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?