Chungkai cemetery is very efficiently run, too, and also very clean; but whereas I used to think it was a very beautiful place before, I was now rather disappointed to see that the flame and red bushes that had always looked so pretty, had now grown up into huge straggling trees; and the rows and rows of cannas and zinnias and other bright coloured flowers, had given way to a few and a rather feeble few, of cannas alone. The rain was beginning to come down hard, and I ran up to a spot where I could take a picture of the big tree and cross in the centre of the cemetery before the rain made it impossible. We then, with the caretaker, ran through the cemetery to the far end, turned right, and slipped down to the pom-pom. We left in a hurry. This was a great pity, and I was most reluctant to go; but Pong wanted to be back over the bad parts of the road before dark, and the storm might have lasted hours had we thought of waiting.

So back to Kamburi. After about 10 minutes going down the stream, the rain cleared away, and maddeningly fine sunshine appeared once more. Way over to the left, though we could see the rain still coming down hard, and it was too late to go back. As soon as we had sat down in Aroong’s café, and before I had had time to drink a polite swig of lao, the bus was upon us, and Pong announced that there was just time to go up to the old temple. So one more hurried photo (a group of people) and the rest of the bottle of lao as a present, and off we went once more. I had another three tins of Players with me, and these I surrendered gladly. Tawi was particularly insistent that I come back again for a longer trip, and I made a mental resolve that I’d certainly try to.

I’m not going to describe the journey home again, but will stay in the temple to say goodbye to Kamburi; this, not out of any spurious sentimentality, but because the journey home was uneventful, and given over to many reflections and thoughts of 3 odd years. Only one interesting thing happened, and that was when we stopped at a palm-wine tapper’s hut and drank some wine, or sugar, rather, from his bamboo container. I didn’t like it, for it was exceedingly sweet and tasted smoky to me. The man, incidentally, was now living in Siam, but was a Tamil from Malaya brought up by the Japanese to work on the railway in Burma. We compared notes in Malay.