nut—a disagreeable habit of an otherwise charming people. The drinking-water in this part of the country—as is generally the case in a land of padi-fields—must be used with great caution. I passed a clear flowing stream, by the side of which was the notification, t'zu shui yu tu ("This water is poisonous")—a warning which must be disconcerting to a thirsty wayfarer.

We spent the night of our first day from T'Êng-yÜeh in a roomy temple in the large village of Nan Tien. The next day was uneventful. We traversed execrable roads. Often it was difficult to know whether we were on the path or in a padi-field, for both were inundated, and we spent the greater part of the day in wading through a series of shallow and very muddy lakes. We spent the second night in the market village of Kau Ngai, and the third in Hsiao Hsin Kai ("Little Bhamo"). The purely Shan villages were generally enclosed within fences, and we did not see much of them; but I noticed that the native houses in the Chinese Shan States are less picturesque, and also apparently less clean and commodious than those of the Lao-Shans in the French Shan States and Siam. On 11th June the swollen rivers caused us even greater trouble than the flooded rice-fields, and at one point I feared we should have to wait till the waters subsided. Between the villages of Hsiao Hsin Kai and Lung Chang Kai we came to a river which, though doubtless an insignificant brook in dry weather, was then a swift and muddy river about 60 yards broad. There was nothing in the way of boat, bridge or ford, and our mules, with all the obstinacy of their kind, for a long time refused to leave the bank. Finally, my two baggage animals were relieved of their burdens, which were carried across in separate light loads on the heads of coolies. The latter were stripped to the skin, for the water was almost high enough to take them off their feet. One of them lost his footing, and let his load fall into the water; it was recovered, but most unfortunately it contained some rolls of exposed photographic films. The comparatively poor results of my journey from the photographic point of view—for dozens of films were utterly ruined—are largely due to that unhappy accident. The fact that I had so nearly reached my journey's end and had so far escaped any such mishap rendered it all the more vexatious. I crossed the river without any disaster to myself, but the drenching to which I was unavoidably subjected gave me an attack of fever, which was not shaken off for several days. It is not so easy to get rid of colds and fevers in the steamy tropical valleys of the Shan States as it is in the exhilarating climate of the Tibetan mountains.

The latter part of the same day's journey (the fourth stage from T'Êng-yÜeh) was unexpectedly easy. I suddenly found myself on a good broad road, unmetalled, but well engineered. I followed this road the whole way to Bhamo, and it was not until my arrival there that I was given an explanation of so unusual a phenomenon as a carriage road in Chinese territory. It was the work of British engineers, and had been undertaken by the Government of Burma at the request and at the expense of the Government of Yunnan. The provincial funds have not yet permitted of the extension of the road to T'Êng-yÜeh, but it is to be hoped, for the sake of future travellers, and in the interests of trade, that something will be done to carry it over the rain-sodden plains. When we struck the British-made road we were about 70 or 80 miles from Bhamo, and between 20 and 30 from the British frontier. At 15 miles from the frontier we halted for the night in the village of Man-hsien, which is the administrative centre of a Chinese-Shan chief or sawbwa.363 It is only a hamlet consisting of about thirty flimsy bamboo huts, several of which were shops for the sale of local produce.

On 12th June my day's journey began in Chinese and ended in British territory. Being too impatient to wait for my muleteers—who showed no emotion at the proximity of the British flag—I started on foot and walked the whole of the 15 miles to the frontier. There was a heavy shower in the early morning, but the sky soon cleared up, and for the rest of the day the fierce rays of a tropical sun beat upon me with all their strength, and taxed all the resisting power of the shilling umbrella I had bought at San Ying. The gradient of the road was excellent throughout, but being unmetalled it had been much damaged by the recent rains. In many places it was entirely blocked by landslips; at others it had been torn away by mountain floods. It was bordered by dense jungle on both sides. On the left, luxuriant vegetation covered the steep slope of a mountain; on the right was an abrupt descent into a ravine, in which one could hear but seldom see the roaring torrent below. In some places the landslips had brought down large trees, which lay across the road. My mules, I heard afterwards, had great difficulty in surmounting these various obstacles, and in some cases were forced to trample out a new road for themselves in the jungle. The road, good as it was, seemed to me a "fair-weather" road. There was a lack of bridges. Streams that might be non-existent in the dry season were then rushing over the road, wearing deep channels in its surface, or tearing it away altogether. There was also a lack of storm-water drains. These would at least do a little to prevent the torrential summer rains from making havoc of the roadway. Further, the wooded slopes adjacent to the road have not been sufficiently strengthened, and, under present conditions, serious landslips are bound to occur every year. Only an engineer has any right to speak with authority on such matters, but one may perhaps hazard the suggestion that the cemented roads of Hongkong, with their admirable and elaborate storm-drainage system, might with advantage be copied in Upper Burma in places where the roads are specially liable to landslips or floods. Probably, however, the great cost of such roadways would be prohibitive in a country which is, after all, thinly populated, and where there is little traffic.

In referring to the lack of bridges I must not forget the admirable iron bridge at Kamsa, 4 miles west of Man-hsien in Chinese territory. It spans a torrent which descends in a series of dazzling cascades. The highest of these, visible from the bridge, is a really fine waterfall, which would attract crowds of sightseers if it were in a more accessible country. The bridge is quite new, having been completed only in April 1905. Had it not existed, I should have found myself in a serious dilemma. The stream that flowed below it was a boiling torrent which neither man nor horse could ford or swim, and its course, above and below, was hidden by impenetrable jungle.

At the bottom of a narrow ravine 15 miles from Man-hsien there is a brook spanned by a log of wood. I saw no inscribed pillar, and no flags, nor was I challenged by any lynx-eyed Indian sentry; but this is the spot at which two great Empires meet. On the Chinese side were a few Shan huts, known collectively as Kulika. After climbing out of the ravine on the western side, I found the first evidence of British occupation: two small wooden bungalows surrounded by servants' sheds and outhouses. They were all empty and deserted, though some Shan pedlars were peacefully enjoying their midday slumber on one of the verandahs. The bungalows had probably been used by engineers and surveyors, but evidently they had not been occupied for some time. I took temporary possession of the one not selected by the Shans, and awaited there the arrival of my caravan.

After a meagre tiffin I again set off on foot amid enchanting tropical scenery. The views were not extensive, for the road lay through a gorge covered with thick jungle. Several hundred feet below the road I occasionally caught sight of the foaming waters of the T'ai P'ing rushing tempestuously through its confined bed. From a wide, majestic and apparently navigable river—for such it was while it flowed through the plains I had lately been traversing—it had become a series of boiling rapids noisily protesting against their confinement within so narrow a channel. Eight miles beyond the frontier I was not sorry to come within sight of the end of my long day's walk—the first of the trim little Public Works Bungalows364 which a considerate Government has established at convenient distances along the main roads of Upper Burma for the use of officials and travellers. Here I was welcomed by a Kachin damsel, who, in the absence of the regular bungalow keeper, addressed to me soothing words which, I felt sure, must be meant to be words of welcome; and I made haste to interpret them as such. A walk of 23 miles at the hottest season of the year in a tropical country is not a task to be lightly undertaken every day; and when allowance is made for the manner in which I had lived for the past few months, in a country where European comforts are unknown, I may perhaps be pardoned for having given way to feelings of exultation at finding myself in a bungalow furnished—as it seemed to me—with the utmost luxury. A clean table-cloth, knives and forks and glass tumblers, long easy-chairs, a four-poster bed with mosquito curtains, and, above all, a bath, were things of beauty and wonder that seemed almost too good to be true.

My expedition from Weihaiwei to the frontier of Burma had occupied five months and six days. I had travelled from the most easterly prefecture in China (TÊng-chou) to the most westerly (Yung-ch'ang); from the extreme north-east to the extreme south-west of China; over the loftiest passes in the empire, and through seven of its provinces. I had also traversed most of China's greatest rivers-the Yellow River, Yangtse, Min, Ya, Ta Tu, Yalung, Mekong, Salwen and Shweli. As to my condition at the end of this long and solitary journey, during the greater part of which I had partaken of the same coarse and frugal fare as my coolies and muleteers, I need only say that apart from a short attack of fever in the Shan plains beyond T'Êng-yÜeh I never had a day's sickness.

At the bungalow of Mong-kung-ka I was still some distance from Bhamo. At the earnest request of my guides, whose mules were exhausted, I spent three days in traversing the remaining 43 miles. On 13th June I halted at the bungalow of Kulong-ka, 30 miles from Bhamo. Next day, at the eighteenth milestone from Bhamo, I found myself on a metalled carriage road, as good as a first-rate country road in England, and followed it to the bungalow at Momauk, a small village inhabited by Shans and Kachins. On the 15th I left Momauk before 6 A.M., hoping to reach the travellers' DÂk bungalow at Bhamo, only 9 miles distant, without having to meet the critical eyes of the European residents. The very slender outfit with which I had started from Weihaiwei had long since disappeared. Peking furs and sheep-skin boots had served me well on the Tibetan mountains, but were hardly suitable for a tropical climate: and what remained of them I had given away to my followers at Tali-fu. Other garments had gradually fallen to pieces, and had been discarded one by one. I was now wearing Chinese straw sandals without socks, an old khaki suit patched with most inappropriate coarse blue cloth, and held together with string instead of buttons, and a huge, wide-flapping straw hat such as forms the headgear of Chinese Shans when working in the fields. The animal on which I had ridden from T'Êng-yÜeh was a shaggy Yunnanese pony. The saddle, which I had bought in Tachienlu, was of the kind generally used by the natives of eastern Tibet, with a high pommel tipped with metal, and a hard wooden seat covered with tightly-stretched yak leather. The stirrups were iron plates something like flat saucers, and the bridle was of rope and twisted bamboo. I had no desire to be thrust into the deputy-commissioner's dungeons on suspicion of being a head-hunting Wa, or an untamed Kachin, yet it was rash to expect any more hospitable reception in my present condition. My hopes of evading detection until I had emerged a new man from the shops of the shoemakers and tailors of Bhamo were doomed to disappointment. I covered the nine miles at my pony's quickest trot, and the houses of Bhamo were already in sight, when suddenly arose in front of me an ominous cloud of dust. A glint of sunshine shone on a brilliant array of polished arms, and quickly out of the dust advanced a body of Indian troops. The pleasure with which I should have welcomed the sight of a British mountain-battery and the sound of the tramp of the king-emperor's soldiers was damped by my painful knowledge of the ridiculous figure I must have presented. I hastily urged my pony into a friendly ditch while the detachment passed by, but I could not, unfortunately, escape the "stony British stare" of the commanding-officer. Half a mile further on, on entering the town, I met a solitary European on horseback, who in answer to my timid query kindly directed me to the DÂk bungalow. Half an hour afterwards I was arraying myself in ready made garments of varying degrees of misfit in that admirable establishment well known to all residents in Upper Burma as "Kohn's."