We decided to go up to the two bridges built by the officers, land there, and then walk down to the cemetery and join the boat there. Unfortunately, it looked as though it was going to rain, and I was tempted very much to cut the bridges, and land straight at the cemetery, but Tawi had set his mind on the other scheme, and up to the bend of the river where the bridges were, we went. The paths from the old camp down to the river, up which we used to haul bamboos, wood, water, everything – were still there and being used by peasants; and it would anyhow have been easy to have recognised the camp’s site from seeing the familiar palms and mango trees on the opposite bank. The whole river looked completely unchanged.

The landing at the far bridge was made quite easily, but we had to scramble up some loose limestone cliffs, and then we found ourselves on a bit of embankment just between the two bridges. We walked in the direction of the camp, the sky getting more and more overcast. The railroad was in a shocking state, a great number of the sleepers being quite rotten and eaten away, and most of the pegs seemed to be loose. I picked one up as a souvenir of our doubtful handiwork. The first of the officers’ bridges was still up, rather rickety, and I hated walking across it just as I had always hated walking across those damned Nip bridges. I thought it would have been so very funny had I slipped and broken my neck on that particular occasion. I photographed the bridge, the two cuttings of Taramoto, and then we walked along the track, passing the old Piccadilly on our left, till we slid down the right hand bank and walked to where the camp once was.

Judging from the beaten paths and my memory, the same paths are still there. We passed through a young village and cursed the pi-dogs who snarled round us, and after a 5 minutes trip, suddenly I recognised the big trees, including the huge tamarind, under which the old Camp H.Q. Huts had been built. The mango trees by the side of the old ‘Hut I’ were still there, but otherwise, there was no recognisable feature. A strange village under our trees. Once we’d spotted the tamarind, though, it was easy to fix the rest of the camp. A narrow and overgrown path was all that was left of the main road past the ends of the huts, and along this we walked towards the gardens and the graves. Our rows of garden papaya trees were now bordered by rows of Siamese huts, and the papaya trees were giants; in the camp itself there was nothing to be seen like the junglely state of Kamburi. The peasants were cultivating the clearing we had made for them, and as you looked down towards the camp boundary away from the river, you could almost have sworn that the fence was still there just behind the familiar clumps of bamboos. With no difficulty I found the infamous tree under which my book had been so carefully buried, and although it was just beginning to rain, I couldn’t resist taking a photograph of this old enemy of mine.