Robert and I took our bamboo water containers and headed off down the hillside to the stream. While we were fighting our way down the still slippery slope, we heard a tribe of monkeys gam-bolling in the trees below.
‘I’m going to try to shoot one and take it back to camp to share with our Indian friends,’ Robert said. ‘They have no means of hunting.’
We went towards the noise and came across the monkeys in trees ahead. They were unconcerned by our presence and carried on munching away at some leaves. One of the larger beasts sat quite close by and appeared to be guarding the troupe. It just stared down at Robert and me, a perfect shot for a rifleman. I waited as Robert raised his sights on the monkey. He stood there for what seemed ages and then slowly lowered the rifle.
‘I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger,’ he muttered, ashamed. Instead, he fired a bullet into the calmer portion of the stream.
Some small fish floated to the surface and we swam around, scoop-ing them up and emptying them into our water containers.
Robert led the way back. I followed, and for the first time since leaving home I took a good look at my brother. I was full of pride that he displayed such love for animals. He had forsaken a feed that was desperately needed for our survival and the decision, I could tell, was weighing heavily upon him. He had shouldered the burden of getting the family safely to India, and there was this pathetic figure of a boy, with a bamboo container of water on one shoulder, his rifle on the other and both propped up with a pair of skinny legs.
Robert was never robust but he possessed stamina. At a time when most young boys gave very little thought to religion, he learnt a good deal from our Saturday visits to the monastery to hear the Sayadaw [monk] talk of the nature of life. His love for nature and living animals was a legend in Maymyo. It was this that had stopped him shooting that easy target.
Paradoxically, Robert in those days had also been a member of the Baptist Youth Fellowship. One Sunday after morning service at the Calvary Church, he got into a fight with a European boy, the son of a diplomat. The young fellow had chided him about his race and the fact that our family visited the Buddhist monastery on Saturdays. Robert was angered.
‘It would do you all good if you learnt something about the culture and the language of the country in which you’re guests.’
‘You’re nothing but a half-caste Anglo,’ the other boy spat. Robert was furious.
‘I know your father is a diplomat, but what about your mother?’ He knew very well that the boy’s mother was well known in the small community as a fun-loving floozie whenever her husband was away on business.
‘Our mother,’ he went on, rubbing it in, ‘is an educated person who can speak more languages than you could name. She’s also the organist at church.’
They got into fisticuffs before some elders broke them up. To top things off, Robert told the boy, and some of the other European families who had gathered around, that one day his mother’s people would be running the country.
‘Then the likes of you will be sent back where you come from.’ We slowly walked back to the Naga village, the skinny boy with a heavy heart leading the way. We were greeted at the hut by Ethel, who was seated at the entrance in tears. My mother stood alongside, calming her down.
‘It’s all right, Ethel, everything will work out for the best.’ ‘What’s happened?’
‘A group of soldiers led by a European officer came into the camp and demanded food. We said we had nothing to spare but he went through the hut and took our last bag of tea. They forced the Indians to hand over what they had, too.’ Robert was furious and, dumping the water container, took off in the direction of the soldiers.
‘Come back! Don’t go after them!’
But he kept going, crying out, ‘I’ll kill the thieves!’
We had been at the stream for a long time and the men who had taken our tea had long gone. Some time later, much to Mother’s relief, Robert returned. There was a look of hatred about him. It was a devastating blow to us.
‘It’s not just that they took the last vestige of our rations, but the way they did it,’ Ethel said.
We all just sat in silence, too stunned even to find our friends and talk it over. Mother, in her usual way, almost excused the thieves.
‘Remember, their need is as great as ours.’
Despite the hopelessness of the situation, she kept comforting us, saying, ‘The Lord will provide!’
It rained all night, and we drew some solace from the fact that we were sheltered, even if we were hungry; the tiny fish were too bony to eat. Our Indian friends had been kind and had supplied us with dry wood for our fire. They had taken to cutting some of the timber from the huts that had housed the dead bodies. The timber was dry and that night, with rain pelting down outside, we had a roaring fire within. The bright flames threw light on the heads hanging from the rafters. We talked about the customs of the headhunter.
‘Let’s have a closer look at the grisly objects,’ suggested Robert. ‘Absolutely not,’ said Mother. ‘Remember, we are guests in the village and it would be improper to disturb anything. Just leave things as they are.’
On the following morning she instructed Robert and me to collect some plants which she described in detail. We foraged and returned with handfuls of greenery. The soup was hardly palatable, but it did warm our stomachs. Then I was stricken with a second severe attack of malaria. When the fever came on, I crawled as close as I could to the fire to keep warm. Nothing, it seemed, could stop the shivers. The shaking would last for a few moments and then I would break out in a sweat. Then I felt better and could carry on in a normal manner.
Light rain was falling and we were sitting on the ground underneath the stilted hut when the sound of an aeroplane reached us. Our Indian friends had heard it too and we scuttled out and looked for the plane. It could well have been an enemy aircraft, but it did not matter. It appeared from the west and flew in low, skimming the knoll. It flew past and banked before returning. On its return sweep a crew member stood visibly at the open hatch with a loud speaker.
‘Keep clear! Keep clear! We’re dropping food! Keep clear!’
On its next run the plane came dangerously low and we could see a couple of the crew, whose heads appeared above the stacked parcels in the hatch, pushing the load out. The first run missed the huts, thankfully. Everybody rushed to retrieve the bags and the plane turned around for its second drop.
‘Watch out! The bags might hit us!’ I yelled to Robert and we darted under one of the huts.
The bags came flying down like bombs and as they hit the ground they hurtled along dangerously before coming to rest. The plane discharged four loads of food bags before it headed back to the western sky. The village was a mess. Bags had fallen through the flimsy thatched roofs and one or two huts had had their stilts broken away from the impact of the heavier bags.
Cheered by the gift of food, Robert and I went to gather some rations. Many of the bags had split open on hitting the ground and their contents had spewed all over the place. Further down the track we saw a group of Indians gathered around with hands waving.
‘I wonder what they’re waving at.’
‘Better go and see. It doesn’t look good.’
We went over and found a terrible sight. One of the men had been struck by a falling bag and it had almost severed his head. The poor fellow was dead.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Robert said quietly. ‘We’d better just gather up what food we can and leave the rest for now.’
There was an abundance of food. I examined one of the bags that remained intact and was surprised.
‘Look! The packers have been very clever. They’ve wedged some small tins of jam in the rice. And oh, look, chocolate!’
There were all manner of supplies. Dried apricots, jam, cigarettes, dehydrated potatoes, tea and even some packets of US army rations, but strangely no salt. We carried what we could into our hut and told Mother and Ethel the sad news about
the death of the Indian.
Around the fire that night, we ate a little and drank white tea with loads of sugar. The tins of sweetened condensed milk were most welcome. I even puffed a couple of cigarettes with Mother, who had been starved of her favourite Burmese cheroot during the trek. All else was forgotten while we talked.
‘We have been provided for as I had believed we would. We must give thanks to the Lord,’ Mother said, and we joined together in prayer.
On the following day, despite the rain, Robert and I gathered more bags and carried them to our hut. The rain had not as yet got through the bags of rice that had been parcelled in oilskin. During the day one of the Indian men visited us and brought some chapatis [Indian bread] and shared a tin of tea. With the supply of food it was tempting to settle in this village for a long spell. One day, the sun actually broke through and opened up the surrounding hills and valleys. It was a delightful place and I thought the original inhabitants had chosen a good spot.
When our Indian friend left, Mother said, ‘The decision to choose the Indian route was the right one. Aren’t they kind people?’
That night I was once again struck with malaria. I began to shiver and shake and my teeth clattered like dried coconut shells beaten with a stick. For a brief moment I did not know where I was and all I could do was curl up on the floor alongside the fire and sip warm water being fed to me by my mother and sister, who were quite distressed at my condition. Within the hour, the fever had gone and my temperature returned to normal. I drifted into a deep sleep.
Again the day began with light rain. The high peaks of the mountains still to be crossed were visible above the clouds. The weather was warm and, as usual, Robert and I went collecting wood. Returning from the surrounding forests, we saw our Indian friends on a similar mission, except that their method of gathering timber was to strip the empty village huts.
‘We should follow their lead,’ Robert said. ‘It makes more sense than exhausting ourselves wandering the hillsides.’
A more demanding chore was replenishing our water supply. It was a long and arduous walk down the valley, followed by a slippery, steep climb back up. We spent the afternoons sitting beneath the stilted huts, gazing out towards the distant hills. Nobody said much and the message to our bodies was to get fit again for the next stage of the walk. Of course, there was always the hope that the next mountain crossing would be the last and we would be greeted by friends.
The abundance of fuel led us to light another fire outside the hut. Robert and I set up a place underneath the hut, oblivious to the danger that a fire beneath a wooden structure posed. However, it was a brilliant idea, and gave us the opportunity to get out of the dingy hut and away from the ever-observing skulls hanging from the rooftop.
Returning with our water supply one day we were surprised to see my mother and sister talking to a group of four children. They ranged from about six years old to perhaps 14. It was obvious that they were in a bad way. The middle two looked thin and sick and the youngest seemed to have no notion of what was going on and wept constantly. It was a sad sight. They were Anglo–Burmans like ourselves who had taken a different route and along the way had lost both their parents. We fed them and listened to their story, though the eldest boy was reluctant to say much.
‘It is my responsibility to bring my family safely into India,’ he kept repeating.
‘Please, spend the night with us. We have plenty of food and shelter.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We must go to India.’
In the meantime he was shouting at the other children. ‘Stop wailing! Can’t you just be quiet?’
He was desperate.
Turning to my mother, he said politely, ‘Would we please be permitted to have some food to take with us?’
Seeing that he was determined to leave, she said kindly, ‘Of course you may have anything you wish.’
She packed up some little bundles of rations for them to carry, and gathering the young ones together he took off into the night.
We wept as we saw them walk away, the younger children barely keeping up. Prompted by the sheer determination displayed by the young lad, we sat about that night and planned to move on ourselves. We had completely lost track of time. It seemed that we had been on the road for weeks, yet on occasions it seemed like only yesterday that we had first experienced the bombing of our home town. We were also aware that although the rains had been heavy to date, a lot more wet was still to come. This thought plunged me into depression. My shoulder wound felt as if it was on the mend and I knew that the continuous wet would undo the good the rest in a dry hut had done. I could also see that Mother was almost at the limit of her endurance even though she was still fixed on reaching India. Despite her words of encouragement, she could not hide her physical weakness. Even her eyes told me that she could not muster much strength to keep going.
In this village our wills to survive were stretched to the limit. Even I felt that if we were not rescued shortly we would perish. It was at this time that were were surprised by a visit from a group of Naga tribesmen. We communicated as best we could and they, observing our condition, invited us to stay and even join them. No doubt they felt a kinship with my mother. The meeting fuelled our desire to abandon the walk and stay put. But there was still the fear of being captured by the Japanese, of whom we had no news.
Colin, the baby of the family, on the knee of his mother Daw Ni with Robert, Ethel and Donald.
Colin’s father Archibald McPhedran, April 1958.
Ethel with unknown companion, before the ill-fated trek.
Ethel and Colin outside the family home, Jamshed Villa in Maymyo (now Pyin Oo Lwin), March, 1942.
Colin, age 14 in India.
Colin and Laurel McPhedran on their wedding day in Bowral, NSW, 1955.
Colin giving a TV interview to promote his book White Butterflies, 2002.
Colin age 17 at school in India.
Colin the athlete at school in India.
Colin with his housemaster at school in India, 1946.
Colin and his friend Ian McDonald during a shore break on the long journey to Australia, late 1950.
Colin with former prime minister, John Howard, 2005.
Colin at the lectern during the launch of White Butterflies at the National Library, 2002
Colin at the book launch of White Butterflies in 2002.
Chapter 10
Looking Back
The chance meeting with the Naga tribespeople brought home to me that I was truly a native of Burma.
Mother had never let us forget that we children were a product of a Scottish father and a Burmese mother.
‘It is important for you to know where both your parents come from and what their family backgrounds are.’
She tried her best to make us aware of the two cultures. At home we were taught Scottish and Burmese history and were encouraged to pride ourselves on being children of a great Scottish clan. It was her desire, it seemed, to leave us to decide our birthright for ourselves. Similarly, she taught us two religions.
‘When you are adults, you may choose whichever path you desire.’
At this point it was no contest. I felt I was a Burmese child and I spoke like one. I had been reared in the happiest of homes. Even in those early days it was clear to me that my mother was a special person. She was a compassionate and caring woman with a deep sense of social justice, respected and loved by Burmese and Europeans alike.
She often talked of the prejudices that prevailed, but always respected the rules by which the colonialists played. However, she believed we were all equal in the eyes of the Lord and I think that sustained her at times when those rules and regulations made life difficult.
There was an Anglo–Indian element in the town for whom she had a special place in her heart.
‘They are people in limbo, wanted neither by the British who fathered them nor the Indian women who mothered them.’
She always referred to them as her friends an
d urged us, her children, never to feel unwanted.
Because of Robert’s love of animals our home was also home to stray dogs. Every year when the winter nights closed in and the wild animals of the jungles came out to hunt, our pack of dogs were in the front line to have their numbers diminished. Each summer Robert replaced those killed by the panthers and tigers.
People often spoke of my mother as the woman with the most servants. But it was not snobbery that saw her with so many. It was the nature of the woman: she could not bear to see anybody go hungry and took on anybody who came looking for a handout. Some of them never worked for us, but were billeted in the servants’ quarters and provided with food. It was fun having people of different races living together. It certainly provided plenty of playmates! So, when the Nagas’ offer was made known to me, I immediately had visions of becoming part of the family of a people, of a country I loved, again.
Malaria continued to take its toll. The high temperatures had me hallucinating and weird pictures crossed my mind. My mother was always beside me in the hut.
‘Here, Colin, sip this hot tea. It will bring down your temperature.’
It was always a relief when my body stopped shivering. A calmness followed. At these times, all the happy incidents in my short life came flooding back.
The images of my father and brother Donald projected clearly. I had hardly given them any thought during the trek, yet now, in the relative security of the Naga hut, I felt comfortable enough to recall my younger days: the family get-togethers and adult discussions; my mother’s and father’s concerns for the family; and my father’s unease at the family’s Burmanisation. It was a topic that had surfaced frequently, sometimes seriously, especially when he drew my mother’s relatives into the debate.
White Butterflies Page 9