An element of uncertainty attends the cruise among the Malayan islands,
through sudden orders to include strange ports of call in the programme
of the route. During the stay at Makassar, a cable from Batavia
necessitates a flying visit to Borneo, and though the détour was made
from the western coast of Celebes, the great sister island demands a
special notice. In steaming thither through the radiant glory of an
Equatorial sunset, strange atmospheric effects denote fresh variations
of climate and temperature. The rounded horizon, which suggests the rim
of the terrestrial globe, seems within a stone's throw of the ship, and
as the crimson sun sinks below the sharply-defined curve outlined by
the sea, a glowing hearth of smouldering embers appears burning on the
edge of the water. The eastern sky blooms into vivid pink from the
reflection of this fiery incandescence, which fades only to give place
to the leaping brightness of phosphorescent waves, and the nightly
pageant of tropical skies ablaze with lambent flames of summer
lightning. Morning reveals the dark forests of mysterious Borneo,
rolling back to the misty blue of a mountain background. The pathless
jungles of teak and iron wood, inextricably tangled by ropes of liana
or ladders of rattan, latticed with creepers and wreathed with
clambering fern, make an impenetrable barrier between the settlements
of the coast and the unknown interior, where barbarism still reigns
triumphant, and "head-hunting" remains the traditional sport.
Insurmountable difficulties of transit and progress are reported, even
by the few enthusiastic botanists, who merely penetrate the outworks of
Nature's stronghold in search of rare orchids, worth more than a king's
ransom if we take into account the sacrifice of life, and the hardships
suffered in wresting these floral gems from their forest casket. Any
complete exploration of these tropical wilds seems at present beyond
human means and capacities, but even a few months of the soil and
climate of Borneo can transform a forest clearing into a wilderness of
riotous vegetation, more impassable than that woodland maze of a
century's growth encircling the palace of the Sleeping Beauty in the
loveliest of old-world fairy tales. Our present quest has no connection
with the mysteries of the interior, and only concerns itself with the
prosaic task of taking in a cargo of oil, used as the ship's fuel. We
steam into a wooded bay, beneath a hill covered with the brown _atap_
bungalows of European colonists. Colossal oil-tanks, painted red,
disfigure the shore. Each tank holds 4,000 tons of oil, 30,000 tons per
month being the usual export. Kerosene taints the air, but is
considered to be innocuous, and to drive away the curse of mosquitos.
The unimaginable and ferocious heat makes every step a terror, during a
snail's progress up a wooded road. Sun-hat and white umbrella scarcely
mitigate the scorching rays on this perilous promenade, but there is
only a day at disposal, and it cannot be wasted. Towards noon a breeze
springs up, and exploration of the long line of _tokos_ beyond the
wharves is simplified by the spreading eaves of palm-leaf thatch. A row
of workmen's dwellings forms a prosaic continuation of the _campong_,
inhabited by a mixed population, chiefly imported to Balik-Papan in the
interests of the oil trade. A chance rencontre with the Scotch doctor
of the European settlement affords an opportunity of visiting the Oil
Refinery, with the varied distillations, culminating in the great tank
of benzine, a concentration of natural forces like a liquid dynamite,
capable of wrecking the whole settlement in a moment. Endless
precautions and vigilant care alone secure the safety of Balik-Papan
from the perils incidental to the vast stores of explosive material.
The raw petroleum brought from the mines of Samarinda, farther down the
coast, by a fleet of _hoppers_ (the local steamers which ply round the
indented shore), is extracted by boring a stratum of coal known as
"antichine," and always containing indications of mineral oil. Dutch
and English Companies work this valuable product; fortunes are quickly
made, and the industrious inhabitants, absorbed in dreams of a golden
future, appear untroubled by any consciousness of metaphorically
sleeping on the brink of a volcano. Iced soda-water, and a brief
siesta, revive drooping spirits after the broiling exertions of the
morning, and as the shadows of the palm-trees lengthen on the edge of
the jungle, it becomes possible to mount the hill behind the wharf to
the picturesque bungalow of another kindly Scot, who invites me to tea.
The pretty tropical dwelling of plaited _atap_, through which every
precious breath of air can penetrate, stands in the midst of a gorgeous
thicket, composed of scarlet hybiscus and yellow Allemanda, the
splendid blossoms growing in wild luxuriance on this sandy soil. The
glare of the sun still requires the _atap_ screens to be closed on the
broad-eaved verandah, but the freshness of the evening breeze steals
into the twilight of the pretty drawing-room, the simple but refined
appointments of a restful home intensely refreshing after weeks of ship
and hotel existence. The fragrant tea, with dainty cups and saucers,
and the home-made cakes, seem almost forgotten luxuries, for the
amenities of British civilisation stop short at Singapore. A cheery
party assembles round the table, and these exiles on a foreign shore
extend the warmest of welcomes to the stray bird of passage, who will
soon leave behind only the shadowy "remembrance of a guest who tarrieth
but a day." The idea so familiar to the self-seeking spirit, that "it
is not worth while" to trouble about a passing acquaintance, finds no
echo in this hospitable coterie. To the visitor, the bright hours of
that afternoon, ten thousand miles away from England, remain as an
evergreen memory of genuine human sympathy, the true "touch of Nature"
linking hearts and lives. A long walk through the encroaching jungle
fills up the day. The narrow track skirts dark depths of matted
foliage, with strange bird-calls echoing through the gloom. The
phenomenal growth of vegetation in Borneo is so rapid that a month's
neglect in cutting back branches, and rooting up masses of strangling
creeper, would entirely obliterate the path. In six months a tree,
supposed to be cut down beyond possibility of resurrection, lately shot
up to the height of seventeen feet, with a girth of several inches in
diameter, so tenacious is the exuberant life of this irrepressible
vegetation, eternally renewing itself in immortal strength and primeval
freshness. From the edge of the sombre jungle the azure bay, set in the
dark frame of forest and gilded with sunset light, resembles a Scotch
loch at midsummer, and the poignant counterpart brings a sigh to the
lips of my companion, exiled for years from his Highland home. A long
slow river, navigable for native craft, widens into an estuary as it
approaches the sea, through the shadowy and impenetrable mazes of the
virgin woods traversed by the winding waterway. The Dyaks and other
wild aborigines of Borneo still haunt the forest depths, though the
fringe of civilisation drives them further inland, and some of the
local Sultans begin to fraternise with the settlers, who alone can
develope the riches of the extensive island. At present the northern
territory of Sarawak, successfully governed by an alien race, finds no
adequate counterpart on the island, though coast towns, springing up at
wide intervals, open small districts to the enterprise of the European
world. Balik-Papan, rising tier above tier on the dark hillside, and
brilliant with a multitude of flashing lights, looks picturesque as
Naples itself, when we steam away in the gathering gloom, and the
dazzling illumination, reflected in the tranquil sea, appears a
miraculous transfiguration. Oil tanks and warehouses, refineries and
factories, vanish under the veil of night, and only a fairy vision of
unearthly brightness remains as a final recollection of our brief visit
to Borneo.