by Di Morrissey
‘They have to be watched like hawks. They’re always plotting to get back to Burma,’ said a planter.
‘She’s the one to watch. You know she was behind the massacre of most of the king’s relatives, even some half brothers and sisters, and anyone else she thought might have challenged his succession,’ said another.
‘Beaten to death in red velvet sacks,’ shuddered his companion.
‘I was told by a British officer whose friend was present at the executions that it was all very ceremonial. Indeed, quite respectful and calculated to be swift since the blows were judiciously placed,’ responded the first planter.
‘The people didn’t like Thibaw much, either. Bloodthirsty, even if the chap did play cricket,’ said his friend laughing.
‘Damned primitive lot if you ask me,’ commented another of the group. ‘Thank god we’ve annexed the country now. They should consider themselves fortunate not to all be stuffed in a velvet bag.’
‘If it wasn’t for loyalty to the flag and the opportunities out here I wonder how many of us would stick it out,’ mused a retired colonel.
‘I think those ruby mines, oilfields and teak forests are rather attractive,’ said the paddlesteamer’s captain with a slight smile. ‘As are the Burmese ladies. I think the rewards of Burma are well worth putting up with a bit of discomfort.’
A little apart from this group of men, Andrew Hancock sat quietly while the drinks and Chinese savouries were being served by the stewards. He listened half-heartedly to the conversations nearby. Staring out over the river to the thickly forested bank, Andrew thought of how incredible it was to be here in Burma. Travelling and adventure was not the life he had expected. His father worked in a bank in Brighton, and Andrew assumed he would do the same, even though he was passionate about photography. He thought it was wonderful to capture something or someone in a photograph and make that moment last forever. Unfortunately, he could see no way of earning a living taking photographs. Then he had a marvellous piece of luck. A distant uncle died and left everything in his will to Andrew. While it was not a fortune, it gave Andrew the time and opportunity to see if it was possible to become a professional photographer.
Andrew quickly found that photographing Brighton was quite dull and he realised that what he really wanted to do was to combine photography with adventure, so he sailed for India. He travelled throughout the country, mainly taking photos of village life, although he did get to the durbar in New Delhi where he saw George V crowned emperor of India. Then he started to write stories to accompany his photos and found that several magazines were interested in buying his work. This meant that he could stay out in the east even longer.
One morning, as Andrew was having breakfast in Calcutta, he heard some men talking about Burma and their discussion piqued Andrew’s interest. So he decided to see for himself and now, here he was, as Mr Kipling would say, ‘On the road to Mandalay’.
As he sat dreaming to himself on a chair on the deck of the steamer, he was joined by a small, plump Scot wearing tropical whites who peered at him through a pince-nez as he introduced himself.
‘Good evening. I’m Ian Ferguson. I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Is this your first trip to Mandalay?’
Andrew rose from his chair and offered Ferguson his hand. ‘First time in Burma at all, actually. It looks to be a wonderful country. All those temples. I don’t expect that there is another place in the world that has so many.’
‘Ah, yes,’ replied Ferguson. ‘The Burmese are devout Buddhists. What brings you to Burma? Civil service? Trade?’
‘Neither,’ said Andrew. ‘I’m a photographer. I sell my work to magazines back home. May I ask what it is that you do in Burma, Mr Ferguson?’
The little Scot beamed. ‘I’m an art expert. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I am the expert on Burmese culture and Burmese artefacts.’
Andrew Hancock was impressed. ‘So you travel the country, learning the culture of the people?’
‘Well, laddie, the thing is the Burmese don’t really value their culture. Their temples are packed with artefacts that the monks don’t bother to look after. You can buy any number of beautiful things at the markets for a pittance. The Burmese would rather have the money than their religious objects.’
‘Perhaps they do care but they really need the money,’ Andrew suggested.
‘Nonsense, laddie. When you’ve been here for a while like I have you’ll realise that we British place a far higher value on the local culture than the Burmese do.’
‘So are you preserving it?’ asked Andrew.
‘I certainly am. I collect the best of it and send it back to Britain.’
‘Into museums?’
‘And to private collectors who appreciate Burmese art.’ The man gave a short laugh.
After Ian Ferguson moved away to join another group, Andrew reflected on their conversation. He had not been in Burma long and was certainly not the expert that Ferguson claimed to be but he thought it odd that the Burmese should be so casual about their art and culture.
He had observed quite a different attitude in India where the pomp of the rajahs had suggested to him that Indian culture was highly esteemed by its people. He found himself questioning why the same would not be true of Burma. Perhaps he would find out for himself how correct Ferguson’s pronouncements were.
The Irrawaddy was now a mile wide, the banks a distant blur. Occasionally the ship steered a course into a deeper channel to avoid the tangled roots of vegetation. Once or twice Andrew saw a small craft being paddled by fishermen, and once the sight of several dolphins leaping from the water brought many of the other passengers to the side of the vessel to exclaim in excitement. Andrew wished that he could photograph the small dark-grey, snub-nosed creatures, but they moved too quickly.
Then the river narrowed and steep volcanic hills smothered in lush jungle rose up beside them. The riverbank was no longer soft brown mud but solidified lava, shining in the afternoon light. At the river’s edge, large pools had formed and were surrounded by sheltered clearings backed by high cliffs. The captain told Andrew that elephants sometimes bathed in these pools but now, as they passed, all looked deserted.
Suddenly a small island of thick overgrowth divided the river. To one side was a sheer cliff face, which the water rushed past. The steamer took the calmer reach around the island, giving Andrew a view of a monastery perched on top of a cliff, seemingly abandoned and in some disrepair, yet still imposing and breathtaking.
As they nosed further along, Andrew’s attention was caught by a flash of light high in the hills. It took a moment for him to realise that the fiery gold light was the setting sun glinting off the roof of a pagoda which clung to the edge of a precipice. How on earth, wondered Andrew, were people able to ascend to it? It looked impossible.
And how much gold leaf had been applied to the pagoda for it to glow so richly? Moments later he caught sight of another temple, or stupa as he now understood some were called, its distinctive rounded bell shape also shining brightly.
All he had read and heard seemed to be coming to life: stories of chambers of perfumed sandalwood and eaglewood leading to the legendary House of Gold. Its walls were plated in sheets of gold, while a carved vine encrusted with fruit and leaves of emeralds and rubies the size of large eggs embellished its columns; inside a golden casket on a gold table was filled with precious gems; guarded by solid gold idols studded with glittering stones. How much was myth, how much reality?
Now he knew why Burma was the Golden Land – a country, it was said, resplendent in more pagodas, temples and shrines than anywhere else in the world. A country rich in Buddhist culture, rich in natural resources and rich in colourful history. And here he was, ready to explore and photograph it.
1926 – Rangoon
Andrew turned off the Strand, the road that ran beside the river, down a small lane between the solid colonial edifices of the post office, the courthouse and the shipping companies that se
rviced the busy port of Rangoon. He passed street vendors and their tiny food stalls where the appetising odours of frying noodles and savoury pancakes reminded him that it had been some time since he’d had breakfast. A row of narrow doorways led into cluttered dark cubicles that sold everything from bicycle spare parts to cooking utensils and handmade straw brooms. Halfway down the lane was an entrance marked by fluttering magazines, postcards and an array of coloured pencils. Andrew stepped through the door and into a little shop. The Scottish proprietor was dressed in a white shirt tucked into a traditional checked green and magenta cotton longyi, knotted at the waist. He didn’t look up from where he sat, cross-legged on a short stool, reading a book.
Andrew glanced at the used books on the shelves, some well-worn English novels and textbooks written in both English and curling Burmese calligraphy. He turned to the shop owner.
‘Good morning, Mr Watt.’
The owner peered over his glasses at him, then stood hurriedly and extended his hand.
‘Mr Hancock. This is a surprise. I haven’t seen you in some time.’
‘It certainly has been many years, hasn’t it? I was told that I would still find you here. It’s good to see you again, Mr Watt.’
‘Yes. Not since the outbreak of the war, I think. Pull up a stool or a cushion.’ Mr Watt clapped his hands and a young Indian assistant appeared from behind the rows of books. ‘Vinay, this is an old acquaintance of mine. Please go straight to the tea shop and fetch us tea. Now tell me, Mr Hancock, what have you been doing with yourself all this time? I thought you might have married and settled down by now.’
‘No; perhaps I’m not that type. Things have been uncertain for me. I sailed home when war broke out and spent the next four years in the trenches on the Western Front.’
‘Not a pleasant experience for you.’
‘It certainly wasn’t, although at least I came out of it relatively unscathed, which is more than I can say for others. I was luckier than most. When the war finished I was at a bit of a loose end. My father had died and my only sister, Florence, married an Australian soldier she’d met when he was on leave in Brighton and they moved to Australia. I didn’t like to leave my mother alone so I managed to get work with Lord Beaverbrook’s newspapers as a photographer. I tried to write a novel, but it wasn’t very good and no-one would publish it. When my mother passed away, I decided that there was nothing to keep me in England, and I thought that I would like to come back to the east, and so here I am, looking for more stories about this wonderful land and its people.’
‘I heard that your magazine articles were very well received in London along with your excellent photographs.’
‘Yes. That work really interested me. Can’t say the same about being a London newspaper hack though. But what about you? How have you been all these years?’
‘Still happily married to Moe,’ said Mr Watt, referring to his Burmese wife. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get back to the old country. Both of us would find the cold unbearable.’
Andrew concurred, knowing that it was probably the frosty reception that Mrs Watt would receive in Scotland, rather than the weather, that kept the bookshop owner anchored in Rangoon. As Vinay returned to the room with the tea, Andrew asked, ‘And your business is doing well?’
‘Well enough. What are your plans?’
‘I’m planning to be a wanderer again, trusting in the goodness and generosity of others, specifically several London magazines. But instead of an alms bowl, I will carry a camera and a notebook,’ Andrew said smiling. ‘But I’m not just looking for travellers’ tales to send to these publications. I’m trying to get beneath the surface of this country. In Britain there’s a lot of ignorance about Burma and its people.’
The bookshop owner nodded gravely. ‘Yes, the British really have very little idea what is happening to their empire in the east. Changes are afoot. There are anti-British rumblings, even here in Burma. The Burmese are patient people. But for how long? The young ones are becoming restless. There has been a rebellion at the university.’
‘I can’t help feeling that our country exploits Burma,’ said Andrew, gently.
‘I may be from Scotland, but I have thrown my lot in with the Burmese. I have begun to despise the arrogance of our soldiers and civil servants who consider themselves so superior to the people they are ruling, and about whom they know very little. They like to play lord and master in Burma, when the same people would have very little social standing at home. Sometimes I am ashamed to say that I’m British,’ Mr Watt burst out.
Andrew nodded thoughtfully. His attention was then caught by several beautiful photographs hanging on one of the walls. One was of Burma’s most famous pagoda, the Shwedagon. The beautiful monument with its golden dome and jewelled spires was Rangoon’s pre-eminent landmark – as spectacular as any edifice in India or Istanbul. Not only the people of Burma but also foreigners came to pay their respects there. Another photograph was of George V. Next to it was a formal portrait of the late King Thibaw and Queen Supayalat taken in a lavish throne room. The final photograph was of a distant monastery, somewhere near a lake, whose golden bell-shaped stupa was surrounded by misty mountains.
‘This one is very fine,’ said Andrew, taking the picture down from the wall to look at it more closely.
‘Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? I’m not surprised that you noticed it. It was taken by Philip Klier,’ said Mr Watt. ‘He also took the one of the old royal family.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Andrew studied the stoic faces of the royal family, their frozen expressions waiting for the time exposure on the camera to be completed. ‘He was an excellent photographer. Tell me, Mr Watt, do you know what happened to the royal family after they were banished to India? I remember hearing some stories but maybe they were all rumours.’
‘Poor Thibaw. Rather an ignominious end being sent into exile so far away. I hear they led a lonely existence. You know that the queen came back to Burma a few years ago, after the king died, although she was never allowed to return to Mandalay.’ Mr Watt took the photograph from Andrew and put it back on the wall. ‘She died last year. At least she was given a suitable funeral in Rangoon. She’s buried at the Shwedagon pagoda.’
‘And his daughters? What happened to them?’ asked Andrew.
‘One of them married a commoner, which upset the king and queen. They live in the hills – Darjeeling, I think. The other princesses also had to make their own way, especially after the family money and jewels ran out.’
‘Did you ever meet the king and queen?’ Andrew nodded at the photograph.
Mr Watt peered at Andrew over the top of his spectacles. ‘I’m not that old. The king was deposed more than forty years ago. Though I have been in Burma a long time.’
‘Which is why you know so much about Burmese life and culture and history,’ said Andrew.
‘I know because I want to find out about it, unlike so many of our countrymen who are closed to all ideas except their own,’ Mr Watt said. ‘When I first came to Burma I was part of the Indian civil service but when I was working in Mandalay I fell in love with a Burmese girl. The choice came down to my beautiful Moe or the ICS. And here I am, still in Burma and still learning about this country and about Buddhism, and still in love with my wife. My life is simple and I like it that way.’
Mr Watt gestured at the photo of the royal family. ‘For them it was difficult to change their ways. They really didn’t adjust, which I suppose was understandable. The king always hoped to return, however that was not to be. One of his half sisters lives near here although her life is far from what it used to be.’
‘I didn’t realise that. Do you know her?’ Andrew asked.
The bookshop owner picked up several books and placed them back on a shelf. ‘Yes, I know Princess Tipi Si. She came back to Burma with the old queen. Now she comes in here occasionally to borrow books. She lives very simply. Being Buddhist, she accepts her different circumstances, perhaps not with grace, but with fo
rtitude.’
‘Did she never marry?’
‘Oh, yes, when she lived in India. She’s had a colourful life! I haven’t seen her in person for a while; she sends her retainer in for books. I rather miss our conversations, although she’s challenging company,’ he added with a raised eyebrow and small smile.
‘I’d very much like to meet her. Do you think she’d see me?’ asked Andrew. ‘It would make a great story for one of my magazines, especially if she would let me take her photograph. Do you think she would agree? I would pay her a sitting fee, of course.’
‘Why are you interested in her? That is the old Burma. Burma has changed. The monarchy is gone. No-one misses the excesses of the royal dynasties.’
‘I believe people always like to read about interesting lives. Lives of people who were once powerful, but are now very different.’ Andrew was going to add that perhaps people felt better about their own circumstances when they could read about another’s misfortune, but instead he said, ‘I’d like to know about the last years in exile and the old queen’s final years in Rangoon. It seems very few people know about her and I’m sure my English readers would enjoy reading about her.’
‘I’ll ask next time I see Tipi Si, but she may not agree,’ said Mr Watt. ‘Where are you putting up while you’re here?’
‘The Strand Hotel,’ said Andrew. ‘A bit of an indulgence until I decide where I’m going next. Or you can leave a message for me at Bourne and Shepherd here in Rangoon.’
‘The photographic studio. I know them.’
‘I will be doing occasional work for them while I’m here.’
Mr Watt nodded. ‘You mean photographing those whites-only functions? I’m pleased that you’re planning to get out of Rangoon. For those who wish to see beneath the golden stupas, there are hidden treasures in Burma.’
Andrew wasn’t sure exactly what was meant by this oblique comment, but he was excited by the adventures that might lie ahead. He thanked Mr Watt, promising to call by again, and bought a well-thumbed novel by Somerset Maugham before he left the shop.
