The Golden Land Read Free Page A

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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Ah, yes,’ replied Ferguson. ‘The Burmese are devout Buddhists. What brings you to Burma? Civil service? Trade?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Perhaps they do care but they really need the money,’ Andrew suggested.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜So are you preserving it?’ asked Andrew.
    â€˜I certainly am. I collect the best of it and send it back to Britain.’
    â€˜Into museums?’
    â€˜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