Tales of the Malayan Coast
One day I had a real adventure while out shooting, which, like many
real adventures, was made up principally of the things I thought and
suffered rather than of the things I did. Hence I hardly know how
to write it out so that it will look like an "adventure" and not a
mere mishap.
My companion had told me of a trail some thirty miles up the river that
led into the jungle about three miles, to some old gold workings that
date back beyond the written records of the State. So one day we drew
our little launch close up under the bank of the river, and I sprang
ashore, bent on seeing for myself the prehistoric remains. Contrary
to the advice of the Chief Justice, I only took a heavy hunting-knife
with me, and it was more for slashing away thorns and rattans than
for protection.
It was the heat of the day, and the dense jungle was like a
furnace. Before I had gone a mile I began to regret my enthusiasm. I
found the path, but it was so overgrown with creepers, parasites,
and rubber-vines that I had almost to cut a new one. Had it not been
for the company of a small English terrier, Lekas,--the Malay for
"make haste,"--I believe I should have turned back.
However, I found the old workings, and spent several hours making
calculations as to their depth and course, taking notes as to the
country formation, and assaying some bits of refuse quartz. Rather
than struggle back by the path, I determined to follow the course of
a stream that went through the mines and on toward the coast. So I
whistled for Lekas and started on.
For the first half-hour everything went smoothly. Then the stream
widened out and its clay bottom gave place to one of mud, which made
the walking much more difficult. At last I struck the mangrove belt,
which always warns you that you are approaching the coast.
As long as I kept in the centre of the channel, I was out of the way
of the network of roots; but now the channel was getting deeper and my
progress becoming more labored. It was impossible to reach the bank,
for the mangroves on either side had grown so thick and dense as to
be impenetrable.
When I had perhaps achieved half the distance, the thought suddenly
crossed my mind--how very awkward it would be to meet a crocodile in
such a place! One couldn't run, that was certain, and as for fighting,
that would be a lost cause from the first.
Right in the midst of these unpleasant cogitations I heard a quiet
splash in the water, not far behind, that sent my heart into my
mouth. In a moment I had scrambled on to a mangrove root and had
turned to look for the cause of my fears.
For perhaps a minute I saw nothing, and was trying to convince myself
that my previous thoughts had made me fanciful, when, not many yards
off, I saw distinctly the form of a huge crocodile swimming rapidly
toward me. I needed no second look, but dashed away over the roots.
Before I had gone half a dozen yards I was down sprawling in the
mud. I got entangled, and my terror made me totally unable to act
with any judgment. Despair nerved me and I turned at bay with my long
hunting-knife in my hand. How I longed for even my revolver!
Whatever the issue, it could not be long delayed. The uncouth,
hideous form, which as yet I had only seen dimly, was plain now. I
took my stand on one of the largest roots, steadied myself by clasping
another with my left hand, and waited.
My chances, if it did not seem a mockery to call them such, were small
indeed. I might, by singular good luck, deprive my adversary of sight;
but hemmed in as I was by a tangled mass of roots, I felt that even
then I should be but little better off.
All manner of thoughts came unbidden to my mind. I could see Inchi
Mohamed propped up on cushions in the launch reading "A Little Book of
Profitable Tales" that had just been sent me by its author. I started
to smile at the tale of The Clycopeedy. Then I caught sight of the
peak of Mount Ophir through a notch in the jungle and all sorts of
absurd hypotheses in regard to its authenticity flashed through my
mind. All this takes time to relate, but those who have stood in
mortal peril will know how short a time it takes to think.
From the moment I left the water, but a few seconds had elapsed and the
saurian was not two yards from me. The abject horror and hopelessness
of that moment was something I can never forget. Suddenly Lekas came
floundering through the mud; a second more, and he perceived my enemy
when almost within reach of his jaws.
Barking furiously, Lekas began to back away. One breathless moment,
and the reptile turned to follow this new prey. I sank down among
the roots regardless of the slime and watched the crocodile crawl
deliberately away, with the gallant little dog retreating before him,
keeping up a succession of angry barks.
When I arrived at the mouth of the creek, weak, faint, and covered
from head to foot with mud, I found the Chief Justice awaiting me. The
barking of the dog had attracted his attention and he had steamed up
to see what was the matter.
I had not strength left to stroke the head of the brave little fellow
who had thus twice done me a most welcome service. I had, indeed, but
just strength enough to spring in, throw myself down on the cushions,
and let my "boys" pull off my clothes and bring me a suit of clean
pajamas and cool grass slippers.
A NEW YEAR'S DAY IN MALAYA
And some of its Picturesque Customs
My Malay syce came close up to the veranda and touched his brown
forehead with the back of his open hand.
"Tuan" (Lord), he said, "have got oil for harness, two one-half
cents; black oil for cudah's (horse) feet, three cents; oil, one cent
one-half for bits; oil, seven cents for cretah (carriage). Fourteen
cents, Tuan."
I put my hands into the pockets of my white duck jacket and drew out
a roll of big Borneo coppers.
The syce counted out the desired amount, and handed back what was left
through the bamboo chicks, or curtains, that reduced the blinding
glare of the sky to a soft, translucent gray. I closed my eyes and
stretched back in my long chair, wondering vaguely at the occasion
that called for such an outlay in oils, when I heard once more the
quiet, insistent "Tuan!" I opened my eyes.
"No got red, white, blue ribbon for whip."
"Sudah chukup!" (Stop talking) I commanded angrily. The syce shrugged
his bare shoulders and gave a hitch to his cotton sarong.
"Tuan, to-morrow New Year Day. Tuan, mem (lady) drive to
Esplanade. Governor, general, all white tuans and mems there. Tuan
Consul's carriage not nice. Shall syce buy ribbons?"
"Yes," I answered, tossing him the rest of the coppers, "and get a
new one for your arm."
I had forgotten for the moment that it was the 31st of December. The
syce touched his hand to his forehead and salaamed.
Through the spaces of the protecting chicks I caught glimpses of
my Malay kebun, or gardener, squatting on his bare feet, with his
bare knees drawn up under his armpits, hacking with a heavy knife at
the short grass. The mottled crotons, the yellow allamanda and pink
hibiscus bushes, the clump of Eucharist lilies, the great trailing
masses of orchids that hung among the red flowers of the stately
flamboyant tree by the green hedge, joined to make me forget the
midwinter date on the calendar. The time seemed in my half-dream July
in New York or August in Washington.
Ah Minga, the "boy" in flowing pantalets and stiffly starched blouse,
came silently along the wide veranda, with a cup of tea and a plate
of opened mangosteens. I roused myself, and the dreams of sleighbells
and ice on window-panes, that had been fleeting through my mind at
the first mention of New Year's Day by the syce, vanished.
Ah Minga, too, mentioned, as he placed the cool, pellucid globes
before me, "To-mollow New Year Dlay, Tuan!"
On Christmas Day, Ah Minga had presented the mistress with the gilded
counterfeit presentment of a Joss. The servants, one and all, from Zim,
the cookee, to the wretched Kling dhobie (wash-man), had brought some
little remembrance of their Christian master's great holiday.
In respecting our customs, they had taken occasion to establish one of
their own. They had adopted New Year's as the day when their masters
should return their presents and good will in solid cash.
At midnight we were awakened by a regular Fourth of July
pandemonium. Whistles from the factories, salvos from Fort Canning,
bells from the churches, Chinese tom-toms, Malay horns, rent the
air from that hour until dawn with all the discords of the Orient
and a few from Europe. By daylight the thousands of natives from all
quarters of the peninsula and neighboring islands had gathered along
the broad Ocean Esplanade of Singapore in front of the Cricket Club
House, to take part in or watch the native sports by land and sea.
The inevitable Chinaman was there, the Kling, the Madrasman, the Sikh,
the Arab, the Jew, the Chitty, or Indian money-lender,--they were all
there, many times multiplied, unconsciously furnishing a background
of extraordinary variety and picturesqueness.
At ten o'clock the favored representatives of the Anglo-Saxon race
took their place on the great veranda of the Cricket Club, and gave
the signal that we would condescend to be amused for ten hours. Then
the show commenced. There were not over two hundred white people to
represent law and civilization amid the teeming native population.
In the centre of the beautiful esplanade or playground rose the heroic
statue of Sir Stamford Raffles, the English governor who made Singapore
possible. To my right, on the veranda, stood a modest, gray-haired
little man who cleared the seas of piracy and insured Singapore's
commercial ascendency, Sir Charles Brooke, Rajah of Sarawak. A little
farther on, surrounded by a brilliant suite of Malay princes, was
the Sultan of Johore, whose father sold the island of Singapore to
the British.
The first of the sports was a series of foot-races between Malay and
Kling boys, almost invariably won by the Malays, who are the North
American Indians of Malaysia--the old-time kings of the soil. They are
never, like the Chinese, mere beasts of burden, or great merchants,
nor do they descend to petty trade, like the Indians or Bengalese. If
they must work they become horsemen.
Next came a jockey race, in which a dozen long-limbed Malays took
each a five-year-old child astride his shoulders, and raced for
seventy-five yards. There were sack-races and greased-pole climbing
and pig-catching.
Now came a singular contest--an eating match. Two dozen little Malay,
Kling, Tamil, and Chinese boys were seated at regular intervals about
an open circle by one of the governor's aids. Not one could touch the
others in any way. Each had a dry, hard ship-biscuit before him. A
pistol shot and two dozen pairs of little brown fists went pit-a-pat
on the two dozen hard biscuits, and in an instant the crackers were
broken to powder.
Then commenced the difficult task of forcing the powdered pulp down
the little throats. Both hands were called into full play during the
operation, one for crowding in, the other for grinding the residue
and patting the stomach and throat. Each little competitor would shyly
rub into the warm earth, or hide away in the folds of his many-colored
sarong, as much as possible, or when a rival was looking the other way,
would snap a good-sized piece across to him.
The little brown fellow who won the fifty-cent piece by finishing
his biscuit first simply put into his mouth a certain quantity of the
crushed biscuit, and with little or no mastication pushed the whole
mass down his throat by sheer force.
The minute the contest was decided, all the participants, and
many other boys, rushed to a great tub of molasses to duck for