CHAPTERXXIII.FROM BANGKOK TO CHEUNG MAI.Asthe newly-arrived missionary for Laos stands in Bangkok and looks “up the river,” the five hundred miles that lie between him and Cheung Mai mean more to him perhaps than any of the same number he has traversed since leaving his native land. It means from sixty to ninety days’ travel in a rocking boat, and when accomplished puts him in one of the most isolated outposts of the Church.The boats for the journey, with a Laos crew are sent down from Cheung Mai, as they are constructed to meet the peculiarities of the upper Menam, its changing channels, its shallows and its rapids. The hull is of light draught, and in the larger boats is about thirty feet long and widens to the breadth of six or seven feet across the deck. At either end it rises from the water in a sharp, narrow curve, that of the stern being broadened and finished with an ornamentation which resembles a fish’s tail. This is the design, and poetical it may be, but in appearance it is clumsy and unsymmetrical in the general contour of the boat. The cabin at the stern, in dimensions about five by seven feet, is used as a sitting- and sleeping-room. The middle deck is appropriated to the storing away of goods, boxes, trunks, etc., and the bow is occupied by the boatmen, where they sit when rowing or walk when poling, and where they eat and sleep. The middle deck is covered over with bamboo wickerwork. It forms an arch, and is so low that one cannot stand up in it. The roof of the cabin is of the same material, but of finer braid, is separate from that of the middle deck, and about two feet higher, so that one can stand comfortably in the centre of it. The bow has an adjustable cover, which the boatmen slide on to the cover of the middle deck during the day and replace over the bow at night. The three sides of the cabin toward the river have the upper parts entirely open. Screens of bamboo matwork are fastened on the outside by strings of ratan, which answer the purpose of hinges. These “shutters” can be raised to any angle, and are propped outward by slender bamboo sticks. Being tied to the screen, they are always at hand.The crew consists of a captain and from six to eight boatmen. It is quite an imposing sight when the Laos king starts out with a fleet of forty or fifty of these boats, each taking place in line according to the rank of the passengers, the king’s boat at the head with the Siamese flag aloft, and gongs sounding the departure.Our missionary fleet seldom exceeds three boats, and is minus the flags and gongs, but instead has the waving of hats and handkerchiefs by the outward bound, which is answered by the watchers on the banks. “Bon voyage!” and “God speed you!” mingle with the farewells of the company on the receding boats until each is lost to the other’s sight.Let us suppose that you and I are of a company awaiting in Bangkok the coming of the Laos boats. For many days we have been making provision for our journey as well as enjoying the society of dear friends, when at last one evening the announcement is made, “The boats are here!” With one accord we rush to the river-bank in time to see them filing into place for mooring in front of the missionary compound. How topheavy they look, reminding us of old-fashioned stage-coaches! The dusky boatmen look at us with smiling faces as we greet them with “Subirú?” (“Are you well?”), and respond with a hearty “Subi? subi?” (“Well? well?”), returning the question to us. We next ask, “How many days since you left Cheung Mai?” Ten days, or fifteen, or twenty may be the reply, for you must understand it is easier to get from Cheung Mai to Bangkok than from here to Cheung Mai. How is that? Well, their quick trip indicates a good stage of water, and they have been able to shoot the rapids and to row most of the way in the smoother waters. In going up the poling in the upper river is slow work, and the boats have to be dragged by ropes over the rapids, which consumes both time and strength, for the boatmen have to rest after passing the most difficult (i. e.high and swift). We must also take into consideration the difference of going with the current and against it.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.In contrast with these rude domiciles we find in the vicinity of every town large and elaborately finished temples. Upon them the wealth and taste of the community are concentrated. They are built of brick and plastered with white cement, which gleams like marble through the heavy, dark foliage of the trees in the temple-grounds. Wood-carvings and gold-leaf and mosaics of colored glasses or isinglass wrought into many devices decorate the front entrance and doorway. Standing apart, they have a domain of their own. Their broad grounds are enclosed by a brick fence covered with white cement. In proximity to the temple are the numerous little houses of the priests, whom we can see, at all hours and in all places, marching about in dress of bright yellow and with bald, shaven heads.The shady seclusion of these grounds, with the images of Buddha sitting in darkness within the temple, and it being also the abode of the priesthood, make it a place of great sanctity and veneration to these superstitious people.The same uniformity presents itself in every hamlet and town in our route. Between these places miles and miles of solitary silence stretch away, until we could readily imagine that all of human kind had forsaken the earth, and that we, by some strange destiny, were left in this big “basket of bulrushes” to go on and on interminably. What wonder, then, that the sight of a town or a passing boat are pleasant interruptions on this monotonous highway?Reaching Nakawn Soowun (i. e.“City of Heaven”), a provincial capital ten days’ journey below Rahang, we find it situated at the junction of two branches of the river. Our route leads us into the left or north-west branch. Here the current is so swift that it becomes necessary to abandon the oars and resort to the long poles (iron-pronged at the end) to push the boat through the seething waters. All the dexterity and acuteness of the polesmen and pilot are put to the test now in keeping within the channel and to prevent our being cast upon a sandbar. The bed of the river is filled with masses of sand, which are in a state of perpetual change. Whirling and careering and finding no permanent lodgment, it is constantly displacing the channel, while we in our pursuit of it often miss it by a half space of the boat, one side of which is lying on a sand-drift, and at the other there may be the depth of twelve or fourteen feet of water. In pushing off, the current carries us down stream, and as we recover our distance again we think of the problem of the frog in the well, andourquestion is: If in one hour we gainthreemiles and loseone,whenshall we reach Rahang?However, as “perseverance conquers all things,” we make our way through this war of waters (passing several towns on our way) more or less difficult of navigation, until we reach Rahang, where we find the river divided into several channels by little islands. The banks are high and the situation is beautiful for a city, with its mountain-range and its two sentinel mountains, one east, the other west, of the town.Rahang marks the terminus of one-half our journey, and is the most northern of Siamese towns. By some it is reckoned as the most southern Laos town.Its officials are in general Siamese, although its population is mixed and is estimated at fifteen thousand. Here we see Laos, Siamese, Chinese, Burmese, Peguans, Karens, etc. At a glance you will see the importance of its occupation as a missionary centre. About two years ago Dr. McGilvary labored alone here for many months. He was kindly received and much encouraged in his work. As its fruit some were led to the Saviour, and a permanent mission-station is to be established here during the coming year.After two or three days’ sojourn, spent in making preparation for the last part of our journey, we set forth again, and now to enter the border of Laos.A few miles north of Rahang the river branches once more. We follow the north-west fork, called the Maping. The other branch (Mawang) leads to the province of Lakawn, where is one of our Laos churches. Although the country in this vicinity is comparatively level, yet the high banks and the views of distant mountain-ranges or hills diversify the scenery, which has not the dull monotony of the lower Menam—a pleasing change, and one that beguiles our time and attention as the boats are slowly making their way toward the rapids; and seven or eight days’ “poling” bring us to the entrance of the ravine at their foot.After weeks of voyaging on a broad river and through a flat country, with a wide horizon always encircling us, how anomalous to be confronted by this rocky pass, through which we must thread our way up forty rapids to the equally level territory of Laos beyond it! As we enter the gorge from the bright sunlight a sombre shade closes over us, even “the shadow of a great rock in aweary land.” Wild and grand beyond description are these cañons and falls of the Maping River, and far exceeding any portrayal are the lofty, majestic mountains through which the river cuts its way.No scientific survey has ever been made of the incline of the river, neither accurate measurement of the height of its mountains. Missionaries have approximated the altitude of some of the cliffs that border the river at from eight hundred to fifteen hundred feet. The geology and flora of this region remain unclassified. In silent beauty they await the coming of one who may some day unlock their secrets.It occupies from one to two weeks in getting through the rapids. Some are so difficult of ascent as to require many hours for its accomplishment, while others can be gotten over in less than half an hour. By means of ropes and pulleys the men, with the “Heave-O” cry that is heard the world over, pull and push the boat upward through the gushing waters to the top of the fall, where we glide on in smoother ease—several miles, it may be—until a warning roar in the distance announces the approach to another rapid.The river is very winding in its course and variable in breadth—narrow here, where perpendicular walls of granite rise sheer out of the water to prodigious heights, shutting us in with heavy shadows and deep solitude; wider there, where the rocks recede and stand apart, leaving valleys between, where many a boulder, large and small, in “rank confusion” lies, and where at the river’s edge are spaces of white sandy beach. Here, where we halt for the night, a spacious ampitheatre encloses us apart from all of earth. Encompassed by the “everlasting hills” and under the silent stars, we sing our evening song of praise and worship “Him who is from everlasting to everlasting.”When the morning sunlight sends us on our way again, fresh revelations of beauty meet our wondering eyes—cliffs whose precipitous sides have been under the frescoing pencil of the sun and rain for a thousand years; castellated rocks with great columns of stalactites pendent on the gray walls; caves, crags and ravines with crystal cascades singing their solemn tune in lonely places. Nor is there destitution of vegetable life. In beautiful relief we find the rich green so peculiar to the tropics spread everywhere amongst this rugged scenery—trees, bushes, flowers, vines, ferns and mosses.At the head of the rapids, and soon after passing out of the mountains, we get our first sight of a Laos village; and cheerful it is to come again amongst the habitations of men. During our two weeks’ transit from this point to Cheung Mai we find a country having the same general features as that below the falls, with the exception of higher banks along the river; but here we have another type of people, entirely different in dress andaddressfrom those of the lower Menam. In common with the Siamese, they adhere to the Buddhist faith, adding also spirit-worship. They have the same habit of betel-chewing and the same forms of superstition, yet are a distinct race in customs and modes peculiar to themselves.Many sights of exclusively new character are continuously meeting us too. The first that strikes the attention is the Laos system of waterwheels, used for the irrigation of rice-fields and gardens. They are made of bamboo, and are about twenty feet in diameter, and so adjusted as to be turned by the current of the river, their rims being furnished with small bamboo troughs which dip up the water as the wheel turns down, and is emptied as the wheel turns up into a large trough on the bank, and thence conveyed away by bamboo gutters. We see these wheels at every turn (right and left side) of the river, yet never lose interest in the rude machinery nor in the constant dipping and emptying process.Still proceeding northward, we come amongst the cucumber-gardens which are planted on the broad sandbars. The Laos women, taking advantage of the low water at this season, occupy in free possession every available spot. The morning and evening they give to the cultivation of these sandy gardens, in which they raise cucumbers, beans and sweet potatoes. A fascinating sight it is to see these islands of “living green” scattered up and down the bed of the river.But what a spectacle we have in the long lines of little cows and oxen, each laden with baskets of rice which they are carrying from the harvest-fields! Two long baskets, holding perhaps a bushel, are joined by a yoke which rests on the animal’s back, while the baskets hang at its sides in the fashion of saddle-bags. In one train we may see twenty, forty or one hundred, and they walk single file. The leader has great preeminence in having its face masked with an embroidery of shellwork, while over its head stream the gay feathers of the peacock, and a string of bells (resembling sleigh-bells) is hung around its neck. Many of the others also have bells, and what a merry sound they make as they pass along on the banks above us! This is the only way the Laos utilize the cow, for they abhor milk and butter.At Rahang we saw elephants in limited numbers, but here we see them in scores. This is literally true in the case of a prince’s retinue, when we see from forty to sixty or more in one procession. They are in universal use as beasts of burden.See those large buffaloes that stand at the edge of the water! They have short and thin hair—in some pinkish in color, in others gray. To cool themselves and to escape the biting insects they walk into the river and lie down, and are so completely submerged that not a spot of them is visible but the nose. Sometimes we see them standing in the water and birds hopping along their backs or perching between the huge horns. The buffalo manifests no annoyance, and the birds have it all their own way. They are old and familiar friends. These buffaloes are used in ploughing, and they also tread out the rice.As it is now toward the close of the dry season, we frequently meet men and women fording the river, who in passing near our boat give the salutation ofPi n’i tua?—i. e.“Going where? coming from where?” It is a customary greeting, and carries no impertinence in it. We have answered this question from prince and peasant many a time during our journey, and it is rather a suggestive one, as in our reply we addwhywe come.And here, walking about in the river, are the fishermen, busy by night and by day in their eager pursuits. At any hour of the night when we awaken we see their torchlights flashing hither and thither up and down the river.So onward we go, seeing strange new sights and customs, passing village after village, exchanging greetings with the people; then through long miles of loneliness, where we are hedged in by trees and thickets of perennial green; yet with prow ever to the north (Cheung Mai the lodestone) we are steadily and surely nearing our goal.And now, as we round this bend, the plain of Cheung Mai and the grand old mountains in the north-west come into full view. (The walled city, a mile distant to the westward, is not in the line of vision.)As we move slowly up the river we see on the left bank an old temple overshadowed by old trees heavy with foliage. On the bank stand a number of Buddhist priests dressed in their yellow robes, who have come out of their little houses near the temple to look at the passing boats. The plain on both sides of the river and to the very banks abound in bamboo trees, as well as palm, cocoanut and an occasional banyan tree, which makes a large circumference of shade. In amongst the trees toward the river are the low bamboo huts of the natives, with here and there a more pretentious house built of teak-wood and roofed with tiles; a bridge spans the river. Just beyond the bridge (north) and on the west side we catch a view of Dr. Cheek’s compound, and below it on the east side are the mission premises. Ah! how long we are in going over that last half mile!Getting nearer, we see the waiting company on the bank and can feel the welcome that is all about us. Drawing up to the steps at the landing, how gladly we leave the boats to meet the cordial reception of the missionaries and native friends who stand with outstretched hands to receive us! Then, entering our new home, it is with thanksgiving and joy that the Master has appointed our service for him amongst the Laos.
Asthe newly-arrived missionary for Laos stands in Bangkok and looks “up the river,” the five hundred miles that lie between him and Cheung Mai mean more to him perhaps than any of the same number he has traversed since leaving his native land. It means from sixty to ninety days’ travel in a rocking boat, and when accomplished puts him in one of the most isolated outposts of the Church.
The boats for the journey, with a Laos crew are sent down from Cheung Mai, as they are constructed to meet the peculiarities of the upper Menam, its changing channels, its shallows and its rapids. The hull is of light draught, and in the larger boats is about thirty feet long and widens to the breadth of six or seven feet across the deck. At either end it rises from the water in a sharp, narrow curve, that of the stern being broadened and finished with an ornamentation which resembles a fish’s tail. This is the design, and poetical it may be, but in appearance it is clumsy and unsymmetrical in the general contour of the boat. The cabin at the stern, in dimensions about five by seven feet, is used as a sitting- and sleeping-room. The middle deck is appropriated to the storing away of goods, boxes, trunks, etc., and the bow is occupied by the boatmen, where they sit when rowing or walk when poling, and where they eat and sleep. The middle deck is covered over with bamboo wickerwork. It forms an arch, and is so low that one cannot stand up in it. The roof of the cabin is of the same material, but of finer braid, is separate from that of the middle deck, and about two feet higher, so that one can stand comfortably in the centre of it. The bow has an adjustable cover, which the boatmen slide on to the cover of the middle deck during the day and replace over the bow at night. The three sides of the cabin toward the river have the upper parts entirely open. Screens of bamboo matwork are fastened on the outside by strings of ratan, which answer the purpose of hinges. These “shutters” can be raised to any angle, and are propped outward by slender bamboo sticks. Being tied to the screen, they are always at hand.
The crew consists of a captain and from six to eight boatmen. It is quite an imposing sight when the Laos king starts out with a fleet of forty or fifty of these boats, each taking place in line according to the rank of the passengers, the king’s boat at the head with the Siamese flag aloft, and gongs sounding the departure.
Our missionary fleet seldom exceeds three boats, and is minus the flags and gongs, but instead has the waving of hats and handkerchiefs by the outward bound, which is answered by the watchers on the banks. “Bon voyage!” and “God speed you!” mingle with the farewells of the company on the receding boats until each is lost to the other’s sight.
Let us suppose that you and I are of a company awaiting in Bangkok the coming of the Laos boats. For many days we have been making provision for our journey as well as enjoying the society of dear friends, when at last one evening the announcement is made, “The boats are here!” With one accord we rush to the river-bank in time to see them filing into place for mooring in front of the missionary compound. How topheavy they look, reminding us of old-fashioned stage-coaches! The dusky boatmen look at us with smiling faces as we greet them with “Subirú?” (“Are you well?”), and respond with a hearty “Subi? subi?” (“Well? well?”), returning the question to us. We next ask, “How many days since you left Cheung Mai?” Ten days, or fifteen, or twenty may be the reply, for you must understand it is easier to get from Cheung Mai to Bangkok than from here to Cheung Mai. How is that? Well, their quick trip indicates a good stage of water, and they have been able to shoot the rapids and to row most of the way in the smoother waters. In going up the poling in the upper river is slow work, and the boats have to be dragged by ropes over the rapids, which consumes both time and strength, for the boatmen have to rest after passing the most difficult (i. e.high and swift). We must also take into consideration the difference of going with the current and against it.
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.
In contrast with these rude domiciles we find in the vicinity of every town large and elaborately finished temples. Upon them the wealth and taste of the community are concentrated. They are built of brick and plastered with white cement, which gleams like marble through the heavy, dark foliage of the trees in the temple-grounds. Wood-carvings and gold-leaf and mosaics of colored glasses or isinglass wrought into many devices decorate the front entrance and doorway. Standing apart, they have a domain of their own. Their broad grounds are enclosed by a brick fence covered with white cement. In proximity to the temple are the numerous little houses of the priests, whom we can see, at all hours and in all places, marching about in dress of bright yellow and with bald, shaven heads.
The shady seclusion of these grounds, with the images of Buddha sitting in darkness within the temple, and it being also the abode of the priesthood, make it a place of great sanctity and veneration to these superstitious people.
The same uniformity presents itself in every hamlet and town in our route. Between these places miles and miles of solitary silence stretch away, until we could readily imagine that all of human kind had forsaken the earth, and that we, by some strange destiny, were left in this big “basket of bulrushes” to go on and on interminably. What wonder, then, that the sight of a town or a passing boat are pleasant interruptions on this monotonous highway?
Reaching Nakawn Soowun (i. e.“City of Heaven”), a provincial capital ten days’ journey below Rahang, we find it situated at the junction of two branches of the river. Our route leads us into the left or north-west branch. Here the current is so swift that it becomes necessary to abandon the oars and resort to the long poles (iron-pronged at the end) to push the boat through the seething waters. All the dexterity and acuteness of the polesmen and pilot are put to the test now in keeping within the channel and to prevent our being cast upon a sandbar. The bed of the river is filled with masses of sand, which are in a state of perpetual change. Whirling and careering and finding no permanent lodgment, it is constantly displacing the channel, while we in our pursuit of it often miss it by a half space of the boat, one side of which is lying on a sand-drift, and at the other there may be the depth of twelve or fourteen feet of water. In pushing off, the current carries us down stream, and as we recover our distance again we think of the problem of the frog in the well, andourquestion is: If in one hour we gainthreemiles and loseone,whenshall we reach Rahang?
However, as “perseverance conquers all things,” we make our way through this war of waters (passing several towns on our way) more or less difficult of navigation, until we reach Rahang, where we find the river divided into several channels by little islands. The banks are high and the situation is beautiful for a city, with its mountain-range and its two sentinel mountains, one east, the other west, of the town.
Rahang marks the terminus of one-half our journey, and is the most northern of Siamese towns. By some it is reckoned as the most southern Laos town.
Its officials are in general Siamese, although its population is mixed and is estimated at fifteen thousand. Here we see Laos, Siamese, Chinese, Burmese, Peguans, Karens, etc. At a glance you will see the importance of its occupation as a missionary centre. About two years ago Dr. McGilvary labored alone here for many months. He was kindly received and much encouraged in his work. As its fruit some were led to the Saviour, and a permanent mission-station is to be established here during the coming year.
After two or three days’ sojourn, spent in making preparation for the last part of our journey, we set forth again, and now to enter the border of Laos.
A few miles north of Rahang the river branches once more. We follow the north-west fork, called the Maping. The other branch (Mawang) leads to the province of Lakawn, where is one of our Laos churches. Although the country in this vicinity is comparatively level, yet the high banks and the views of distant mountain-ranges or hills diversify the scenery, which has not the dull monotony of the lower Menam—a pleasing change, and one that beguiles our time and attention as the boats are slowly making their way toward the rapids; and seven or eight days’ “poling” bring us to the entrance of the ravine at their foot.
After weeks of voyaging on a broad river and through a flat country, with a wide horizon always encircling us, how anomalous to be confronted by this rocky pass, through which we must thread our way up forty rapids to the equally level territory of Laos beyond it! As we enter the gorge from the bright sunlight a sombre shade closes over us, even “the shadow of a great rock in aweary land.” Wild and grand beyond description are these cañons and falls of the Maping River, and far exceeding any portrayal are the lofty, majestic mountains through which the river cuts its way.
No scientific survey has ever been made of the incline of the river, neither accurate measurement of the height of its mountains. Missionaries have approximated the altitude of some of the cliffs that border the river at from eight hundred to fifteen hundred feet. The geology and flora of this region remain unclassified. In silent beauty they await the coming of one who may some day unlock their secrets.
It occupies from one to two weeks in getting through the rapids. Some are so difficult of ascent as to require many hours for its accomplishment, while others can be gotten over in less than half an hour. By means of ropes and pulleys the men, with the “Heave-O” cry that is heard the world over, pull and push the boat upward through the gushing waters to the top of the fall, where we glide on in smoother ease—several miles, it may be—until a warning roar in the distance announces the approach to another rapid.
The river is very winding in its course and variable in breadth—narrow here, where perpendicular walls of granite rise sheer out of the water to prodigious heights, shutting us in with heavy shadows and deep solitude; wider there, where the rocks recede and stand apart, leaving valleys between, where many a boulder, large and small, in “rank confusion” lies, and where at the river’s edge are spaces of white sandy beach. Here, where we halt for the night, a spacious ampitheatre encloses us apart from all of earth. Encompassed by the “everlasting hills” and under the silent stars, we sing our evening song of praise and worship “Him who is from everlasting to everlasting.”
When the morning sunlight sends us on our way again, fresh revelations of beauty meet our wondering eyes—cliffs whose precipitous sides have been under the frescoing pencil of the sun and rain for a thousand years; castellated rocks with great columns of stalactites pendent on the gray walls; caves, crags and ravines with crystal cascades singing their solemn tune in lonely places. Nor is there destitution of vegetable life. In beautiful relief we find the rich green so peculiar to the tropics spread everywhere amongst this rugged scenery—trees, bushes, flowers, vines, ferns and mosses.
At the head of the rapids, and soon after passing out of the mountains, we get our first sight of a Laos village; and cheerful it is to come again amongst the habitations of men. During our two weeks’ transit from this point to Cheung Mai we find a country having the same general features as that below the falls, with the exception of higher banks along the river; but here we have another type of people, entirely different in dress andaddressfrom those of the lower Menam. In common with the Siamese, they adhere to the Buddhist faith, adding also spirit-worship. They have the same habit of betel-chewing and the same forms of superstition, yet are a distinct race in customs and modes peculiar to themselves.
Many sights of exclusively new character are continuously meeting us too. The first that strikes the attention is the Laos system of waterwheels, used for the irrigation of rice-fields and gardens. They are made of bamboo, and are about twenty feet in diameter, and so adjusted as to be turned by the current of the river, their rims being furnished with small bamboo troughs which dip up the water as the wheel turns down, and is emptied as the wheel turns up into a large trough on the bank, and thence conveyed away by bamboo gutters. We see these wheels at every turn (right and left side) of the river, yet never lose interest in the rude machinery nor in the constant dipping and emptying process.
Still proceeding northward, we come amongst the cucumber-gardens which are planted on the broad sandbars. The Laos women, taking advantage of the low water at this season, occupy in free possession every available spot. The morning and evening they give to the cultivation of these sandy gardens, in which they raise cucumbers, beans and sweet potatoes. A fascinating sight it is to see these islands of “living green” scattered up and down the bed of the river.
But what a spectacle we have in the long lines of little cows and oxen, each laden with baskets of rice which they are carrying from the harvest-fields! Two long baskets, holding perhaps a bushel, are joined by a yoke which rests on the animal’s back, while the baskets hang at its sides in the fashion of saddle-bags. In one train we may see twenty, forty or one hundred, and they walk single file. The leader has great preeminence in having its face masked with an embroidery of shellwork, while over its head stream the gay feathers of the peacock, and a string of bells (resembling sleigh-bells) is hung around its neck. Many of the others also have bells, and what a merry sound they make as they pass along on the banks above us! This is the only way the Laos utilize the cow, for they abhor milk and butter.
At Rahang we saw elephants in limited numbers, but here we see them in scores. This is literally true in the case of a prince’s retinue, when we see from forty to sixty or more in one procession. They are in universal use as beasts of burden.
See those large buffaloes that stand at the edge of the water! They have short and thin hair—in some pinkish in color, in others gray. To cool themselves and to escape the biting insects they walk into the river and lie down, and are so completely submerged that not a spot of them is visible but the nose. Sometimes we see them standing in the water and birds hopping along their backs or perching between the huge horns. The buffalo manifests no annoyance, and the birds have it all their own way. They are old and familiar friends. These buffaloes are used in ploughing, and they also tread out the rice.
As it is now toward the close of the dry season, we frequently meet men and women fording the river, who in passing near our boat give the salutation ofPi n’i tua?—i. e.“Going where? coming from where?” It is a customary greeting, and carries no impertinence in it. We have answered this question from prince and peasant many a time during our journey, and it is rather a suggestive one, as in our reply we addwhywe come.
And here, walking about in the river, are the fishermen, busy by night and by day in their eager pursuits. At any hour of the night when we awaken we see their torchlights flashing hither and thither up and down the river.
So onward we go, seeing strange new sights and customs, passing village after village, exchanging greetings with the people; then through long miles of loneliness, where we are hedged in by trees and thickets of perennial green; yet with prow ever to the north (Cheung Mai the lodestone) we are steadily and surely nearing our goal.
And now, as we round this bend, the plain of Cheung Mai and the grand old mountains in the north-west come into full view. (The walled city, a mile distant to the westward, is not in the line of vision.)
As we move slowly up the river we see on the left bank an old temple overshadowed by old trees heavy with foliage. On the bank stand a number of Buddhist priests dressed in their yellow robes, who have come out of their little houses near the temple to look at the passing boats. The plain on both sides of the river and to the very banks abound in bamboo trees, as well as palm, cocoanut and an occasional banyan tree, which makes a large circumference of shade. In amongst the trees toward the river are the low bamboo huts of the natives, with here and there a more pretentious house built of teak-wood and roofed with tiles; a bridge spans the river. Just beyond the bridge (north) and on the west side we catch a view of Dr. Cheek’s compound, and below it on the east side are the mission premises. Ah! how long we are in going over that last half mile!
Getting nearer, we see the waiting company on the bank and can feel the welcome that is all about us. Drawing up to the steps at the landing, how gladly we leave the boats to meet the cordial reception of the missionaries and native friends who stand with outstretched hands to receive us! Then, entering our new home, it is with thanksgiving and joy that the Master has appointed our service for him amongst the Laos.