BY "KHLONG" AND RIVER.
In a walk through any Siamese street the traveller cannot fail to
remark the total absence of any carriage or other wheeled vehicle of
native design. There are conveyances of many descriptions borrowed
from India, China, Japan, and Europe, but none whatever that can be
pointed out as being designed by the Siamese themselves. Any enquiry
as to the cause of this apparently strange lack of originality in a
matter which so directly concerns the daily life of the community,
is readily answered. Until a comparatively recent date there were
practically no roads in the country, and even at the present time,
the roads in any part of the kingdom outside Bangkok scarcely deserve
the name. There are scarcely any means of communication between one
village and another, and very often only defective communication
between two parts of the same village, except by water. The water is
the true home of the Siamese, and it is on this, their native element,
that their real character and genius are best exhibited. It is true
that, in the capital, they now ride ponies and bicycles, for a few
roads suitable to such forms of exercise exist, but the boat, not the
horse, the paddle, not the whip, are the property of the nation at
large.
In earlier times, when they erected houses upon land, they chose
as the most convenient sites for their dwellings, the banks of
the rivers or the shores of the sea. When agricultural enterprise
led to the formation of inland settlements, no roads were made to
connect the new settlement with those already existing, but canals
or "khlongs" were cut instead. The connections between rivers were
made in a similar fashion; and for purposes of pleasure or business,
religious processions or state ceremonies, a thousand different
forms of boat were planned and constructed. The numberless canals
that thread their way across the plains in every possible direction,
have turned the lower portion of Siam into a veritable labyrinth of
winding water-ways. The khlongs differ in age, appearance and size,
as do the roads of more densely populated countries. The ancient
highways of Europe here find their parallel in canals whose age and
origin it would be difficult to determine, though none of them possess
any history extending to periods that Western historians would call
remote. Even as the municipalities and corporations of our land
construct year by year new roads for the facilitation of traffic,
so, for the same purpose new water-ways are being continually cut
in the land of Siam. The broad deep khlongs with their double lines
of house-boats, and their continual traffic of lumbering barges,
cumbersome rafts, comfortable house-boats and tiny canoes, are the
great streets of the cities, and the highways of the plains. The
foul-smelling, silted-up water alleys, with their rotten disreputable
houses, and their heaps of decaying refuse, are the slums and blind
alleys; while the green lanes and country by-paths of more temperate
lands are here represented by delightful little canals that twine
their way through the thick jungle. The palms meet overhead and form
a sheltering canopy; birds of many brilliant hues flit lazily from
branch to branch, consoling themselves for their loss of song in the
contemplation of their gorgeous plumage. There are lonely canals in
comparatively unfrequented places, where only occasional travellers
disturb the silence. Here the alligator stretches his long ungainly
form in the grey and slimy mud; the monkeys chatter to one another
amongst the branches of the trees upon the banks; and the squirrels
gambol in the tree-tops up aloft, in conscious enjoyment of perfect
freedom and everlasting sunshine.
[Illustration: RICE BOATS COMING DOWN THE MENAM.]
The great river upon which Bangkok stands, flows almost directly
from north to south, through mountain valleys and deep ravines, then
tumbles, boils, and roars through a series of dangerous rapids until
it reaches the wide and fertile plains, to whose inhabitants it means
both life and wealth. In most European maps it is called the river
Menam, but as "menam" itself means "river", the name as thus written
possesses no meaning. Every river in the country is called "menam,"
the first syllable of the word meaning "mother", and the second one
"water." The real name of the Bangkok river is "Menam Chow Phya",
which may be freely rendered as the "River Duke", for "Chow Phya" is
the highest title of nobility that can be held by anyone not of royal
descent. Every traveller enters Siam by this river, and in passing
from its mouth to the capital, he may easily observe many excellent
examples of true Siamese life and customs. At the entrance there is a
bar of sand and mud, which at low tide is visible in certain places,
and which even at high tide is never covered by more than fifteen
feet of water. As a consequence, no deeply laden vessels can enter
the river, and they have to load or discharge the greater part of
their cargo by means of small sailing vessels called "lighters", at an
island in the gulf. There is only one narrow passage through the bar,
and the unwary mariner frequently runs aground. It is said that when
the Siamese Minister for Foreign Affairs was asked why no attempt was
made to remove this bar, that thereby the river might be rendered more
navigable, and commerce facilitated, he replied, "For the same reasons
that you English don't relish the idea of a Channel Tunnel." Similar
banks of mud or sand, or both, render unnavigable every river that
flows through the country. They are decisive evidence of the way in
which the whole of the gulf is being gradually filled up. The coast is
everywhere shallow, and at low tide long stretches of mud may be seen
at any point on the northern shores of the inlet. The whole of lower
Siam is one vast alluvial deposit. In several places in the interior,
borings for wells have passed through thick strata of sea-shells and
other marine deposits, thus showing that in earlier days the northern
limit of the gulf extended far north of the site of the present
capital.
Having crossed the bar, the general character of the river becomes at
once apparent. The appearances presented are characteristic of all
the rivers in this part of the world. On either bank the thick jungle
comes down to the water's edge, forming a dense green mass of lowly
attap or stately palm, interlaced with lianes and gigantic creepers,
full of thorny bushes and different species of the cactus family,
with the lordly palm towering high above the living undergrowth,
demanding and obtaining instant admiration from every beholder, and
majestically waving his verdant crown in condescending acknowledgment
of the homage paid to his unquestioned sovereignty by the myriad forms
of vegetable life that cluster round his feet. In the centre of the
river lies a little island, on which stands Prachadee Glang Nam--"The
Shrine in the Middle of the Waters." It is a snow-white spire-crowned
edifice, round whose base are a number of small quaint structures, the
whole forming a conspicuous and typical example of the ecclesiastical
architecture of Siam. A broad band of scarlet cloth wrapped round the
spire, about half-way between the summit and the base, by some devout
member of the Buddhist faith, serves a double purpose in increasing
the pictorial aspect of the scene, and at the same time in indicating
that the teachings of the wise and noble Gautama, in whose honour the
building was erected, have here retained some of their power over the
lives of the inhabitants. The King of Siam is the last of the various
independent sovereigns who have professed their belief in the words of
the great teacher whose outward symbol of humility was the beggar's
yellow robe. The neighbouring countries of Annam, Cochin-China,
Cambodia and Burmah, now owe allegiance to a foreign government, and
their sovereigns, who once bent the knee before the altars of Buddhism
are dead or deposed. The only remaining independent Buddhist monarch
is H. M. King Chulalongkorn, and here in the centre of the great
highway of his country, at the very gate of his kingdom, stands this
fair white temple to the honour of the ancient sage.
[Illustration: A LIGHTER.]
Boats of many shapes and sizes cross and re-cross the path of the
steamer as it makes its way along the winding course, but not
until the vessel is anchored amid stream is it possible to fully
appreciate the unique appearance of the scene. Along each bank are
the floating houses made of teak and plaited bamboo, and thatched
with the long spear-like leaves of the attap palm. Their gabled ends,
best understood from the illustrations, are of a form peculiar to
this land alone, and are repeated monotonously on every dwelling.
The houses stand upon pontoons, or else upon rafts which are made of
numerous stems of the bamboo tree or the areca-palm, tightly bound
together in bundles. Each bundle is more or less free from the others,
so that as the floating foundation gradually rots away, the raft can
easily be removed and then replaced piece by piece without disturbing
the equilibrium of the dwelling itself. The rafts are loosely moored
to several stakes driven deep in the bed of the river, and rise and
fall with the tide. The house is closed in front by a number of planks
of wood, which are removed in the day-time for the admittance of
light and air. It bears in front a little platform or verandah, often
railed in to prevent the younger members of the family from falling
into the swiftly flowing stream beneath. This uncovered platform
serves many purposes. It is here in the early morning, and again in
the evening, that the family may most often be seen enjoying the
luxury of a bath. Men, women, and children come to the edge of the
platform, take up water from the river with brass basins or wooden
buckets, and then pour it over head and shoulders, thus drenching
both themselves and clothes at the same time. Here, too, the dealers
display their wares--the giant fruit of the durien plant, which
is described by Alfred Russell Wallace as being a combination of
strawberries and cream, nectar and ambrosia, ripe pears and ice cream,
but which to the uninitiated suggests more truthfully the presence of
exceedingly defective sanitation; the mangosteen, a pearl amongst
fruits, delightful to eat and to behold, a snow-ball in a casket
of crimson; mangoes; fresh green cocoa-nuts filled with delicious,
refreshing milk; bananas of countless varieties; sugar-cane ready
skinned and cut in small pieces for the youngsters, who think it the
sweetest of sweetmeats; young bamboo stems, rivalling asparagus when
properly cooked; cheap tin and trumpery from Birmingham, Manchester,
or Germany; silks from China and Bombay; occasionally buffalo-horns;
tiger-skins; black monkeys with white beards; green parrots; lamp-oil,
and joss sticks; and a host of small and inexpensive articles (being
the produce of many countries of the globe) that are likely to find
ready purchasers amongst a people of simple tastes and small means.
Very often in the evening when the sun is getting low, the family take
their evening meal out of doors on the same verandah. When the meal is
over they still squat upon the floor, smoking huge cigarettes of rank
tobacco wrapped in the leaf of the banana, and exchanging occasional
words or greetings with some friend or acquaintance passing homewards
in his boat. These floating structures are comparatively clean,
cool, and comfortable, and possess one great advantage over a fixed
dwelling upon land, in the fact that, provided the house is the
property of the tenant, he may remove to a new locality without any
of the inconvenience of an ordinary removal, by the simple process
of shifting at the same time both his habitation and all that it
contains. It is an amusing and not uncommon sight to see a father and
his family, aided by a few muscular friends or relatives, tugging away
at ponderous shovel-shaped oars, fastened fore and aft, as they pilot
their house through a crowd of smaller craft on their way to settle in
some more desirable or convenient locality.
[Illustration: SIAMESE CANOES.]
Behind the floating houses, either situated on the banks or
overhanging the water, are houses built on piles. They are raised
sufficiently high to escape the floods that come with the rainy
season. Their general construction is the same as that of the floating
dwellings, but as their inhabitants throw most of their rubbish into
the space between the ground and floor instead of into the river, they
are by no means such healthy habitations as those that float in the
river below.
In the river are moored the coasting steamers that carry the rice of
Siam to Singapore or Hong-kong, that transport lean cattle to the
Malay States and Archipelago, and bring back goods of European or
Asiatic manufacture, as well as thousands of Chinese coolies for the
labour market. There are great Norwegian sailing vessels taking in
teak, and tank steamers discharging kerosine oil.
Chinese junks and "lighters" pass slowly by with heavy, yellow,
mat-like sails, bearing cargo to the island in the gulf, where it will
be transferred to the larger steamers. On the prow of every junk is
painted a big wide-open eye, whose powerful optical properties are
supposed to aid the vessel in steering a safe and speedy course. Says
the Chinese maritime philosopher, "No have got eye; how can see?"
There are no Siamese junks or steamers, for the trade of the country
is in the hand of foreigners, who, for commercial purposes, use
either the steamers that owe their design and construction to modern
invention, or else the huge unwieldy junks that the conservative
Chinese crews would be exceedingly loth to relinquish.
The teak that is exported, is sent down to the capital from the
northern forests in the Shan uplands around Chiengmai, bound together
in cumbersome rafts. After passing through the perilous rapids of
the Meping, they are stopped at the Customs station at Raheng, and
duties are there levied upon them. They are then allowed to drift with
the current and are steered with a number of perforated, rudder-like
oars fastened at both ends of the raft. In the centre there is always
a little temporary hut rudely fashioned out of a few branches and
leaves. Some member of the crew will generally be found taking a
comfortable nap therein.
[Illustration: CHINESE TRADING JUNK.]
Fiery little steam-launches tear across the river, whistling,
shrieking, rushing like so many water fiends, half swamping or
upsetting many of the smaller boats in their swell. Tiny mites of
children paddle freely and easily along in tiny cockle-shell canoes,
without any signs of fear or hesitation. They easily avoid the big
"fire-boat," and guide their craft into the swell in order that
they may enjoy the fun of riding upon the miniature waves. The most
common form of boat to be seen on the river is the native gondola,
or "rua-chang". It is used for purposes of business or pleasure, but
it is rapidly losing its popularity as a ferry boat owing to the
introduction of the more rapid little steam-launches. Both sexes are
employed as gondoliers. They stand to their work with one foot upon
the edge of the boat. Their oars are fastened loosely to a small
piece of wood near one end, and the boat is propelled with long
graceful sweeps of the oar, by a method that no European has ever
yet been able to acquire. They turn about with amazing rapidity,
or preserve a straight course from point to point, with but little
apparent effort on the part of the boatman, and with no seeming
variation in the movement of the oar. As a matter of fact, the whole
work of steering or of turning is done by a peculiar twist given to
the oar at the end of the stroke, but so deftly is the motion made
that in the smaller boats it is practically invisible. The ease and
gracefulness with which the Siamese gondolas skim across the waters,
is in pleasing contrast to the ugly jerky motion of the boats that
serve the same purpose in the rivers and harbours of China, and
represents a degree of skill on the part of the oarsmen, probably
unattained by any other boatmen in the world. Long "dug-outs", mere
hollowed-out trunks of trees, sunk to the water's edge with a heavy
freight of rice, fruit or vegetables, are paddled along by two men,
one at each end. They squat on their haunches on flat projecting ends
whose superficial area is about eighteen square inches. In the early
morning, the priests paddle themselves from house to house in long
narrow canoes, with their alms-bowls deposited on the floor in front
of them, for when they put on the yellow robe, they do not put off
their aquatic attainments.
Moored in every available inch of space are the house-boats in which
thousands of the inhabitants spend the whole of their lives. They are
born in the boat, are reared aboard, and are only taken permanently
ashore when life is ended. Generally speaking, these house-boats are
wide in the beam, and possess a deck whose planks are removable in
order that cargo, clothes, and provisions may be stored underneath. In
the centre is the house, consisting of the deck for a floor, and an
elliptical plaited rattan shell for walls and roof. A small sliding
framework of light wood or matting projects from one end of the
house to the stern end of the boat, and bears a number of removable
curtain-like frames around the sides, so that the steersman is well
protected from wind and rain. In these boats a whole family may be
gathered together, from grandfather to grandchild. There is but little
room for exercise, and they sleep close together, side by side, like
sardines in a box, yet they always seem happy and contented. Every
home contains a small altar to Buddha, with a seated image of the
saint himself placed thereon. This they delight to decorate with
flowers and bundles of incense sticks placed in blue and white china
vases. The poorest always manage to spare a few coppers on festive
occasions to re-decorate and adorn their domestic idol. If there are
any Chinese on board, their presence is indicated by a number of red
prayer-papers bearing mystic symbols in black and gold, stuck here and
there upon the roof and walls of the cabin.
Rice is brought from many places inland, in a boat of very similar
appearance and construction, but in this case, there is practically
no room for anyone but the crew, as the central house-like portion
is filled to the roof with the valuable grain. Round the edge of the
boat, through its entire length on both sides, runs a projecting
ledge about a foot wide, along which the men walk when they find
it necessary to pole their way through shallow water. The external
appearance of the boat is materially improved by varnishing it with a
common native compound that gives to the wood a bright reddish-brown
hue. All such vessels are made in the country from woods found in the
native forests, for the people are as clever in building boats as they
are in propelling them. A great part of the amphibious population is
not resident in the capital. The people live in the country where
they till the fields that lie on the banks of the rivers or canals,
in those places where the jungle has been cleared. There they anchor
their homes until the time of harvest, when they gather in the fruits
of their labour and then proceed leisurely south. On arriving at
Bangkok, they dispose of their cargo, take a short holiday, visit
their friends, see the sights of the city, and finally return to
their fields, gardens, orchards again, taking with them quantities
of kerosine oil, cheap prints, matches, and many small articles of
domestic use.
The water population is complete in itself, and is perfectly
independent of its terrestrial neighbours in every way. It has not
only its own houses and shops, its water omnibuses and hansoms, but
even its floating restaurants and pedlars. The restaurant is contained
in a fairly small canoe, but it is surprising what a quantity of
cooking apparatus and what a varied assortment of food the _chef_
manages to carry. He passes from house to house, from boat to boat,
boiling and cooking as he goes, and easily disposes of his curries and
boiled rice.
[Illustration: "CAN I GIVE YOU A LIFT, REVEREND FATHERS?"]
The river has its own police, with duties corresponding to those of
their brethren ashore, but they wear, instead of a battered helmet,
a neat white or blue cap, on whose black ribbon is printed in gold
letters the words that describe their particular functions. Both
the water and the land policemen are called "polit", the word being
a modification of our own word "police" according to a rule of
pronunciation in the native language, according to which all final
consonants of the nature of 's' are pronounced as 't'.
There is a water market, but unlike the land market which remains open
all day, this one opens and closes before the sun has risen very high.
Scores of boats are massed together in one compact crowd. Each boat is
sunk to the gunwale with piles of fruit or fish. The occupants barter
and bargain with the same incessant deafening noise of shouting,
laughing, and swearing that is characteristic of all markets the world
over. The women wear flat-topped hats made of leaves, which slope
outwards from the crown, and are stuck on their heads by a circular
frame-work of cane placed inside. Boats pass in and out of the crowd
without accident or trouble, and though not an inch of water is to
be seen from the edge of the throng, the market gardeners, fishermen
and florists never lose any of their merchandise as they move in some
mysterious fashion from one spot to another.
Even if a boat were upset, nothing more serious than the loss of its
freight would be likely to occur. The owner would never be drowned.
He would simply turn his vessel over again, climb over the side, and
paddle off home. Yet many of these canoes are so light and small, and
float in such a condition of unstable equilibrium, that no European
could either get into one of them, or, if the boat were held until
he were seated, take a couple of strokes in one without falling
overboard. There is, however, only the remotest possibility of any
native being drowned as the result of being capsized, for the whole
nation may be described as a nation of swimmers. Whether in the water
or on the water they are in perfect safety. Little children, long
before they can walk, are thrown into the water by their mothers, who
fasten under their arms a tin float that always keeps the head above
water. The wee brown dots splash and splutter about in the lukewarm
current of the river, involuntarily learning the correct action of
the limbs in swimming, and gaining an acquaintance with this element
that ever afterwards prevents any feeling of fear. In this way many
children learn to swim almost as soon as, if not before, they can walk.
The boys early learn to paddle their own canoes, and they have
invented a number of water games that are possible only among children
educated in this fashion. Occasionally a party of them will get into
a long narrow boat, and crowd together until the water is just on the
point of entering. Then with a few gentle strokes with a paddle, they
urge it forward, the water flowing in with every stroke. As soon as
they feel it sinking beneath them, they roll out into the canal or
river, turn the canoe up again, slowly but deftly climb in one by one,
and then off once more to repeat the fun.
At certain seasons of the year boat races are held at the little
island at the mouth of the river, on which stands the temple
previously described. In these races no consideration is paid to
"fouls." The object of each crew is to reach the winning-post first,
and any crew is allowed to prevent its opponents attaining that
desirable end, by any means they care to employ. The consequence is
that the first part of the race resolves itself into a series of
"ramming" manoeuvres. There is a fierce struggle between the rival
crews who try to upset each other. The intensest excitement prevails
amongst the spectators as two boats near each other, and they watch
the manoeuvring with breathless interest until one of them is upset,
when cheers break out in encouragement of the winners, who strain
every nerve to reach the goal before their opponents can once more get
aboard their craft and so continue the contest. Women as well as men
take part in the sports, both sexes being equally skilful in any sport
or amusement of an aquatic nature.
Soon after sunset the river clears considerably, for these water-folk
rise and retire with the sun. They shut up the front of their houses,
and then lie down to sleep through the long hot night as peacefully
and securely in their floating cradles as any of those who live upon
land.