Dragon Mountain. Daniel Reid

"One girl pretty," he insisted, holding up a single finger, "only one."

      That confused me. Apparently he wanted me to compliment his most attractive daughter, so I looked them over again. They were all quite lovely, but the oldest one was running a bit fat in the gut, and the youngest hadn't quite developed the curves of a full-fledged beauty queen, so I chose the one in the middle. She was an absolute knockout, with big, dark doe eyes and long silky lashes, thick jet-black hair hanging in a single braid down her back, and a beautiful face with a flawless complexion. Her full firm breasts strained at her buttons, and the curves of her hips bulged through her sarong like an hourglass.

      "That one most pretty," I said decisively, pointing at her. The girl immediately clapped her hands against her mouth and dissolved into fits of giggling, while her two sisters shrieked and nodded knowingly at her. Then the three of them disappeared in a huddle through the door. Kiang looked very pleased.

      Just then his wife stood up from the fire with a grunt, shuffled over to the table, and set a three-tiered lunchbox of woven bamboo before her husband. She was an enormous bow-legged woman, with a kind but work-worn face. Kiang placed his palms together and bowed in the traditional Buddhist gesture that means "hello," "goodbye," and "bless you" all in one, then he grabbed his lunch and headed out to work in the fields.

      I finished my tea alone and wandered into the village. Most of the men had already gone off to the fields to farm, or up to the hills to hunt and fish, while the women busied themselves hauling water from wells, washing clothes by the river, winnowing grain, and screeching at their children. No one paid me much notice.

      A smooth dirt path bisected the village, which ran about a hundred fifty yards from end to end. Compact huts of mud and wattle with thatched roofs and shaded verandas stood on short stilts on both sides of the main path. In each yard grew at least a dozen areca palms, source of their beloved betel nut. In the middle of the village the path widened to form a sort of public square or plaza, shaded by several enormous pipal trees. The pipal, which looks like a banyan tree without the branch roots, is called the bodhi tree by the natives. Buddhists regard the bodhi tree as sacred because the Buddha attained enlightenment while meditating beneath the shade of a bodhi tree 2,500 years ago in India. Every bodhi tree in the village had a small shrine erected against its massive trunk, with fresh offerings of fruit, sweets, flowers, and incense always present.

      I sat down on a rickety bench in the shade of the biggest bodhi tree in the village and looked around. I would have given anything for a cigarette. In the middle of the village square stood a big communal hut about sixty feet long, set on thick, squat stilts, but without any walls. It was an open pavilion that served as a sort of community center. Near it was a stone house of Western design, with corrugated tin roofing and real glass windows. Boxes and barrels of supplies were piled carelessly behind it. This turned out to be the foreign provisions shop to which Ching Wei had referred. Attached to the shop was a bar, where only Ching Wei's troops and white guests were permitted to drink. The bar suddenly reminded me of the outside world, and I wondered how my disappearance was affecting my family and friends back home. I cursed Ching Wei out loud.

      "You must be new here," a voice rumbled over my shoulder. I leaped up and spun around to see who it was. There stood a tall, stooped, skinny white man dressed in sarong and sandals like myself. "My name is Moreau," he said, extending a limp hand. "I am the orchid man."

      I introduced myself, and he sat down next to me. "The orchid man?"

      "Yes, it is my duty here to care for Ching Wei's orchid collection. He has over five hundred varieties, you know, and almost three thousand specimens. Some are very rare. It is a big job." His voice was flat and listless, but there was no mistaking his accent: it was French. There was also no mistaking his condition: he was stewed to the gills on opium, his pupils shrunk down to the size of pinholes. He reached into his shirt for a pack of cigarettes and offered me one.

      "Thanks, I just ran out of smokes last night. Where'd you find these?"

      "These and other foreign goods are available at the shop over there," he replied, jutting his chin in that direction. "I live with my wife and child in a house over on the hillside just beyond the village." He pointed toward a densely wooded hill that faced Dragon Mountain from the far side of the village. "You must come to our house for dinner one night and tell me news of the outside world. I have been here already five years now." He gazed blankly across the village, his head bobbing rhythmically.

      After a long silence, he stood up and stretched his limbs. "Well, I must go to work now," he said, and handed me the pack of cigarettes. "Please accept these; I have more at home. Where do you stay in the village?" I told him I was Kiang's guest, and he looked impressed. "Kiang is a good man. You are lucky. He has a big house and three beautiful daughters. You should be quite happy there. I will see you again soon, monsieur. Au revoir."

      I sat there in a funk for the rest of the day, smoking Moreau's cigarettes and daydreaming. What else could I do? Soon the sun was sinking over the trees, and men began trickling back to the village from the hills and fields. Smoke from cooking fires curled up through thatched roofs, giving the impression that the whole village was aflame. The smell of fresh food and spices cooking reminded me how hungry I felt, so I left my roost under the bodhi tree and strolled back to Kiang's house.

      He was already home and puffing on a cheroot when I returned, and he welcomed me with a cup of hot tea. Soon his wife and daughters had dinner ready, and we all gathered around the table to eat.

      Except for festival days—when they slaughtered a pig or dog—dinners there were usually the same. We each got a heaping bowlful of boiled rice, millet, or barley. In the middle of the table were three iron pots, each with a different curry in it. Two were always some combination of vegetables, while the third was usually chicken, fish, wild game, or eggs, depending on what was available that day.

      They used no chopsticks or any other eating utensils. Instead, each person ladled some curry onto his rice, then used the thumb and first two fingers of the right hand to mash the grain and curry into little bite-size balls, which were then popped into the mouth. The left hand is never used for eating, because its function is to take care of business at the other end of the line, using water instead of toilet paper. The Shan always wash their hands and mouths thoroughly both before and after eating—an excellent habit.

      After dinner, Kiang and I chatted for a while over cheroots, but I was in no mood for socializing that evening. Despite the unfailing kindness of Kiang's family, I felt like an alien who'd landed on an unknown planet. No one protested when I stood up early to say good night, bowing my head with hands folded at the heart, in the traditional manner.

      I got undressed and lay down on the cot, using my sarong for a sheet. I thought of reading myself to sleep, but there was nothing to read, so I just stared at the bouncing shadows cast against the walls by the flickering oil lamp.

      I was dozing on the edge of sleep, eyes closed and mind adrift, when I heard someone swish quietly into my room. Startled, I bolted up in bed and focused my eyes on the intruder. Standing there next to me with a broad ivory smile, naked to the waist, was the daughter I'd selected that morning as the winner of Kiang's little beauty contest.

      Surprised and embarrassed, I moved to cover my thighs with my sarong, but she snatched it from my hands and flung it aside. Then she yanked a knot on her hip and her own sarong fell in a heap around her feet. Purring softly, she twined her arms around my neck and pressed her body gently down on top of mine.

      VI

      It was an old tribal custom, and I must say that it really made me feel at home there. Moreau later told me that it was a traditional form of hospitality practiced since ancient times by the Shan mountain tribes, though not by the Burmans down on the plains. If a tribesman had as his houseguest a man of superior social rank to his own, it was customary for the host to provide his esteemed guest not only with the best food and drink at his disposal, but also to offer him one of his wives or daughters to sleep with at night. This was regarded as a great honor to the host's entire lineage. But if a woman of the household were caught sleeping with a man of