When the sun had begun to set and the latest storm had ceased, we left the camp and Burma behind. The river that marked the boundary between the two countries was not very wide and only waist-deep. We waded across it easily, and climbed the sandy eastern bank—in Siam at last.
We knew that the first village was no great distance off, so we strolled easily on through the jungle, pausing to rest in shady thickets so often that the native soldier left us and went on alone. Two hours later we met him on his homeward journey. He paused to tell us by signs that he had delivered his message and that the village was waiting to receive us.
A freight carrier crossing the stream that separates Burma from Siam.
The day was not yet done when we came in sight of the first clearing in Siam. We were met at the edge of the jungle by a Siamese with ape-like countenance, who led us to the hut of the village head man.
Picture to yourself a very fat, important-looking brown man, with a face like an Alaskan totem-pole and the general appearance of a wild man in a circus, a skin the color of a door-mat that has been in use for many years, dressed in a castoff dish-cloth, and you have an exact image of the ruler of this Siamese village. He received us in a misshapen bamboo shack, sitting with folded legs on a grass mat in the middle of the floor. Around the walls squatted several of his chief men, dressed like himself. Through the network partition that separated the city hall from the family chamber peered a leathery-skinned woman and a troop of dusky children.
If we had waited for an invitation to be seated we might have remained standing all night. These Siamese did not appear at all friendly toward us. We made ourselves comfortable on the floor, with our backs to the wall. For more than an hour the head man and his advisers sat motionless, staring fixedly at us, and mumbling in a low tone without once turning their heads toward those to whom they were speaking.
The sun sank into the jungle, and swift darkness fell. The leathery-skinned woman drifted into the room and set on the floor an oil torch that gave a dim, flickering light. I had learned a few Siamese words from the babu of Thenganyenam. When the talking ceased for a moment, I put these words in use by calling for food. The head man growled, and the woman floated in once more and placed at our feet a small wash-tub of boiled rice.
But I was tired of eating rice. I dragged out my note-book and again ran my eyes down the list of Siamese words. I had failed to write down the words for chicken or curry. The only word that appeared to be of any value at the time was “sugar.” Sugar would make my rice less tasteless. I shouted the word at the head man. He stared open-mouthed until I had repeated it several times.
“Sugar?” he echoed, showing great astonishment.