Edward Spencer

The ups and downs of life—Stirring adventures—Marching on to glory—Shooting in the tropics—Pepper-pot—With the Rajah Sahib—Goat-sacrifices at breakfast time—Simla to Cashmere—Manners and customs of Thibet—Burmah—No place to get fat in—Insects—Voracity of the natives—Snakes—Sport in the Jungle—Loaded for snipe, sure to meet tiger—With the gippos—No baked hedgehog—Cheap milk.

The intelligent reader may have gathered from some of the foregoing pages that the experiences of the writer have been of a variegated nature. As an habitual follower of the Turf once observed:

Never mind what. It was an evil man who said it, but he was a philosopher. Dinner in the gilded saloon one day, on the next no dinner at all, and the key of the street. Such is life!

Those experiences do not embrace a mortal combat with a “grizzly” in the Rockies, nor a tramp through a miasma-laden forest in Darkest Africa, with nothing better to eat than poisonous fungi, assorted grasses, red ants, and dwarfs; nor yet a bull fight. But they include roughing it in the bush, on underdone bread and scorched kangaroo, a tramp from Benares to the frontier of British India, another tramp or two some way beyond that frontier, a dreadful journey across the eternal snows of the Himalayas, a day’s shooting in the Khyber Pass, a railway accident in Middlesex, a mad elephant (he had killed seven men, one of them blind) hunt at Thayet Myoo, in British Burmah, a fine snake anecdote or two, a night at Cambridge with an escaped lunatic, a tiger story (of course), and a capture for debt by an officer of the Sheriff of Pegu, with no other clothing on his body than a short jacket of gaily coloured silk, and a loin cloth. My life’s history is never likely to be written—chiefly through sheer laziness on my own part, and the absence of the gambling instinct on that of the average publisher—but like the brown gentleman who smothered his wife, I have “seen things.”

In this chapter no allusion will be made to “up river” delights, the only idea of “camping out” which is properly understood by the majority of “up to date” young men and maidens; for this theme has been already treated, most comically and delightfully, by Mr. Jerome, in the funniest book I ever read. My own camping experiences have been for the most part in foreign lands, though I have seen the sun rise, whilst reclining beneath the Royal trees in St. James’s Park; and as this book is supposed to deal with gastronomy, rather than adventure, a brief sketch of camp life must suffice.

On the march! What a time those who “served the Widdy”—by which disrespectful term, our revered Sovereign was not known in those days—used to have before the continent of India had been intersected by the railroad! The absence of one’s proper quantum of rest, the forced marches over kutcha (imperfectly made) bye-roads, the sudden changes of temperature, raids of the native thief, the troubles with “bobbery” camels, the still more exasperating behaviour of the bail-wallahs (bullock-drivers), the awful responsibilities of the officer-on-baggage-guard, on active duty, often in the saddle for fifteen hours at a stretch, the absolutely necessary cattle-raids, by the roadside—all these things are well known to those who have undergone them, but are far too long “another story” to be related here. As for the food partaken of during a march with the regiment, the bill-of-fare differed but little from that of the cantonments; but the officer who spent a brief holiday in a shooting expedition had to “rough it” in more ways than one.

There was plenty of game all over the continent in my youthful days, and the average shot need not have lacked a dinner, even if he had not brought with him a consignment of “Europe” provisions. English bread was lacking, certainly, and biscuits, native or otherwise—“otherwise” for choice, as the bazaar article tasted principally of pin-cushions and the smoke of dried and lighted cow-dung—or the ordinary chupatti, the flat, unleavened cake, which the poor Indian manufactures for his own consumption. Cold tea is by far the best liquid to carry—or rather to have carried for you—whilst actually shooting; but the weary sportsman will require something more exciting, and more poetical, on his return to camp. As for solid fare it was usually

Pepper-pot

for dinner, day by day. We called it Pepper-pot—that is to say, although it differed somewhat from the West Indian concoction of that name, for which the following is the recipe:—

Put the remains of any cold flesh or fowl into a saucepan, and cover with cassaripe—which has been already described in the Curry chapter as extract of Manioc root. Heat up the stew and serve.

Our pepper-pot was usually made in a gipsy-kettle, suspended from a tripod. The foundation of the stew was always a tin of some kind of soup. Then a few goat chops—mutton is bad to buy out in the jungle—and then any bird or beast that may have been shot, divided into fragments. I have frequently made a stew of this sort, with so many ingredients in it that the flavour when served out at table—or on the bullock-trunk which often did duty for a table—would have beaten the wit of man to describe. There was hare soup “intil’t” (as the Scotsman said to the late Prince Consort), and a collop or two of buffalo-beef, with snipe, quails, and jungle-fowl. There were half the neck of an antelope and a few sliced onions lurking within the bowl. And there were potatoes “intil’t,” and plenty of pepper and salt. And for lack of cassaripe we flavoured the savoury mess with mango chutnee and Tapp sauce. And if any cook, English or foreign, can concoct a more worthy dish than this, or more grateful to the palate, said cook can come my way.

The old dak gharry method of travelling in India may well come under the head of Camping Out. In the hot weather we usually progressed—or got emptied into a ditch—or collided with something else, during the comparative “coolth” of the night; resting (which in Hindustan usually means perspiring and calling the country names) all day at one or other of the dak bungalows provided by a benevolent Government for the use of the wandering sahib. The larder at one of those rest-houses was seldom well filled. Although the khansamah who prostrated himself in the sand at your approach would declare that he was prepared to supply everything which the protector-of-the-poor might deign to order, it would be found on further inquiry that the khansamah had, like the Player Queen in Hamlet, protested too much—that he was a natural romancer. And his “everything” usually resolved itself into a “spatch-cock,” manufactured from the spectral rooster, who had heralded the approach of the sahib’s caravan.

A Rajah’s

ideas of hospitality are massive. Labouring under the belief that the white sahib when not eating must necessarily be drinking, the commissariat arrangements of Rajahdom are on a colossal scale—for the chief benefit of his major domo. I might have bathed in dry champagne, had the idea been pleasing, whilst staying with a certain genial prince, known to irreverent British subalterns as “Old Coppertail”; whilst the bedroom furniture was on the same liberal scale. True, I lay on an ordinary native charpoy, which might have been bought in the bazaar for a few annas, but there was a grand piano in one corner of the apartment, and a buhl cabinet containing rare china in another. There was a coloured print of the Governor-General over the doorway, and an oil painting of the Judgment of Solomon over the mantelshelf. And on a table within easy reach of the bed was a silver-plated dinner service, decked with fruits and sweetmeats, and tins of salmon, and pots of Guava jelly and mixed pickles, and two tumblers, each of which would have easily held a week-old baby. And there was a case of champagne beneath that table, with every appliance for cutting wires and extracting the corks.

Another time the writer formed one of a small party invited to share the hospitality of a potentate, whose estate lay on the snowy side of Simla. The fleecy element, however, was not in evidence in June, the month of our visit, although towards December Simla herself is usually wrapt in the white mantle, and garrisoned by monkeys, who have fled from the land of ice. Tents had been erected for us in a barren-looking valley, somewhat famous, however, for the cultivation of potatoes. There was an annual celebration of some sort, the day after our arrival, and for breakfast that morning an al fresco meal had been prepared for us, almost within whispering distance of an heathen temple. And it was a breakfast! There was a turkey stuffed with a fowl, to make the breast larger, and there was a “Europe” ham. A tin of lobster, a bottle of pickled walnuts, a dreadful concoction, alleged to be an omelette, but looking more like the sole of a tennis shoe, potatoes, boiled eggs, a dish of Irish stew, a fry of small fish, a weird-looking curry, a young goat roasted whole, and a plum pudding!

The tea had hardly been poured out—Kussowlie beer, Epps’s cocoa, and (of course) champagne, and John Exshaw’s brandy were also on tap—when a gentleman with very little on proceeded to decapitate a goat at the foot of the temple steps. This was somewhat startling, but when the (presumed) high-priest chopped off the head of another bleating victim, our meal was interrupted. The executions had been carried out in very simple fashion. First, the priest sprinkled a little water on the neck of the victim (who was held in position by an assistant), and then retired up the steps. Then, brandishing a small sickle, he rushed back, and in an instant off went the head, which was promptly carried, reeking with gore, within the temple. But if, as happened more than once, the head was not sliced off at the initial attempt, it was left on the ground when decapitation had been at length effected. The deity inside was evidently a bit particular!

Nine goats had been sacrificed, ere our remonstrances were attended to; and we were allowed to pursue our meal in peace. But I don’t think anybody had goat for breakfast that morning.

Later on, the fun of the fair commenced, and the paharis, or hill men, trooped in from miles round, with their sisters, cousins, and aunts. Their wives, we imagined, were too busily occupied in carrying their accustomed loads of timber to and fro. Your Himalayan delights in a fair, and the numerous swings and roundabouts were all well patronised; whilst the jugglers, and the snake charmers—in many instances it was difficult to tell at a glance which was charmer and which snake—were all well patronised. Later on, when the lamps had been lit, a burra nÂtch was started, and the Bengali Baboos who had come all the way from Simla in dhoolies to be present at this, applauded vigorously. And our host being in constant dread lest we should starve to death or expire of thirst, never tired of bidding us to a succession of banquets at which we simply went through the forms of eating, to please him. And just when we began to get sleepy these simple hill folks commenced to dance amongst themselves. They were just a little monotonous, their choregraphic efforts. Parties of men linked arms and sidled around fires of logs, singing songs of their mountain homes the while. And as they were evidently determined to make a night of it, sleep for those who understood not the game, with their tents close handy, was out of the question. And when, as soon as we could take our departure decently and decorously, we started up the hill again, those doleful monotonous dances were still in progress, although the fires were out, and the voices decidedly husky. A native of the Himalayas is nothing if not energetic—in his own interests be it understood.

A few months later I formed one of a small party who embarked on a more important expedition than the last named, although we traversed the same road. It is a journey which has frequently been made since, from Simla to Cashmere, going as far into the land of the Great Llama as the inhabitants will allow the stranger to do—which is not very far; but, in the early sixties there were but few white men who had even skirted Thibet. In the afternoon of life, when stirring the fire has become preferable to stirring adventure, it seems (to the writer at all events) very like an attempt at self-slaughter to have travelled so many hundreds of miles along narrow goatpaths, with a khud (precipice) of thousands of feet on one side or the other; picking one’s way, if on foot, over the frequent avalanche (or “land slip,” as we called it in those days) of shale or granite; or if carried in a dhoolie—which is simply a hammock attached by straps to a bamboo pole—running the risk of being propelled over a precipice by your heathen carriers. It is not the pleasantest of sensations to cross a mountain torrent by means of a frail bridge (called a jhula) of ropes made from twigs, and stretched many feet above the torrent itself, nor to “weather” a corner, whilst clinging tooth and nail to the face of a cliff. And when there is any riding to be done, most people would prefer a hill pony to a yak, the native ox of Thibet. By far the best part of a yak is his beautiful silky, fleecy tail, which is largely used in Hindustan, by dependants of governors-general, commanders-in-chief, and other mighty ones, for the discomfiture of the frequent fly. A very little equestrian exercise on the back of a yak goes a long way; and if given my choice, I would sooner ride a stumbling cab-horse in a saddle with spikes in it.

But those days were our salad ones; we were not only “green of judgment,” but admirers of the beautiful, and reckless of danger. But it was decidedly “roughing it.” As it is advisable to traverse that track as lightly laden as possible, we took but few “Europe” provisions with us, depending upon the villages, for the most part, for our supplies. We usually managed to buy a little flour, wherewith to make the inevitable chupati, and at some of the co-operative stores en route, we obtained mutton of fair flavour. We did not know in those days that flesh exposed to the air, in the higher ranges of the Himalayas, will not putrefy, else we should have doubtless made a species of biltong of the surplus meat, to carry with us in case of any famine about. So “short commons” frequently formed the bill of fare. Our little stock of brandy was carefully husbanded, against illness; and, judging from the subsequent histories of two of the party, this was the most miraculous feature of the expedition. For liquid refreshment we had neat water, and thÉ À la mode de Thibet. Doctor Nansen, in his book on the crossing of Greenland, inveighs strongly against the use of alcohol in an Arctic expedition; but I confess that the first time I tasted Thibet tea I would have given both my ears for a soda and brandy. The raw tea was compressed into the shape of a brick, with the aid of—we did not inquire what; its infusion was drunk, either cold or lukewarm, flavoured with salt, and a small lump of butter which in any civilised police court would have gained the vendor a month’s imprisonment without the option of a fine.

The people of the district were in the habit of gorging themselves with flesh when they could get it; and polyandry was another of their pleasant customs. We saw one lady who was married to three brothers, but did not boast of it. Thibet is probably the most priest-ridden country in the world, and ought to be the most religious; for the natives can grind out their prayers, on wheels, at short intervals, in pretty much the same way as we grind our coffee in dear old England.

But we reached the promised land at last; and here at least there was no lack of food and drink. Meat was cheap in those days; and one of the party, without any bargaining whatever, purchased a sheep for eight annas, or one shilling sterling. Mutton is not quite as cheap at the time of writing this book (1897), I believe; but in the long ago there were but few English visitors to the land of Lalla Rookh, and those who did go had to obtain permission of the Rajah, through the British Resident.

With improved transit, and a railroad from Rangoon to Mandalay, matters gastronomic may be better in British Burmah nowadays; but in the course of an almost world-wide experience I have never enjoyed food less than in Pagoda-land during the sixties. And as a Burmese built house was not a whit more comfortable than a tent, and far less waterproof, this subject may well be included in the chapter headed “Camping Out.” Fruits there were, varied and plentiful; and if you only planted the crown of a pine-apple in your compound one evening you would probably find a decent-sized pine-apple above ground next—well, next week. At least so they told me when I arrived in the country. This fruit, in fact, was so plentiful that we used to peel the pines, and gnaw them, just like a school-boy would gnaw the ordinary variety of apple. But we had no mutton—not up the country, that is to say; and we were entirely dependent upon Madras for potatoes. Therefore, as there was only a steamer once a month from Madras to Rangoon, which invariably missed the Irrawaddy monthly mail-boat, we “exiles” had to content ourselves with yams, or the abominable “preserved” earth-apple. The insects of the air wrestled with us at the mess-table, for food; and the man who did not swallow an evil-tasting fly of some sort in his soup was lucky.[9] As for the food of the Burman himself, “absolutely beastly” was no name for it. Strips of cat-fish the colour of beef were served at his marriage feasts; and he was especially fond of a condiment the name of which was pronounced nuppee—although that is probably not the correct spelling, and I never studied the language of that country—which was concocted from a smaller description of fish, buried in the earth until decomposition had triumphed, and then mashed up with ghee (clarified—and “postponed”—butter). There was, certainly, plenty of shooting to be obtained in the district; but, as it rained in torrents for nine months in every year, the shooter required a considerable amount of nerve, and, in addition to a Boyton suit, case-hardened lungs and throat. And, singularly enough, it was an established fact that if loaded for snipe you invariably met a tiger, or something else with sharp teeth, and vice versa. Also, you were exceptionally fortunate if you did not step upon one of the venomous snakes of the country, of whom the hamadryad’s bite was said to be fatal within five minutes. I had omitted to mention that snake is also a favourite food of the Burman; and as I seldom went home of an evening without finding a rat-snake or two in the verandah, or the arm-chair, the natives had snake for breakfast, most days. The rat-snake is, however, quite harmless to life.

I have “camped out” in England once or twice; once with a select circle of gipsies, the night before the Derby. I wished merely to study character; and, after giving them a few words of the Romany dialect, and a good deal of tobacco, I was admitted into their confidences. But the experience gained was not altogether pleasing, nor yet edifying; nor did we have baked hedgehog for supper. In fact I have never yet met the “gippo” (most of them keep fowls) who will own to having tasted this bonne bouche of the descriptive writer. Possibly this is on account of the scarcity of the hedgehog. “Tea-kettle broth”—bread sopped in water, with a little salt and dripping to flavour the soup—on the other hand, figures on most of the gipsy menus. And upon one occasion, very early in the morning, another wanderer and the writer obtained much-needed liquid refreshment by milking the yield of a Jersey cow into each other’s mouths, alternately. But this was a long time ago, and in the neighbourhood of Bagshot Heath, and it was somebody else’s cow; so let no more be said about it.

I fear this chapter is not calculated to make many mouths water. In fact what in the world has brought it into the midst of a work on gastronomy I am at a loss to make out. However here it is.