By the time we have finished this little talk the boats have been tied to their moorings and the boatmen are sitting in squat-fashion on the decks, resting before their preparations for supper and for the night. As we bid them “Good-evening” our thoughts are busy with the morrow, when we shall begin to arrange our boats for the trip northward. At dawn we are awake, and find the atmosphere cool even to chilliness, as it always is in the winter months. The thermometer, we find, stands at 60° (at Cheung Mai at this season it is often as low as 54°). The cool season is best suited to traveling in boats, and it is important that we get off at its beginning. In the hot season, March and April, the journey will be intolerable, and the river being then very low, it would be impossible to get the larger boats through the shallow water. In the rainy season, from May till October, you can imagine what it would be to live in a close boat with a daily visitation of rain, besides the risk to health from constant dampness and exposure to malaria, which is rifest at that season. The best time for the journey is the cool season, when the skies are without a cloud—from the middle of November till February—and the air is cool and pure. The weather then is like October in our Middle States, warm throughout the day with cool nights and mornings. You will then need the blankets and quilts provided by the dear home friends, and your warm wraps and shawls will be in use most of the way.
As our goods and provisions are transferred to the boats, we proceed to their arrangement in the narrow spaces allotted. You will not think our appointments very luxurious, yet we can make our cabin neat and home-like by hanging curtains at the windows, and our mattresses, which are laid in a corner on the floor, we can fold together and cover with a chintz spread, thus economizing space and improvising a sofa. On the shelf above we shall place a few books, toilet articles and flowers and ferns as we can get them. A grass mat upon the floor and two or three camp-chairs, and the arrangements are complete, the goods in mid-deck being tidily and compactly settled, with trunks and boxes left accessible and all the articles for “below decks” being nicely stored.
The cheery “All ready!” is given, and we launch out into the river. The exit is very quiet. As our crafts are pulled out to mid-stream the splash of the long oars as they fall and rise is the only signal of our outgoing. We select the time of departure at “flood-tide,” when the waters from the Gulf of Siam come up to start us on our way. But in a few hours we are beyond this tidal wave—yes, and far beyond the dear friends we left standing on the bank of the river. Bangkok is left in the distance, with its missionary homes and chapels, its palaces, huts and great temples, its shipping, steamers and market-boats, its bazaars and merchant-houses and its thronging, restless population.
The river at this stage of our journey is wide and even with its banks, while the heavy volume of water is rippling and turbid. As we pass the suburbs and get farther into the country the signs of human life begin to disappear. Mile after mile we pass between the low green banks in uninhabited seclusion and surrounded on all sides by luxuriant and gorgeous vegetation—forest trees and bushes of undergrowth in countless varieties, and conspicuous among them the bamboo, cocoanut and palm. Every bend brings a repetition of the same scene, without the sight of a house or road or farm, until we reach one of the many villages that are scattered at distances all the way to Rahang, our halfway station.
And now what of boat-life and our Laos crew? The captain, with the rudder-handle and his stool, occupies one entire side of our cabin. The tiller, entering aft of the cabin between the floor and wall, passes over its whole length to the fore side, where it reaches the hand of the pilot as he sits on a high stool. This arrangement trammels our movements on that side, as of necessity we must keep out of the way. The man himself, with the characteristics of his race, is polite, simple-hearted and unobtrusive. The men at the bow who, with strong arms are propelling the boat, soon win our esteem by their patient faithfulness. The happier it will be, however, if some of our native Christians are of the company. Yet even the untaught Laos have a kindness of nature and a desire to please and oblige which, with their quiet, gentle ways, gain our interest and respect. To find the noble qualities of friendliness, kindness and gratitude amongst a people so morally degraded may seem contradictory, but it remains a fact.
The leisure hours in the boat we occupy in the study of the language, Bible-reading, etc. As meal-time approaches we are on the lookout for a pleasant, shady stopping-place, and as soon as the boat reaches shore we are out, and at once begin culinary operations. The boatmen gather driftwood, which is abundant along the banks, and soon have two fires lighted. We detail one or two men to assist us, while the others prepare their own food, which has been selected and laid away, as ours has been, in Bangkok before starting. The Laos men are more or less accustomed to assist in cooking when at home, and this training is a great convenience to themselves and to us in this long river-journey.
If our methods of preparing a meal are different, a much sharper contrast is drawn as we sit down in two companies on the river-shore to eat our food. The Laos squat around their baskets of boiled or steamed rice and bowls of peppery curry made of chicken or fish. This, with bowls of vegetables and fruit lying around loose, is laid on the bare sand or deck as the case may be. No knives or forks are used, but we may see wooden spoons, with which they dip up the savory vegetable curry from the general dish, throwing back their heads as they put it into their mouths. In fact, they eat most of their food in this manner.
Supper is the only meal we can take leisurely, as we do not prepare it till landed for the night. At breakfast and dinner we consume but little over an hour in preparing and eating. By management we can have breakfast and dinner under preparation when the boat stops, so as to make as little delay as possible. All having eaten and the dishes being washed and laid away, we resume our course.
As we pass the different towns and villages we stop as necessity requires to replenish our larder in the line of rice, vegetables, fruit, fish or chickens. Flour, coffee, tea, sugar, etc. we provided in Bangkok for the whole trip. The flour comes from America. When we bake bread it is always in the evening. We got leaven from the friends in Bangkok, and hold it in safe-keeping, lest we run short midway in our journey. When the boat stops for the night we have our loaves already risen in the pans, and our first care is a fire for its immediate baking.
The houses in these towns are scattered without regularity of streets or squares. Slight bamboo fences mark the boundaries of each house and garden. The enclosed space may be large, as in case of a nobleman’s residence, or very small or maybe none at all in that of a poor peasant. The houses are built of bamboo, and are raised on posts. The roofs are covered with attap (a broad-leaved grass resembling blades of corn). Costlier and larger houses are made of teak-wood, raised also on posts and the roofs covered with tiles. Not a brick house or a chimney is to be seen anywhere. At a distance the appearance of a town is strongly suggestive of barns and haystacks.