The distance to the free state was not great. When we reached the boundary we came upon a camp of native soldiers. Here we stopped, as was our duty before crossing into Siam. The soldiers were simple, good-hearted fellows who showed their astonishment and their sorrow at the condition of our feet through the language of signs, and did their best to prepare us a good dinner from the rice and jungle vegetables they had. It was fortunate for us that they were so generous, for there were no stores in the jungle land. The native lieutenant showed a strong curiosity to know what had brought us so far into the wilds. We tried to motion out our reasons for coming, but failed to make him understand. Finally he ordered a soldier to guide us to the first Siamese village, where he was to explain our presence to the head man. When the sun had begun to set and the latest storm had ceased, we left the camp and Burma behind. The river that marked the boundary between the two countries was not very wide and only waist-deep. We waded across it easily, and climbed the sandy eastern bank—in Siam at last. We knew that the first village was no great distance off, so we strolled easily on through the jungle, pausing to rest in shady thickets so often that the native soldier left us and went on alone. Two hours later we met him on his homeward journey. He paused to tell us by signs that he had A freight carrier crossing the stream that separates Burma from Siam. The day was not yet done when we came in sight of the first clearing in Siam. We were met at the edge of the jungle by a Siamese with ape-like countenance, who led us to the hut of the village head man. Picture to yourself a very fat, important-looking brown man, with a face like an Alaskan totem-pole and the general appearance of a wild man in a circus, a skin the color of a door-mat that has been in use for many years, dressed in a castoff dish-cloth, and you have an exact image of the ruler of this Siamese village. He received us in a misshapen bamboo shack, sitting with folded legs on a grass mat in the middle of the floor. Around the walls squatted several of his chief men, dressed like himself. Through the network partition that separated the city hall from the family chamber peered a leathery-skinned woman and a troop of dusky children. If we had waited for an invitation to be seated we might have remained standing all night. These Siamese did not appear at all friendly toward us. We made ourselves comfortable on the floor, with our backs to the wall. For more than an hour the head man and his advisers sat motionless, The sun sank into the jungle, and swift darkness fell. The leathery-skinned woman drifted into the room and set on the floor an oil torch that gave a dim, flickering light. I had learned a few Siamese words from the babu of Thenganyenam. When the talking ceased for a moment, I put these words in use by calling for food. The head man growled, and the woman floated in once more and placed at our feet a small wash-tub of boiled rice. But I was tired of eating rice. I dragged out my note-book and again ran my eyes down the list of Siamese words. I had failed to write down the words for chicken or curry. The only word that appeared to be of any value at the time was “sugar.” Sugar would make my rice less tasteless. I shouted the word at the head man. He stared open-mouthed until I had repeated it several times. “Sugar?” he echoed, showing great astonishment. “Yes, sugar,” I cried, sprinkling an imaginary handful over the rice. The law-makers gazed at each other with wondering eyes, and the word passed from mouth to mouth: “Sugar!” “Sure, sugar!” cried James, taking up the refrain. A man rose slowly to his feet, marched across to us, and squatted before the dish. “Sugar?” he inquired, peering into our faces. “No, no!” He took a pinch of the food between his fingers, put it into his mouth, and munched it slowly as if he were trying “No; no sugar, no!” he cried. My companion, Gerald James of Perth, Australia, crossing the boundary line between Burma and Siam. “Of course there’s no sugar!” shouted James. “That’s why we’re making a holler. Sugar, you thick-headed mummy.” James thought it was not necessary to be polite, since they couldn’t understand him. The official taster went back to his place; a silence fell over the company. We continued to shout. Suddenly a light of understanding brightened the face of the head man. Could it be because we wanted sugar that we were raising such a hubub, not because we had fancied some had been accidentally spilled on our supper? He called to the woman. When she appeared with a joint of bamboo filled with muddy brown sugar, the council men rose gravely and grouped themselves about us. I sprinkled half the sugar on the rice, stirred it in, and began to eat. The head man stopped laughing, then became stern and drove all but the high and mighty among his people forth into the night. Among those who stayed was a babu. He was a Siamese youth who had been educated in Rangoon. To satisfy the head man he questioned us as to our plans, and later told the chief and his followers what we had replied. The company then talked it over for about two hours. At the end of that time they told us what they thought of the trip we had planned. They said the jungle to the eastward was so wild, entangled with undergrowth, and pathless that even the natives did not try to get through it. Certainly white men would not be able to make their way through such a place. We must not try it. There was in the village a squad of soldiers who were going to Rehang in a week or ten days—we could travel with them. Until then we must stay in the village. James and I said we certainly could not wait for so long a time. The head man replied that we should stay, whether we liked it or not. As it was late at night, we pretended that we were willing to do as they said, and told them we were sleepy. The village chief lighted us into one of the small rooms of his palace, and left us to sleep on the bamboo floor. At the eastern end of the town began a faint path; but it soon faded away, and we pushed and tore our way through the jungle, guided only by our pocket compass. The war-like vegetation battled against us, tore our rags to bits, and cut and gashed us from head to ankles. The perspiration ran in stinging streams along our bleeding skins and dripped from our faces. Though we fought the undergrowth tooth and nail, we did not cover two miles an hour. The sun was high when we reached a spot showing that someone had passed that way before. It was a clearing not more than six feet square, in the center of which was a slimy pool, with a few joints of bamboo that looked as if they had been cut only a short time. With these we drank our fill of the lukewarm water, and then threw ourselves down in the shade. Suddenly we heard human voices. We sprang to our feet, half expecting to be attacked by murderous savages. Then our fright left us as there burst into the clearing a squad of little brown soldiers. There were seven in the party, a sergeant and four common soldiers armed with muskets, and two coolie carriers, each bowed under the weight of two baskets that hung from the pole on their shoulders. When they saw us they gasped in astonishment. Then they rushed for the bamboo cups beside the water-hole, while the servants knelt to set their They looked like boys playing war. The sergeant, larger than the others, did not come to James’s chin—and the Australian was not tall. The rest were weak-looking little runts. An average American school-boy could have tied any one of them into a knot and tossed him aside into the jungle. There was nothing war-like in their manners or their babyish faces. They were dressed in the regular khaki uniform, except that their trousers came only to their knees, leaving their scrawny legs bare. From their belts hung bayonets; and around the waist of each was tied a stocking-like sack of rice. We talked with them some time by signs. I tried to tell the sergeant that my own country owned the Philippine Islands, which were not far from his country. He thought I meant that my country owned Siam. He sneered at me most cuttingly. The very idea that the white man had any claim on the free country of Siam! How foolish! He told his soldiers about it. They scoffed at us, and even the carriers grinned scornfully. When they had eaten a jungle lunch the soldiers stretched out for their noonday nap, and we went on alone. It was long hours afterward that we came to a break in the jungle. Through the undergrowth we made out two miserable huts. We dashed eagerly toward them, for we had had nothing to eat since the night before and our tramp had made us very hungry. We went on, and just at sunset burst into the scattered village of BanpÁwa. About forty howling storms had poured upon us during the day, and we had waded through an even greater number of streams. My jacket was torn to ribbons; my back and shoulders were painfully sunburned; in a struggle with a stubborn thicket I had lost a leg of my trousers. And the Australian looked about as pretty as I. Near the center of the village was a large roof of grass upheld by slender bamboo poles. Under it were huddled about twenty freight-carriers, surrounded by bales and bundles. They were the human freight trains of the Siamese jungle—cross, silent fellows, who, though they stared open-mouthed when we appeared, would not have anything to say to us. They were strong-looking, with great knots of muscles standing out on their glistening brown bodies. A small rag was their only clothing. Above it the skin was thickly tattooed to the neck with strange figures of beasts. Among We tried to buy food from our sulky companions. They growled for answer. Like the soldiers, each of them wore at his waist a bag of rice. A few were preparing supper over bonfires at the edge of the shelter; but not a grain of rice would they sell. A raging storm broke while we were wandering from one to another offering them our money. When the storm began to die down, we hobbled out into the night to try to buy from the villagers. There were about twenty huts in the clearing. We climbed into one after another of them, in spite of our aching legs. But it was useless: nobody would sell. Too hungry to care what happened to us, we climbed boldly into the last hut, and caught up a kettle, intending to cook our own supper. The householder shrieked wildly, and, before we had kindled a fire, a mob of his fellow townsmen swarmed into the shack and fell upon us. They were not the fiercest of fighters—we shook and kicked them off like puppies. But when the last one had tumbled down the ladder we saw that they had carried off every pot, pan, and eatable about the place. Besides the bare walls there remained only a naked brown baby, that rolled about the floor, howling uproariously. The people of the village were screaming around the shanty in a way that made us glad we had a prisoner. James sat down, gazed sadly at the wailing infant, and shook his head. “No good,” he sighed. “Not fat enough. Anyway, there’s no kettle to cook it in. Let’s get out of this.” “All I’ve got to say,” panted James, as we hurried on after our guide, “is, I’m glad that’s not a crowd of Irishmen. Where would the pioneer beach-combers of the Malay Peninsula be now if that collection of dish-rags knew how to scrap?” The Burman led us through half a mile of mud and brush, and a stream that was almost waist-deep, to a hut a long distance from BanpÁwa. He went in with us, and sat down to keep us company until our rice and fish had been boiled. He was quite clever in understanding the few words and the motions we made. Suddenly he began to wish that he had a tropical helmet to wear in place of the band around his brow. He pointed at the one James wore and held up one finger. “One rupee! Say yes, sahib?” he coaxed. “Can’t sell it,” growled the Australian. “Think I want to get sunstroke?” The Burman shrugged his shoulders, then rose and went sadly forth into the night. When daylight came the Burman appeared again. This time he pointed at James’s helmet and held up two fingers. James still refused to sell. “Then yours, sahib,” begged the fellow in Hindustanee. “One rupee!” “Only one?” I cried. “Two rupees.” “One!” he shrieked. “Two for the sahib’s which is new. One for yours.” The Burman gave in at last, however, and, dropping two coins in my hand, marched proudly away with my old helmet set down over his ears. I handed one of the coins to the head of the family, and we hit the trail again. Out of sight of the hut, we halted to put on the extra suits in our bundles. From the rags and tatters of my old suit I made a band to wind around my head, after the fashion of Burma. Even with the top of my head uncovered to the sun and rain, I did not suffer. |