CHAPTER XIX

ON FOOT ACROSS THE MALAY PENINSULA

“Now lads,” said our host, as we were finishing a late breakfast the

next morning, “I’ll ’ave to ask you to move on. If I was fixed right

you’d be welcome to ’ang out ’ere as long as you’re in town, but I don’t

draw no viceroy’s salary an’ I’ve got a fair size family to support. Up

on the ’ill there, lives an American Christer. Go up an’ give ’im your

yarn an’ touch ’im fer a few dibs.”

We did not, of course, take the advice of the Englishman. James and I

were agreed that it would not be consistent with our dignity to turn to

so base a use as the purchase of currie and rice the funds needed for

the distribution of Bibles and tracts among the aborigines. We did call

on the good padre, but for no other purpose than to crave permission to

inspect his cast-off foot wear. The tramp from Pegu had wrought disaster

to our own. My companion wore on his right foot the upper portion of a

shoe, the sole of which he had left somewhere in the Burmese jungle; on

the left, the sole of its mate, to which there still adhered enough of

the upper to keep it in place. He was better shod than I.

But missionaries domiciled in the far corners of the brown man’s land

are not wont to be satisfied with a casual morning call from those of

their own race. The “Christer” espied us as we started up the sloping

pathway through his private park, and gave us American welcome at the

foot of the steps. Our coming, he averred, was the red-letter event of

that season. Before we had time even to broach the object of our visit,

we found ourselves stammering denials to the assertion he was shouting

to his wife within, that we were to stay at least a fortnight.

Our new host was a native of Indiana, a missionary among the Talaings,

as the inhabitants of this region are known. His dwelling, the Talaing

Mission, was a palatial bungalow set in a wooded estate on the outer rim

of the city. Its windows commanded a far-reaching view over a gorgeous

tropical landscape. Within, it was not merely spacious, airy, and

lighted with soft tints of filtered sunshine—blessings easily attained

in British-Burma, it was hung with rich tapestries, carpeted with downy

rugs, decorated with Oriental works of art. The room to which we were

assigned was all but sumptuously furnished; and it was by no means the

“bridal chamber.” At table we were served formal dinners of many

courses; a white-liveried chowkee dar slipped in and out of the room,

salaaming reverentially each time he offered a new dish; a punkah-wallah

on the back veranda toiled ceaselessly; a gardener clipped away at the

shrubbery in the mission grounds; a native _aya_ followed the two tiny

memsahibs who drove about the house a team of lizards, harnessed in

tandem with the reins tied to their hind legs. In short, the reverend

gentleman lived in a style rarely dreamed of by men of the cloth at

home, or by the sympathetic spinsters to whose charity the adjacent

heathen owed their threatened evangelization.

For all his profession, however, the man from Indiana was one whose

acquaintanceship was well worth the making. To us especially, for when

he was once convinced that our plea for employment was genuine, he

quickly found something to put us at. One would have fancied that a

“handy man” had never before entered the mission grounds. There was

barely a trade of which we knew the rudiments that we did not take a

turn at during our stay. Having served apprenticeship in earlier days as

carpenter, blacksmith, shoemaker, and “carriage trimmer,” I repaired the

floor and several doors and windows, constructed two kitchen benches,

forged wardrobe hooks, half-soled the family shoes, and upholstered two

chairs used on “state occasions.” James, meanwhile, recovered the

padre’s pack-saddle, overhauled and oiled his fire-arms, put new roosts

in his henhouse, and set his lumber room in order. It was not that

native workmen were scarce; a small army of servants flitted about the

bungalow, leering at our loss of caste. But saddening experience had

taught the missionary that Hindu or Burmese workmen not only made a

botch of any task outside their narrow fields, but ruined with

surprising rapidity the tools of which he had brought a well-stocked

chest from his native land.

Our first day’s labor was enlivened with tales of the horrors that would

befall us if we persisted in continuing our journey; the second, with

pleas for a longer sojourn; the third, with preparations for our

departure. As to the route, we could learn no more than the names of

three villages through which the “wild men” of the interior passed on

their way to Siam. To what section of Siam their trail might bring us no

man knew.

A few hours over washtub and needle made our rags presentable, and we

still had two extra cotton suits. That these and our other possessions

might be protected from the tropical deluges, we bought two squares of

oilcloth in which to roll our “swag.” My bundle contained one of the two

pairs of half-worn shoes that I had come across in the lumber-room.

Unfortunately, there was a marked pedal disparity between the Australian

and the missionary, and my companion might have departed as poorly shod

as he had arrived, had not the good sky pilot insisted on fitting him

out in the bazaars. There, the stoutest shoes in stock proved to be a

pair of football buskins, imported for some Moulmein exponent of Rugby.

These the purchaser chose, in the face of the protest of the prospective

wearer, arguing that the cleats made them just the thing for climbing

steep mountain paths. In my pack, too, were our earnings at the mission,

some four dollars in silver and copper; James having pleaded that he was

too careless to be intrusted with such a fortune. Nor should the parting

gifts of our hosts be forgotten,—a little pocket compass from the padre,

and a bottle of “Superior Curry Dressing” from his solicitous spouse.

We left the Talaing Mission, then, on the morning of May twenty-third,

and, boarding a tiny steamer plying on the Gyang river, disembarked as

the sun was touching the western tree-tops, in the village of Choung

Doa. It comprised two rows of spindle-shanked hutches facing a narrow

clearing ankle-deep in mud. In one of the booths, boiled rice, tea, and

a few stale biscuits from far-off England were for sale. The population,

irrespective of age, sex, or dishabille, formed a gaping circle around

us and flocked behind us as we set out, like country boys in the wake of

the annual circus parade.

A jungle trail that was almost a highway led eastward through densest

virgin forest. We set a sharp pace, for the hour was late and the next

hamlet full fifteen miles distant. Not a hut nor a human being did we

pass on the journey; only the trail, winding over thick-clothed

foothills, gave evidence that man had been here before us.

Black night had fallen when we reached Kawkeriek. As the capital of the

most eastern district of the Indian Empire, it posed as a city of

importance; yet it was only a larger collection of those same one-story,

bamboo huts, ranged in unsteady rows like the soldiers of an inebriated

army, in the square clearing which its inhabitants had won by force of

arms from the militant jungle. A sub-commissioner dwelt there. That much

information had reached Moulmein. Perhaps he spoke a smattering of

English. We fell to shouting an inquiry for his bungalow as we wandered

in and out among the huts. Here and there, where a light cast a

flickering gleam into the night, we startled the peace of a quiet family

by intruding upon them—and seldom found them in a garb to receive

callers. The few belated stragglers whom we came upon in the darkness

listened with trembling limbs to our query, grunted unintelligibly, and

sped noiselessly away.

It was surely nine and time all well-behaved residents of the capital

should have been abed, when we captured a night-hawk on his way home

after a little supper with the boys, or a round of the dance-halls. He

was of bolder stuff, naturally, and better informed on who’s who in

Kawkeriek than his hen-pecked neighbors, and consented like a man ready

for any adventure to give us guidance.

Beyond the last row of dwellings, he plunged into a sub-sylvan pathway,

and, mounting a gentle slope, paused before a forest-girdled bungalow.

We turned to thank him, but he had slipped silently away, anxious, no

doubt, to reach his apartment before the elevator stopped running.

The commissioner was reading in his study. He was a Burman from “over

Mandalay way,” as much a foreigner in Kawkeriek as we, and so much a

sahib in his habits that he had not yet dined. For that we were

grateful. To have missed the formal repast to which he invited us would

have been a misfortune indeed.

So rarely does England appoint any but a white man to rule over a

district, that this native, who had risen so high in her esteem,

awakened our keenest curiosity. In appearance he was like any other

Burman of the prosperous class. His garb was the usual flowing robe,

though his legs were dressed and his feet shod. His long, black hair, a

bit wavy and of a thickness the other sex might have envied, was caught

up at the back of his head in a “Psyche knot.” Like the police captain

of Bankipore, however, he was in all but nationality and dress a

European. Without the trace of a foreign accent, he couched even his

casual remarks in an English that sounded like a reading from a master

of style. His energy, his accomplishments, his very point of view were

those of the Occident. Had we entered the bungalow blindfolded, we

should never have suspected that his skin was brown. So little of the

native was there left in his make-up that, though middle-aged, he was

still a bachelor.

“I have been too busy in my short life,” he confided, “to give attention

to such matters.”

There was a dak bungalow in Kawkeriek. The commissioner’s servant

escorted us thither, prepared our bath, and arranged the

sleeping-quarters for the reception of such distinguished guests. In the

morning we took breakfast with the governor. No more important problem,

apparently, than the planning of our itinerary had occupied his

attention in many a day. He had summoned his entire council, six men of

standing in the community, who approached the business in hand with the

solemnity of delegates to a Hague conference.

The morning was half spent before the result of their deliberations was

laid before us. It was tabulated under three heads. First: the country

east of the capital was a trackless jungle overrun with savage dacoits,

poisonous reptiles, and man-eating tigers, into which even the people of

Kawkeriek dared not venture. Secondly: if we persisted in our suicidal

project, would we not spend a few days of our closing existence with the

commissioner, who was pining away for lack of congenial companions.

Thirdly: if we denied him even this favor, there was outside his door a

“wild man,” chief of a jungle village, whose route coincided with our

own for one day’s journey.

We suggested an immediate departure. A servant stepped out on the

veranda and summoned the _boh_ into the council chamber. He was a “wild

man” indeed. In physique, he was thin and angular, a tall man for his

race, though small when judged by our standard. His skin was a leathery

brown, his hair short and bristling, his eyes small and shifty, with a

suggestion of the leopard in them. The chewing of betel-nut had left his

teeth jet-black, and the prominence of his cheek bones under a sloping

forehead made his face ugly to look upon. All in all, he was a creature

who would have seemed in his proper element chattering in the tree-tops

of the jungle.

His dress, nevertheless, was brilliant. Around his brow was wound a

strip of pink silk; an embroidered jacket, innocent of buttons, left his

chest bare to the waist-line; his loins and thighs were clothed in many

yards of bright red stuff arranged in the fashion of bloomers. Below the

knees he wore nothing. At his waist was fastened a betel-nut pouch. He

carried a leather sack of the shape of a saddlebag, and—having fallen

under the civilizing influence of Kawkeriek—an umbrella.

His dialect being a foreign language to the commissioner, the importance

of his mission was impressed upon the boh through an interpreter. He

replied only in monosyllables, salaaming, each time he grunted, so low

that his head all but touched his knees. From time to time he sat down

on his heels as a signal mark of respect. When he retired, he backed

towards the door, kowtowing with every step, and forgetting, in his awe,

his leather sack, until he was called back by the commissioner’s major

domo.

The brilliant garb which the village chieftan had donned for his

audience with the governor was not, of course, his traveling costume. On

the outskirts of the capital he signed to us to halt and stepped inside

a hut. But for his ape’s countenance we should not have recognized him

when he reappeared. His regal garments had been packed away in his

haversack, the broad strap of which was his only covering, save a strip

of dirty, white cotton about his loins.

He plunged at once into the jungle, moving with little, mincing steps

beside which our strides seemed awkward. The path was so narrow that the

outstretching branches whipped us in the faces. It showed few signs of

travel and was overgrown with virile creepers that entangled our feet.

None but a jungle-bred human could have followed the erratic,

oft-obliterated route through that labyrinth of vegetation. Flocks of

birds of brilliant plumage flew away before us, uttering strident

screams; now and then a crashing of underbrush marked the flight of some

unknown animal. The overbearing sunshine, falling sheer upon us, seemed

to double the weight of the “swag” on our shoulders; and the bundles

themselves were not light.

Our guide was the most taciturn of Orientals. Not once during the day,

to our knowledge, did a sound escape his lips. Where the path widened a

bit, he raised his umbrella and cantered steadily forward. Even swollen

streams were no obstacle to him. Had he been alone it is doubtful

whether he would have noticed them at all. With never a pause he

splashed through the first and loped unconcernedly on along the

branch-choked path. We hallooed to him as we sat down to pull off our

shoes; and he halted a moment, but set off again before we had waded

ashore. When we shouted once more he turned to stare open-mouthed until

we were re-shod. Why these strange creatures should wear garments on

their feet under any circumstances was an enigma to him; that we should

stop to put on our shoes again when we must know there were other

streams to wade seemed the height of asininity. When we had overtaken

him he hinted in awkward pantomime that we should do better to toss

aside the foolish leather contrivances that hindered our progress. He

could not realize that a mile over sharp stones and jagged roots would

have left us crippled.

As we neared the mountains the streams increased in number and

swiftness. In the beginning we took it upon ourselves, as a duty to

beachcombers who might some day appeal to us for statistical

information, to count them. When we had forded thirty-six before the sun

began its decline, we gave up the attempt in despair. By that time, too,

we had grown weary of halting every hundred yards to pull off our shoes

and bellow after the boh, who must be reminded at every rivulet of our

peculiar custom. James essayed to cross one on a few stepping-stones,

lost his balance, and sprawled headlong into it. I was more fortunate,

but reached the further bank by no means dry shod. Thereafter we waded

through the streams, which for the most part were something over

knee-deep, and marched on with the water gushing from our shoe-tops. It

mattered little in the end, for a pent-up deluge burst upon us.

He who has never bowed his back to a tropical shower at the height of

the rainy season cannot know their violence; and nowhere do they rage

with more fury than in the mountains of the Malay Peninsula. With a roar

like the explosion of a powder-mill an infuriated clap of thunder broke

above us. Then another and another, in quick, spasmodic blasts. It was

no such tamed and domesticated thunder as that of the north. Flaming

flashes of lightning followed each other in quick succession, half

blinding us with their sudden glare. We looked instinctively to see the

riotous vegetation burst into flame. In the falling masses of water—to

call it rain seems absurd—we plunged on; the densest thicket could not

have offered the least shelter. The boh had raised his umbrella. It

broke the force of the downpour, but could not save him a drenching.

What cared he, dressed only in a loin-cloth? The water ran in rivulets

down his naked shoulders and along his prominent ribs, yet on his

macilent face hovered the beginning of a haggard smile. Between the

crashes of thunder the devil’s-tattoo of the storm drowned out all other

sounds. Only by speaking into my companion’s ear as into a telephone

receiver, and bellowing at the top of my lungs, could I make myself

heard.

Then the storm abated—gradually at first, then suddenly, and with its

ceasing our tones were still shrill and strident. Quickly the sun burst

forth again, to blaze fiercely upon us; though not for long. All that

day the deluges broke in succession so rapid that we had no notion of

their number. More often than not they caught us climbing a sheer

mountainside by a narrow, clay-bottomed path down which an

ever-increasing brook poured, washing us off our feet while we clutched

at the overhanging bushes.

The boh led us, by zigzag routes, over two mountain ranges before the

day was done. At sunset, we were descending into a third valley when we

came suddenly upon a tiny clearing and a tinier village. “Thenganyenam”

the natives called it. There were four bamboo huts and a dak bungalow,

housing a population of thirty-one “wild men” and one tame one. To take

the census was no difficult matter, for the inhabitants poured forth

from their hovels before we had crossed five yards of the clearing.

At their head trotted the domesticated human. In all the shrieking,

gaping band of men, women, and children there was no other that wore

more than a loin-cloth or an abbreviated shirt. He was a babu, the

“manager” of the public rest-house. With a majestic bow of deepest

reverence he offered us welcome, turned to wave back the awe-stricken

populace with the gesture of a man born to command, and led the way with

martial stride to the government bungalow.

“Look here, babu,” I began, as we sank down into wicker chairs on the

veranda, “this is a splendid little surprise to find a dak bungalow and

a man who speaks English, here in the jungle. But we’re no millionaires;

and the government fee is two rupees, eh? Too strong for us. Can’t you

get us a cheaper lodging in one of the huts?”

“The government,” returned the babu, with careful enunciation, “the

government have make the dak bungalow for Europeans. Why; you may not

ask me. In two years and nine days that I am living in Thenganyenam

there are come two white men, and one have only rested and not sleep.

But because the dak bungalow is make, all sahibs coming in Thenganyenam

must stop in it. When I have see you coming by the foot and not by the

horses I must know that you have not plenty money. Every day we are not

everybody rich. How strong you have the legs to come from Kawkeriek by

the foot! The two rupees you must not pay. If you can give some little

to the cook, that he make you a supper—”

“That’s the word,” burst out James. “Sure, we pay for our chow. Where’s

the chowkee? Tell him to get busy.”

“But,” apologized the babu, “this is a very jungly place and we have not

proper food for Europeans.”

“Holy dingoes!” shrieked the Australian. “Do I hear that old, stale joke

again? Bring a pan of rice, or a raw turnip, or a fried snake, anything,

only julty karow. That wobbly-legged boh scoffed all his sandwiches

without saying ‘How d’ye do,’ and that breakfast in Kawky didn’t last an

hour. Ring up the chowkee.”

“The other day,” observed the babu, reminiscently, “there was a chicken

in Thenganyenam. I shall send the cook to hunt him.”

Through the united efforts of the Thenganyenamians, the solitary fowl

was run to earth, with more hubbub than dispatch, and sacrificed in

sight of the assembled multitude. A delay that was both painful and

unaccountable ensued before it appeared before us as tongue-scorching

currie, in an ample setting of hard-boiled rice.

Meanwhile we had pulled off our water-soaked rags, rubbed down with a

strip of canvas, and donned our extra garments. The change was most

gratifying. It was not until then that we realized the full value of the

squares of oilcloth that had kept our “swag” dry. Supper over, we drove

the babu forth into the night and turned in on the canvas charpoys.

The swamps and streams through which we had plunged during the day had

swarmed with leeches. One of these, having imbedded itself in a vein of

my right ankle, refused to be dislodged. At supper a tiny stream of

blood had trickled along my toes; but, fancying the flow would cease of

itself, I made no efforts to staunch it. I awoke in the morning with the

sensation of being held captive. The blood, oozing out during the night,

had congealed, gluing my right leg to the canvas of the charpoy.

Before I had dressed, the Hindu cook and care-taker wandered into the

room; and, catching sight of the long, red stain, gave one lusty shriek,

and tumbled out on the veranda. James, who had slept in an adjoining

chamber, was awakened by the bellow, and, hearing the Hindustanee word

for “blood,” sprang to his feet with the conviction that I had been

assassinated as he slept. I was explaining the matter to him when the

cook returned, wild of eye, and bearing the register in which we had

inscribed our names the evening before. Waving his free arm now at the

book, now at the charpoy, he danced about us screaming excitedly.

Comprehending little of his voluble chatter, we waved him off and

stepped out upon the veranda. The “manager” was just mounting the steps.

“Here, babu,” demanded James, “what’s biting our friend from the

kitchen?”

The Hindu turned to his superior, all but choking himself over his

convulsive utterance. Tears were streaming down his tawny cheeks.

“He says,” cried the babu, when the cook fell silent at last, “in the

charpoy is much blood. Have you become wounded?”

“It was only a blood-sucker,” I explained, “but where does the register

come in?”

“The cook asks that you will write all the story of the blood in it,

very careful.”

“What nonsense,” I answered, when James’ mirth had subsided. “I’ll pay

for the damage to the charpoy.”

“Oh! It is no dam-máge,” protested the babu, “no dam-máge at all. He is

not ask for pay. But when the inspector is coming and seeing the much

blood in the charpoy, he is thinking the cook have kill a man who have

sleep here, and he is taking him to Kawkeriek and making him shot. Very

bad. So cook cry. Please, sir, write you the story in the register

book.”

I sat down at the veranda table and inscribed a dramatic tale for the

visiting inspector. Only when I had filled the page below our names and

half the next one, did the Hindu acknowledge himself contented, and

carry away the book for safe keeping.

We stowed away our dry garments and donned the rags and tatters we had

stretched along the ceiling the evening before. They were still clammy

wet. As for our footwear, we despaired for a time of getting into it, or

of being able to walk if once we did. Our feet were blistered and

swollen to the ankles, the shoes shrunken and wrinkled until the leather

was as inflexible as sheet-iron. We got them on at last, however, and

hobbled down the veranda steps and away. For the first hour we advanced

by spasmodic bursts, picking our way as across a field of burning coals.

James was in even more uncomfortable straits than I. The football

buskins, theoretically just the thing for jungle tramping, had, in

actual use, proved quite the opposite. The day before, the Australian

had slipped and stumbled over the rubble like a man learning to skate.

In drying, the shoes had wrinkled and twisted into a shape that gave

anything but a firm foothold, and the heavy leather chafed like emery

paper. Wherever he came upon a sharp stone, the sufferer halted to chop

viciously at one of the cleats, cursing the missionary’s judgment and

snarling like one wreaking his pent-up vengeance on a mortal enemy.

Before noonday came, he had pounded off the last cleat, not without

inflicting serious injury to the soles; and at the first opportunity he

borrowed a knife and transformed the shoes into a decidedly low pair of

oxfords. But even after these radical alterations he was uncomfortably

shod. I much doubt whether the white man has yet devised the proper

footwear for jungle tramping. To be foot-sore seems to be one of the

inevitable hardships of those who walk in the tropics. We, at least,

suffered more or less pain at every step from Kawkeriek to the end of

our journey.

Thenganyenam was no great distance from the frontier village. Our guide

of the day before had turned westward, but the pathway between the

adjacent hamlets was distinctly enough marked to be followed. It was not

yet noon when we reached Myáwadi. A few showers had visited their fury

upon us; but the brilliant sunshine was again flooding the world about

us. Myáwadi was a more populous thorp than that we had left in the

morning, pitched along the bank of the stream that marks the limit of

old England’s sway. An air of lazy, soul-filling contentment hovered

over the tiny jungle oasis. With every puff of the soft summer breeze

the tinkling of the little silver bells at the top of the pagoda came

musically clear to our ears. Here and there a villager was stretched out

on his back in the grass. It seemed ill-mannered to break the peaceful

repose of the inhabitants.

Besides the stone and mud sanctuary soaring above the brilliant

vegetation, the most imposing edifice was a bamboo barracks, housing a

little garrison of native soldiers. Here we stopped, as was our duty

before crossing the frontier. The sepoys were childish, good-hearted

fellows who made known their astonishment and offered their condolences

in expressive pantomime, and did their best to make as appetizing as

possible the dinner of rice and jungle vegetables they offered. It was

fortunate that they were so open-handed, for we could not have purchased

food in the village. This jungle land has not yet reached the commercial

stage.

The native lieutenant evinced a strong curiosity to know what errand had

brought us thus far from the beaten track of sahibs, and our pantomimic

explanation seemed only to increase his suspicions. When he grew

querulous we mentioned the name of Damalaku. He sprang to his feet

shrieking with delight, and, having danced about us for some time,

detailed a sepoy to accompany us to the first Siamese village, with a

note of explanation to the head man.

When the sun had begun its decline and the latest storm had abated, we

left the barracks and Burma behind. The international stream was little

wider than many we had already encountered, and barely waist deep. We

forded it easily, and the tinkling of the pagoda bells still came

faintly to our ears when we climbed the sandy eastern bank,—in Siam at

last.

The first village, we had gathered, was no great distance off, so we

strolled leisurely on through the jungle, pausing to rest in shady

thickets so often that the sepoy left us in disgust and went on alone.

Two hours later he paused on his homeward journey to tell us in gestures

that he had delivered his international note and that the village was

waiting to receive us.

The day was not yet done when we reached the outpost of Siam, to be

picked up at the edge of the jungle by a Siamese of ape-like mien, who

conducted us to the hut of the village head man.

Picture to yourself a trust magnate of the most pompous and

self-worshiping type, with the face of an Alaskan totem pole, the

general appearance of a side-show “wild man,” a skin the color of a door

mat that has done service for many years, dressed in a cast-off dish

cloth, and you have an exact visualization of the man who ruled over

Mäsawt. He received us in the “city hall,” sitting with folded legs on a

grass mat in the middle of the floor. Around the walls of the misshapen

bamboo shack squatted several briefly-attired courtiers. Through the

network partition that separated the hall of ceremonies from the family

sanctum, peered a parchment-skinned female, and a troop of dusky

children not yet arrived at the dignity of clothing. If we had waited

for an invitation to be seated we might have remained standing all

night. The attitude of the Siamese towards the European is quite

different from that of the Burman. Their very poise seems to say:—“We

are a free people, not the slaves of white men like our neighbors over

the border.”

We made ourselves comfortable on the pliant floor, with our backs to the

wall, and lighted the saybullies that had done service for three days

past. For more than an hour the head man and his satellites sat

motionless, staring fixedly at us, and mumbling in an undertone without

once turning their heads towards those they were addressing. The sun

sank into the jungle and swift darkness fell. The parchment-skinned

female drifted into the room and set on the floor an oil torch that gave

a poor imitation of a light. At the dictation of the babu of

Thenganyenam, I had jotted down a few vital words of Siamese. When

conversation lagged, I put this newly-acquired vocabulary to the test by

calling for food. The head man growled, the female floated in once more

and placed at our feet a small washtub of boiled rice.

Now this Oriental staff of life is not without its virtues; but to eat

one’s fill of the tasteless stuff without any “trimmings” whatever is

rather a pleasureless task. I dragged out my notebook and again ran my

eyes down the list of Siamese words. Neither currie nor chicken was

represented. The only word that appeared to be of any value under the

circumstances was that for “sugar.” I bellowed it at the head man. He

stared open-mouthed until I had repeated it several times.

“Sugar?” he echoed, with an inflection of interrogation and

astonishment.

“Yes, sugar,” I cried, sprinkling an imaginary handful over the rice.

The councillors 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, squatting

before the dish, began to run his bony fingers through the rice.

“Sugar?” he queried, 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 and quizzically. Then he shook his head vigorously and spat the

mouthful out on the floor.

“No, no; sugar, no!” he cried.

“Of course there’s no sugar!” shouted James. “That’s why we’re making a

bloody holler. Sugar, you thick-headed mummy!”

The official taster retired to his place; a silence fell over the

company. We continued to shout. Suddenly a ray of intelligence lighted

up the face of the head man. Could it be because we _wanted_ sugar that

we were raising such a hubbub, rather than because we fancied that

foreign substance had been inadvertently spilled on our supper? He

called to the female. When she appeared with a joint of bamboo filled

with muddy brown sugar, the councillors rose gravely and grouped

themselves about us. I sprinkled half the contents of the bamboo on the

rice, stirred up the mess, and began to eat.

At the first mouthful such a roar of laughter went up from the assembly

that I choked in my astonishment. Whoever would have guessed that these

gloomy-faced dignitaries could laugh? The chieftan fell to shaking as

with a fit, his advisers doubled up with mirth, and aroused the entire

community with their shrieks. Wild-eyed Siamese tumbled out of the

neighboring huts. Within two minutes half the village had flocked into

the room, and the other half was howling for admittance and a glimpse of

those strange beings who ate their rice with sugar!

The surging mob must surely have burst the walls of the frail hut

asunder, had not the head man risen to the dignity of his position, and

driven all but the high and mighty among his subjects forth into the

night. Among those who remained after the general exodus was a babu. He

was a Siamese youth who had spent some years in Rangoon, and his

extraordinary erudition, like the garments he wore in excess of the

diaphanous native costume, weighed heavily upon him. At the instigation

of the head man, he subjected us to a searching cross-examination, and

later communicated to us the result of a debate of some two hours’

duration. The jungle to the eastward was next to impassable to natives;

obviously such notoriously weak and helpless beings as white men could

not endure its hardships. There was in Mäsawt a squad of soldiers with

whom we could travel to Rehang when their relief arrived—in a week or

ten days. Meanwhile we must remain in the village as government guests.

James and I raised a vigorous protest against this proposition. The only

reply to our outburst was the assertion of the head man that we should

stay whether we liked it or not. As the night was well advanced, we

feigned capitulation and made ready to retire. The village chief lighted

us into one of the small rooms of his dwelling and left us to turn in on

the bamboo floor.

Had we anticipated any great difficulty in escaping in the morning it

would have been a simple matter to have taken French leave during the

night. Bolts and bars were unknown in Mäsawt, and even had our door been

fastened, it would have needed only a few kicks at the flimsy walls of

our chamber to make an exit where we chose. We had no desire to lose a

night’s rest, however, and fell asleep with the conviction that the head

man would not be as energetic in executing his order as in giving it.

Nor was he. While the mists still hovered over Mäsawt, we packed our

“swag” and entered the council chamber in marching array. The chief was

already astir, but the only effort he made to thwart us was to shout

somewhat meekly when we stepped out into the dripping dawn.

At the eastern end of the town began a faint suggestion of a path, but

it soon faded away and we pushed and tore our way through the jungle,

guided only by the pocket compass. The militant vegetation wrought havoc

to our rags and cut and gashed us from brow to ankles; the perspiration

ran in stinging streams along our lacerated skins and dripped from our

faces. Though we fought the undergrowth tooth and nail it is doubtful if

we advanced two miles an hour.

The sun was high when we came upon the first evidence that man had

passed that way before—a clearing not over six feet square, in the

center of which was a slimy pool and a few recently-cut joints of

bamboo. With these we drank our fill of the tepid water and had thrown

ourselves down in the shade when we were startled to our feet by the

sound of human voices. The anticipation of an attack by murderous

dacoits turned quickly to that of a forcible return to Mäsawt, as there

burst into the clearing a squad of soldiers.

There were seven in the party, a sergeant and four privates, armed with

muskets, and two coolie carriers, each bowed under the weight of two

baskets slung on a bamboo pole. After the first gasp of astonishment the

soldiers sprang for the bamboo cups beside the waterhole, while the

servants knelt down to set their burdens on the grass. The fear that the

troopers had been sent to apprehend us was quickly dispelled by their

acquiescence in permitting us to handle their weapons. They were bound

for Rehang, but why they had been released from garrison duty at the

frontier village so long before the time set, we could not learn.

A formidable force was this indeed. There was far less suggestion of the

soldier about the fellows than of half-grown youths playing at a

military game. The sergeant, larger than the others, came barely to

James’ chin; and the Australian was not tall. The privates were

undeveloped little runts, any one of whom the average American school

boy could have tied in a knot and tossed aside into the jungle. There

was little of the martial air either in their demeanor or in their

childlike countenances. They were dressed in regulation khaki, except

that their trousers came only to their knees, leaving their scrawny legs

bare. On their heads were flat forage caps of the German type; from

their belts hung bayonets; and around the waist of each was tied a

stocking-like sack of rice.

We conversed with them at some length, so adept had we become in the

language of signs. Long after I had forgotten the exact means employed

in communicating our thoughts, the ideas that we exchanged remained.

Among other things I attempted to impress upon the sergeant the fact

that my own country held possessions not far from his own. He caught the

idea well enough, except that, where I had said Philippines, he

understood Siam. His sneers were most scathing. The bare suggestion that

the white man held any sway over _Muang Thai_—the free country—was

ludicrous. Even the carriers grinned sarcastically. A strange thing is

patriotism. Here were these citizens of a poor little state, stranded

between the possessions of two great powers, boasting of their

unalienable independence, utterly oblivious of the fact that their

national existence could not last a week if one of those powers ceased

to glare jealously at her rival. When they had eaten a jungle lunch, the

soldiers stretched out for their siesta, and we went on alone.

It was long hours afterward that we made out through a break in the

undergrowth two miserable huts. Not having tasted food since the night

before, we dashed eagerly forward. Two emaciated hags, dressed in short

skirts and ugly, broad-brimmed hats of attap leaves, were clawing the

mud of a tiny garden patch before the first hovel. I called for food and

shook a handful of coppers in their faces, but, though they certainly

understood, they made no reply. We danced excitedly about them,

shrieking our Siamese vocabulary in their ears. Still they stared, with

half-open mouths, displaying uneven rows of repellant black teeth. We

had anticipated such a reception. Even the missionary of Moulmein had

warned us that the jungle folk of Siam would not sell food to travelers.

The age of barter has not yet penetrated these mountain fastnesses. What

value, after all, were copper coins in any quantity to the inhabitants

of this howling wilderness?

We waded through the mire to the next hutch. Under it were squatted two

men and a woman, and a half-dozen mud-bespattered brats sprawled about a

crude veranda overhead. This family, too, received us coldly, answering

neither yes nor no to our request for food. We climbed the rickety

bamboo ladder into the hut and began to forage for ourselves. The men

scrambled up after us. When I picked up a basket of rice, the bolder of

the pair grasped it with both hands. I pushed him aside and he retreated

meekly to a far corner. In other baskets we found dried fish, a few

bananas, and a goodly supply of eggs. Beside the flat mud fire-place

were two large kettles and a bundle of fagots. While James broke up

branches and started a blaze, I brought rain water from a bamboo bucket,

in cocoanut shells, and filled the kettles.

Chimney was there none, nor hole in the roof; and the smoke all but

choked and blinded us before the task was done. The rice and fish we

boiled in one conglomerate mess, pouring it out on a flat leaf basket

when it approached an edible condition, and dashing out on the veranda

for a breath of fresh air. The householder remained motionless in his

corner. Having found, after long search, a bamboo joint filled with

coarse salt, we seasoned the steaming repast and fell upon it. James had

the bad fortune to choke on a fish bone, but recovered in time to swear

volubly when he discovered in the concoction what looked suspiciously

like a strip of loin-cloth. By the time we had despatched the rice, a

dozen eggs, and as many bananas, we were ready to push on. I handed the

downcast native a tecal—the rupee of Siam—which he clutched with a

satisfied grunt, as well he might, for a shopkeeper would not have

demanded a fourth as much for what we had confiscated.

Just at sunset we burst into the straggling village of Banpáwa. Some

forty howling storms had added to our entertainment during the day and

we had forded an even greater number of streams. My jacket was torn to

ribbons; my back and shoulders were sadly sunburned; in a struggle with

a tenacious thicket I had been bereft of a leg of my trousers; and the

Australian was as pitiable an object to look upon.

Near the center of the village was an unpretentious Buddhist monastery

beside which the priests had erected a shelter for travelers, a large

thatch roof supported by slender bamboo pillars. Under it were huddled

nearly a score of Laos carriers, surrounded by bales and bundles;

Banpáwa being an important station of the route followed by these human

freight trains of the Siamese jungle. They were surly, taciturn fellows,

who, though they stared open-mouthed when we appeared, treated us like

men under a ban of excommunication.

Physically they were sights to feast one’s eyes upon; splendidly

developed, though short of stature, with great knots of muscles standing

out on their glistening brown bodies. A small loin-cloth was their only

attire. Above it their skins were thickly tattooed to their necks with

fantastic figures, all in red, representations of strange and repulsive

beasts, among which that of a swollen fat pig was most often duplicated.

Below the indispensable garment the figures were blue, even more closely

crowded together, but stopping short at the knees.

It is said that this custom of making pictorial supplements of

themselves was first forced upon the Laos by a wrathful king. A youthful

servant, received as an attendant in the royal harem, was rapidly

becoming a great favorite among the secluded ladies, when one sad day

the appalling information leaked out that the supposed country maid was

really a man. When the culprit had been duly drawn and quartered, an

imperative edict went forth from the palace of his raging majesty,

commanding every male in the kingdom to submit forthwith to the

tattooers’ needles. Even to-day, this custom, mentioned by Marco Polo,

is still universal among the males.

We sought to buy food from our sullen companions. They growled for

answer. Like the soldiers, each wore round his waist a bag of rice; a

few were preparing their evening meals over fagot fires at the edge of

the shelter; but not a grain would they sell. A raging storm broke while

we were wandering from one to another, shaking money in their faces.

When it had abated somewhat, we hobbled out into the night to appeal to

the villagers. There were some twenty huts in the clearing, into each of

which we climbed, in spite of our aching legs. Every householder

returned us the same pantomimic answer—he never sold food, but he was

sure his next door neighbor did, and the neighbor was as sure that it

was in the next hovel that our money would make us welcome.

We played this game of puss-wants-a-corner for an hour, and we were

still “it” when we reached the last dwelling. The village was really too

populous a community in which to repeat the tactics that had won us

dinner; but hunger made us somewhat indifferent to consequences. We

climbed boldly into the hut and caught up a kettle. The householder

shrieked like a man on the rack; and, before we had kindled a fire, a

mob of his fellow townsmen swarmed into the shack and fell upon us. They

were not particularly fierce fighters. We shook and kicked them off like

puppies, but when the last one had tumbled down the ladder we awoke to

the sad intelligence that they had carried off in their retreat every

pot, pan, and comestible on the premises. Besides the bare walls there

remained only a naked brown baby that rolled about the middle of the

floor, howling lustily.

The village population was screaming around the shanty in a way that

made us glad we had a hostage. James sat down, gazed sadly at the

wailing brat and shook his head.

“No good,” he announced. “Not fat enough. Anyway there’s no kettle to

cook it in. Let’s vamoose.”

We turned towards the door. A man was peering over the edge of the

veranda. By the silken band around his brow we knew him for a Burman;

and he spoke Hindustanee. We gathered from his excited chatter in that

language that he had come to lead us to a place where food was sold. As

we reached the ground the throng parted to let us pass, but the frenzied

natives danced screaming about us, shaking sticks and cudgels in our

faces. A few steps from the hovel some bold spirit struck me a

resounding whack on the back of the head. It was no light blow, but the

weapon was a hollow bamboo and no damage resulted. When I turned to fall

upon my assailant the whole crew took to their heels and fled into the

night.

“All I’ve got to say,” panted James, as we hurried on after our guide,

“is, I’m bloody glad that’s not a bunch of Irishmen. Where would the

pioneer beachcombers of the Malay Peninsula be now if that collection of

dish-rags knew how to scrap?”

The Burman led us through a half-mile of mire and brush, and a stream

that was almost waist-deep, to a suburb of Banpáwa. Four huts housed the

commuters. After long parley our guide gained us admittance to one of

the dwellings and sat down to keep us company until our rice and fish

had been boiled. He was something of a cosmopolite, fairly clever in

piecing together a language of gestures and the few words we had in

common. The conversation turned naturally—in view of the fact that we

were two as ragged sahibs as one would run across in a lifetime of

wandering—to the question of personal attire. Our sponsor was well

dressed for the time and place, and the whim suddenly came upon him to

substitute a tropical helmet for the silk band about his brow. He

offered James a rupee for his topee, and pondered long over the refusal

of the offer. Then he rose to depart, but halted on the edge of the

night to hold up two fingers.

“Dō rúpika! Achá, sahib?” he pleaded.

“You’re crazy!” retorted the Australian, “Think I want to get a

sunstroke?”

The Burman shrugged his shoulders with a disgruntled air and splashed

sadly away.

Our host was a sulky “wild man” in the prime of life, his mate a buxom

matron who had not yet lost the comeliness inherent in any healthy,

well-developed female of the human species. The pair, evidently, had

been long married, for they had but seven children.

A section of the bamboo floor of the tiny hut was raised a few feet

above the level of the rest, forming a sort of divan. On this we

squatted with the family, chatting over our after-supper saybullies. The

wife, for all her race, was a true sister of Pandora. What especially

awakened her curiosity was the color of our skins; though they were not,

at that moment, particularly white. She was seated next to James,

suckling two lusty infants, and gazing with monkeylike fascination at

the hand of the Australian that rested on the divan beside her. Hugging

the babes to her breast with one arm, she edged nearer and ran her

fingers across the back of the Australian’s sunburned paw. To her

astonishment the color would not rub off. She pushed up a sleeve of his

jacket and began to examine the forearm; when my companion, till then

absorbed in conversation, snatched his hand away with an exclamation of

annoyance. No sooner had he let it fall again, than she resumed the

examination.

“Quit it!” cried James, turning upon her, “Or I’ll pay you back in your

own coin.” The husband snarled fiercely, sprang to his feet, and,

crowding in between his wife and the Australian, glared savagely at him

as long as the evening lasted.

We turned in soon afterward, eleven of us, on the divan. Though the

front wall of the shack was lacking, we needed no covering; even when

the rain poured we sweated as in the glare of sunlight. The sucklings

took turns in maintaining a continual wailing through the night; the

other brats amused themselves in walking and tumbling over our prostrate

forms; a lizard chorus sang their monotonous selections with unusual vim

and vigor. If we slept at all it was in brief, semi-conscious snatches.

With daylight, came the Burman to repeat his attempt to purchase my

companion’s helmet. James spurned the offer as before.

“Then yours, sahib,” pleaded the fellow, in Hindustanee. “One rupee!”

“One?” I cried. “My dear fellow, do you know that the Swedish consul of

Ceylon once wore that topee?”

“One rupee,” repeated the Burman, not having understood.

“Tell him to chase himself,” said James.

“Still,” I mused, “if he’d give two dibs it’d almost double our stake.”

“Are you crazy?” shouted the Australian. “The sun would knock you out in

an hour.”

“But two more chips might just carry us through,” I retorted, “and

starving’s worse than the sun. I’ll risk it.”

“Will you sell?” demanded the Burman.

“Two rupees.”

“One!” shrieked the Oriental, “Two for the sahib’s which is new, One for

yours.”

There ensued a half-hour of bargaining, but the Burman gave in at last,

and, dropping two tecals in my hand, marched proudly away with that

illustrious old topee, that I had won in fair barter with the Norseman,

set down on his ears.

I handed one of the tecals to our scowling host and we hit the trail

again. Out of sight of the hamlet we halted to don the extra suits in

our bundles. The Australian gazed sorrowfully at his buskins while I

slipped on my second pair of shoes. From the rags and tatters I was

discarding I made a band to wind around my brow, after the fashion of

Burma. Even with the top of my head exposed to sun and rain, as it was

for days, I suffered no evil effects.

The territory beyond Banpáwa was more savage than any we had yet

encountered; everywhere a rank vegetation so thick that our feet rarely

reached the ground. Now and again we plunged into a thicket only to be

caught as in a net, and, powerless to advance, retreated with rent

garments and bleeding hands and faces to fight our way around the

impenetrable spot. We were now in the very heart of the mountains. Range

after range of unbroken jungle succeeded each other. From every summit

there spread out a boundless forest of teak and bamboo, turgid with

riotous undergrowth. Mountains that were just blue wreaths in the

morning climbed higher and higher into the sky—rolling ranges without a

yard of clearing to break the monotony of waving tree tops—and beyond

them more mountains, identical in formation. Level spaces were there

none. Descents so steep that the force of gravity sent us plunging

headlong through thorn-bristling thickets, ended in the uncanny depths

of V-shaped valleys at the very base of steeper ascents which we mounted

hand over hand as a sailor climbs a rope. In our ears sounded the

incessant humming of insects; now and then a snake squirmed off through

the bushes; more than once there came faintly to us the roar of some

distant brute. Of animate nature, most numerous were the apes that

swarmed in the dense network of branches overhead, and scampered

screaming away, at our intrusion, into the oppressive depths of the

forest.

Though the rains continued unabated, there were fewer streams in these

higher altitudes, and those were mere rivulets of silt fighting their

way down the slopes. At every mudhole we halted to drink; for within us

burned a thirst such as no man knows who has not suffered it in the

jungle-girdled waist line of Mother Earth. Chocolate-colored water we

drank, water alive with squirming animal life, in pools out of which

wriggled brilliant green snakes. Often I rose to my feet to find a leech

clinging to my nether lip.

As the day grew, a raging hunger fell upon us. In a sharp valley we came

upon a tree on the trunk of which hung a dozen or more jack-fruits

within easy reach. We grasped one and attempted to pull it down. The

short, fibrous stem was as stout as a manila rope, and knife had we

none. We wrapped our arms around the fruit and tugged with the strength

of despair; as well have tried to pull up a ship’s anchor by hand. We

chopped at the stem with sharp stones; we hunted up great rocks and

attempted to split the fruit open on the tree, screaming with rage and

bruising our fingers. Streams of perspiration coursed down our

sun-scorched skins, hunger and thirst redoubled, and still our efforts

availed us nothing. When we gave up and plunged on, our assault on the

fruit had barely scratched the adamantine rind.

Weary and famished, matted with mud from crown to toe, and bleeding from

innumerable superficial lacerations, we were still grappling with the

throttling vegetation well on in the afternoon when James, a bit in

advance, uttered a triumphant shriek.

“A path! A path!” he cried, “and a telegraph wire!”

Certain that hunger and the sun had turned his brain, I tore my way

through the thicket that separated us. His cry had been awakened by no

mirage of delirium. A path there was, narrow and steep, but showing

evidences of recent travel, and, overhead, a sagging telegraph wire

running from tree to tree. The compass had brought us again to that

elusive route followed by the native porters.

A half-hour along it and we came to a little plain, intersected by a

swift stream, in the backwater of which swam a covey of snow-white

ducks. On the western bank stood a weather-beaten bungalow, over the

door of which was a faded shield bearing the white elephant of Siam.

Above it disappeared the telegraph wire. Our thirst quenched, we mounted

the narrow steps and shouted to attract attention. There was no

response. We pushed open the door and entered. The room was some eight

feet square and entirely unfurnished, but in one corner hung an

unpainted telephone instrument of crude and ancient construction. A

spider had spun his web across the mouth of the receiver and there were

no signs that the hut had been occupied within modern times.

“Nothing doing here,” said James. “Let’s swim the creek.”

On the opposite bank was a bamboo rest-house, smaller than that of

Banpáwa, but with a floor raised some feet above the fever-breeding

ground. Back of it, among the trees, stood a cluster of seven huts. We

made the round of them, seeking food; but returned to the rest-house

with nothing but the information that the village was called Kathái Ywá.

Nine Laos carriers had arrived, among whom were several we had seen the

evening before. They had, perhaps, some secret grudge against white men,

for they not only refused to sell us rice, but scowled and snarled when

we drew near them. The day was not yet done. We should have pushed on

had not James fallen victim to a burning jungle fever.

With plenty of water at hand, hunger grew apace. For a time the forlorn

hope that some more tractable human might wander into Kathái Ywá buoyed

us up. But each new arrival was more stupid and surly than his

forerunner. The sun touched the western tree-tops. James lay on his

back, red-eyed with fever. Eat we must, if we were to have strength to

continue in the morning. I made a second circuit of the village, hoping

to win by bluster what we had not with cajolery. The community rose en

masse and swarmed upon me. The males carried long, overgrown knives; the

females, cudgels. I returned hastily to the rest-house.

The sight of the telephone wire awakened within me the senseless notion

that I might summon assistance from some neighboring village. I left my

shoes and trousers in charge of the Australian and dashed through the

stream and into the government bungalow. At the first call I “got”

someone. Who or where he was I could not guess. I bawled into the

receiver English, French, German, and all the Hindustanee I could

muster. When I paused for breath the unknown subscriber had “rung off.”

I jangled the bell and shook and pounded the apparatus for five minutes.

A glass-eyed lizard ran out along the wire and stared down upon me. His

mate in the thatch above screeched mockingly. Then another voice sounded

faintly in my ear.

“Hello!” I shouted, “Who’s this? We want to eat. D’ you speak English?

Dō sahib hai, Kathái Ywá. Send us some—”

A flood of meaningless jabber interrupted me. Two words I caught,—that

old, threadbare phrase “nămelay-voo.” I had rung up a Burman; but he was

no babu.

“English!” I shrieked. “Anyone there that speaks English? We’re sahibs!

Hello! Hello, I say! Hello—”

[Illustration: A Laos carrier crossing the stream that separates Burma

from Siam]

No answer. Central had cut me off again. I rang the bell until my arm

was lame and listened breathlessly. All was still. I dropped the

receiver and tumbled out of the hut determined to throttle one of the

Laos carriers. In the middle of the stream I slipped on a stone and fell

on my knees, the water to my armpits. The startled ducks ran away before

me. I snatched up a club and pursued them through the village and back

to the creek again, the inhabitants screaming in my wake. I threw the

weapon at the nearest fowl. It was only a joint of bamboo and fell

short. The ducks took to the water. I plunged in after them and once

more fell sprawling.

Before I could scramble to my feet a shout sounded near at hand, and I

looked up to see the squad of soldiers breaking out of the jungle. They

halted before the government bungalow and watched my approach with

deep-set grins. The sergeant, understanding my gestures, offered us

places around the common rice heap. I returned to the rest-house for my

nether garments. The villagers were driving their panting ducks

homeward. The Australian struggled to his feet and we waded the stream

once more, joining the soldiers on the veranda of the government

bungalow. Their porters brought huge wet leaves to protect the floor,

and built a fire within. A half-hour later the troopers rose to their

feet shouting, “Kin-kow! Kin-kow!” easily understood from its similarity

to the familiar Chinese word “chow,” and we followed them into the

smoke-choked building. In a civilized land I would not have tasted such

a mess as was spread out on a banana leaf in the center of the floor, to

win a wager. At that moment it seemed a repast fit for an epicure.

We slept with the soldiers in the telephone bungalow. James’ fever

burned itself out and he awoke with the dawn ready to push on. For the

first few miles we followed a path below the telephone wire. In

stumbling over the uneven ground my shoe-laces broke at frequent

intervals. Well on in the morning I halted to replace them with stout

vines. The Australian drew on ahead. Before I had overtaken him the path

forked and the wire disappeared in the forest between the diverging

routes. I hallooed to my companion, but the rain was coming down in

torrents, and the voice does not carry far in the jungle. I struck into

one of the paths; but in a very few minutes it faded and was lost. I

found myself alone in the trackless wilderness.

Here was a serious mishap indeed. The Australian had carried off the

compass; our money was in my bundle. Separated we were equally helpless,

and what chance was there of finding each other again in hundreds of

miles of unblazed wilds?

I set a course by the sun and for three hours fought my way up the

precipitous face of a mountain. To crash and roll down the opposite

slope required less than a third of that time. In the valley, tucked

away under soaring teak trees, was a lonely little hut. A black-toothed

female in scanty skirt squatted in the square of shade under the cabin,

pounding rice in a hollowed log. The jungle was humming its un-cadenced

tune. I climbed to the veranda and lay down, certain that I had seen the

last of James, the Australian.

Under the hut sounded the thump, thump, thump of the pestle. What

exponents of the “simple life,” of which we hear so much where it does

not exist, are these jungle dwellers of Siam! They are as independent of

the outside world as their neighbors, the apes, in the tree-tops. The

youthful “wild man” takes his mate and a _dah_ and wanders off into the

wilderness. He needs nothing else to win a livelihood and rear a family.

The dah is a long, heavy knife, a cross between a butcher’s cleaver and

a Cuban machete. It is the one and universal tool and weapon of the

indigène of the Malay ranges. With it he builds his house, gathers his

food, and defends himself against his enemies. His dwelling is a mere

human nest, as truly a nest as the home of the swallow or the squirrel.

The walls are of bamboo, tied together with vines and creepers; the

floor, of split bamboo; the eight-foot pillars that support his hut, the

ladder at the doorway, the rafters, are all of the same material. Attap

leaves for the roof grow everywhere. Cocoanut shells do duty as plates

and cups; a joint of the omnipresent bamboo makes a light and handy

pitcher or pot. To lay up a stock of bananas for flood time is the work

of a few hours; a few yards of clearing supplies the householder rice in

abundance. If he has a taste for “fire-water,” an intoxicating drink can

be made from the sap of the palm tree. Two loin-cloths a year may be

fashioned from the skin of an animal or from a thick, woolly leaf that

grows in swampy places. Take away the dah and there is nothing that is

not of the jungle, save one import from the outside world—tobacco. The

“wild man” and his mate are inveterate smokers.

But it was not by loafing in the shade that I should beat my way through

to civilization. I rose to my feet and rearranged my “swag.” If only I

could hire a guide. Hark! The sound of a human voice came faintly to my

ear. No doubt the owner of the hut, and of the slightly-clad female, was

returning from a morning expedition. I listened attentively. Then off to

the right in the jungle rang out a familiar song:—

“Oh, I long to see my dear old home again,

And the cottage in the little winding lane.

You can hear the birds a-singing,

And pluck the roses blooming;

Oh, I long to see my old home again.”

It was the Australian’s favorite ballad. I shouted at the top of my

lungs, and, springing to the ground with one leap, crashed into the

jungle. A thicket caught me in its sinewy grasp. I tore savagely at the

entangling branches. The voice of the Australian rang out once more:—

“Oh, why did I leave my little back room, out in Bloomsburee?

Where I could live on a quid a week, in such luxuree....”

He was further away now. I snatched myself loose and plunged on after

him, leaving a sleeve of my jacket in the thicket.

“Hello, James! Hello!” I bellowed. He was singing with a volume that

filled his ears. I opened my mouth to shout again, and fell through a

bush into a clearly-marked path. Above it sagged the telephone wire and

just in sight through the overhanging branches plodded the Australian.

“Gee, but you’re slow,” he laughed, when I had overtaken him.

“When d’you find the path?” I demanded.

“Haven’t lost it,” he answered. “Why? Did you?”

“Haven’t seen it for five hours,” I replied.

“Holy dingoes!” he gasped, “Thought you were close behind, or I’d have

felt mighty little like singing.”

We had no difficulty in keeping to the route for the rest of the day,

and passed several carriers westward bound. With never a hut to raid, we

fasted. Yet had we but known it there was food all about us. What a

helpless being is civilized man without the accessories of civilization!

It fell to uncouth jungle dwellers to bring home to us our own

ignorance.

Weak from hunger, we had halted at the edge of a mountain stream well on

in the afternoon, when we were overtaken by the soldiers. They had

packed away their uniforms and wore only loin-cloths and caps.

“Kin-kow? Kin-kow?” cried the sergeant, with an interrogatory gesture.

We nodded sadly. He chuckled to himself and waved his arms about him, as

if to say that there was food everywhere. We shrugged our shoulders

skeptically. He laughed like a man prepared to prove his point and

addressed himself to the squad. Two of the soldiers picked up cudgels,

and, returning along the path to a half-rotten log, began to move back

and forth on opposite sides of it, striking it sharp blows here and

there. They came back with a half-dozen lizards, those great, green

reptiles that sing their “she-kak!” all night long in the thatch of

Indian bungalows. Meanwhile two others of the squad were kneeling at the

edge of a mudhole. From time to time they plunged their bare arms into

it, drawing out frogs and dropping them, still alive, into a joint of

bamboo. The sergeant took a dah and cut down a small tree at the edge of

the jungle. A servant dug some reddish-brown roots on the opposite bank

of the stream, while his mate started a fire by rubbing two sticks

together.

In a few minutes all were reassembled beside us. The lizards were

skinned, cut up with lumps of red currie in an iron pot, and set to

boiling. A servant drew out the frogs one by one, struck them on the

head with a stick, and tossed them to his companion. The latter rolled

them up inside mud balls and threw them into the fire. The sergeant

split open his tree, extracted a pith some four inches in diameter, cut

it into slices, toasted them on the point of his dah, and tossed them

onto a large leaf spread out at our feet. The reddish roots were beaten

to a pulp on the face of the rock and sprinkled over the toasted slices.

Rice was boiled, the soldiers, grinning knowingly, took up their refrain

of “kin-kow! kin-kow!” and the meal began. Before it was finished, both

the jungle and its inhabitants had risen several degrees in our

estimation. Extracted from their shell of mud, the frogs were found to

be baked into brown balls, and tasted not unlike fried fish. The toasted

pith resembled pickled beets. But best of all was the lizard currie.

James and I ate more than our share, and offered mutual condolence that

the pair sent to pound the old tree trunk had not remained longer at

their task.

We went on with the soldiers, halting soon after dark at the bank of the

largest stream we had yet encountered. There was no village in the

vicinity, but the government had erected a military rest-house on the

bank. In this we spent the night with the troopers, after partaking of a

frog and lizard supper.

Beyond, the territory was less mountainous and the path well-marked; but

whatever advantage we gained thereby was offset by another difficulty.

The river beside which we had left the soldiers was deep and swift, and

wound back and forth across our course with a regularity that was

disheartening. In the first few morning hours we swam it no less than

fourteen times. It was the ninth crossing that we had cause longest to

remember. Reaching the narrow, sandy bank a bit before my companion, I

stripped, and, rolling my clothing up in the oilcloth, tied the bundle

to my head, and plunged in. James began to disrobe as I reached the

opposite shore. Without removing his ragged shirt, or his helmet, he

fastened on his “swag” as I had done, and struck out. Being an excellent

swimmer he advanced with long, clean strokes. Unfortunately he did not

take care to keep his head pointed up-stream. The powerful current

caught him suddenly broadside, dragged him under, and dashed him against

a submerged snag. He righted himself quickly, but in that brief struggle

lost both his bundle and his helmet, and in an effort to save both

caught only the topee. The “swag” raced down stream. I sprang to my feet

and dashed along the sandy shore in hot pursuit. The stream was far

swifter than I. The tangled undergrowth brought me to a sudden halt, and

the Australian’s worldly possessions were swallowed up in the jungle.

I returned to find him sitting disconsolately on the bank. Luckily there

was but one tecal in his bundle, but with it had gone his shoes,

trousers, jacket, the odds and ends he had picked up on his travels, his

military and citizenship papers, the pocket compass, and even that

bottle of “Superior Currie Dressing”; in short, everything he possessed

except a helmet and a tattered shirt.

But James was not a man to be long cast down by minor misfortunes. He

tied the shirt about his loins and we proceeded. Relieved of his burden,

he marched more easily and crossed the streams with far less difficulty

than I. But in less than an hour his shoulders, back, and legs were

painted a fiery red by the implacable sun; and the stones and jagged

brambles tore and bruised his feet until he left a blood stain at every

step.

We were again overtaken by the soldiers about noonday and halted for

another jungle meal. Off once more, we forged ahead for a time, but

found it prudent to wait for the troopers to lead the way; for the route

was beset with unexpected pitfalls. As once, in fighting our way along

the bank of the river, we crashed headlong through the bushes into the

dry, stony bed of a tributary—fifteen feet below. This mishap left

little of my clothing, and gave the Australian the appearance of a

modern Saint Sebastian.

A wider path began where we rejoined the soldiers. The higher mountain

ranges fell away; but if the foothills were less lofty they were as

steep, and the slopes were often clear of vegetation and reeking in mud.

At the top of such a ridge we overtook an equine caravan returning from

some village off to the southwest. Burdened with huge pack saddles, the

horses began the perilous descent reluctantly. Suddenly three of them

lost their footing, sat down on their haunches, and rolled over and

over, their packs flying in every direction. James laughed loudly and

slapped me on the back. The blow disturbed my equilibrium. My feet shot

from under me, and, slipping, sliding, rolling, clutching in vain for

support, I pitched down the five-hundred yard slope and splashed

headfirst into a muddy stream at the bottom several seconds in advance

of the horses.

Another mile left me barefooted and nearly as naked as my companion. Now

and again we overtook a band of Laos carriers, once a young Buddhist

priest in tattered yellow, attended by two servants. We had seen him

somewhere a day or two before and remembered him not only by his garb

but on account of the licentious cast of his coarse features. He joined

our party uninvited and tramped along with us, puffing at a long

saybully and chattering volubly. The soldiers greeted his sallies with

roars of laughter and winked at us in a way to suggest that the tales he

told would have made the efforts of Boccaccio seem Sunday-school

stories. We deplored more than ever our ignorance of the Siamese tongue.

James was protesting that he could not continue another yard when we

came most unexpectedly to the edge of the jungle. Before us stretched a

vast paddy field, deeply inundated. The soldiers led the way along the

tops of the ridges toward a dense grove two miles distant. The howling

of a hundred curs heralded our approach, and as many chattering humans

swarmed about us when we paused in a large, deep-shaded village at the

edge of a river fully a mile wide. It could be no other than the _Menam

Chow Pya_—the “great river” of Siam. Along the low eastern bank

stretched a veritable city with white, two-story buildings, before which

were anchored large native junks. It was Rehang. The soldiers told us so

with shouts of joy and ran away to don their uniforms.

We threw off what was left of our garments and plunged into the stream

to wash off the blood and grime of the jungle. When we had prepared

ourselves for entrance into civilization the soldiers were gone. We

appealed to the villagers to set us across the river. They refused. We

took possession of one of a dozen dug-out logs drawn up along the shore,

and the village swarmed down upon us in a great avalanche of men, women,

children, and yellow curs. We caught up two paddles and laid about us.

In two minutes we were alone.

We pushed the dug-out into the stream and were climbing in when two

ugly, wrinkled females ran down the bank and offered to ferry us across.

They pointed the craft up-stream and fell to paddling, their flabby

breasts beating against their paunches with every stroke, their bony

knees rising and falling regularly. They were expert water dogs,

however, and crossed the swift stream without mishap, landing us at a

crazy wooden wharf in the center of the town.

In every published map of Siam you will find Rehang noted—somewhere

within a hundred miles of its actual situation. Not that the city

deserves such distinction. The geographer must have some name to fill in

this vast space on his chart or he lays himself open to a charge of

ignorance. On nearer sight the white, two-story buildings were rather

pathetic, dilapidated structures. The avenue between them was not much

better paved than the jungle paths, and deeper in mud. The sanitary

squad, evidently, had not yet returned from an extended vacation. Here

and there a dead cat or dog had been tossed out to be trampled under

foot. There was no dearth of inhabitants; one could not but wonder how

the town could house such a population. But the passing throng was

merely a larger gathering of those same uncouth “wild men” of the jungle

villages. The fear of being arrested for unseemly exposure soon left us.

James, in national costume, attracted much less attention than I, in the

remnants of jacket and trousers.

Just one advance agent of modern civilization had reached Rehang. Bill

posters had decorated several blank walls with huge lithographs

announcing, in Siamese letters a foot high, the merits of a well-known

sewing machine. That we had expected, of course. In the back waters of

modern progress are a few hamlets where Milwaukee beer is unknown, but

the traveler who extends his explorations so far into the wilds as to

discover a community ignorant of the existence of the American sewing

machine merits decoration by the Royal Geographical Society.

It was easy, however, to overlook the backwardness of this tumble-down

thorp on the banks of the Menam; at least it was a market town. James

dashed into the first booth with a whoop of delight and startled the

keeper out of his wits by demanding a whole three cents’ worth of

cigarettes. Saybullies might do well enough as a last resort, but the

Australian did not propose to be reduced to such extremities again. He

splashed on through the reeking streets blowing great clouds of smoke

from his nostrils and forgetting for the time even the smarting of his

torn and sun-scorched skin.

Half the merchants of the town were Chinamen. We stopped at a shop kept

by three wearers of the pig-tail and, dragging a bench into the center

of the room, called for food. One of the keepers, moving as if he deeply

resented our intrusion, set canned meat before us, and brought us as a

can-opener, after long delay, a hatchet with a blade considerably wider

than the largest tin.

When we rose to depart, the Celestials quickly lost their apathy. They

demanded ten tecals. I gave them two. The market price of the stuff was

certainly not over a half of that sum. A triple scream rent the air and

a half-dozen Monguls bounded into the shop and danced like ogres about

us. One caught up the hatchet and swung it high above his head. James

snatched it from him, kicked him across the room, and threw the weapon

among the heaped-up wares. We fought our way to the street. The keeper

nearest us gave one stentorian bellow that was answered from every side.

Chinamen tumbled out through every open doorway, out of every hole in

the surrounding shop walls; they sprang up from under the buildings,

dropped from the low roofs, swarmed out of the alleyways, for all the

world like rats; screaming, yelping, snarling, clawing the air as they

ran, their cues streaming behind them. In the twinkling of an eye the

mob at our heels had increased to a hundred. We refused to sacrifice our

dignity by running. The frenzied Celestials scratched us savagely with

their overgrown finger nails, caught at our legs, spattered us with mud.

Not one of them used his fists. When we turned upon them they recoiled

as from a squad of cavalry and we could retaliate only by catching a

flying pig-tail in either hand to send a pair of yellow-skinned rascals

sprawling in the mud. They came back at us after every stand before we

had taken a dozen steps. Our backs were a network of finger-nail

scratches. We cast our eyes about us for some weapon and found two

bemired sticks. Before we could use them our assailants turned and fled,

still screaming at the top of their lungs.

[Illustration: The sort of jungle through which we cut our way for three

weeks. Gerald James, my Australian companion, in the foreground]

Not far beyond, we turned in at the largest edifice in the town—the

Rehang barracks. Among the half-hundred little brown soldiers lounging

about the entrance were our intermittent comrades of the few days past.

It was plain that they had told our story. The recruits gathered about

us, laughing and plying pantomimic questions. How had we liked lizard

currie? What had turned our dainty skins so blood red? What ignorant and

helpless beings were white men, were they not?

Suddenly, amid the general chatter, I caught a hint that there was a

European on the floor above. We sprang towards the stairway at the end

of the veranda. The soldiers shrieked in dismay and snatched at our

rags. We must not go up; it was contrary to stringent barrack rules. A

guardsman on duty at the foot of the stairs held his musket out

horizontally and shouted a tremulous command. James caught him by the

shoulder and sent him spinning along the veranda. We dashed up the

steps. Two doors stood ajar. James sprang to one while I pushed open the

other.

“Hello!” I shouted, “Where’s the white—”

A triumphant roar from my companion sent me hurrying after him. He was

dancing gleefully just inside the second door, and shaking a white man

ferociously by the hand, an astonished white man in khaki uniform with

officer’s stripes. I reminded the Australian of his costume and he

subsided. The European invited us inside and sent a servant for tea,

biscuits and cigars. Our host was commander of the Rehang garrison—a

Dane, but with a fluent command of English. That we had been wandering

through the jungle was all too evident; but that we had come overland

from Burma was a tale he would not credit until the sergeant had been

called in to confirm our assertions. Forgetting his military duties, the

commander plied us with wondering questions until dusk fell, and then

ordered three of the newly-arrived squad to arrange for our

accommodation.

The sergeant, plainly overawed at finding us on such intimate terms with

his dreaded chief, led the way through the barracks. The garrison

grounds were extensive. Within the inclosure was a Buddhist monastery,

resembling, if less pretentious than, the Tavoy of Rangoon. Here were

the same irregular patches of untilled ground, where priests wandered

and chattered in the twilight; the same disorderly array of gaudy

temples, gay little pagodas with tinkling silver bells, and frail

priestly dwellings.

On the veranda of one of the latter the soldiers spread a pair of army

blankets. We were for turning in at once. Our seneschals would not hear

of it. For a half-hour they trotted back and forth between our bungalow

and that of the commander, bearing steaming dishes. The little table

they had set up was groaning under its burden before the sergeant signed

to us to begin. There was broiled fish, a mutton roast, a great steak, a

spitted fowl, fruits and vegetables of astounding variety and quantity.

The sergeant laughed aloud at our astonishment when he drew out a pair

of knives and forks from his pocket. Then he tapped his head

meditatively with a skinny finger and ran off again into the night. He

came back with a box of cigars and a quart bottle of whiskey!

Neither of us being particularly addicted to the use of fire-water, we

wet our whistles and fell upon the fish. When I looked up again, the

sergeant was watching me with the fixed stare of a half-starved cat.

“Kin-kow?” I asked, pointing at the steak.

The trooper shook his head almost fiercely.

“Try him on the gasoline,” suggested James.

I poured out a glass of whiskey and held it out to him. In accordance

with Oriental etiquette, he refused it seven times with a pained

expression. At the eighth offer he smiled nervously. At the ninth he

raised his hand hesitatingly and dropped it again. At the tenth he took

the glass gingerly between his slim fingers, eyed it askance, tasted the

liquor half fearfully, smacked his lips, gulped down a liberal half of

the potion, and handed the glass to the privates behind him.

The mutton roast engrossed our attention. When it was finished, I found

the officer grinning down upon me. I filled the glass again. He cocked

his head on one side in the beginning of a shake and kept it there. His

refusals had lost force. With the third glass there was no refusal. The

fourth he poured out for himself. By the time we were picking the

chicken bones, the three warriors were dancing gleefully about us. We

sat down on the blanket for a smoke. The sergeant, shrieking his undying

affection, threw himself down between us and began to embrace us in

turn. When we kicked him off the veranda he locked arms with the

privates and waltzed away across the parade-ground, screaming a

high-pitched native song at the top of his lungs. The quart bottle stood

on the table—empty.

We spent the night on the veranda. We did not sleep there. Our

sun-scorched skins would not permit it; even had they burned less

fiercely, we could not have slept. One would have fancied the monastery

a gigantic hen yard, with the priests transformed into chanticleers

during the hours of darkness. After every shower the unveiled moon was

greeted with a din of crowing that was nothing short of infernal. In the

brief respite each gathering storm brought us, we tossed about

wide-awake on our asperous couch, listening to the symphonic tinkling of

the pagoda bells.

With dawn came a summons from the Dane. We hurried to his bungalow and

joined him at breakfast. He had gathered together two pairs of shoes and

four khaki uniforms. They were from his own tailor in Bangkok, still

very serviceable, though fitting us a bit too snugly, and chafing our

blistered skins. Rolling up the extra garments and swinging them over

our shoulders, we bade our host farewell. As we left the garrison

inclosure we came upon the sergeant, sitting on the ground, his knees

drawn up to his chin, his face buried in his hands—a very

personification of the baneful morning after.