Ruby Mining in Burma
A Town of Native Miners and European
Sorters—The Disappointing Spinel
By GEORGE CECIL
Lugano-Paradiso, Switzerland
ALTHOUGH countless decades have passed since the famous pigeon-blood rubies of Burma first attracted attention, they still are found, and in reassuring quantities. But only in one part of Burma are rubies met with, a certain mountain district north of Mandalay apparently having a monopoly of them.
Sixty miles away is a port on the Irrawaddy River, Rangoon, from which the stones are shipped to London. The overland journey from the mountains is through one jungle after another, with dakaits and less intrepid robbers lurking behind the huge trees and in the dense undergrowth. A strong guard is sent with the precious boxes, sometimes to be overpowered, in which event the highwaymen decamp with the spoil, leaving the slain to the jackals.’
At the foot of the mountains is a native town, Mogok, 4,000 ft. above sea level, the inhabitants of which devote their days to mining. ‘Tis their only business interest in life. From childhood they have been brought up to look upon a ruby as the one thing on earth that is worth possessing. The plain (once the bed of a vast lake) surrounding the town affords endless opportunities for them; there is little of it that is not ruby-bearing.
At Mogok the mines look somewhat like excavations made for the foundations of a building. The workings cover many acres, and over the level bottom, some 35 ft. below the surface, are countless little trolley lines, crossing and recrossing each other.
Cars used in mining are loaded with earth, hauled to the top and emptied into revolving drums, to which wash water is added. The residue harbors rubies, or so the miners hope. What is called the rubble is separated from the shingle, the detrital matter that hides the valuable gems, by screening. The gems are extremely difficult to see, for at first sight an uncut ruby is uncommonly like a pebble covered with mud, so that the utmost attention has to be devoted to the sorting.
An inexperienced sorter might easily class as rubbish a valuable stone. This work is entrusted to Europeans, each of the sorters sitting at a table upon which the natives pour the shingle. The sorters scrape the earth off each piece, often working for.half an hour without any profitable result; then suddenly a glint of color is caught and the stone is dropped through a hole in the lid of a locked box. The manager keeps the key.
At the end of the week the contents of the boxes are sorted and examined. The rubies are separated from the not particularly valuable spinels, which they greatly resemble, and are then classified prior to being placed in the safe.
Occasionally a stone of exceptional color and size, a stone such as the late King Thebaw might have envied, is passed from hand to hand and duly admired. The sorters, watching the manager, take a lesson in the art of classifying, for only a practiced eye can tell a spinel from a ruby. Freak stones are also included in the haul from time to time, and very attractive some of them are too. Yet they fetch little money! in spite of the undoubted charm of their coloring. Perhaps some day the neglected freak will please an influential patron or patroness. More unlikely things come to pass.
Formerly, the mines were worked by natives; but upon the British government taking over the land, the Burma Ruby Mines Company was formed. This company originally had to pay a tax of 315,000 rupees a year, plus a share in the profits, but afterward the amount was reduced to 200,000 rupees and a 30 per cent commission, which still seems pretty stiff. The Burmese ruby miners are, however, let off lightly, for ground is leased to them at from ,5 to 10 rupees a month, a mere fieabite. Still, they are not allowed to use machinery; the white man alone has the right to do that.
About fifty Europeans and Eurasians are employed by the company, several of them having the care of the 450-hp. electrical installation that works the pumps and washing machinery. With one thing and another they are kept busy, which is just as well! for life at Mogok is uneventful. Except for the weekly arrival of the English mail, there is little to interest one.
Every now and then a valuable ruby finds a strange home. Some time ago a Buddhist priest discovered one in his begging bowl, and children are sometimes seen playing with stones that are worth a tidy sum. They have been found in the possession of tattered coolies, who, upon being pressed to explain how they came by them, only looked foolish. Not long ago, a European loafer in Rangoon handed the native keeper of a cocaine den a fine ruby, demanding as its price the use of the establishment and its contents for the rest of his natural life. The cocaine merchant closed with the bargain— and quickly killed off his too-confiding customer, whose “natural” life had become an “unnatural” one.
The “up-country” Burmese speak of a white bird that is said to haunt the ruby district at certain times of the year. It is supposed to swoop down upon the mine in the dead of night, seize in its beak a priceless stone, and fly away to India. Returning, with its beak empty, the performance is repeated. The Burmans have a touching faith in the tale.
