Each island of the great Archipelago offers distinctive interests, for
many alien races grafted themselves on the original stock, after those
age-long wanderings across the Southern seas which probably coincided
with the westward march from Central Asia, whereby primeval man
fulfilled the decrees of destiny.
A long pull in a rickety _sampan_ across the harbour of Sourabaya
involves numerous collisions with fruit-boats, canoes, and rafts,
before reaching the steamer in the offing. Intervals of comparative
safety permit cursory observation of the gorgeously-painted _praus_
with upturned stern, curving bamboo masts, and striped sails, the
outline of the gaudy boats accentuated by a black line, and producing
the effect of huge shells tossing on the tide. The green isle of
Madoera, and the level morasses of Eastern Java, bound the wide
harbour, the blue cloud of the distant Tengger soaring abruptly on the
horizon. The ship becomes our home for a month, and affords a welcome
relief from divers struggles on land, involved by a dual language,
official red tape, and native incompetence. A brilliant sunset flames
across the heavens, and we glide across a golden sea as a fitting
prelude to unknown realms of enchantment. The dreamful calm of the two
days' passage obliterates the memory of bygone difficulties and
perturbations, the interval between past and future experiences falling
like refreshing dew on the weary spirit, and increasing the receptive
capacity required for the assimilation of new impressions. The vast
extent of the Malay Archipelago, and the stupendous size of the
principal islands, comes as a fresh revelation to travellers whose
ideas have been limited by vague recollections of schoolroom geography.
The seven hundred miles of Java's length, Sumatra's vast extent of
fourteen hundred miles, the area of Borneo equalling that of France and
Germany combined, and the fact of Celebes, for which we are bound,
exceeding the dimensions of Norway and Sweden, convey startling
suggestions of the limitless space occupied by the great Equatorial
group. The palms and flowers of myriad smaller isles break the blue
monotony of these summer seas traversed by the Malay wanderers of olden
days, striving to sail beyond the sunset, and to overtake that
visionary ideal flitting ever before them, and luring them on with the
fairy gold of unfulfilled desires.
At length the high blue peaks of central Celebes pierce the silver
mists of a roseate dawn, and beyond a cluster of coral islets, the
white town of Makassar gleams against a green background of palms.
Miles of brown _campongs_ fringe the shore, but the gay scene on the
wooden wharves at first occupies undivided attention. _Sarongs_ of
crimson, orange, purple, or boldly-contrasting plaids, enhance the deep
bronze of native complexion, the ample folds of the wide skirts drawn
up above the knees. High turbans of white or red cambric, elaborately
twisted, add dignity to the stately figures, deeply-cut features and
hawk noses denoting Arab origin, for the Makassarese is a lineal
descendant of the Moslem pirates, once the terror of these
island-studded seas. Proud, courageous, and passionately addicted to
adventurous travel in far-off lands, these sturdy islanders have little
in common with the inert races of Java. The normal Malay element
appears extinguished by the fiery superstructure of Arab nature,
retaining the vindictive and fanatical traits of ancestral character.
The women, in rainbow garb, use their floating _slandangs_ as
improvised _yashmaks_, holding the red and yellow folds before their
faces in approved Moslem fashion, when passing a man. Makassar,
formerly ruled by a line of powerful princes as an independent fief,
but now subject to a Dutch Governor, has become the capital of Celebes,
and occupies an important commercial position. The wharves are filled
with bales of _copra_, mother-of-pearl shells, plumage of native birds,
dried fish, bundles of rattan, and precious woods from the primeval
forests of the interior. The boom of the fisherman's drum echoes across
the water in constant reverberations, a secularised relic of the
religious past, originally serving the purpose of the Mohammedan call
to prayer, but now fulfilling the prosaic office of signalling the
arrival or departure of boats, though the devout mariner still appeals
by drum to the Heavenly Powers for fair weather and a good haul of
fish. The official buildings of Makassar, including the Dutch
Governor's palace, face a green _aloon-aloon_, flanked by superb
avenues of kanari and tamarind trees. The hoary fort, scarcely
distinguishable from the solid rock which supports it, was captured
from the King of Goa by a Dutch admiral, who thrust his sword through
an adjacent cocoanut palm, to symbolise his intention of piercing the
hearts of all who resisted the Treaty afterwards drawn up. The sword
and cocoanut now form part of the heraldic arms belonging to Makassar.
Local costume affords a continuous feast of colour, and streets and
avenues appear like moving tulip beds, the broad blue sky and dazzling
sunshine of this tropical land intensifying every glowing tint of robe,
fruit, and flower. In the umber shadows of dusky _tokos_, gold-beaters
fashion those red-gold ornaments rich in barbaric beauty, for which
Makassar has ever been renowned. Portuguese art glorifies native
workmanship, and the Dutch carry on the traditions of the past, merely
simplifying the old methods by introducing modern tools to lighten the
labour of production. Silken scarves, and elaborately-painted _battek_,
woven with gold and silver thread, swing from the black rafters of dim
corridors, and countless treasures of the deep, in shells and coral of
rich and delicate colouring, manifest the infinite variety of Nature's
handiwork. From the crowded lanes, with their busy markets and hybrid
population, we drive through the long line of _campongs_ bordering the
palm-fringed coast. The bamboo walls of the fragile houses, standing on
stilts or rocking on poles in the rippling sea, show a multitude of
fantastic designs, the broad roofs of thatched grass or plaited
palm-leaves extending in penthouse eaves above carven panels let into
the gables. A riot of glorious vegetation frames and overshadows the
clustering huts of deftly-woven cane. Dark faces peer through the
narrow slits of bamboo window-spaces, but Makassar pride contains the
elements of self-respect, and though the stranger attracts a certain
amount of interest, no discourtesy mars the pleasure of exploration. A
red road beneath towering palms, skirts rice-fields and bamboo thickets
to the beautiful ford of the Tello, a broad river flowing between vast
woods of cocoanut and bread-fruit trees, with only a tiny dug-out,
steered by a brown boy in a scarlet turban, to dispel the loneliness of
the scene. The vicinity of Makassar offers no special characteristics
beyond those of a tropical garden, but the changing aspects of native
life provide subjects of unceasing interest. To-day a great Chinese
festa takes place, which attracts all the inhabitants of town and
_campong_, for amusements are scarce on these distant shores, and no
questions of race or faith complicate the determination to secure a
share in the pleasures of the ceremony. When the usual burst of squibs
and crackers, lighting of bonfires, and tossing of joss-papers into the
air, marks the commencement of the holiday, spectators line the roads,
climb the trees, and crowd the fiat roofs of Portuguese houses. The
afternoon is the children's portion of the festival, and the little
bedizened figures, with rouged faces, tinsel crowns, and spangled
robes, bestride grotesque wooden dragons, fishes, and birds,
brilliantly painted, and drawn on wheels by masked men in robes of pink
and green. A crowd of high-class babies, also bedizened and spangled,
follows in perambulators wreathed with flowers, and pushed by their
Chinese nurses. Hideous gods in glittering robes, and appalling demons
painted in black and scarlet, bring up the rear of the long procession,
which traverses every street and lane of the Chinese _campong_, the
open houses displaying the lighted altars and tutelary gods of
Buddhist and Taoist creed, for the mystic philosophy of the Eastern
sages materialises into grossest realism by passing through the
crucible of Chinese thought.
A visit to the so-called "Kingdom of Goa" fills up our last day in
Makassar. The Palace of the tributary Sultan, ten miles from the
capital, consists of steep-roofed houses built upon huge trunks of
forest trees, and connected by carved galleries and crumbling stairs
with the Harem at the back of the main edifice. Squalid women in blue
yashmaks loll on the crazy verandah, whence a native secretary marshals
us through the dusty and ruinous building. The Sultan, taking to the
hills as a necessary precaution after inciting his subjects to
rebellion against the Dutch, has just been captured, but, whether by
accident or design, fell over a cliff, and until his dead body is
brought back to receive the Mohammedan rites of burial, the royal
residence remains in charge of the police. The grass-grown road to the
decaying Palace intersects the rambling and sordid village of Goa, the
feudal appanage of the sorry chieftain, a perpetual thorn in the side
of the Dutch Government. The surrounding country appears almost a
solitude, the silence stirred by the song of the distant surf, the
chirping of myriad grasshoppers, and the ceaseless clash of waving
palms in the breeze which steals up from the sea. A quaint
water-castle, shaped like a Chinese junk, stands on a rock in a
fish-pond reflecting the rosy sky, and the fretted marble of a
beautiful Arabian tomb gleams from a clump of white-starred _sumboya_
exhaling incense on the air. As the magic and mystery of night shroud
Makassar in a mantle of gloom, the surrounding sea becomes a vision of
phosphorescent flame to the furthest horizon. The sheet-lightning of
the tropical sky repeats the wonders of the deep, the glamour of
romance gilds the prose of reality, and we apprehend that spirit of
wondering awe which breathes through the records of old-world voyagers
across uncharted oceans, when witnessing the phenomena of Nature in the
sanctuary of her power, before Science had torn the veil from the
mystic shrine.
The steamer's course follows the bold and mountainous coast; steep
cliffs alternate with forest-clad ravines, the purple ranges of the
foreground melting into the azure crests of soaring peaks. Skilful
navigation is required in threading the blue water-lanes of the
Spermunde group, the scores of palm-clad islets like bouquets of
verdure thrown on the tranquil sea. The wicker-work _campongs_ of the
fishing population form a ring round each white beach of sparkling
coral sand. The black bow of the "Bromo," a ship which broke her back
on a reef twenty years ago, stands high above the treacherous rocks,
and accentuates the vivid colouring of water and foliage. At Paré-Paré,
a native _campong_ in a deep bay at the edge of a forest, the steamer
stops to discharge cargo, and affords an opportunity of landing. A gay
crowd lines the shore of the picturesque village, the houses of
palm-thatched bamboo adorned with carved ladders and upcurving eaves of
white wood. One of the numerous military expeditions to turbulent
Celebes has lately been successful, and the _campong_, where every hut
was closed for a year in consequence of the local Rajah forcing his
people to join in his insurrection, has at last been re-opened, though
under a guard of Dutch and Malay troops. A brown bodyguard of native
children, mainly clad in silver chains and medals, escorts the
strangers with intense delight to a shabby little mosque, where a
Dervish, in the orange turban rewarding a pilgrim to Mecca, beats a big
drum in the stone court. The little savages encountered at Mandja on
the following day seem equally free from clothes and cares, but
Europeans, though possessing the charm of novelty, are regarded with
awe; a sudden stop, a word, or even a lifted hand, sufficing to make
the whole juvenile population take to their heels, and hide among the
palms and bananas until a sudden impulse of fresh curiosity banishes
fear. Clothing is at a discount, but ornaments of brass, silver, and
coloured beads, are evidently indispensable. Natural flowers, like
immense red fuchsias with long white bells, serve as ear-rings, and
scarlet caps adorn the sleek black heads of the elder girls. An _al
fresco_ picnic party from the hills occupies a green mound, and boils a
kettle on sticks of flaming bamboo, though a stray spark might easily
burn down the entire _campong_. A great part of Celebes is uninhabited
and uncultivated, but the tribes of the interior, warlike and
treacherous, have never been completely subjugated. The slave trade
flourishes among these lonely hills, murder and violence are rife; the
methods of warfare, comprising poisoned arrows, and bullets containing
splinters of glass, denote absolute barbarism, and the enormous island,
which ought to be a field of emigration for some of Java's twenty-seven
millions, except for the coast _campongs_ and the rice-grounds of the
far interior, remains one of the waste places of the earth, in spite of
a perfect climate and a teeming soil.
Day by day the scenery becomes more wild and dreary; the forests
disappear, and the sun-baked hills encroach on the low brushwood beyond
the white beaches of coves and inlets, without any sign of habitation.
An atmosphere of crystalline purity discloses the highest range of the
interior, a long chain of azure peaks. Our course traverses league upon
league of melancholy solitude, emphasised rather than relieved by the
brilliant sunlight and balmy breezes playing over this realm of
neglected possibilities, where the wants of countless sufferers might
be abundantly supplied. Anchoring for an hour in the deep blue bay of
Tontoli, we come once more into the haunts of men, and two picturesque
_campongs_ buried in cocoa-palms beneath the wooded mountains of Tomini
are pointed out as exclusively peopled by descendants of the pirates
who infested this western coast of Celebes. From this point the
interest of the cruise increases. Pretty _campongs_ line the shore of
every sheltered creek. Boats of quaint form and colour push off to meet
the steamer, quickly surrounded by _sampans_, _blotos_ (the native
canoes), or carved and painted skiffs, all manned by an amphibious race
in Nature's suit of brown, which renders the wearers indifferent to
overturned boats, water-logged _blotos_, and collapsing rafts, though
the encouraging statements of our Malay crew as to the warmth and
shallowness of the water in case of any contretemps, is less reassuring
to the travellers who venture shoreward on the risky craft. The loan of
the captain's boat makes the visit to Dongalla an experience of
unalloyed pleasure, but the people appear morose and sullen. A
dignified youth, in purple turban and checked _sarong_, attempts to do
the honours of his native place, but his comrades, oppressed by vague
suspicions, close the heavy doors of their wooden houses, and peep
through the interstices of the bamboo shutters as we thread the narrow
alleys, escorted by the deck steward. A more genial crowd welcomes us
to the palm-groves of Palehle, where a light-hearted bodyguard of
children shows us every nook and corner of the brown _campong_, with
smiling faces and merry laughter. The heart-whole mirth of these little
savages might brighten the saddest soul. Living in the present, with no
artificial wants to create dissatisfaction, and free from the pains or
penalties of poverty, as experienced in Northern climes, the simple
life close to the heart of Nature suggests ideas of Eden's unshadowed
joy. Amid the treasures of memory garnered during the winter's
wanderings through the Malay Archipelago, the unclouded merriment which
endows these children of Nature remains as the deepest impression
stamped on the memory of the Western pilgrim. European childhood, at
the best and brightest, but faintly approaches this spontaneous gaiety,
the special attribute of untutored souls in a world of primal
innocence.
At Soemalata the steep declivities of wooded mountains enclose the
harbour, and a narrow pass leads to the gold mines, where the process
of smelting and separating the ore takes place in a primitive series of
conduits, sluices, mills, and pounding machines. The gold concession
granted by the local Rajah prospers in European hands, but the barbaric
chieftain adheres to the ancient custom of having the gold washed from
the river sand by his own slaves. The English engineer of the mines
hails a compatriot with delight, and his explanation of the complicated
machinery ends with a welcome invitation to tea in his pretty
bungalow. A solitary Englishman is frequently found stationed in the
remotest outposts of civilisation throughout the Malay Archipelago,
enduring a life of unexampled loneliness with the tenacity and
determination inherent in national character. The oft-receding vision
of a successful future inspires the dauntless heart less than a sense
of present duty, and these exiles from the social ties of nation and
kindred possess special claims on sympathy and remembrance. Lovely
lanes of palm and banana, brightened by trees of crimson poinsettia,
wind upward to the hills, and a cluster of green islets gems the blue
waters; the scarlet-stemmed Banka palm offering a glowing contrast to
the sweeping emerald of the feathery fronds. The little settlement of
Kwandang, with a gold _fabrik_ occupying a wooded islet, completes the
circuit of the western coast, for the North-Eastern Cape comprises a
distinctive province, requiring a separate chapter. Intervening
mountains, with jagged cliffs and towering summits, rise like Titanic
fortresses from the creaming surf which washes the yellow bastions,
leaving no space for the wicker _campongs_, impermanent as a child's
house of cards, but perpetually rebuilt in identical fashion, and never
developing into substantial dwellings, or adjusted on the new lines
required by varieties of environment.