CHAPTER 4: Upper Burma

Thence by RAF Transport Command Dakota to Meiktila, due south of Mandalay and once an important road and railway centre with a population of ten thousand. It was a glorious day for flying, and coming down to a height of 6,000 feet, I was reminded by the paddy fields below of a huge patchwork quilt in varying degrees of green and brown, while here and there I caught a glimpse of a Burmese village, it’s white pagoda glistening in the sun. So over mountains and forests and fields to the plains in the sun. Alighting from the aircraft, I beheld a scene which was so surprising as it was familiar – a long dusty road across a flat barren piece of country, an occasional hill, a range of mountains in the blue distance tinged with hues of purple and gold by the late afternoon sun, a cactus, a clump of prickly pears and a single red aloe - a typical South African scene, but this was Burma, land of swamps and marshes and jungles!

The club I ran in conjunction with the Warden was ideally situated on the tree-fringed shores of a lake which stretched for some three or four miles and afforded excellent boating and swimming. Legend has it that this artificial lake was built over 2,000 years ago by the grandfather of Gautama Buddha. The story maybe a myth but the lake is reality and an absolute godsend in a place where the temperature hovers between 109⁰F and 112⁰F!_[1] Into this lake flow the waters of Mount Popa which the Burmese believe is inhabited by gnats or evil spirits. They are superstitious people, and I remember once, while on a visit to the southern Shan State, coming upon a procession marching through the village to the accompaniment of gongs, bells and cymbals. Climbing out of the jeep, we joined the procession which finally assembled at the base of two huge wooden towers, some squatting on the ground, others standing around in small groups and all wearing the lovely Shan hats with their conical crowns and wide brims. As we watched, fascinated, a sudden shout arose from the crowd while a series of rockets went soaring through the air leaving a trail of grey smoke in their wake. It was fortunate that our visit should have coincided with that of the British Resident, the only European in the village apart from ourselves, who acted as interpreter and explained that as the chief and his family were ill, the rockets had been fired to ward off the evil spirits which were said to have assailed the village with sickness and misery.

But to return to Meiktila – or what was left of it, for one of the fiercest battles of the Burma Campaign had left it in ruins. Here, everyone lived in tents or “bashas”. These bamboo huts with cement floors and thatched roofs no doubt sound rather “jungly”, but in reality are very comfortable and cool, and can be made to look very attractive once they are furnished. In the town there were no amenities for the troops, and TOC H undertook to cater as far as possible for the welfare of the 29,000 soldiers in the station. To this end we ran canteens for both British and Indian troops and provide recreation rooms with billiards, table tennis, darts and other games. There was also a tennis and badminton courts, a very comprehensive library, a reading room, a shop, a hairdressing saloon and a tailor’s. Bridge drives, quizzes, jazz and variety concerts on records, classical gramophone recitals and an occasional dance formed the main entertainment in the evenings. Acting as hostess, mess secretary, catering officer and helping to supervise British, Indian and Burmese staff was a full-time job, but one packed with interest and amusement. Well do I remember the occasion when the truck went for the daily rations of meat, fruit and vegetables and returned with nothing but a bunch of bananas! For whom did the High Command think I was catering – the inmates of the monkey house?

Life in Meiktila was not without excitement. Frequently there were raids by dacoits, who invariably managed to give the guards the slip, and made of with petrol, supplies, and on one occasion with the tent in which two of the officer were sleeping! However it was not only dacoits who distributed the otherwise even tenor of life on the plains. One afternoon, shortly after I had come off duty, there was a deafening explosion which just about blew the roof of my basha and sent clods of earth flying in all directions. Rushing out I found that the staff in setting fire to a heap of rubbish in an adjoining field had caused the explosion of a string of undetected mortar bombs! Undoubtedly the most memorable occasion was the night I challenged an intruder. Going to bed quite happily, I woke a couple of hours later with a very uneasy feeling and a premonition that something was going to happen! At the time I was alone, the Warden being away on leave, and as the feeling persisted I jumped out of bed, loaded my automatic and slipped it under my pillow. As I lay listening, “the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore” and the wind whispering in the tress, I suddenly detected the flash of a torch in the darkness. Slipping my hand under the pillow, my heart pounding madly, I drew out my automatic – just in time to turn and see the intruder framed in my window! Concealed beneath the mosquito net it would have been the easiest thing in the world to raise the automatic and open fire at point blank, but on second thoughts this seemed a trifle ruthless! So, flashing my torch in his face, I tore out of the basha, but unfortunately, by the time I had extricated myself from the folds of the mosquito net he had made a get-away. However, not to be outdone, I let off a couple of shots into the lake, climbed back into bed and was soon fast asleep. Not so for the rest of the station, for several of the troops having heard the shots ring out feared an armed raid by dacoits, and spent the rest of the night on alert! A fact which I was not allowed to forget for many a long day!

One of the most interesting experiences during my stay in Burma was my visit to Chauk on the Irrawaddy, where I spent a weekend as a guest of the officials of the Burmah Oil Company. It was a unique occasion, not only because I had never before visited an oil-field, but because I was the first white woman to set foot on the fields since the Japanese Invasion. When Burma was evacuated most of the plant was destroyed, and during the occupation the enemy succeeded in producing only 5 per cent of the original output. Today, more and more personnel are returning, great big machines are sliding down the river from Blighty and America, and soon the oil will once more be pulsating through the pipe line on its three hundred mile journey to Rangoon. By day the scene is a particularly desolate one, and I like best to remember it as I saw it on that first evening, the still waters of the Irrawaddy sparkling neath a full moon, the fields spread out before me, and the huge derricks silhouetted against the sapphire sky of the eastern night.

When in the grey dawn of peace I visited far-famed Mandalay, I found that it was only just beginning to rise again – pagodas, shrines, monasteries and bazaars, none had escaped the bombing and bombardment to which the ancient capital had been subjected. In the city little remained unscathed except Fort Dufferin with its battlement of red brick and its wide moat on whose waters the beautiful cream and purple lotus spread their petals. Beyond the west wall of the Fort rises Mandalay Hill crowned with the gleaming white pagoda, standing guard over the military cemetery at its foot, where neath a field of white crosses lie those who fought and fell on the road to Mandalay.

“You visited Maymyo, of course”, they say. Yes, I visited Maymyo, the Simla of Burma, but lovelier by far is Kalaw in the beautiful Shan State of Upper Burma, and when during the long weeks of intolerable heat before the rains came, I was able to climb into my jeep and slip away for a couple of days leave, it was here that I went. How good to leave behind the glare, the heat and the storms of dust raised by the constant stream of bullock carts wearily ploughing their way across the sandy tracks of the sun-baked plains. As we climbed the pass, bending and turning and twisting among the mountains, I noticed that the vegetation was gradually changing, the low scrub of the plains giving away to long grasses, feathery bamboo’s and slender palms and eventually to taller trees and the dense green growth of the jungle. Trees so tall that it was impossible to estimate their height, towered above us; flowering creepers rising above the luxuriant green undergrowth twined themselves round the trees and hung from the branches like garlands, while an occasional parakeet or blue jay, startled at our approach, let out a cry and spreading its beautiful wings flew off into the forest. Never before had I seen ferns, bracken, undergrowth and tress growing in such profusion, and as I stood there midst this sea of greenery, I suddenly felt very little and small and completely overawed as though behind the majesty and the beauty of the scene lurked something indescribably frightening – a feeling Richard Curle_[2] describes so well when he says, “the face of nature is often menacing in its loveliness, as though we perceived beneath her smile the relentless enmity of her heart”. At a height of some 4,000 feet in a valley among the hills, lies picturesque Kalaw. Not even this heavenly spot had escaped the scourge of war, and most of the houses stood empty and deserted, though the gardens, forsaken and neglected, displayed a surprising riot of colour, and as we drove through the town I caught glimpses of the scarlet poinsettias, purple bougainvillaeas, yellow begonias, blue convolvulus and the glorious flame of the forest with its flamboyant red flowers. Our club in Kalaw stood on the crest of a hill commanding one of the loveliest views I have ever seen and one I will long remember – the sun coming up over the distant hills, clad with tall pines and slender firs, the valley wreathed in mist of lilac and silver, which gradually lifts, revealing gardens and orchards and here and there a house still folded in sleep, a gentle breeze dancing among the leaves, and away in the woods a cuckoo pouring out his heart in song at the promise of a new day – symbolic of the Burmese people who hopefully look forward to a day when they will gain their independence.

So it was with many regrets that I said farewell to Burma - land of pagodas and paddy fields, of vast plains, dense forests and colourful flowers – and to a simple light-hearted people, who in their search for beauty and happiness, have truly found the joy and fullness of living.

Next page: CHAPTER 5: Isle of Spices

FOOTNOTE

[1] 42-43^o C

[2] Richard Curle: 1901-1968 author and traveller