Extraordinary beings surround this central image,
making of the place more a chamber of horrors than the
shrine of a pure faith.
The joss-house is used as a club, and under the
shelter of its trees in the open courts, men with time
upon their hands pass many
hours of the day, sipping
tea, and smoking their
elegant silver pipes. Here,
too, the opium smoker
finds seclusion, and as I go
by, where a young peach-
tree is breaking into bloom,
the very .harbinger of
spring, I find him lying
stretched upon a sofa of
polished vermilion lacquer,
his glazed unconspious eyes
half shut, dreaming the
strange dreams for which
he lives.
Outside of Bhamo lies
A SHAN Sampenago, the dead city
which was great for a
thousand years before Bhamo— the potters’ village- 3
came into existence. Pathways lead to it through the
heart of the river-jungle, where the purple Taping,
laden with the waters of Momein, steals through
waving grasses to its union with the Irrawaddy. Aisles
of old pagodas bring me to the Shwe-Kyina with its
204
UNDER THE CLIFFS OF BHAMO