SINGAPORE
July 16th.—We arrived at Singapore this morning and put up at the Hôtel
d’Europe. Before dinner we went for a drive out of town, passing through
a Malay village perched on piles in cocoa plantations. The hillocks are
strewn with villas, like the outskirts of London. On our way back we
crossed the Square, the centre of European commerce, with large bazaars
and markets.
Singapore, according to its population, is a veritable Tower of Babel. We
are amidst natives of every variety of shade, from sepia to chocolate:
Majestic Arabs, arrayed in long flowing robes, Hindoos in white tunics
and bright red turbans, Malays, Chinamen, Persians, etc. The Malay women
are very black, with the fewest clothes that it was possible to wear and
nose-rings and beads hanging everywhere. They carry on their backs black
babies with woolly hair and white eyes like nice Newfoundland puppies.
Ambulant cooks walk amongst the crowd; they carry two round chests,
containing a small stove, on which they fry nasty-smelling roasts; in
another box, on wooden trays, are placed bowls containing minced meats
of all kinds; a whole lot of little horrors, which the natives snap up
with the aid of long chopsticks, sitting on their heels on the ground and
turning their backs to the passers-by. Black policemen, dressed European
fashion, with a white stick in their hand, keep order in the streets.