The Business

'Oh dear,' I said.

'Yes.  We have a factory — just a very small concern you understand, something quite tiny, really — in Sangamanu making eyeglasses and ethnic jewellery.  We received funding from the World Bank and various NGOs and the project was seen as a way of providing much-needed employment.  It could be acceptably profitable, but the employees are quite hopeless.  They forget to turn up, many days.  They wander off before the clocking-off time comes.  They seem unable to understand that they must be there five or six days out of seven; they go ploughing fields or gathering wood.  It is quite unacceptable, but what is one to do?  This factory means nothing to my company.  I say nothing, of course it means something, but really it is so small in scale that it means next to nothing.  But, you see, in Sangamanu it is the biggest employer.  These people should be grateful that it is there and do their best to make it a success, as we have done, but they do nothing.  They are just pathetic.  They are a very childish sort of people, I think.  They are immature, yes, like children are.'

'Really,' I said, shaking my head and looking as though I found this fascinating.  I created an excuse to get away from the guy shortly afterwards, leaving him agreeing sternly with a German surveyor that, yes, the people here were just impossible.  I went in search of anybody not conforming to their own national or cultural stereotypes.

I spotted Srikkuhm Pih, the militia commander, standing stiffly in his rather grand ceremonial uniform, which looked as if it might have been fashionable in the British Army about a hundred years earlier.

'Mr Pih,' I said, bowing.

'Ah, Miss Telman.' Srikkuhm Pih was old, slightly stooped, shorter than me and had the greyest hair of any Thulahnese I'd seen so far.

'I very much like your outfit.  You look terribly grand.  That sword's quite wonderful.'

Mr Pih responded very well to flattery.  Apparently as well as being commander of the militia he was Minister of War , Secretary of Defence and Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces.  After he'd shown me the dazzlingly bright and beautifully inscribed sword — a present to one of his predecessors from an Indian maharaja at the turn of the century — we were soon talking about the ticklish nature of his job and the generally unwarlike nature of the average Thulahnese male.

'We very bad soldiers,' he said, with a happy shrug.

'Well, if you don't need to fight…'

'Very bad soldiers.  Monks best.'

'Monks?'

He nodded. 'Monks have competition.  Of this.' He mimed drawing a bow.

'Archery competitions?' I asked.

'That right.  Four time year.  Each…'

'Season?'

'That right.  Four time year they competition, all sampal, all monk-house against all other.  Arch.  But always get drunk first.'

'They get drunk first?'

'Drink khotse.' This was the local brew, a fermented milk beer that I'd tried exactly once when I'd come to Thulahn the first time.  I think it's safe to say that even its greatest fan would agree it was an acquired taste. 'Get drunk,' Srikkuhm Pih continued, 'then they fire arrow.  Some very good.  Hit middle of the target, bang spot on.  But.  Start good, then drunk, end not good.  Laugh too much.  Fall over.' He shook his head. 'Sorry state of affairs.'

'You can't use the monks as soldiers, then?'

He mugged horror and dread. 'Rinpoche, Tsunke, head lama, chief priest man, they not let me.  None of would.  They are most…' He blew out his cheeks and shook his head.

'Didn't you have sort of samurai or something?  I thought I read about a warrior caste.  What were they called?  The Treih?'

'They no good either.  Worst.  All gone soft.  Very soft peoples now.  Too much of living in houses, they say.  Just not officer material, don't you know.' He shook his head again and regarded his empty glass. 'Sorry state of affairs.'

'What about the rest of the people?  Where do you get your soldiers?'

'Not got soldiers,' he said, shrugging. 'Got none.  Not a bean.'

'None at all?'

'We have militia; I am commander.  Men have guns in house, we have more gun to give, here in palace, also in Government House in each towns.  But not barracks, not standing army, not professionals or territorials.'  He tapped his chest.  'This only army uniform in country.'

'Wow.'

He gestured to where Suvinder was talking to a couple of his ministers.  The Prince waved.  I waved back.  'I ask Prince for money for uniform for men,' the militia commander went on, 'but he say, "No, I am afraid not yet, Srikkuhm old fellow, must wait.  Maybe next year." Well, I am very patient.  Guns more important than uniforms.  Not wrong there.'

'But if, say, the Chinese invaded, how many men could you put up?  What would be the maximum?'

'Government military secret,' he said, slowly shaking his head.  'Very top secret.' He looked thoughtful.  'About twenty-three thousand.'

'Oh.  Well, that is a fairly respectable army.  Or militia.'

He looked dubious. 'That how many guns.  Men not supposed to sell them or use them for other thing, like for plumb in house, but some have.' He looked glum.

'Sorry state of affairs,' I said.

'Sorry state of affairs,' he agreed, then brightened. 'But Prince always is saying he happy to have me most unemploymented man in Thulahn.' He looked around, then leaned closer and dropped his voice.  I bent to hear. 'I get performance-relate bonus every year there no war.'

'Do you?' I laughed. 'How splendid!  Well done.'

The militia commander offered to refresh my glass, which didn't need refreshing, then wandered off in the general direction of the drinks table, looking pleased both with himself and the financially agreeable absence of war.

I did some more circulating and found myself talking to one of the teachers, a young Welsh woman called Cerys Williams.

'Oh, Cerys, like the girl in Catatonia?'

'That's it.  Same spelling.'

'I'm sure you get asked all the time, but what's it like, teaching here?'

Cerys thought the Thulahnese children were great.  The schools had very little equipment and the parents were inclined to keep children away from lessons if there was anything that had to be done on the farm, but generally they seemed very bright and willing to learn.

'How long do they get in school?  How many years?'

'Just primary, really.  There is secondary education, but you have to pay for that.  It isn't a lot, but it's more than most of the families can afford.  Usually they educate the oldest boy up to third or fourth year, but the rest tend to leave when they're eleven or twelve.'

'Always the boy, even if there's an older girl?'

She gave a rueful grin. 'Oh, well, almost always.  I'm trying — well, we're all trying, really, but I think I'm trying hardest — to change that, but you're up against an awful lot of generations of tradition, see?'

'I'll bet.'

'But they're not stupid.  They're coming round to the idea that girls might benefit from higher education; we've had a few successes.  It still usually means only one child per household goes to secondary, mind you.'

'I imagine there might be a few eldest boys who feel resentful because of that.'

She smiled. 'Oh, I don't know.  They're happy enough to leave school when the time comes.  I think most of them would much rather it was their sisters who had to stay on.'

More circulating.  The Prime Minister himself filled me in on the workings of the Thulahnese governmental system.  There was a form of democracy at the most local level, where people in each village and town elected a head man or mayor, who then chose town constables to uphold the law (or didn't bother: there was very little crime and certainly I hadn't seen any sort of police presence in Thuhn so far).  The chief of each noble family and the head men and mayors formed a parliament of sorts, which met irregularly and could advise the monarch, but after that it was down to appointees of the monarch, and appointees of appointees.  Anyone in the kingdom could appeal to the throne if he thought he'd been hard done by in the courts or elsewhere.  Suvinder took this part of the job seriously, though Jungeatai Rhumde thought people were inclined to take advantage of the Prince's good nature.  He'd suggested a sort of supreme court set-up instead, but Suvinder preferred the old system.