SCHOOLS
Siamese children, when very young, are but little troubled by either
clothes or schools. They spend their time riding on buffaloes, climbing
trees, smoking cigarettes, paddling canoes, eating and sleeping. But at
some time in life many boys go to school. There is no compulsion. If a
boy does not want to go, he can stay away. Yet most boys, both in the
remote country districts and in the busy, crowded capital, have learned
something. Perhaps the delights of climbing trees and smoking cigarettes
pall after a time, or perhaps the boy is ambitious, and wants to get on
in the world. If so, he must at least learn to read, write, and "do
sums." Whatever be the reason, it does happen that practically every
Siamese boy goes to school. His attendance is not regular and not
punctual, but in the course of a few years he manages to learn certain
things that are of use to him.
Siamese schools are situated in the cool, shady grounds of the temple.
They are generally plain sheds or outhouses. The teachers are usually
the priests, but here and there a lay head master may be found. In such
a case the master, like the boys, is not overburdened with clothes. A
piece of cloth is draped about his legs, but the upper part of his body
is generally bare. If he possesses a white linen coat, such as Europeans
wear in a hot country, he takes it off when he enters the building and
hangs it up, so that it shall not get dirty while he is teaching. He
generally smokes the whole time, and when he is not smoking he is
chewing betel-nut.
The children sit cross-legged on the ground, tailor-fashion. There are
no chairs or desks, and if there were the children would sit
cross-legged upon them just the same. All learn to read. Now the Siamese
language is what is called a _tonic_ language--that is, the meaning of
any word depends on the _tone_ with which it is pronounced. For
instance, the word _ma_ can be pronounced in three ways, and has,
therefore, three meanings--namely, "come," "horse," and "dog." If,
therefore, you called out to a friend, "Come here!" in the wrong tones,
you might insult him by saying, "Dog, here!" and so on. You might wish
to say to a farmer, "Can I walk across your _field_?" If you were to
pronounce the last word in the wrong tone, it might mean, "Can I walk
across your _face_?" a request that might lead to trouble, especially if
the farmer were a big man. Some of the syllables have as many as five
tones, and the foreigner finds it exceedingly difficult to express his
meaning correctly. As the correct meaning of a word depends on the
particular accent with which it is uttered, all reading must be done
aloud to be enjoyed. Each scholar in the school learns his own
particular page or lesson independently of the others, and the many
voices blend into one, rising and falling from time to time in a not
unmusical hum, sometimes loud and full, when the master is vigilant and
the scholars are energetic; often soft and feeble, when the master is
dreaming on the floor or lounging in the sun, and his pupils are getting
weary of their monotonous task.
Slates and pencils are used for writing, though the best pupils use lead
pencils. In a village school ink is never seen.
Arithmetic up to short division is taught in some schools, but in many
others no arithmetic at all is taught, for the simple reason that the
teacher does not know any. As for bills of parcels and recurring
decimals, and all the other horrible things that men do with figures,
they are unknown and undreamt of.
Sometimes a little grammar is learned if the master knows anything of
the subject, and all who expect to be thought wise must learn pages of
the sacred books off by heart, and must be able to repeat them without
hesitation or error. They do not understand a word of what they are
saying, for the sacred books are written in a dead language that nobody
speaks and few understand.
And that is all. There is no geography, history, or science. There are
no workshops, laboratories, or drawing-classes.
There is no furniture of any description, no diagrams, blackboards, or
desks. I once went into a school, where I saw each child sitting
placidly on the ground with a small box in front of him, on which he
placed his slate or book. It was a curious sight. There were about forty
of these boxes, all procured in the native market, and bearing on their
sides varied announcements as to the excellence of Pear's soap and
Cadbury's cocoa.
The school opens at nine. The boys arrive between ten and eleven, and
the head master puts in his appearance when he has finished his
breakfast. The only part of the unwritten time-table that is punctually
kept is the time for closing.
In the capital there are now a number of schools that are quite well
organized and taught, and even in some of the villages things are slowly
improving.
Where English masters are employed some attempt has been made to teach
English games. To these the boys take very quickly. Cricket is the
favourite game, and some of the boys soon become as clever as their
teachers. I shall never forget the first cricket-match, played between a
team of Siamese boys and a number of young Hindus who had picked up the
game in India. Each side brought a crowd of spectators of its own
nationality. Under one clump of trees the swarthy Hindu crowd were
gathered, wearing clean turbans and long picturesque robes, with their
eyes all aglow and their faces all afire with excitement. Near at hand
the lighter-coloured, more sparsely clad Siamese congregated, less
excitable, but more genial and pleasant to look upon. Everywhere
gathered the dealers in cigarettes, the carriers of teapots, the
vendors of ginger-beer and curry. The game baffles description, but I
can never think of it without remembering the policeman in the road, who
got hit on the bare foot with the ball, and refused to restore it until
two-and-twenty cricketers, in various dialects and with yet more varied
actions, managed to persuade the wounded officer that they had never
meant to hurt him.