The steamer's first halt on the wild eastern coast of Celebes is the
gold-mining settlement of Todok, where the Company's rustic offices of
palm-thatched bamboo border an enchanting bay, with a string of green
islets studding the shoaling blue and purple of the gleaming depths.
Two passengers disembark for the ebony plantations on the slopes of a
volcanic range, declaring itself by a slight earthquake rocking the
_atap_ shanty, where the ship's officer who tallies the cargo, offers
hospitality until the fierce heat modifies sufficiently for a stroll.
A dusty and shadeless road leads up into the wooded hills which
bound the prospect, but the _campong_, largely consisting of
recently-constructed dwellings, occupied by alien employés in the
service of the Gold Syndicate, offers no inducements for exploration,
and until the launch returns, a shadowy palm-grove by the wayside makes
a welcome retreat from the dust and glare, the creaking of innumerable
bullock-waggons, and the shouts of crew and coolies, disputing over the
loading of a raft.
The arrival at Gorontalo in the radiant dawn provides a more
interesting experience. The river which forms the beautiful harbour,
rushes through a profound ravine of the forest-clad mountains, which
descend sharply to the water's edge. The scene resembles a Norwegian
fiord, translated into tropical terms of climate and vegetation. A
narrow track climbs the ledges of a cliff behind the brown fishing
_campong_ of Liato, but a rude wharf on the opposite side affords a
less picturesque though safer landing, for the swirling currents of the
swift stream require more careful navigation than the amphibious
boatman, unembarrassed by clothing, is wont to bestow on craft or
passenger. The spirit of enterprise is also in abeyance, scotched if
not killed by the struggles of the memorable pilgrimage through the
Minahasa. The quiet haven in the shadow of the guardian hills looks an
ideal haunt of peace. A Dutch battleship lies at anchor, and the red
sails of a wide-winged _prau_ make broken reflections in the rippling
clearness of the green water. A wooden bridge crosses the river at the
narrow end of the funnel-shaped harbour, connecting it with the town in
the steaming valley, the usual medley of open _tokos_ and _atap_ huts,
supplemented by two dubious hotels, a green _aloon-aloon_, and a few
stone houses denoting the presence of the European element. The
original inhabitants of Gorontalo are of Alfoer race--dark, glum, and
forbidding. How this ancient stock, indigenous to some of the southern
islands in the Malay Archipelago, wandered from thence to distant
Celebes has not been satisfactorily accounted for. The records of
savage tribes depend on oral tradition, but the outlines of an oft-told
tale become blurred and dim during the lapse of ages, when the mental
calibre of the racial type lacks normal acumen. The graces of life are
ignored by the Alfoer woman, her mouth invariably distorted by the red
lump of betel-nut, accommodated with difficulty, and rendering silence
imperative. Her bowed shoulders become deformed with the heavy loads
perpetually borne, for the rising trade of Gorontalo supplies the men
with more congenial employment than the field work, which frequently
becomes the woman's province. A straight road between crowding palms
crosses a wide rice-plain, opening out of the cleft carved by the
mountain river, and leads to the curious Lake of Limbotto, a green mass
of luxuriant water-weeds, the dense vegetation solidifying into
floating islands of verdure, intersected by narrow channels, only
navigable to a native _bloto_ skilfully handled, for Nature alternately
builds up and disperses these flowery oases, blocking up old water-ways
and opening new ones with bewildering confusion. Buffaloes wallow
between the tangled clumps of pink lotus and purple iris, and wild
ducks nest in the waving sedges, or darken the air in a sudden flight
down the long lake. A noisy market flanks the water, and bronze
figures, in red turbans row gaily-clad women, laden with purchases, to
some distant _campong_, reached through the mazes of verdure. The
country _passer_, a shifting scene of gaudy colouring, contains greater
elements of interest than commercial Gorontalo, where the native
_campong_ loses individuality in gaining the prosaic adjuncts of a
trading centre. The lovely harbour dreams in the moonlight as we steam
slowly out of the widening estuary to pick up cargo in the great bay of
Tomini, which sweeps in a mighty curve round half the Eastern coast of
Celebes. The conical island of Oena-Oena rises sheer from the waves,
the red peak of a lofty volcano composing the apex of a green pyramid,
formed by a forest of palms. Until six years ago no anchorage for ships
was possible at this forest-clad isle, but a volcanic eruption deepened
the bay, and a thriving trade in _copra_ was initiated, for the whole
surface of Oena-Oena is clothed with a dense mass of drooping cocoanut
trees. Scattered dwellings nestle in the thick woods, but no regular
_campong_ exists in this thinly-peopled spot, a vernal Eden set in the
purple sea. The heat of the day, though intense, is everywhere tempered
by the interlacing canopies of the feathery fronds, until sunset fuses
them into the vivid transparency of green fire, and a fluttering zephyr
stirs the whispering foliage. The shy brown people, who at first hide
in their _atap_ huts at the approach of strangers, venture out to see
the last of the departing steamer, which forms the sole link between
barbarism and civilisation, and a month must elapse before any contact
with the outside world can vary the seclusion of this lonely spot, a
dreamland vision of repose. At Posso, the next port on Celebes, we land
a Dutch officer, bound for the important barracks on a hill above the
straggling _campong_, after a successful expedition against the
tree-dwellers, cannibals, and slave-traders of the interior, still sunk
in barbarism. An olive-green river, infested with crocodiles, flows
sluggishly through rank vegetation into the sea below the dilapidated
huts of the depressing native town. This forlorn outpost of military
duty involves exile from civilisation, and the risk of occasional raids
from the wild tribes of the surrounding hills.
At Parigi, canopied by spreading palms, the _atap_ houses, with bamboo
rafters strengthening the fragile walls, stand in neglected gardens,
overgrown with a tangle of flower and foliage. The low tide makes the
dangerous _bloto_ a necessity, though the hollowed tree, top heavy and
water-logged, is in imminent peril of capsizing every minute of the
long course between ship and shore. Objections to a boat upsetting in
shallow water being beyond Malay comprehension, the only way of
accomplishing the transit in safety is by a summary command that two
brown boys should immediately jump overboard to lighten the rocking
craft. Nothing loth, they swim to shore in our wake, rolling over in
the sand to dry themselves like Newfoundland dogs, and with less
embarrassment on the score of clothing. A native Queen or Maharanee
rules Parigi from her bamboo palace in the deepest recesses of the
adjacent palm-forest, but she is invisible to her subjects, and dwells
in the seclusion of _purdah_, possibly a relic of Indian origin. Her
nominal authority proves insufficient to keep the peace between the
native population and the Dutch, for Parigi has been for months in a
state of insurrection and unrest. Only a year ago a raid was made on
the Eurasian merchant's office wherein I take shelter from the noonday
sun, and two white men were attacked by a band who rushed down from the
mountains and cut off their heads. The ringleader of the assassins is
now imprisoned for life in the gaol of Batavia, no capital punishment
being permitted in the Netherlands India. An immense cargo of _copra_
and rattan fills a fleet of boats and rafts. The great stacks of cane
cause no annoyance, but the sickening smell of _copra_ (the dried and
shredded cocoanut used for oil) pervades the ship, and an occasional
cockroach of crab-like dimensions clatters across the deck in his coat
of mail from a hiding place in the unsavoury cargo. The philosophic
Hollander accepts these horrors of the tropics with undisturbed
composure, but happily for the peace of the English passenger, the
Malay "room-boy" welcomes a new idea, and becomes gradually inspired
with the ardour of the chase. Ominous clouds darken over the Bay of
Tomini as we embark once more on the rolling waters, having completed
the circuit of the vast island, possessing a coast-line of 2,500 miles.
Blue peaks and waving palms recede into the mists of falling night. We
are once more afloat on a sleeping sea, the restful monotony of wind
and wave enabling indelible impressions of each varying scene to sink
deeply into mind and memory, and preventing the too rapid succession of
travelling experiences.