A Walk Through Old AyutthayaPrepared by Harold Stephens
Travel Correspondent for Thai Airways International
In the last feature in this series I wrote about Richard Burnaby––an agent for the East India Company––being met my George White upon his arrival at the gates of Ayutthaya in 1685. White led Burnaby to his quarters. “We can walk, and you can see some of our city.” He called it “our” city. How unusual for a foreigner, Burnaby thought, but before he could say a further word, they were aboard the longboat headed towards shore.
Two turbaned Sikh footmen, each with a truncheon in hand, sabres at their sides, awaited them when they stepped ashore. They were stern men, unsmiling. No words were passed, and none were needed; they knew their duties. White explained they were in the employ of the East India Company, and had been assigned to be Burnaby’s security. The Sikhs led the way, waving their sticks, clearing a path for the two white men to follow.
They passed through the huge gate constructed of heavy timbers, crossed with beams, and studded with bolts and entered another world. Within the confines of the wall there were more waterways, a labyrinth of canals which White called klongs. Upon these klongs were more vessels congested together: sampans, barges, scows, even bundles of bamboo that served as crude rafts used for transporting people and goods. There was hardly room through the center of the klongs for watercraft to move, but somehow they managed, aided by shouts and warnings. Some boats were rowed, oddly enough by a man or woman standing upright, deftly crossing the handle of one oar over the other. Some were paddled, and still others sculled by single oars aft. They came upon more boats, long and slender, beautifully carved and gilded in gold, their crews in wonderful bright uniforms, standing by. “They are at the beckon of the king,” White said.
White knew the city well. “Ayutthaya is divided into quarters and each quarter by wide boulevards,” he explained like a teacher talking to his student. “The king’s quarters, of course, are the finest, but taboo for the likes of us.” White pointed them out as they passed. Through a wide gate flanked by guards clutching long
javelins in each hand they could see beyond the opening great squares and tree-shaded walks, with the grand houses farther back where the nobility lived. Everywhere were sparkling pagodas with pointed roofs.
They came upon a huge, splendid temple, which White said was the Royal Wat. “We should take a quick look inside,” he said and led Burnaby up the steps to the entrance. While the Sikhs waited outside, they entered and once inside Burnaby could do little else but stand in awe before a statue of a magnificent golden Buddha. He judged the statue to be more than thirty-five feet high. It was moulded in gold—pure gold, White said—and surrounded by many lesser golden idols inlaid with precious stones. “Everything in the bloody temple is of gold,” White announced. “See, the vases, the candlesticks, everything. The gold, where do they get all the gold? I’ll tell yah’. It’s given to the king, presented to him, as tribute from the rulers of Cambodia, Laos, Annan and other neighboring countries. When you’ve got might in the East you’ve got wealth. Simple as that. Wait till
you see the king’s war elephants, thousands of the critters, and then you’ll understand.”
They passed through one quarter after another, quarters that were assigned to foreigners: Chinese, Portuguese, Japanese, Muslims and Moors and Europeans. The houses where these foreigners lived were brick, and well built. The streets were all cobblestoned. Foreigners lived splendidly. Burnaby was impressed.
At times it was a chore to make their way through the masses of people shoving and pushing every which way through streets, people of every dress, from every country of the East. More than once they lost sight of the Sikhs leading the way and had a trying time locating them again. Fortunately the Sikhs with their turbans stood a head taller than the smaller Siamese and their other Asian cousins. Some streets were less crowded than others, those without shops and storehouses, and these were lined with trees that provided shade and made walking much easier. A few streets were paved with bricks, while others, the majority, were rutted from the wheels of heavy oxen carts, and these were dusty. Elephants with carved howdahs upon their backs where passengers sat, stirred up dust as they wobbled down the center of the streets and roadways. Elephants always had the right of way. Water buffalos by the scores grazed along the banks of the klongs. Young boys attending the buffalos lay sound asleep and stretched out, face down, on their wide generous backs, their naked bodies mud covered as were those of the buffalos. At other klongs boys, frolicking as boys do everywhere, dove from
the banks and others from trees into the muddy water, shouting and screaming as they did, calling attention to the two white men as they passed. The entire city was intersected by klongs, and some klongs had become slums where the people lived aboard the tiny sampans. The stench here was terrible. Over the klong were
bridges, not merely a few but bridges at every turn. One was never out of sight of a bridge over a klong. Some bridges were arched, elaborately made, constructed of brick, while others were fashioned from bamboo, so narrow and flimsy only skilled nimble walkers could pass over them. A real balancing act, Burnaby thought,
and he wondered if the day would come when he too would be able to manage them.
At one street where there were fewer people White stopped suddenly, and grabbing Burnaby’s arm, he whispered, “You are about to meet a very remarkable man.” He pointed up the street, and Burnaby looked in that direction. A priest in a black ankle-length robe stood there, herding a group of young children into a
courtyard. “That’s Father Thomas,” he said. When the priest saw them approaching, he greeted them with cupped hands, as the Siamese do.
Father Thomas was beyond middle age, very gray, with a long gray beard and sad, watery blue eyes. His fingers were long and slender, and when he shook hands with Burnaby, Burnaby was surprised to find how cold they were to the touch. What’s the saying, he thought, cold hands, warm heart.
“So fine of you to come to our city. We’ve been waiting for you,” he said. His accent was Portuguese, and like White he called it “our” city. He glanced toward the children who were already inside the courtyard and getting away from him. “You have to excuse me,” he said, “but we will see more of each other, shortly.” In the next instant he was gone.
“He’s a Jesuit,” White said as they resumed their walk. “He runs a school for Siamese orphans. The Catholic French Missionaries don’t get along with him but they have to. He’s the king’s favorite. He’s an engineer, and an architect, and a good one too. He’s worked on a couple of projects for the king.”
George White lived in the Japanese quarters. He didn’t admit it openly to Burnaby but he did hint that since he was no longer officially with the East India Company it was best he lived someplace else other than the English quarter. His apartment was simple, well lighted, with few furnishings. What caught Burnaby’s immediate attention when he entered was White’s collection of weapons. They occupied one entire wall, and were both Western and Siamese arms. There were muzzle loaders and pistols in one section, and next to them hung swords with jeweled handles, gilded krises, cutlasses long and slender, and many sharp-bladed weapons of the Siamese. As Burnaby was admiring the weapons, White called for his servant, and as silent as a shadow a manservant appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, on hands and knees, his head touching the floor. White gave an order, and when Burnaby looked again, the man had vanished, as silently as when he appeared. Time had hardly passed and he was there again, this time carrying a richly engraved silver tray. “We haven’t received our shipment of import beer,” White apologized. “You will try Siamese beer. Poor stuff but what the hell!”
In the next feature I will conclude by telling briefly how Constantine, the Greek sailor, came to Ayutthaya again.
Harold Stephens
Bangkok
E-mail: ROH Weekly Travel (booking@inet.co.th)
Note: The article is the personal view of the writer and does not necessarily reflect the view of Thai Airways International Public Company Limited. | 
