White Butterflies

by Colin Mcphedran

  During one visit from Mother’s cousin, Dr Ba Maw, a heated argument erupted. As Minister of Education it was his desire to have the schools adopt Burmese as the first language and English as an optional subject. My mother, who usually kept out of it when the two men argued, became involved. She took sides with my father and I remember Uncle Ba Maw saying, ‘One day we will have you British out of our country.’

  It hit a raw nerve with my father, and when Uncle Ba Maw followed it up with, ‘Archie, without Daw Ni you are nothing in this cultured country and the regard in which you are held is due entirely to the union with my cousin,’ my father almost exploded. It would have come as a shock to him. The British were a superior lot and in many mixed marriages the Burmese side of the family came off a very poor second. Things were different with us because of my mother’s background but even she could not withstand my father when he decided to send us to boarding school in Rangoon.

  In defence of my father I must say that in many ways he was a generous person. I remember one family holiday when he commissioned one of the oil company’s river boats to take us and some Burmese friends on a trip up the Chindwin River. It was a memorable holiday, cruising up the river from Mandalay with friends, enjoying the sights of river life. The paddle steamer called in to villages along the way and picked up cargo to ferry up-river. At night the steamer tied up at town-ships where we went ashore to visit friends, to be treated to a feast of Burmese food. Even Father seemed to enjoy himself.

  The trip took the form of a geography lesson, with Robert rat-tling off the names of the towns, with a bit of history thrown in. I learnt that the huge rafts of teak logs that floated slowly past had been harvested way up in Northern Burma and were floated down a river whose headwaters were in the Himalayan snow country. There were people on these large floating rafts and we waved to them as we passed.

  ‘Those families have probably spent two or three years living on the floating logs,’ Robert said.

  He pointed to a flight of geese. ‘They’re migrating to Mongolia.’ He even knew the fish the crew caught every day.

  ‘Mahseer are the largest freshwater fish and they’re only found in the cold waters flowing from the snowfields up in the Himalayas.’

  The place abounded in wild fowl, and the opportunity to bag a few game-birds was too good for our father to let go by. He had packed his two shotguns and handing one to Donald they both climbed into a sampan and rowed out to get near to the feeding flock. There were a lot of passengers on the lower deck, and they all clambered over to one side of the steamer to watch the game shooting. The steamer leaned over with the extra weight, but there was no apparent danger of a capsize. As the shooters got closer the birds began to stir. Donald and Dad took aim and let all barrels go. The sky was blackened and the wild geese honked and squawked as they took flight. They fired again and bagged a few more birds. When they returned to the steamer they were greeted with cheering from the passengers.

  Our mother never took kindly to my father’s use of the gun and I know he was aware of her feelings. Nevertheless, it did not stop him from game-hunting. When he came aboard he gave the birds to some of the passengers who immediately set about plucking the feathers and preparing a meal of wild duck and geese.

  The steamer-master set the boat for the final leg of our journey and before long we arrived at a village perched high on the western bank. We disembarked and with our luggage following, carried by coolies, we headed for a thatched bungalow overlooking the river. The plan was to spend some days at the village. Our mother had friends amongst the natives and the pastor of the church was a good friend of the family.

  Roughing it in these thatched huts was fun. All the sounds of the village and the animals filtered through the thin walls and I never felt lonely or separated from the other inhabitants. The steamer continued upstream to Katha, a fairly large outpost in North Burma. The village was a delightful spot. To the east stretched the mighty river and all around us the hills were covered in teak forests which were being worked busily by teams of elephants.

  Children in Burma are accorded a lot of love and are tolerated by almost every adult. Working the huge teak logs with elephants can be a tricky operation, but the workers always made us children feel welcome on site to watch. Our safety was their prime concern and at the end of the day when the ritual of the elephant bath was performed we would hitch a ride on one of these beasts down to the river.

  They were allowed to wallow and play about before their ‘mahout’ set about them with heavy brushes to scrub the mud and grime of the day’s work off their hides. The elephants were then led into the jungle on the outskirts of the village where, with chains tied to one foreleg, they were fed and permitted to graze to the length of the chain. Donald and our father took the opportunity to go game-shooting. The area was renowned for some of the bigger beasts – tiger, panther and wild elephant. Deer and pigs also abounded. The hunters seldom returned empty-handed; there was always a wild fowl or duck in their bags.

  Sunday was a big day. This region of Burma was inhabited by the Kachin who, along with the Karen in south-east Burma, had been the two tribes converted to Christianity in the 1800s. Villagers, dressed in their finery and with their children in tow, traipsed off to the church hall for the morning service. We joined them and, on invitation, afterwards visited a local home for a meal followed by an afternoon of socialising.

  Father was never comfortable at these gatherings. It was under-standable; the two cultures are poles apart and there must have been occasions when he wished there were other Europeans around him. Even his children spoke the language of the village. Relations between Mother and Father, I observed, were beginning to get strained. The holiday away from his European workmates was fun for a while, but we children all knew that he was ready to return to his home in Syriam and work.

  Being aware of the tension between our parents did not detract from the fun we were having. The weather was beautiful and the early mornings with the mist rising slowly along the river provided the signal for us to rise and enjoy a big breakfast of sticky rice and specially prepared chickpeas, a delicacy in the Kachin diet. The days flew by and then it was time to return home. The steamer arrived one mid-morning and the master of the boat signalled his arrival with a blast of the steam horn.

  Practically the whole village came to see us off. We all sang a few hymns on the riverbank and then we climbed aboard. With us came all the many gifts friends in the village had given us. The generosity of the Burmese people has always been a part of their culture. They give to create merits in their journey through life, and the receiver of the gift is always thanked for creating the circumstance and thus the opportunity to build up their score of merits.

  The journey south was slower in spite of the favourable current. There seemed to be more cargo to be picked up at the villages and the stops were longer. But they did give the family more time with friends and relatives. We also saw more of the hinterland.

  We finally made it to Mandalay and there on the bank was Armanath Singh, our favourite house boy. A giant amongst the small Burmese, the first thing he did as the steamer pulled in was to salute us in military fashion. Armanath was a real showman and I must confess I missed him hanging around like a shadow. Our father liked him too, and on one occasion threatened to take him back to Syriam, but Mother would not hear of it.

  ‘Absolutely not. Armanath stays here with us.’

  He always addressed Father as the Burra Sahib [big master] and he seemed to grow a couple of inches in stature whenever Father visited Maymyo. I think it had something to do with the Pathan culture. The natives from that part of India are of Aryan descent, where the society is male-dominated and Armanath seemed to prefer taking instructions from Father, or rather he seemed more comfortable in the company of my father. Not that he ever showed the slightest disrespect to Mother, but the relationship with her was more that of mother and son, whereas with my father it was master and servant. It was always the bowing o
f the head and salaaming with Father, but Mother would never expect that from any of her servants.

  With all the luggage and the gifts, we headed off to Maymyo in two cars. The air was pleasant and cool when we arrived home just before sunset. The servants were waiting, but not their children. They never seemed to front up when Father visited the home. I never did find out the reason.

  After a few days of social whirl and afternoons on the tennis court my father said his farewells and returned to work. He always broke down when he left our home and for a few days our mother was never quite herself. He was proud of his children and during our visits to Rangoon he would show us off to his associates in the oil company.

  Back at school, the first few days became a travelogue of all the pupils’ holiday experiences. Each student was asked to address the class and tell his story. The most informative and exciting one from each class was printed in the school magazine. Some of the students had travelled to India, others to the Malayan States and Singapore. Since some were sons of the rulers of various ethnic states, their stories and experiences were interesting. These rulers, especially the Shan warlords, were very wealthy and maintained a feudal system in their territory. Some of them had numerous wives and the children of the first, second or third wives all attended school together.

  THOSE DAYS WERE GONE, AND HERE WAS I, in the deserted Naga village, reflecting on the kindness of the tribesmen whom the history books described as murderous headhunters. Yet only a short time ago they had been urging us to abandon our plans to keep heading for India and to join them. Strange people. Here we were, occu-pying their ancestral homes and land from which they had been driven by the vanguard of fleeing troops, and they were offering us hospitality! That night I felt more comfortable in the smoke-filled, thatched hut despite being spied upon by the darkened heads hanging like puppets from the dark ceiling. Robert had again intimated that he would like to examine one of the smoked heads.

  ‘Maybe we should climb up and take a closer look.’

  Mother overheard his remark and immediately said, ‘You mustn’t even think of such an act. Instead, think of them as our guardian spirits.’

  I don’t remember how much longer we stayed. Our supply of food was still good and though it continued to rain we were well sheltered. The malaria too improved, and my bouts of fever grew less frequent. The wound on my shoulder appeared to be on the mend. However, there was an occasional flare-up, especially if, during the night, my shoulder made contact with the split bamboo floor. It seemed the wound would never heal properly, and often in child-like fantasy I imagined that the bomb shrapnel had been impregnated with a poison by the Japanese makers.

  Chapter 11

  Moving On

  Despite the relative comfort of our camp there was an air of anxiety about the family, the expectation that something would happen to make us decide on a plan.

  ‘If only we had news of how the war is going.’

  ‘I’d still gladly make the return trip home if it were safe.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing where the Japs are.’

  ‘We can’t be far from the border now, by my calculations. Surely a final effort for another few days will get us there.’

  ‘We have had some rest and food. It will surely be possible for you children to reach India safely.’

  One night, following a couple of days of lighter rain, we made the decision to move on. The next morning, with just a few blankets and a fairly good supply of food, we set off. No sooner had we reached the floor of the valley, several hours from the village, than the heavens opened and the path became a watercourse. It did not occur to us to retreat now. The thought uppermost in my mind at any rate was to keep going, to get to India. We had to be close to the end of the trail now. The possibility of perishing on this leg of the trek was constantly with me and this fear kept me going. The alternative was to lie down and give up, as many thousands had done earlier in the trek.

  We crossed a stream and began to climb the next range. Despite the heavy rain the ground underfoot was still relatively firm, an indication that it had been quite a long time since anyone had used the path. The path was hidden by thick forest growth, but I could see enough to indicate that we were facing the steepest section so far.

  Late in the afternoon we had had enough.

  ‘There must be a relatively flat spot somewhere near here to spend the night,’ Robert said.

  I was exhausted. The climb through mud and water, with constant stops to help my mother as she struggled to find a footing on the greasy surface of the track, had sapped all my energy. The summit still seemed far off. We encountered a few corpses and stepping around them on this narrow track made progress much more treacherous, with the risk of tripping and hurtling down into the ravine.

  ‘Colin, you lead the way. I’ll bring up the rear and push Ama up the steepest parts.’

  I noticed another body ahead and signalled back to Robert that we might have to go a little further on to set up camp.

  As I stepped over the tiny form in the mud, I recognised the youngest child who, only a short time ago, had passed through the village with her older brother and other children. I looked at the tiny puffed-up face and wondered if any of the others were in the vicinity. My sister, who had hardly displayed any emotion throughout the trek and had kept silent most of the time, wept when she looked down at the little girl’s body.

  We found a square of flat ground and sat down. There was no hope of lighting a fire in the deluge, so we decided to chew some dry rice and wash it down with water dripping off the steep wall of the mountainside.

  Our oilcloth-covered bag of dry rice was now wet, which meant that in a day or so it would turn sour and begin to ferment. Another blow! I had very little sleep that night. We huddled together to share body warmth. My mind returned frequently to the little girl lying a few yards down the track, her face sticking up out of the mud and ooze.

  Perhaps it was because I was physically drained that her face haunted me so. I had been on the road for many weeks and witnessed hundreds upon hundreds of dead and dying people, but the sight of this child grieved me deeply. In the early morning the rain stopped and miraculously Robert got a fire going. We cooked some rice and drank some black tea. Robert had returned to her body and covered her face with some driftwood. We had barely gathered up our things when the heavens opened up again.

  We wandered on, the track heading down into another valley. The rain kept bucketing down and the trail, now just a muddy watercourse, was proving more and more difficult to handle. We slid, scrambled, tumbled and rode down the path. The dry rice I had eaten was giving me wrenching stomach pains but it was impossible to stop to relieve myself. The pack on my back and the thick mud that I gathered on my body with the constant slipping and sliding in the ooze, scrubbed my shoulder wound. The whole scene seemed never-ending. There were moments when we could hear the roar of the rushing waters at the bottom of the valley, yet it seemed to take an eternity to reach it. I knew that once we hit the bottom we would find a resting place, even if it were just a rocky outcrop.

  Battered, bruised and cut, we finally reached the bottom. The river was in full flood and we looked for a calmer pool to wash ourselves – no easy task. A great amount of debris was being washed down. Even large trees uprooted in the higher reaches of the river drifted by. We had come to a full stop.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait for the water level to drop.’

  There was not much room for the four of us to spread out, so we just sat there and waited. The night came upon us and there seemed to be no easing of the downpour. Huddled together with a sodden blanket over our heads, we waited. Falling asleep could have proved hazardous, because of the likelihood of falling down the slippery bank into the raging waters. At any rate, sleep does not come easily when one’s bowel movements occur every few minutes. Mosquitoes and other insects feasted on our bodies.

  We had discovered it was better to rest for the night coated in thick mud b
ecause the insects could not penetrate drying mud caked on our bodies. But here, washed clean of the mud gathered on the slide down, we were easy prey for the creepy crawlies of the tropical jungle. There is no place in these mountain ranges that is not infested with one or another insect plague. Buffalo flies swarmed all over us in the daytime and the mosquitoes took over night duty.

  The day came and went and there were signs of a let-up in the rain. Some time later Robert left the group to check on the level and flow of the water. He was gone for some time and we became concerned for his safety. There was no way we could communicate with him: the roar of the waters rushing down the narrow gorge and the sounds bouncing off the cliff walls were deafening. Eventually, he crawled back along the bank.

  ‘There are some fallen trees and debris jammed in the waterway a bit further on. We might be able to cross there if the rains don’t get any heavier.’

  Anything was better than just sitting on the rocky outcrop and gradually starving and enduring the torture of being eaten alive by insects.

  With great difficulty we got across and staggered up the opposite bank. Initially, the slippery climb presented difficulties. All our energies had been sapped during the hazardous crossing. By the time we had negotiated the steep climb it was getting dark and I walked ahead to find a spot where we could rest in the gloom of the evening.

  ‘There might be shelter over there,’ I said, glimpsing something ahead.

  There was. It was a roughly constructed lean-to. I also detected the distinct smell of decaying human flesh.

  All along the trek, whenever we stumbled across some dead bodies, we found a shelter. This one was no exception and nearby were the remains of a fireplace. Someone had set alight a huge log and I was sure, despite the rains, that some embers could be revived. It had been days since we had last sat beside a warm fire and here was a chance to dry out the few rags we carried. I put my hands into the large pile of ash.