Our guide was the most silent of creatures. Never once during the day did a sound escape him. Where the path widened a bit, he raised his umbrella and trotted steadily forward. Even swollen streams did not stop him—he hardly seemed to notice them. With never a pause, he splashed through the first as if there were nothing in his way, and galloped carelessly on along the branch-choked path. We hallooed to him as we sat down to pull off our shoes. If we let him get out of our sight we should be hopelessly lost in the jungle. He halted a moment, but set off again before we had waded ashore. We shouted once more, and he turned to stare open-mouthed while we put on our shoes. He could not understand why we strange creatures should wear garments on our feet, or why we should stop to put them on when there were other streams to wade through. When we had overtaken him, he made signs to show us that we should do better to toss aside the foolish leather things that made it necessary for us to stop so often. He could not understand that a mile over sharp stones and jagged roots would have left us crippled.
As we neared the mountains we came across stream after stream, rushing past with increased swiftness. By the time we had waded through thirty-six of these we grew tired of halting every hundred yards to pull off our shoes and shout after the boh, who always forgot to wait for us.
When we reached the next stream, James tried crossing it on a few stepping-stones without removing his shoes. But he slipped, lost his balance, and sprawled headlong into the water. I followed more carefully, and reached the other bank without falling. After that we waded through streams that for the most part were over knee-deep, and marched on with the water gushing from our shoe-tops. It mattered little in the end, for a sudden storm burst upon us.
He who has never bowed his back to a tropical storm at the height of the rainy season cannot know how violent they are. With a roar like the explosion of a powder-mill, a furious clap of thunder broke above us; then another and another, in quick deafening blasts. Flaming flashes of lightning continuously chased each other across the heavens, blinding us with their sudden glare. We half expected to see the mass of plant life about us burst into flame.
In the falling sheets of water we plunged on; the biggest trees could not have sheltered us from it. The boh had raised his umbrella. It kept the storm from pounding him, but could not save him a drenching. What cared he, dressed only in a cloth the size of a handkerchief? The water ran in little rivers down his naked shoulders and along the hollows between his outstanding ribs. Between the crashes of thunder the thud, thud of the storm drowned all other sounds. Only by speaking into my companion’s ear as into a trumpet, and shouting at the top of my lungs, could I make him hear me.
The storm died down slowly at first, then suddenly, and all seemed quiet except our voices, which continued to be shrill and loud. Quickly the sun burst forth again, to blaze fiercely upon us—though not for long. All that day the storms broke upon us one after another so rapidly that we had no idea of their number. More often than not, they caught us climbing a wall-like mountainside by a narrow, clay-bottomed path down which an ever-increasing brook poured, washing us off our feet while we clutched at overhanging bushes.
The boh led us on by zigzag routes over two mountain ranges before the day was done. At sunset we were climbing down into another valley, when we came suddenly upon a tiny clearing in the jungle, and a tinier village. “Thenganyenam,” the natives called it. There were four bamboo huts and a dak bungalow, housing thirty-one “wild men” and one tame one. It was easy to see how many there were, for the natives poured forth from their hovels to meet us before we had crossed five yards of the clearing.
At their head trotted the tamed human being. Among all the shrieking, staring band of men, women, and children, there was no other that wore clothing. He was a babu, the “manager” of the public rest house. With a low bow, he offered us welcome, turned to wave back the gazing crowd, and led the way to the dak 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 rest 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, pronouncing his words very carefully, “the government have made 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 feet. The two rupees you must not pay. If you can give some little to the cook, that he make you a supper—”