It Began with Humidity
It has a home in Europe, but not in Asia. Not here. They must respect that, and they must embrace their new surroundings. For theaters and orchestras, opera and haute cuisine have no real place here. No place among monks.
The change in the wind unsettled Jacques once their fleet was brought into port. Burma. What the British Empire held. Jacques learned through the chatter of another kingdom nearby, Siam, was under diplomatic pressure by Britain, if not a siege of provoking words and military saber-rattling. He touched his damp forehead. Humidity. This damp humidity could slow a whole man's progress down to a wet, sweaty trundle. He, as did the other crew members, military men, noticed the young women at the port, working or resting, dressed so differently from British women. Their faces had this strange, yellow paste rubbed in a circular pattern, something the men seemed baffled by, let alone their language. Yet it wasn't long for these seamen to talk of lust and passion. The loins of imperialism. A conquest Jacques had no interest in. He came this far for adventure, exploration, and charting the rivers through Burma into Siam, traveling into a new sea, a new place for British interests.
The men formed up by rank and station. Jacques received his orders. Report to another higher-up who will give him further instruction. The expedition into Siam and beyond through Burma. Mystical lands to so many that hail from Britain. Dispatched, he then arrived at the higher-up's office inside a wooden, dusty building, the sounds from outside muted or softened. He received his new orders, but he won't be traveling alone as he assumed. His post has altered, from simply being in the navy, to translator for a British diplomat, accompanied by two Burmese soldiers. He then left.
What he did not know was this British diplomat could speak the local language, but did not know French. He could recite the Bible but did not master the dead language of Latin. He had gone slightly native, his appearance tame but dignified. The soldiers meanwhile played cards and smoked cigarettes, disinterested in Jacques. They probably couldn't find France or Britain on a map. Jacques ignored them and greeted the British diplomat. From East Anglia, the diplomat seemed relieved to be speaking with someone who had a strong command of English, though he felt embarrassed that his French was not where it should be. He never studied foreign languages in his formal education, only politics and debate. He sighed and admitted that the British owed much to the French. How intertwined the English language is with French.
Jacques laughed and nodded, noticing the Bible on the cluttered desk not far from the card-playing soldiers. The British diplomat took notice of it and mentioned how he hoped to convert those along the way to the word of their Lord and Savior, except the diplomat paused. He beckoned Jacques, pointing in the distance beyond his window at a golden stupa, a structure of magnificence and incredibility. He told Jacques the scriptures would have no power over such eminence. It has a home in Europe but not in Asia. Not here. They must respect that, and they must embrace their new surroundings. For theaters and orchestras, opera and haute cuisine have no real place here. No place among monks.
Jacques grunted. He inhaled, feeling the aged history within this new colony. A once mighty, powerful kingdom. Hundreds of years of rich civilization distilled into a handcrafted colony of the British empire. It seemed too commonplace that imperialism and conquest contradicted sanctimonious benevolence and charity. Build a church, destroy a temple. Build a school, destroy a tradition. History will not be kind to Western empires. Powerless to authority, rudderless to change, Jacques exhaled. He stared at the diplomat. They shall embark on their diplomacy upon the morrow. The sweaty diplomat then patted his forehead with a handkerchief. The humidity.
Home was the sea. Home has become humidity. The diplomat brewed a cup of tea.
