Tales of the Malayan Coast
Malacca, or one day's steam north from the equator, stands Raffles's
Lighthouse. Sir Stamford Raffles, the man from whom it took its name,
rests in Westminster Abbey, and a heroic-sized bronze statue of him
graces the centre of the beautiful ocean esplanade of Singapore,
the city he founded.
It was on the rocky island on which stands this light, that we--the
mistress and I--played Robinson Crusoe, or, to be nearer the truth,
Swiss Family Robinson.
It was hard to imagine, I confess, that the beautiful steam launch
that brought us was a wreck; that our half-dozen Chinese servants were
members of the family; that the ton of impedimenta was the flotsam of
the sea; that the Eurasian keeper and his attendants were cannibals;
but we closed our eyes to all disturbing elements, and only remembered
that we were alone on a sunlit rock in the midst of a sunlit sea,
and that the dreams of our childhood were, to some extent, realized.
What live American boy has not had the desire, possibly but
half-admitted, to some day be like his hero, dear old Crusoe, on a
tropical island, monarch of all, hampered by no dictates of society
or fashion? I admit my desire, and, further, that it did not leave
me as I grew older.
We had just time to inspect our little island home before the sun
went down, far out in the Indian Ocean.
Originally the island had been but a barren, uneven rock, the
resting-place for gulls; but now its summit has been made flat by a
coating of concrete. There is just enough earth between the concrete
and the rocky edges of the island to support a circle of cocoanut
trees, a great almond tree, and a queer-looking banian tree, whose
wide-spreading arms extend over nearly half the little plaza. Below
the lighthouse, and set back like caves into the side of the island,
are the kitchen and the servants' quarters, a covered passageway
connecting them with the rotunda of the tower, in which we have set
our dining table.
Ah Ming, our "China boy," seemed to be inveterate in his determination
to spoil our Swiss Family Robinson illusion. We were hardly settled
before he came to us.
"Mem" (mistress), "no have got ice-e-blox. Ice-e all glow away."
"Very well, Ming. Dig a hole in the ground, and put the ice in it."
"How can dig? Glound all same, hard like ice-e."
"Well, let the ice melt," I replied. "Robinson Crusoe had no ice."
In a half-hour Jim, the cook, came up to speak to the "Mem." He
lowered his cue, brushed the creases out of his spotless shirt,
drew his face down, and commenced:--
"Mem, no have got chocolate, how can make puddlin'?"
I laughed outright. Jim looked hurt.
"Jim, did you ever hear of one Crusoe?"
"No, Tuan!" (Lord.)
"Well, he was a Tuan who lived for thirty years without once eating
chocolate 'puddlin'.' We'll not eat any for ten days. Sabe?"
Jim retired, mortified and astonished.
Inside of another half-hour, the Tukang Ayer, or water-carrier, arrived
on the scene. He was simply dressed in a pair of knee-breeches. He
complained of a lack of silver polish, and was told to pound up a
stone for the knives, and let the silver alone.
We are really in the heart of a small archipelago. All about us are
verdure-covered islands. They are now the homes of native fishermen,
but a century ago they were hiding-places for the fierce Malayan
pirates whose sanguinary deeds made the peninsula a byword in the
mouths of Europeans.
A rocky beach extends about the island proper, contracting and
expanding as the tide rises and falls. On this beach a hundred and one
varieties of shells glisten in the salt water, exposing their delicate
shades of coloring to the rays of the sun. Coral formations of endless
design and shape come to view through the limpid spectrum, forming
a perfect submarine garden of wondrous beauty. Through the shrubs,
branches, ferns, and sponges of coral, the brilliantly colored fish
of the Southern seas sport like goldfish in some immense aquarium.
We draw out our chairs within the protection of the almond tree, and
watch the sun sink slowly to a level with the masts of a bark that is
bound for Java and the Bornean coasts. The black, dead lava of our
island becomes molten for the time, and the flakes of salt left on
the coral reef by the outgoing tide are filled with suggestions of
the gold of the days of '49. A faint breeze rustles among the long,
fan-like leaves of the palm, and brings out the rich yellow tints
with their background of green. A clear, sweet aroma comes from out
the almond tree. The red sun and the white sheets of the bark sail
away together for the Spice Islands of the South Pacific.
We sleep in a room in the heart of the lighthouse. The stairway
leading to it is so steep that we find it necessary to hold on to a
knotted rope as we ascend. Hundreds of little birds, no larger than
sparrows, dash by the windows, flying into the face of the gale that
rages during the night, keeping up all the time a sharp, high note
that sounds like wind blowing on telegraph wires.
Every morning, at six o'clock, Ah Ming clambers up the perpendicular
stairway, with tea and toast. We swallow it hurriedly, wrap a sarong
about us, and take a dip in the sea, the while keeping our eyes open
for sharks. Often, after a bath, while stretched out in a long chair,
we see the black fins of a man-eater cruising just outside the reef. I
do not know that I ever hit one, but I have used a good deal of lead
firing at them.
One morning we started on an exploring expedition, in the keeper's
jolly-boat. It was only a short distance to the first island, a small
rocky one, with a bit of sandy beach, along which were scattered
the charred embers of past fires. From under our feet darted the
grotesque little robber-crabs, with their stolen shell houses on their
backs. A great white jellyfish, looking like a big tapioca pudding,
had been washed up with the tide out of the reach of the sea, and a
small colony of ants was feasting on it. We did not try to explore
the interior of the islet. We named it Fir Island from its crown of
fir-like casuarina trees, which sent out on every breeze a balsamic
odor that was charged with far-away New England recollections.
The next island was a large one. The keeper said it was called Pulo
Seneng, or Island of Leisure, and held a little kampong, or village of
Malays, under an old punghulo, or chief, named Wahpering. We found,
on nearing the verdure-covered island, that it looked much larger
than it really was. The woods grew out into the sea for a quarter
of a mile. We entered the wood by a narrow walled inlet, and found
ourselves for the first time in a mangrove swamp. The trees all seemed
to be growing on stilts. A perfect labyrinth of roots stood up out of
the water, like a rough scaffold, on which rested the tree trunks,
high and dry above the flood. From the limbs of the trees hung the
seed pods, two feet in length, sharp-pointed at the lower end, while on
the upper end, next to the tree, was a russet pear-shaped growth. They
are so nicely balanced that when in their maturity they drop from the
branches, they fall upright in the mud, literally planting themselves.
The punghulo's house, or bungalow, stood at the head of the inlet. The
old man--he must have been sixty--donned his best clothes, relieved his
mouth of a great red quid of betel, and came out to welcome us. He
gracefully touched his forehead with the back of his open palm,
and mumbled the Malay greeting:--
"Tabek, Tuan?" (How are you, my lord?)
When the keeper gave him our cards, and announced us in florid
language, the genial old fellow touched his forehead again, and in
his best Bugis Malay begged the great Rajah and Ranee to enter his
humble home.
The only way of entering a Malay home is by a rickety ladder six feet
high, and through a four-foot opening. I am afraid that the great
"Rajah and Ranee" lost some of their lately acquired dignity in
accepting the invitation.
Wahpering's bungalow, other than being larger and roomier than
the ordinary bungalow, was exactly like all others in style and
architecture.
It was built close to the water's edge, on palm posts six feet above
the ground. This was for protection from the tiger, from thieves, from
the water, and for sanitary reasons. Within the house we could just
stand upright. The floor was of split bamboo, and was elastic to the
foot, causing a sensation which at first made us step carefully. The
open places left by the crossing of the bamboo slats were a great
convenience to the punghulo's wives, as they could sweep all the refuse
of the house through them; they might also be a great accommodation to
the punghulo's enemies, if he had any, for they could easily ascertain
the exact mat on which he slept, and stab him with their keen krises
from beneath.
In one corner of the room was the hand-loom on which the punghulo's
old wife was weaving the universal article of dress, the sarong.
The weaving of a sarong represents the labor of twenty days, and
when we gave the dried-up old worker two dollars and a half for one,
her syrah-stained gums broke forth from between her bright-red lips
in a ghastly grin of pleasure.
There must have been the representatives of at least four generations
under the punghulo's hospitable roof. Men and women, alike, were
dressed in the skirt-like sarong which fell from the waist down; above
that some of the older women wore another garment called a kabaya. The
married women were easily distinguishable by their swollen gums and
filed teeth.
The roof and sides of the house were of attap. This is made from
the long, arrow-like leaves of the nipah palm. Unlike its brother
palms--the cocoa, the sago, the gamooty, and the areca--the nipah is
short, and more like a giant cactus in growth. Its leaves are stripped
off by the natives, then bent over a bamboo rod and sewed together with
fibres of the same palm. When dry they become glazed and waterproof.
The tall, slender areca palm, which stands about every kampong,
supplies the natives with their great luxury--an acorn, known as the
betel-nut, which, when crushed and mixed with lime leaves, takes the
place of our chewing tobacco. In fact, the bright-red juice seen oozing
from the corners of a Malay's mouth is as much a part of himself as
is his sarong or kris. Betel-nut chewing holds its own against the
opium of the Chinese and the tobacco of the European.
As soon as we shook hands ceremoniously with the punghulo's oldest
wife, and tabeked to the rest of his big family, the old man scrambled
down the ladder, and sent a boy up a cocoanut tree for some fresh
nuts. In a moment half a dozen of the great, oval, green nuts came
pounding down into the sand. Another little fellow snatched them up,
and with a sharp parang, or hatchet-like knife, cut away the soft shuck
until the cocoanut took the form of a pyramid, at the apex of which
he bored a hole, and a stream of delicious, cool milk gurgled out. We
needed no second invitation to apply our lips to the hole. The meat
inside was so soft that we could eat it with a spoon. The cocoanut
of commerce contains hardly a suggestion of the tender, fleshy pulp
of a freshly picked nut.
We left the punghulo's house with the old chief in the bow of our
boat--he insisted upon seeing that we were properly announced to his
subjects--and proceeded along the coast for half a mile, and then up
a swampy lagoon to its head.
The tall tops of the palms wrapped everything in a cool, green
twilight. The waters of the lagoon were filled with little bronze
forms, swimming and sporting about in its tepid depths regardless of
the cruel eyes that gleamed at them from great log-like forms among
the mangrove roots.
Dozens of naked children fled up the rickety ladders of their homes