The Golden Land (2 page)

Sayadaw didn't disappoint him, taking him aside after morning meditation that day. From the look in his teacher's eyes, Ye Aung suspected that he had either been heard or spotted creeping about the monastery the previous night.

Sayadaw looked serious as he began to explain. ‘There is much trouble in the city. Everyone is very distressed. The British soldiers burned the royal treasury.'

‘So are all the money and jewels gone?' asked Ye Aung.

‘I believe that only some money was left. A lot has already been looted and the king took as much as he could in the short time he had before leaving Burma. It is said that he also arranged to have much of it hidden.' Sayadaw shook his head. ‘But no, Ye Aung, that is not what has upset the monks so much. In the treasury were kept all the genealogical records of the hereditary nobility. These important records were inscribed on gold-bound palm-leaf manuscripts and wrapped in embroidered silk cloths.'

‘As beautiful as my one?' said Ye Aung and Sayadaw gave a small smile.

‘Perhaps, but none would have the devotion and imagination you put into your work. And, sadly, the royal library has also been looted and many precious books and records of our culture have also been destroyed.'

Ye Aung could only stare at Sayadaw in shock, imagining the thousands of manuscripts, many hundreds of years old, that must have been burned. ‘Why would the British soldiers do this?' he whispered.

Sayadaw shrugged. ‘They want to impose their law. But they will not be here forever. We have been here for centuries, and one day these British will be forced to leave and we will again be ruled by our own wise and peaceful men.'

Ye Aung tried to remember the teachings of the Buddha and to forgive the ignorant soldiers who had caused such destruction, but he feared that the kammavaca he'd illustrated for the king had now been turned to ash. Suddenly he said, ‘If there was a secret in the script on the king's kammavaca, it might be gone forever!'

‘Then its secret wasn't meant to be found,' said Sayadaw philosophically.

Ye Aung heard the chanting of the lessons begin as he scampered across the compound. He touched the carved elephant at the bottom of the steps to the monastery and whispered a swift prayer in the hope that by some blessed chance his special manuscript had survived.

1913

The late afternoon colours melted over the slick brown surface of the Irrawaddy. The tranquillity of the still river was broken by the chugging of the engine driving the large paddlewheels of the laden steamer as it churned towards Mandalay. On the polished teak open-air upper deck, in the section reserved for first-class passengers, pre-dinner drinks were being served. The dark-skinned Bengali boat crew of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company waited on the passengers, all of whom seemed to be British, as they reclined in their planters' chairs, screened by tubs of palms, sipping their sundowners. The men, dressed in crisp whites, were discussing trading prices, the formation of a new British teak company, the continued growth of the Yenangyaung oilfields, their successful rice crops and news from home. In more subdued tones, they discussed the latest rumours of the continuing machinations of the exiled King Thibaw and his queen, still languishing in Ratnagiri in India.

‘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 serviced 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.'