# Peeps at Many Lands: Siam/Chapter 2

Bangkok, the present capital of Siam, has been called "the Venice of the East," on account of its innumerable waterways. The whole place is threaded with canals of every possible size and description. There are canals that are like great broad thoroughfares, where huge boats may be seen carrying to and fro rice, fruit, and other products of the fields and orchards; and tiny little water-lanes, where the broad fronds of the graceful coco-nut palm sweep down over the sluggish stream, where green parrots scream at you from amongst green branches, and ugly dark crocodiles lie asleep in the thick and sticky mud.
Along the sides of the "streets" there are long lines of floating houses in which the people live. Each house floats on a big raft, made of separate bundles of bamboo. Thus, when the floating foundation begins to rot, the bundles can be replaced one by one without disturbing the people on the raft. The raft is loosely moored to big wooden stakes, which are driven deep in the bed of the river, so that the houses rise and fall with the tide. In front of the house there is always a little platform or veranda, on which the people pass most of their time, and where, if they pretend to keep a shop, they display the goods which they wish to sell. It is on this platform that all the members of the ​family take their bath. They dip a bucket or can into the water, draw it up, and then pour the contents over their heads.
When the occupant of one of these floating dwellings wishes to move, he sends for no furniture van or cart; but he simply shifts his house, his furniture, and his family all at the same time. If he be fairly well-to-do, he hires a steam-launch, and the little vessel goes puffing and screaming up or down the river or the canal, as the case may be, dragging behind it the miniature Noah's ark, while on the platform the little ones of the household are to be seen, bubbling over with merriment at the novelty of their experience. If the owner of the house be too poor to hire a steam-launch, he calls to his aid a number of muscular friends and relatives, and then, with the aid of great shovel-shaped paddles, they coax the home away to its new locality.
Some of the people who live on the water do not inhabit floating houses, but boats, and in these they can travel about from time to time as fancy or business may direct. Many people spend the whole of their lives on boats. They are born on a boat, reared on a boat, get their education neglected on a boat, go a courting on a boat, get married on a boat, and never forsake the water till life is over and they set out on that long mysterious journey, from which no boat or carriage will ever bring them back. There is not much room in a boat, but the inhabitants thereof seem perfectly contented with their lot; in fact, the Siamese seem to be always and everywhere perfectly ​happy and contented: they are one of the merriest and most cheerful people upon the face of the earth.
The water population is quite complete in itself, and does not depend upon those who dwell upon the land for any assistance whatever. There are not only floating houses, but floating restaurants, floating theatres, and even floating jails. The water population has its own market-place upon the broad bosom of the great river that sweeps through the centre of the capital. In the market the buyers and sellers are chiefly women, for the women are much cleverer and much more energetic than men. The market begins soon after midnight, and lasts till seven or eight in the morning. During the dark hours of the night the boats are massed together in such a way that scarcely an inch of water can be seen. They are laden with fish, eggs, rice, and fruit. Each boat has a little lamp at the prow, and in the soft yellow light that twinkles above the polished surface of the stream, you can catch glimpses of the black-haired, dark-skinned women busy with the vending of their merchandise, and all the time laughing and chattering with the glee of a carefree people. They are just like a party of merry children out on a big picnic. As soon as the sun rises, off home they go, leaving a broad and empty expanse of river where formerly there was a dense crowd of little boats and busy women.
It very seldom happens that anyone falls overboard; and even if a person does fall into the water it matters but little, for there is no Siamese who cannot swim. ​When the children are ever so tiny, their mothers fasten under their arms a big tin float. Then they throw the babies—for they are nothing more—into the warm waters of the canal or river, where they bob up and down like so many animated bits of brown cork upon the surface of the stream.
There are, of course, many people who, in the capital especially, live upon land, and of their houses we shall say something in a later chapter. The land part of the capital, except for the palace and the temples, is not very interesting. The new brick houses and streets are very ugly, and the old wooden houses and streets are very smelly.
Some years ago there was an old horse-tram that used to run from the palace to the place where the steamers are moored. But one day some European engineers changed all that: they put up electric wires, and ran electric trams. The natives were more than a little astonished. They could see a car running along the road, and yet there was neither horse nor man pushing or pulling. It completely passed their understanding to make out how the tramcar managed to get along. At last they came to the conclusion that it must be propelled by spirits. So they knelt down on the ground, and prayed to the spirit in the wheels of the car as they went swiftly and smoothly round. But not many of them ventured to get inside. One evening the King and Queen came out of the palace, and went for a ride in the new tram. And what the King had honoured was good enough for his subjects. To-day the cars carry thousands of people in many ​directions, for tram-lines have been laid through all the principal streets of the capital.
There are no native vehicles in the streets. Outside the capital there are no roads, and the people travel everywhere by water. When roads were first made in Bangkok, and carriages were wanted, the Siamese got their vehicles from other countries. From Japan they got the rickshaw, a kind of big mailcart, with a Chinaman between the shafts. The human pony trots along very swiftly, and will carry you quite a long way for a halfpenny.
From India they got the gharry, a kind of four-wheeler, which is fitted all the way round with sliding windows, something like those in the door of a railway carriage, except that the frames of the windows are oftener filled with Venetian shutters than with glass. The driver of the gharry is either a Malay or a Siamese. He wears a red fez cap and a white linen jacket. When it rains he takes off his clothes and puts them under the seat to keep them dry. As soon as the rain leaves off and the sun comes out again, he stops the carriage, and dresses himself once more. The harness is made of rope, and, as often as not, it breaks. Then you have to wait while your coachman goes to the nearest shop or house in order to beg a bit of string wherewith to repair the damage.