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?”