IN EASTERN VENICE
Bangkok, the present capital of Siam, has been called "the Venice of the
East," on account of its innumerable waterways. The whole place is
threaded with canals of every possible size and description. There are
canals that are like great broad thoroughfares, where huge boats may be
seen carrying to and fro rice, fruit, and other products of the fields
and orchards; and tiny little water-lanes, where the broad fronds of the
graceful coco-nut palm sweep down over the sluggish stream, where green
parrots scream at you from amongst green branches, and ugly dark
crocodiles lie asleep in the thick and sticky mud.
Along the sides of the "streets" there are long lines of floating houses
in which the people live. Each house floats on a big raft, made of
separate bundles of bamboo. Thus, when the floating foundation begins to
rot, the bundles can be replaced one by one without disturbing the
people on the raft. The raft is loosely moored to big wooden stakes,
which are driven deep in the bed of the river, so that the houses rise
and fall with the tide. In front of the house there is always a little
platform or veranda, on which the people pass most of their time, and
where, if they pretend to keep a shop, they display the goods which they
wish to sell. It is on this platform that all the members of the family
take their bath. They dip a bucket or can into the water, draw it up,
and then pour the contents over their heads.
When the occupant of one of these floating dwellings wishes to move, he
sends for no furniture van or cart; but he simply shifts his house, his
furniture, and his family all at the same time. If he be fairly
well-to-do, he hires a steam-launch, and the little vessel goes puffing
and screaming up or down the river or the canal, as the case may be,
dragging behind it the miniature Noah's ark, while on the platform the
little ones of the household are to be seen, bubbling over with
merriment at the novelty of their experience. If the owner of the house
be too poor to hire a steam-launch, he calls to his aid a number of
muscular friends and relatives, and then, with the aid of great
shovel-shaped paddles, they coax the home away to its new locality.
Some of the people who live on the water do not inhabit floating houses,
but boats, and in these they can travel about from time to time as fancy
or business may direct. Many people spend the whole of their lives on
boats. They are born on a boat, reared on a boat, get their education
neglected on a boat, go a-courting on a boat, get married on a boat, and
never forsake the water till life is over and they set out on that long
mysterious journey, from which no boat or carriage will ever bring them
back. There is not much room in a boat, but the inhabitants thereof seem
perfectly contented with their lot; in fact, the Siamese seem to be
always and everywhere perfectly happy and contented: they are one of
the merriest and most cheerful people upon the face of the earth.
The water population is quite complete in itself, and does not depend
upon those who dwell upon the land for any assistance whatever. There
are not only floating houses, but floating restaurants, floating
theatres, and even floating jails. The water population has its own
market-place upon the broad bosom of the great river that sweeps through
the centre of the capital. In the market the buyers and sellers are
chiefly women, for the women are much cleverer and much more energetic
than men. The market begins soon after midnight, and lasts till seven or
eight in the morning. During the dark hours of the night the boats are
massed together in such a way that scarcely an inch of water can be
seen. They are laden with fish, eggs, rice, and fruit. Each boat has a
little lamp at the prow, and in the soft yellow light that twinkles
above the polished surface of the stream, you can catch glimpses of the
black-haired, dark-skinned women busy with the vending of their
merchandise, and all the time laughing and chattering with the glee of a
carefree people. They are just like a party of merry children out on a
big picnic. As soon as the sun rises, off home they go, leaving a broad
and empty expanse of river where formerly there was a dense crowd of
little boats and busy women.
[Illustration: THE RIVER MARKET, BANGKOK. _Page 7._]
It very seldom happens that anyone falls overboard; and even if a person
does fall into the water it matters but little, for there is no Siamese
who cannot swim. When the children are ever so tiny, their mothers
fasten under their arms a big tin float. Then they throw the babies--for
they are nothing more--into the warm waters of the canal or river, where
they bob up and down like so many animated bits of brown cork upon the
surface of the stream.
There are, of course, many people who, in the capital especially, live
upon land, and of their houses we shall say something in a later
chapter. The land part of the capital, except for the palace and the
temples, is not very interesting. The new brick houses and streets are
very ugly, and the old wooden houses and streets are very smelly.
Some years ago there was an old horse-tram that used to run from the
palace to the place where the steamers are moored. But one day some
European engineers changed all that: they put up electric wires, and ran
electric trams. The natives were more than a little astonished. They
could see a car running along the road, and yet there was neither horse
nor man pushing or pulling. It completely passed their understanding to
make out how the tramcar managed to get along. At last they came to the
conclusion that it must be propelled by spirits. So they knelt down on
the ground, and prayed to the spirit in the wheels of the car as they
went swiftly and smoothly round. But not many of them ventured to get
inside. One evening the King and Queen came out of the palace, and went
for a ride in the new tram. And what the King had honoured was good
enough for his subjects. To-day the cars carry thousands of people in
many directions, for tram-lines have been laid through all the
principal streets of the capital.
There are no native vehicles in the streets. Outside the capital there
are no roads, and the people travel everywhere by water. When roads were
first made in Bangkok, and carriages were wanted, the Siamese got their
vehicles from other countries. From Japan they got the _rickshaw_, a
kind of big mailcart, with a Chinaman between the shafts. The human pony
trots along very swiftly, and will carry you quite a long way for a
halfpenny.
From India they got the _gharry_, a kind of four-wheeler, which is
fitted all the way round with sliding windows, something like those in
the door of a railway carriage, except that the frames of the windows
are oftener filled with Venetian shutters than with glass. The driver of
the _gharry_ is either a Malay or a Siamese. He wears a red fez cap and
a white linen jacket. When it rains he takes off his clothes and puts
them under the seat to keep them dry. As soon as the rain leaves off and
the sun comes out again, he stops the carriage, and dresses himself once
more. The harness is made of rope, and, as often as not, it breaks. Then
you have to wait while your coachman goes to the nearest shop or house
in order to beg a bit of string wherewith to repair the damage.