They approached us courteously. ‘Please, we beg of you, do you have any food you could share with us?’
My mother answered, ‘We have hardly any left, but please join us and share what we have. We will get our fire going and make some hot tea.’
There was little we could do to help the poor wretches. The four of us set about clearing the hut for the night’s rest and preparing a meagre meal. With the fire lit and tea brewed we were joined by some of the Indians, women as well as men. They were friendly and not the least bit threatening.
‘How long have you been resting at Shimbuyang?’
‘About a week, Memsahib. We had been hoping to acquire some rations but our party has been plagued by illness.’
‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ asked my mother, who was far from well herself. ‘I have a few opium straps which may help those suffering from dysentery.’
These gentle people were very appreciative. They accepted her offer of this traditional form of medication – strips of cotton cloth soaked in opium – with enormous gratitude. They had set out together from Rangoon, almost 1000 miles away, when the first air raids hit the city and had been on the road for almost six months.
Our rations had all but run out. We sat around the fire outside the hut and discussed the future.
‘There is no way we can continue with what is left of our food. Perhaps we should stay here for a little while to regain our strength and look for some food,’ Robert said.
The Indian man, obviously their leader, replied, ‘We are in a similar situation, but we feel we must move on. Thanks to your mother, our sick ones are feeling better already. We will take the opportunity to set out in the morning.’
We went to rest pondering our future.
‘It is sad that our new-found friends will be leaving us so soon,’
I ventured. ‘Yes,’ said Mother. ‘I think we should do as Robert suggests – stay for a few days and forage for food.’
The three of us nodded. We were aware of the formidable journey ahead and the sight of the wall of mountains added to our despondency.
Robert, never a robust person, appeared gaunt and thin. He seemed to be carrying the whole weight of worry for the family. Ethel appeared reasonably well physically, Mother less so, but the fact that they had been speaking very little indicated that they were deeply concerned for our survival.
On the following morning when we gathered to wave our friends off, we shared cups of hot black tea as a parting ritual. Suddenly there came the drone of an aircraft engine.
‘Watch out! It might be the Japanese!’ Everyone scattered.
We lay flat beneath the hut and I looked toward the mountain, from where the sound was coming. There was some early morning low cloud in the sky. Suddenly a large plane swooped down on the village.
‘Look, the plane is friendly!’ I shouted.
Our Indian friends had identified it at the same time. We all rushed out into the open and waved frantically as it banked on its return run. It was flying so low that we could pick out the crew standing at the open hatch. They waved in return and the pilot prepared for another run further away from where we stood.
Suddenly a trail of bags came pouring out of the aircraft and bounced and burst open scattering the contents all over the place. They were bags of food!
After the fourth or fifth run the people on board gave us a wave and began the steep climb to get over the mountain range. Over-joyed and pumped up with excitement, we rushed over to collect the supplies. The men worked all day to collect the bags and store them in an empty hut near the river bank. Our Indian friends, who had worked on the wharves in Rangoon, were adept at stacking the goods in a way that made distribution easy.
There was now an abundance of food.
‘Look! Tins of jam, hundreds of cigarettes, rice and tea!’
‘Yes, and dried potatoes and carton upon carton of army ration packs!’
‘Tins of bully beef! There’s enough here for hundreds of people!’
‘Thanks be to the Lord, who has provided for us in our hour of need.’ This, of course, was my mother, with her unshakeable faith.
Our Indian friends soon abandoned plans of shipping out immediately. ‘Now we have food, we will stay for a few days at least.’
Mother said, ‘We too will stay a while, and if any stragglers arrive during the next few days we will share our good fortune with them. But remember, everyone, it is very important not to overin-dulge in the food to begin with. Our stomachs will not be able to digest a large meal. We must take it slowly, little by little.’
The Indians paid attention to her warning, because she had gained their respect.
For the first time in weeks, we enjoyed a decent meal, though we did proceed cautiously. Some of the packs contained ground condiments, presumably prepared for Indian troops. The smell of spices filled the air and I tasted my first meal of rice and bully beef curry. Making a curry with tinned meat was unheard of in those days but it tasted wonderful, albeit salty.
On this occasion, I introduced myself to the cigarettes that were bountiful. A dramatic change came over everyone. Our stomachs were full and the days ahead were provided for, with ample stocks of food. It gave us a feeling of security.
We talked much more and planned our movements. We knew the region was renowned for malaria and Yellow Water fever, not to mention the Naga headhunters. Then there was our fear of the monsoon. We knew from living in the hilly Shan States of Burma that every mountain range presented the traveller with a valley and watercourse that invariably became a raging torrent to be crossed during the monsoon. But this had to be balanced against my mother’s greatest fear – the advancing Japanese army.
‘If only we knew how far behind us they are, or whether they plan to push over the mountains.’
‘Ama, surely our priority at this point is to rest for a little while and regain our strength, now that we have food,’ Ethel said.
She was right. We had covered more than 100 miles, an enormous distance for a family that had barely ventured a few miles on foot on good days. Here we were at the last outpost of civilisation. Ahead lay a formidable range of mountains that had many years previously defeated a well-equipped and seasoned group of surveyors. Being here made a pleasant break from the constant walking, the fear at every step of an attack from Japanese planes, the smell of decaying flesh and the sight of countless bodies lying in the sun. Yes – the first 100 or so miles had been fraught with danger. Shimbuyang was a haven in comparison.
The pleasant stay gave me time to reflect and think about the friends and other good people we had left behind. I wondered how our relatives were and wished they were with us. I thought of the mangy pet dogs and relived the fun times I had spent with Robert, who it seemed had taken a huge leap into adulthood in a short space of time. Since much of our time was spent sitting in the shade of the thatched hut resting, it gave me ample time to think of the walks we used to take to the villages around Maymyo.
The villagers had loved us two fair-skinned boys visiting their homes. They delighted in having us stay for a meal. The older people loved chatting. Robert and I were fluent in Burmese, which was our mother-tongue. Initially, when we told the elders that our mother was Burmese, they tended to doubt our word. A number of the villagers often travelled to Maymyo to sell their produce at the markets and when we said our mother’s name was Daw Ni, some immediately said they knew her. But it was still difficult to convince them that we were her sons. On our return visits, though, we were made even more welcome and taken to the monastery to meet the monks. Life in a Burmese village revolved around the monastery, where children were instructed in the teachings of Buddha and learnt to read and write.
I dragged my thoughts back to Shimbuyang.
‘It must have been a thriving place in peacetime,’ Robert said. ‘It’s been ever so well planned.’
He was right. But for a few groups of dwellings scattered in the surrounding area, the main village w
here we now stayed was a cluster of well-constructed huts. The roofs were thatched, but the main structures were of sawn timber. Some resembled shops, with an open front.
I pictured market days, when village people from miles around, even the hill people, would have come down to trade goods. This region of Burma was noted for its wealth of gemstones. I even thought that one day, when all this was over and we returned home, I would like to spend time in this far outpost.
The break gave us time to wash our clothes, air our blankets and rest our shoes. The long hot and dusty track had worn the soles of mine until they were wafer thin.
‘I’m going to go barefoot while we’re here,’ I said.
When the time did come for me to put my shoes on again, they had shrunk noticeably and were as stiff as boards. I felt sad. These shoes had been my pride and joy. They had been purchased from a very British trading house in Rangoon and had been manufactured in England. I can still remember the brand name: they were a pair of Saxones. I discarded them.
Shimbuyang rested neatly on the banks of a clean river, tucked away at the end of a valley shielded on the west by the blue-green mountains that formed the border between India and Burma. To the east lay the flat valley floor that stretched away for 100 miles to Mogaung from where thousands of refugees, including us, had begun their flight to safety. It had been a stretch of relatively easy walking, but now it was littered with the bodies of thousands of those same ill-prepared refugees. The penetrating smell of human decay wafting around the perimeter of the village was slowly losing its power, or we were becoming accustomed to it. Perhaps nature was doing its work. The bloated bodies were shrinking visibly as the sunburnt skin, once stretched tightly, lay limply on the limbs of the dead. There was evidence of wild animals having feasted on some remains. Jackals abounded in the region.
I would have loved to have seen out the war there now that we had food. Our Indian friends also settled into a routine of rest and recreation. One day a group of the men approached my mother respectfully.
‘Would Memsahib have any objections if we torched some of the huts that contain the remains of the deceased?’
‘Thank you for consulting me and of course I have no objection. It would be a good way of cleansing the area. Besides, many of these poor souls are your own people. I appreciate that this is the most fitting thing to do under the circumstances.’
The Indian group was grateful for her understanding. They gathered one evening when the wind had died down. They performed a ritual before setting the 150 or so huts alight. The huts were like tinderboxes and the evening sky lit up. Occasional whiffs of burning flesh came our way. Building after building exploded as we watched the once thriving village go up in flames.
My mind conjured up a picture of what must have once been a beautiful place – the smell of sesame and peanut oil, onions, garlic and dried fish, the evening meal for the villagers who had lived here.
I wondered if they had enjoyed their evenings as we had in Maymyo. I imagined the children delighting in the fun times that seemed part of all village life in Burma. I envisaged them accompanying their elders to the pwes [concerts] held in open fields, the stage surrounded by foodstalls. I thought of the times when we had joined our servants and their families for a night at the concerts. And what a night it always was. The performers on stage would entertain us all night. They enacted comic routines and delighted the crowd by taking the micky out of one another. Jokes abounded and some were certainly not fit for the ears of the younger generation. During the night, mats were laid out, snacks devoured and those of us who were tired or bored generally fell asleep until awakened in the small hours by the elders. Surely the children who once lived here in Shimbuyang had enjoyed concerts as we had.
As the fires died down and the mosquitoes took over the night we settled back into our huts.
My mother said, ‘I have been observing the gradual increase of insect life. This must mean that the monsoon is not far away.’
‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘and no stragglers have come through in the past few days. I am very worried that our next visitors might be the advancing Japanese troops.’
My mother could not disguise her fear.
The Indians were in better spirits that night. They had performed their duty of caring for their departed brothers and sisters. There was a serenity about them. When we talked the next day they even appeared a tinge optimistic about the remainder of the trek. It seemed quite extraordinary that such a change should come over a once dispirited group who had been almost ready to give up.
However, their change of mood did not flow through to my mother. She had not recovered physically as well as we children had. She made a huge effort to mask her anxieties about the trail ahead, but I suspected that her body and spirit were displaying signs of despair that her mind would not admit to. It was the little things she said, the advice she gave us during our evening get-togethers on how we should conduct ourselves when we arrived in a new country. The thrust of the conversation did not appear to include her.
One evening Ethel, who had not said a great deal since our departure from Maymyo, spoke up.
‘The situation here in Shimbuyang is surely as good as we could hope for at this point in our journey,’ she said quietly. ‘This little village and the surroundings are relatively pleasant. The contaminated huts have been cleansed and we have ample food. Surely we are now out of reach of the Japanese forces. Perhaps we should hold a meeting with our Indian friends and discuss plans to see out the war here.’
‘What you say certainly makes sense,’ Mother replied. ‘Your proposal seems a sensible one, but it is not easy to arrive at a sensible solution. There are so many uncertainties. How far away is the enemy? How long will the war last? What if sickness strikes? If we stay here, how will your father and Donald ever find us? How could we protect ourselves from robbers?’
She concluded gently, ‘There is nothing I would like more than to call it a day and stay in our own country, but I believe it is my duty to deliver you children safely to India.’
That was the end of the discussion. We would never have gone against our mother’s authority. It was not the Burmese way. We, like all Burmese children, had been given a childhood of great freedom and fun, some would say indulgence, up until our father’s decision to send us to boarding school. But we were never in any doubt as to the authority of our parents. It was a matter of respect. Besides, as far as I was concerned, my mother was the centre of my universe. I would never have been parted from her willingly. Wherever she went, I would always want to go.
Ethel did not say anything further, but her shoulders drooped a little more. How different she had become from the happy, bouncing young person who had always joked and played pranks at home in Maymyo. It seemed a lifetime since I had seen my big sister laugh with joy. She had always found fun in anything, and she had a big heart, full of kindness and concern for other people. Ever since my father had driven away her young suitor she had lost her sparkle but now she seemed to be retreating even further, into a shadowy world of her own.
Every day we could hear the sound of planes in the distance. It was not until I reached India that I learnt that the constant and daily drone of aircraft engines emanated not, as we feared, from the Japanese air force but from planes ferrying cargo from India to the southern cities of China.
Chapter 7
To the Patkoi Range
One day our Indian friends decided to move on.
‘We have been watching the clouds build up over the mountains in the west and we believe the monsoon will break in about 14 days,’ their leader said. ‘One of the more local people in our party has calculated that if we cover seven to ten miles a day, we may make it before the worst of the rains arrive.’
I still had my doubts about a few of the women and three children. They had not recovered from the long trek as well as they should have, and were thin and drawn. They appeared feverish and sat constantly in the shadows whenever we got toge
ther in the evenings.
‘Please wait a few more days to give them a chance to gather more strength,’ my mother urged, but to no avail. Their plan was set.
The following morning they waved to us and set off on the mountain leg of the trek.
Sadly we watched them cross the river in single file, each with a bamboo staff, a trademark of Eastern peasants on a trek. We too cut staffs to assist us in the climb we knew we must begin very soon.
At noon, the sun high in the sky, we ate our lunch in the shade of a hut.
‘It’s hours since they left. I wonder how they’re faring,’ said Robert, peering to the west. ‘Look! There they are!’
Sure enough, some tiny figures were winding their way up the side of the first range. We watched and wondered at the slowness of their progress, knowing inevitably we would be following the same steps.
A picture of range after range flashed across my mind and I began to wonder if our party would ever make it to India. That night we settled down in low spirits. There was an eerie silence and, as I lay on the bamboo slats trying to forget about the trip ahead, all I could hear was the sound of wildlife around the watering hole. The chatter of monkeys filled the air and later on the scavenging jackals wandered around the deserted village fighting as they foraged for food. In normal circumstances I would have been frightened of animals in the night, but now, when everything else seemed to be closing around me, I had no such fear.
The log fire at one end, which served as the kitchen, sent a glow throughout the hut. It was comforting to know that when I awoke I could expect a warm cup of tea laced with sweetened condensed milk. I was growing attached to this place. Every time I looked up at the mountain my spirit dropped a notch. My legs were still tired and the shoulder wound had not healed. At times it dried up but then it would break out again. We had no medication for it and my mother tried some herbal remedies that drew the pus out but did not completely heal it.
White Butterflies Page 6