THE MINAHASA.

Steaming slowly through the phosphorescent seas of the starlit night,

we anchor at dawn in the forest-lined bay of Amoerang, the principal

harbour of the Minahasa. The picturesque Northern Cape of Celebes

contains a population differing in origin and character from all other

races of the vast island, and conveys the idea of a distinctive

country. The mountain panorama of shelving ridges and fretted

promontories, breaking the outlines of the rocky coast with infinite

variety, culminates in the chiselled contours of volcanic peaks,

cutting sharply into the silvery blue of a stainless sky. Amoerang,

half-buried in sago-palms, on the green rim of the secluded haven,

shows slight resemblance to the _campongs_ generally encountered on the

western coast. Wooden cottages, though built on piles of wood or stone,

and thatched with _atap_ (plaited palm leaves) possess many features in

common with the screened and balconied dwellings of Japan. The people,

in aspect and feature, also convey suggestions of the Japanese origin

ascribed to them, for ancient traditions assert that the Minahasa was

colonised by an Asiatic tribe, driven out of Formosa by native savages,

in one of those wild raids upon the peaceful maritime population which

drove them to face the perils of an unknown sea, rather than fall into

the ruthless hands of the bloodthirsty aborigines who inhabited the

forests and mountains of the interior. Many of the hapless exiles

perished through hunger, thirst, storm, and shipwreck of their

slightly-built craft, during the long wanderings which ended as though

by chance for the survivors, in the distant Minahasa. The Malay element

in those Japanese refugees, displayed the usual characteristics of

skill in boat-building and navigation, together with that accurate

observation of natural phenomena which alone could compensate for the

lack of scientific knowledge. The women, with oblique eyes and oval

faces, wear the gay _sarong_ and white _kabaja_ customary in Eastern

Java. The men, in shapeless gowns and wide trousers, with broad hats of

battered straw on their close-cropped hair, afford a sorry spectacle of

unbecoming and disorderly attire, conveying grotesque hints of Japanese

ideas beneath the squalid ugliness overlaying them. The fishermen,

conveniently unclad for the necessities of their calling, wear only a

yellow or scarlet waist-cloth, the bright touch of colour emphasising

the deep bronze of their slight but athletic forms. The people of the

Minahasa, Christianised after the Calvinistic methods of Dutch and

German missionaries a century ago, have always been specially favoured

by the Government of Holland, and large sums are annually expended in

improving the status of this distant colony. The making of roads, the

building of schools and churches, and the improvement of social

conditions, are liberally catered for, not only for the advantage of

the Minahasa, but that no excuse may exist for any rebellion against

such paternal rule. Tribal insurrections continually recur in the great

Archipelago, where a storm in a teacup often swells into dangerous

proportions, and the peaceful adherence of the Minahasa to the powers

that be becomes an important factor in turbulent Celebes. The race, so

strangely amalgamated with alien interests, shows the apathy of a

temperament incapable of developement on foreign lines, though unable

to resist the pressure imposed upon it. The pretty _campong_ seems

silent as the grave. No native _warongs_, or restaurants, enliven the

straight roads with their merry crowds or cheerful gossip, and sellers

of food and drink, whose cries echo through the streets of Makassar,

are unknown in this northern port, where even the arrival of the

fortnightly steamer fails to excite much interest in the public mind.

A rash determination to drive across the Minahasa, and pick up the boat

at Menado, involves unimagined difficulties. Heavy waggons drawn by

brown _sappies_ (_i.e._, bullocks), which travel at the rate of two

miles an hour, suffice for native use in remote Amoerang, but at length

a dilapidated gig, with two sorry steeds harnessed in tandem fashion by

sundry bits of old rope, is produced. Having frequently experienced the

pace accomplished by many a Timor pony of emaciated and dejected

aspect, faith accepts even this unpromising team for the long drive of

thirty miles. Quaint _campongs_, with bamboo fences and curiously

arched gateways, flank the woodland road. Each little garden flames

with red poinsettia, purple convolvulus, and yellow daisies. The

latticed screens pushed back from open verandahs, show Japanese-looking

rooms, furnished with the European lamps, chairs, and tables, exported

by thousands to the Minahasa, but the same atmosphere of stagnation

broods over these quiet villages, and even the children, returning from

a bamboo schoolhouse on the edge of the forest, show the staid and

solemn demeanour of their elders. For a few miles all goes well, with

the trifling exception of occasional breakages in the countless knots

of the rope harness. The last whistle of the steamer floats upward as

she leaves her anchorage, and refusing to yield to a faint misgiving as

to the success of the present enterprise, eyes and thoughts concentrate

themselves on the increasing beauty of the mountain road, the living

emerald of the rice-fields, and the picturesque mills for husking the

grain, which give special character to this unique district of Celebes.

Suddenly the rickety conveyance comes to a full stop, and a kicking

match begins, the plunging ponies refusing to budge an inch. The

incapable Jehu implores his fare's consent to an immediate return, but

meets with an inexorable refusal, the halting Malay sentences eked out

with an unmistakable pantomime of threats and warnings. The driver's

whip, supplemented by an English umbrella, produces no effect on the

obtuse animals, which have to be led, or rather hauled, on their

unwilling way. One obstreperous steed becomes so unmanageable that it

becomes necessary to hitch him to the back of the cart, at the imminent

risk of overturning it, in his determination to thwart his companion's

enforced progress. Mile after mile the wearisome struggle continues.

Even a lumbering bullock waggon passes us again and again, in the

numerous stoppages required for fresh conflict. The endless hours of

the weary day drag on like a terrible nightmare, but a descent into a

profound ravine of these mountain solitudes at length enables the

driver to start the team at a rate which makes it impossible for them

to stop, and he vaults lightly into his place as we spin merrily

downhill. Our troubles are not over, for on the next upward grade the

old game of rearing, backing, and futile attempts at buck-jumping,

begins again. Despairing eyes rest on a thatched booth at the

roadside, containing a row of bottles hung up by a string, with the

bamboo tube for coins. Holding the ropes, and currying favour with the

ponies by leading them to a patch of grass, it becomes possible for the

boy to leave them for a sorely-needed drink of the sago-wine. The

fiendish animals try to upset the cart, and the fight recommences for

the fiftieth time, but the brown huts of a _campong_ in a cactus

thicket inspire hope, and after a furious battle in the street, to the

intense delight of the Japanese-looking people, a man comes to the

rescue with a stout pony. The boy mounts one battered steed, the other

is left behind in a hospitable stable, and we trot briskly on through

lovely scenery of forest and mountain to Kanas, at the head of the

beautiful lake of Tondano, hitherto seen in glimpses at an immense

depth between encircling peaks. Wearied almost to stupefaction by

eleven hours of a combat, after which victory seems scarcely less

ghastly than defeat, we would gladly remain for the night at the little

Rest House of Kanas, but prudence compels us to push on to Tondano, at

the other end of the lake, while a capable pony remains at disposal.

The lake road is a vista of entrancing loveliness, overhung by arching

bamboos and great sago-palms, the vanguard of the forest which clothes

the lower spurs of the purple mountain ranges, shutting off the long

blue lake from the outside world. A rudely-built _bloto_, merely the

hollowed trunk of a tree, crosses the water, with a torch flickering at

the prow, for the sun has set, and the crimson afterglow begins to fade

from the serrated crests of the opposite heights. The ripple of the

water in the reeds at the edge of the road, and the sigh of the evening

breeze, fluttering the leaves and creaking the yellow canes of the

great bamboos, alone stir the silence, which comes as a welcome relief

after the toil and excitement of the day; but alas! we have all

forgotten the perils of the road at nightfall, and in the sudden

darkness, deepened by the shadowy trees, a false step might precipitate

cart and passengers into the deep water. Any advance becomes dangerous

on the winding way, which follows every curve of the irregular shore,

so a halt is called, while the boy rides on towards some twinkling

lights denoting a lakeside _campong_. After a long wait, he returns in

triumph with three matches and a piece of flaming tow in a bottle. By

observing due precaution, we can now follow his guidance, while he

holds out the flaring light with extended arm. As we turn round the

foot of the lake into a raised causeway above fields of ripening rice,

the full moon comes up behind the sombre hills, and transfigures the

night with a sparkling flood of silver glory. We reach the white Dutch

town of Tondano as the clock strikes ten, but everyone is in bed at

this dissipated hour, and difficulty is experienced even in getting

admission to the little Hotel, though the delight of finding an

English-speaking landlord atones for a somewhat ungracious reception

after a long and painful pilgrimage, which should serve as a solemn

warning against the rash attempt to penetrate the wilds of the Minahasa

under native guidance.

Tondano, with houses and verandahs gleaming in spotless whiteness among

green spaces and luxuriant trees, appears a typical Dutch town,

incongruous but picturesque. The absolute purity and transparency of

the atmosphere give value and intensity to every shade of colour, and

the scarlet hybiscus flowers show the incandescent glow belonging

rather to lamps than to blossoms. The river Tondano forms a series of

lovely cascades below the town, situated four miles from the lake at

the present time, for the marshy flats have been reclaimed as

rice-grounds, thus somewhat diminishing the stretch of water. The steep

drive down to Menado offers a succession of lovely views. The little

port, in a nest of verdure, encircles the azure bay, where our steamer,

merely a white speck in the distance, lies at anchor. A turn of the

road discloses a glimpse of the mountain lake, a sheet of sapphire

sparkling in the morning sun, but retrospective thoughts in this

instance convey pain as well as pleasure, for "mounting ambition" has

for once "o'erleapt itself," and failure counterbalances success.

Menado, divided by the river, is inhabited by two distinct tribes of

the mysterious colonists who came from the farthest East to these

unknown shores. The ubiquitous Chinaman has found a firm footing in the

northerly port of Celebes, and the splendidly-carved dragons of a

stately temple, rich in ornaments of green jade, blue porcelain, and

elaborate brass-work, denote the important status of the wealthy

community. A busy _passer_ supplies the usual pictures of native life,

but the people of the Minahasa, here as elsewhere, lack both the gay

insouciance of the South, and the strenuous energy of the Northern

mind, the residuum of apathetic dullness, deprived of all the salient

characteristics which constitute charm and interest. European houses of

Dutch officials stand in ideal gardens of brilliant flowers and richest

foliage. The little Hotel Wilhelmina is a paradise of exotic blossoms,

but Menado, apart from a lovely situation, and the usual riot of

glorious verdure which makes every tropical weed a thing of beauty,

offers little inducement for a prolonged stay. The bay, exposed to

contrary winds and chafed by conflicting currents, tosses in perpetual

turmoil, though a long jetty diminishes the former difficulties of the

stormy passage between ship and shore. In the amber light of sunset,

the dark mountain ranges stand out with unearthly clearness. The jagged

peaks of Klabat and Soedara in the background, bringing into prominence

the grey cliffs and purple ravines of the smoking Lokon. The wonderful

scenery of the Malay Archipelago seldom lacks that element of terror

which enhances the radiant loveliness of Nature by painting it on a

tragic background of storm and cloud, the vague suggestion of

evanescence intensifying the mysterious charm with poetic significance.

The receding coast discloses a striking panorama of the mountain

heights piled one upon another, the grey towers and bastions guarding

this narrowing Cape of the Minahasa, a veritable outpost of Nature,

eternally washed by the restless seas. As the steamer rounds the savage

promontories, and threads the blue straits formed by two rocky islets

at the northern extremity, the weird and desolate landscape conveys a

strange sense of separation even from the alien humanity which peoples

the far-reaching peninsula of the Minahasa, and this northern extremity

appears a limitless waste. Chaotic masses of imperishable granite,

splintered reefs thrusting black spikes through the creaming surge, and

wind-swept cliffs of fantastic form, characterise the solemn headland,

unpainted and unsung, although the sea-girt sanctuary of Nature demands

interpretation through the terms of Art and Poetry.