River Road to China

by Milton Osborne

  The immediate difficulty was to know what the “circumstances” were. Well to the north, in the southwestern Chinese province of Yunnan, the Frenchmen knew that an Islamic revolt had been in progress since 1855. The causes and the course of this revolt were complex, and without fresh information the explorers could only guess at the importance it might have for their own progress when they reached Chinese territory. Since the passports they possessed for travel through China were issued by the imperial government in Peking, there was clearly need to avoid any action that might place the party in jeopardy by antagonizing either of the contending Chinese sides.

  Before the possible difficulties of China were encountered, however, a way had to be found to that country which, for all the members of the expedition, still remained a presumed if untested source of countless riches. The problems to be overcome were compounded by the political circumstances of a frontier zone that had little if any recognizable similarities with the European pattern of state relations familiar to the explorers. For their ancestors, living five or six hundred years previously in a world of suzerains and vassals, the political configuration of the northern Laotian and Burmese Shan states might have posed few problems of understanding. To Frenchmen in the second half of the nineteenth century the situation was at best confusing. Viewed from Luang Prabang, the area that now forms part of northern Laos and north-eastern Burma was, in 1867, a curiously jumbled region of petty kingdoms or principalities, none of which possessed the power or the prestige to act without some reliance and dependence upon their stronger neighbors, the Burmese, the Chinese, and, for the region directly west of Luang Prabang, the Thai monarch in Bangkok. What made the situation even more uncertain was that most of these petty rulers were in vassalage to more than one greater power.

  In these circumstances of instability the fact and memory of war often seemed dominant. The Burmese rulers distrusted the Shan peoples in the Northeast of their kingdom, seeing them as old opponents and ethnic affiliates of their longtime Thai enemies whose power center lay in the lower Chao Phraya (Menam) valley. The Thai conceded Burman interest in the more northerly Shan states but disputed it in such areas as Chiang Mai. As for China, these regions immediately to her south seemed to illustrate all too well the validity of the traditional assumption that the peoples of thoses areas outside direct Chinese control were incapable of governing themselves without advice and direction.

  Adding further to such problems of understanding and comprehension was the ethnic confusion of the region ahead. Lagrée and his subordinates were well aware that the Laotions and Shans they encountered were members of the great Tai-speaking people whose most successful political achievement had been the establishment of the Kingdom of Thailand with its capital in Bangkok. Springing from an ethnic base somewhere in southern China, probably as early as the eleventh century, Tai ruling groups had slowly imposed their power over an extraordinary range of what is now modern China and Southeast Asia. Despite the great distances involved, and the different names adopted by various groups, they all spoke (and still speak) Tai dialects of considerable, indeed essential, similarity. But Laotians and Shans were not the only inhabitants of the unknown “upper regions.” A modern ethnolinguistic map of the area only tends to heighten the sense of confusion. Intermingled with the Tai-speaking Laotians and Shans are representatives of half a dozen other ethnic groups, some living in close association with the dominant Tai-speaking peoples of the river valleys, others remaining in essential, if not complete, isolation in the upland regions.

  Even to state matters in these terms is to give a misleading impression of the problems that worried Doudart de Lagrée as he reviewed the various possibilities open to his party. With the benefit of hindsight and the accumulation of ethnological and political knowledge, a modern writer can summarize the situation and so diminish, even unconsciously, the confusion and uncertainly. What may now be summarized was known at best imperfectly in May of 1867, and by men who were already paying a heavy physical cost for their prolonged exposure to the dangers of tropical disease. When he wrote to his sister-in-law from Luang Prabang, Lagrée acknowledged his tiredness. At forty-three, he wrote of how age weighed him down. If the doctors who accompanied the expedition had been of a later generation, they would possibly have already diagnosed the disease from which Lagrée was suffering by this time, a disease that sapped his energy and required him to make supreme efforts in order to play his role as leader.

  The explorers progress up the Se Moun River. See page 78.

  A river scene sketched on April 22, 1867, just before the expedition's arrival in Luang Prabang. See page 100.

  Previous pages. The explorers watch as the ‘king' of Bassac receives oaths of loyalty from his senior officials. See pages 66–72.

  The ruins of the Wat Pha Keo pagoda in Vientiane. The famous Emerald Buddha, now in Bangkok, was once housed here. See page 98.

  A festival in a pagoda in the Thai riverside town of Nong Khay. See page 96.

  The fireworks at Bassac. The French explorers were in Bassac at the time of the Water Festival, one of the great events of the year.

  A plan of the course of the waters of the Khone falls. See paged 64–5.

  The town of Luang Prabang. The explorers spent nearly a month in this scenically attractive city. See pages 112–16.

  The That Luang stupa, the most famous monument in Vientiane, which remains revered in contemporary Laos. See page 98.

  One of Delaporte's botanical studies. This one concentrates on epiphytic orchids of Laos.

  Nothing more surely reveals Lagrée's already diminished physical and mental reserves than the fact that at Luang Prabang he sought his companions' opinion on the next step the mission should take. In the bickering and even bitter dispute that emerged after the expedition was over, its leader dead, the question of who made what decision, and in concert with whom, became important points about which to construct hypothetical assertions concerning the role of this or that participant. Garnier's partisans, who remain the most vocal a century later, see their hero in one role. In the 1870s and 1880s there were those, not least Louis de Carné, who promoted a cult of Lagrée and sought to denigrate his second-in-command. More than a century after the events that kindled such bitter debate judgment can be more balanced, even if the desirability of such balance would have been rejected by those who engaged in the original controversy.

  Until the mission reached Luang Prabang Doudart de Lagrée's position as its leader was largely unaffected by health problems. From that period, in April and May of 1867, he was the victim of progressive debilitation. Rather than the “fevers” that had brought him low in southern Laos five months before, or the chronic problems resulting from his persistent throat infection, he began to suffer the effects of amoebic dysentery. With the reticence of the mid-nineteenth century, the chroniclers of the expedition give us little detail on the course of Lagrée's disease. But after his death, the final comments on his abscessed liver and his “unmistakable” symptoms, which can only have been the passing of a bloody flux through the bowels, leave no real doubt as to the nature of his complaint. And the picture we have of periods of remission that permitted Lagrée to act with something of his former dynamism supports this diagnosis. All these symptoms are consistent with a modern understanding of the nature of amoebic dysentery. What might set Lagrée's case apart is the staggering level of physical achievement he managed to maintain before, finally, and six months of travel beyond Luang Prabang, he was forced to admit that he could march no further.

  This ultimate physical defeat was still many months distant as Lagrée chose to discuss the future with his associates. Three courses seemed open to them, though not equally desirable. They could strike off to the northeast, abandoning the valley of the Mekong and passing along China s southern borders by way of the extreme north of Vietnam. Despite the hostility that existed between the ruler of Luang Prabang and the Vietnamese court at Hue, there was good reason to believe that thi
s route would involve the least danger. Travel along such a route would have the additional and undeniable attraction that it would be through totally unknown territory. But in terms of the expedition's instructions it would have been an abandonment of the original goal — exploration of the Mekong valley as a route into China.

  There were two other alternatives. First, the expedition could continue along the Mekong itself, risking the difficulties that seemed likely to emerge because of continuing clashes between local forces backed by either the Burmese or the Thai court. Second, the Frenchmen could adopt a compromise. Without following the Mekong itself, they could journey into China up the course of another major river, the Nam Ou, a tributary that joined the Mekong near Luang Prabang. All the information available to the explorers suggested that this would be a more direct route. The fact that such a route would bypass those territories that were in vassalage to the Burmese authorities was a further attraction. The Frenchmen had passports for territories whose rulers accepted the Thai ruler as suzerain, and for those that were vassals of the Emperor of China. They did not have authority for travel through areas that acknowledged the power of the Burmese ruler at Mandalay.

  Lagrée was in favor of the last alternative. He was conscious of his own weakness and probably recognized the tiredness of the others. Garnier, on the other hand, was vigorous in advocating the Mekong route. Later he was to admit the overriding force of his “monomanie du Mékong” his single-minded mania to travel as far as possible along the great river that had dominated their journey up to this point. For a period, as the explorers still rested in Luang Prabang, the question of the route remained unresolved. Then, just after the middle of May, Lagrée made up his mind. The expedition would continue along the Mekong after all. The political intelligence that had filtered into Luang Prabang suggested that some at least of the suspected dangers along the Mekong route had now disappeared. There had been a pause in the recurrent conflicts between the petty states that had such tenuous existence at the outer reaches of their suzerains' interest. In addition, and even more important, it appeared that the Chinese Government in Peking had achieved some success in bringing rebellious areas of Yunnan province once more under its control, and that as a result a general calm reigned in the regions to the north of Luang Prabang.

  Between May 18 and 25 the members of the expedition bustled to prepare once again for protracted travel. With prospects before them so uncertain they decided to reduce their baggage to a bare minimum. The collections and specimens were to be sent to Bangkok rather than carried with the mission, as they had been up to this point. Each individual was, from now on, to make do with a single bag for all his possessions. Even the common stores of the party were affected by the decision. Surplus ammunition and trade objects were considered less important than the ability to move swiftly through the poor weather and worse topographical conditions that were believed to lie ahead. Despite the annoyance of having to leave behind these objects and supplies, the explorers had only one insistent and immediately obvious concern at this time. They were acutely aware that they might run short of money. The expedition had now been traveling for nearly a year, and progress had been much slower than was ever expected at the outset. The cost of hiring boatmen had proved higher than anticipated, and the Frenchmen had dire, and as it proved correct, fears that prolonged land porterage would be even more expensive.

  From the time the expedition left Luang Prabang, on May 25, 1867, until they reached the first major settlement in China, the town of Ssu-mao, nearly five months later on October 18, the travelers underwent the most physically and emotionally exhausting experiences they had yet encountered. There is small wonder in the fact that neither the official reports, nor the published and unpublished materials left behind, notably by Garnier and de Carné, make easy reading. The men who left Luang Prabang thinking they were in relatively good health were in fact prime targets for tropical disease, and all succumbed to some degree. As for the political difficulties that they believed had been diminished by recent developments along the Mekong itself and in China, these were to plague them in a fashion beyond their worst imaginings.

  The early days of renewed travel were uneventful. The ruler of Luang Prabang's authority extended nearly as far as their first major stopping place, the settlement of Chiang Kong lying on the Mekong and to the west of their recent temporary base. To reach Chiang Kong was a simple matter of following the course of the Mekong, uninterrupted over this section by rapids or cataracts. Once in Chiang Kong, on June 5, political difficulties replaced the more familiar physical obstructions to which the party was so accustomed. The settlement was part of the once powerful principality of Nan, which, while it retained some vestiges of independence, was a vassal of the Thai King in Bangkok. Lying near the extreme north of territory firmly linked with Bangkok, Chiang Kong was administered by a timid Governor who hesitated to act beyond the strict letter of the law. The passports the explorers carried, he observed, gave them the right to free passage through the King of Thailand's dominions. There was no reference, however, to the expedition leaving these dominions and crossing into alien territory.

  This was the briefest foretaste of what was to come. The Governor of Chiang Kong's objections were quickly overcome, an understanding being achieved that he would provide boats to carry the explorers to the limits of those regions which acknowledged the King of Thailand's suzerainty. Once there, farther along the Mekong, and in the middle of the forest, as the Governor pointed out with some concern, the explorers would be at the borders of Keng Tung, the largest of all the Shan states whose rulers acknowledged the Burmese King at Mandalay as their master. Despite the brusqueness with which Lagrée had treated the hesitant Governor in order to gain his agreement for the party to proceed, the now certain knowledge that there were Burmese authorities to be considered, and possibly placated, was disturbing. For all their earlier concern to ensure that they possessed passports for China, the explorers had attached less importance to the need for similar papers from the Burmese King at Mandalay. They had tried to obtain passports through the good offices of a French missionary bishop, but these efforts had been made fruitless by a brief but disruptive rebellion that broke out against King Mindon's rule in 1866. In the period of turbulence that followed, the question of passports for an unknown set of alien travelers was temporarily forgotten.

  Doudart de Lagrée's decision in these circumstances was to send letters on ahead to the ruler of Keng Tung, arguing that the Burmese court knew of the explorers' intentions (by now a dubious assertion) and requesting permission to pass through the ruler's territory towards the final goal of Yunnan. With the letters the French party's leader sent a collection of minor gifts, scarcely realizing, as Garnier later admitted, that even in such a distant state as Keng Tung, the existence of regular trading arrangements with those areas of Burma that had fallen under British control made their offerings seem notably unimpressive. What was worse, they were to find later, was their failure to include separate gifts for the Burmese agent attached to Keng Tung. The Frenchmen did not know of his existence. They were to pay a heavy cost for this ignorance in the long weeks of despair that followed.

  With their letters sent ahead, the party left Chiang Kong on June 14, 1867. One year earlier they had been in Phnom Penh, eager and confident. As they left Chiang Kong they were no less eager to continue, but they had come to learn that confidence was frequently misplaced. When Francis Garnier, always the most optimistic member of the party, had written from Luang Prabang to his close friend Eliacin Luro in Saigon, a few weeks previously, even he had admitted his misgivings. He was forced to acknowledge that it was “very doubtful” if the party could make its way to China. Yet there was no thought of turning back. Moreover, even at moments of deep despondency there was always a point of some interest to be recorded: the ruined sites of once important settlements, the presence of another unrecorded tribal group. Less scientific but just as diverting were the seemingly endless encounters
with wild animals, from deer to tigers and elephants, and even the rare rhinoceros.

  Four days after leaving Chiang Kong the explorers were at the edge of the King of Burma's dominions. Eight miles from the spot on the river bank where the party first halted was the settlement of Mong Lin, one of the possessions of the ruler of Keng Tung. Still waiting for a reply from Keng Tung, the Frenchmen obtained permission to travel to Mong Lin, which they found to be a sizable village, big enough for a market to be held every five days. Some of the merchandise sold at this market was a cause for bitter reflection on the contrast between British commercial acumen and French disdain for the Asian market. Here, in such a notably isolated corner of the globe, it was possible to buy English cotton goods, printed in the preferred colors of the local purchasers and bearing Buddhist emblems. Not only that, Garnier recorded with grudging admiration, the length and width of these pieces of cloth were the same as the standard product of the local weavers.

  Another feature of the local market arrangements provided more immediate cause for concern. It was no longer possible to pay for goods or services in Thai coin. From this point on the custom of the country was to pay in silver, valued against weights at a varying rate of exchange. Melting down their silver coin into bars, the explorers soon found that their payments for such essential items as rice and fowls were extremely high. The concern they had felt over the adequacy of their funds a month earlier as they prepared to leave Luang Prabang seemed all too justified. As Garnier was to record with undisguised annoyance and resentment three years later, the realization that it would be necessary to make sacrifices even in terms of their food supplies came at a time when the party's physical condition was such as to make an ample diet most necessary. Already two of the Frenchmen were seriously ill again. Thorel was suffering from a “digestive infection,” presumably bacillary dysentery. Delaporte was unable to walk, his feet being swollen and ulcerated as the result of walking barefoot over sodden ground and being attacked by countless leeches. And still there was no word from Keng Tung.