The exquisite islands of Banda, dominated by the stately volcano of
Goenoeng Api (the mountain of fire), form the climax of the enchanting
Moluccas. Contour and colour reach their utmost grace and softest
refinement in this ideal spot, a priceless jewel resting on the heart
of the Malay Archipelago.
The mists of dawn have scarcely lifted their gossamer veils from the
dreaming sea, when the pinnacled rocks of Rum and Aye, the outposts of
the Banda group, pierce the swathing vapours. The creamy cliffs of
Swangi (the Ghost Island), traditionally haunted by the spirits of the
departed, show their spectral outlines on the northern horizon, and the
sun-flushed "wings of the morning" span the sapphire arch of heaven as
we enter the sheltered gulf of the Zonnegat, fringed by luxuriant woods
clothing a mountain side, and brushing the water with a green fringe of
trailing branches. Gliding between Cape Lantaka and two isolated crags,
the steamer enters a glassy lake, encircled by sylvan heights, with
the menacing cone of the Goenoeng Api rising sheer from the water's
edge. A white town climbs in irregular tiers up the shelving terraces
of a fairy island, the central hill crowned by the crenellated
battlements of a grey citadel. The largest ship can anchor close to
shore, for the rugged boundaries of Banda descend by steep gradients
into the crystalline depths. Chinese and Arab _campongs_ border
European streets of concrete houses, long and low, with flat roofs and
external galleries.
The southern shore of Banda Neira faces the forest-clad heights of
Great Banda, clothed from base to summit with nutmeg trees, shadowed by
huge kanaris, their interlacing canopies protecting the precious spice
plantations from the sun. A slender rowing boat, known as a _belang_,
makes a brilliant point of colour on the blue strait between the sister
islands. Red and yellow flags and pennants flutter above the green
deck; the clash of gongs and cymbals echoes across the water, and a
weird chant accompanies the rhythmic plash of the short oars, as the
brown rowers toss them high in air, and bring them down with a sharp
splash. A splendid avenue of kanari-trees extends along the shore, the
usual Dutch church symbolises the uncompromising grimness of
Calvinistic creed, and the crumbling fort of Orange-Nassau, the scene
of many stirring incidents in the island past, adjoins the beautiful
thatched bungalow of the Resident, the broad eaves emerging from depths
of richest foliage. A subterranean passage connects the deserted
stronghold on the shore with Fort Belgica, the citadel now used as
barracks, but formerly for the preservation of the nutmegs from the
fierce raids of foreign powers, when the new-born passion for spices
intoxicated the mind of the world, and kindled the fires of war between
East and West. The lofty peak of the Goenoeng Api still smoulders,
although the main crater is supposed to be extinct. The lower slopes,
where not planted with vegetables by enterprising invaders from the
island of Boeton, abound with delicate ferns and rare orchids, for the
fertility of the volcanic soil, rich in metallic ingredients, creates a
luxuriant growth. Sulphureous vapours rise continually from a plateau
beneath the summit, where tumbled boulders of blackened lava lie sunken
in deep layers of volcanic ash. Banda Neira evidently rose from the sea
in some long-past eruption of the larger island, now the long ridge of
a ruined crater which collapsed in a fierce outburst, and threw off the
fragments of rock which compose the outer group. A curious fatalism
characterises the inhabitants of volcanic districts, and the
incalculable value of Banda in the middle ages outweighed all risks of
eruption and earthquake. The history of island colonisation by
Portugal, Spain, and Holland, forms a continuous record of battle,
loot, and persecution, in which the native population was decimated,
and even now the inhabitants would be quite insufficient to cultivate
and gather the "golden fruit," without the aid of innumerable emigrants
from Java. Hard measures were dealt out in order to maintain the
monopoly of spices, and the injury to the native races, by destroying
the nutmeg trees of the other islands, crippled the trade which had
found a natural outlet in Asia. All the nutmegs were sent to Europe,
but one-fifth of the yearly produce was diverted by smuggling into
forbidden channels, though severe punishment was inflicted upon
offenders. Economic administration was unknown in the 17th and 18th
centuries, but the holocaust of spices burnt in the market-place of
Amsterdam, and the extermination of the nutmeg trees in Moluccan
islands, sent a thrill of horror through the European world, which
placed such an exaggerated value on the possession of spices that the
wars waged to secure them breathe the romantic fanaticism of a wild
crusade. Monopoly and slavery were at length definitely abolished, and
in 1873 the Dutch Government, realising the necessity of Free Trade,
sanctioned the independence of the nutmeg planters. The far-seeing
views of Sir Stamford Raffles during the second brief English
occupation of the Moluccas, from 1810 to 1816, were disregarded in
England (knowing little, and caring less, about the remote Spice
Islands), though his counsels were eventually adopted by the Dutch
Government as the only means of ensuring an increased profit. A
high-prowed native boat, known as an _orembai_, plies across the
narrow strait which separates the islands of Banda Neira and Banda
Lonthar, or Great Banda. The long range of hills covered with a dense
forest of the precious nutmeg trees, attains an ideal of sylvan scenery
surpassing even the glorious palm-woods of Java. These may be described
in terms of comparative accuracy, and their beauty painted in realistic
language, but none can translate into words the irresistible charm and
glamour of the nutmeg aisles, the exquisite foliage and contours of the
spice-bearing trees, the wealth of delicate blossom and peach-like
fruit, and the flickering emerald light from hues shading through the
whole gamut of colour, from the tender verdure of spring to the glossy
darkness of winter evergreen. Colossal kanari-trees, veritable monarchs
of the forest, tower over the nutmegs, and form an unbroken roof of
interlacing boughs, for the nutmeg, needing shelter to bring the fruit
to perfection, is not suffered to attain a height of more than seventy
feet. The columnar trunks of the majestic kanaris wreathe their huge
girth with lace-like fern and broad-leaved epiphytal plants, and the
symmetrical beauty of the conical nutmeg-trees in these forest aisles
suggests a vast sanctuary of Nature, enshrining the mystic presence of
Divinity. Here, as amid the shades of unfallen Eden, we can imagine a
trysting-place of God and man in the perennial "cool of the day," which
breathes through the green twilight of these solemn groves, redolent
with the incense from myriad sprays of creamy blossom and ripened nuts
in shells of pink-flushed amber, for flower and fruit deck the
"gold-bearing tree" without intermission, and every day produces a
fresh harvest of nutmegs. The brown kernel of the opening fruit,
contained in a network of scarlet mace, falls to the ground in
twenty-four hours, and unremitting care is needed in gathering and
handling the nutmegs with the _gaai-gaai_, a long stick ending with a
prong, to break off the ripe fruit into the woven basket accurately
poised beneath the wooden fork. Only the female trees yield the
precious crop, and the highest point of production, attained at the
twentieth year, continues undiminished through four subsequent decades,
after which the strength of the average tree declines, although it
often lives for a century. The cooing of the nutmeg pigeon, which feeds
on the abundant fruit, echoes through the shadowy glades with soothing
monotony. Yellow canaries flit through the vivid green of the pointed
foliage, and the scarlet crests of parrots glow through the dark
canopies of the giant kanari-trees. The voices of children at play, the
distant songs of the nutmeg-gatherers, the plash of the waves on the
coral reef, and the scented breeze whispering in the green crowns of a
million trees, blend in harmonious concord to fill the sylvan temple of
tropical Nature with mysterious music. At wide intervals the white
houses of the planters gleam amid the drooping boughs, the prevailing
green of the spacious woods relieved by the rosy purple of
Bougainvillea mantling a pillared verandah, or by great vases of
crimson and yellow flowers, bordering broad flights of stone steps.
Life on a great nutmeg plantation retains patriarchal character and
archaic charm; the multitude of dependents calls forth, in the present
day at any rate, much of kindly solicitude, and though the unvarying
sameness of existence sometimes proves the serpent which destroys the
peace of the idyllic Eden in young and eager hearts, the ramifications
of the large family party, gathered under one roof, mitigate the
monotony of daily tasks, and supply the necessary mental friction. Work
in the nutmeg-woods begin at 5 a.m., when a pealing bell summons the
labourers to each plantation for their different duties of gathering
the nuts, drying the mace, or sorting and liming the fruit. The
beautiful forest constitutes the world of the nutmeg-gatherer, both for
labour and recreation. In these dusky avenues youth and maiden tell
each other Love's eternal story, wandering away into the dreamland
shadows, vocal with sweeter melody than that of bird or breeze. The
musical call of the nutmeg-pigeon serves as a danger-signal, uttered
by sympathising friends, when love must yield to life's stern realities
in the person of the overseer. An ardent courtship often contributes to
the rapid filling of the nutmeg-basket in the hand of a rustic beauty,
whose admirers strive to secure for her the premium awarded for special
diligence, and a judicious official learns on occasion to be
conveniently deaf to the feigned voice of the _manoek faloer_. If the
chivalrous zeal of the brown lover is apt to overleap frontiers, and to
fill the baskets of one plantation with the produce of the other, the
ethics of Banda demonstrate the identity of human nature when swayed by
the passion which, according to circumstances, wrecks Troy or raids a
nutmeg orchard. A story is told of a planter who, in consequence of
engaging a bevy of attractive maidens for the year's work, was rewarded
by a phenomenal harvest of nutmegs, though the adjacent estates were
barren of fruit. Evening shadows darken apace in the woodland world,
and work ceases at three in the afternoon, when the store of gathered
fruit is brought to the _pagger_, where drying and liming sheds
surround the central warehouse. The nutmeg-pickers sort the ripe nuts
in an open gallery before taking them to the drying-shed, where they
are spread on a platform of split bamboo, twelve feet above a
smouldering fire. The process continues for six weeks, the nuts being
repeatedly turned until they begin to rattle. Only a slow method of
drying prevents the escape of the essential oil, necessary to the
flavour of the fruit, which must afterwards be dipped in slaked lime to
preserve it from insects. The coral-like mace contains a rich supply of
aromatic balm, and when loosened from the nutmeg can be dried in the
sun. The delicate scarlet branches, spread on wickerwork frames in open
spaces of the woods, contrast vividly with the shaded verdure of the
beautiful trees. The mace, trodden flat for facility in packing,
resembles a dainty growth of finest seaweed, and in the 16th century
shared popularity with the nutmeg which produced it. Even in the
present day a pewter spice box is an indispensable present on that
sixth anniversary of a Dutch marriage still known as "the pewter
wedding," and a nutmeg-box, with a grater, remains as a favourite
bridal gift, the fashion originating when the passion for spices first
pervaded mediæval Europe. Trade, as well as Science, wrote many
chapters of romantic adventure in the long history of the world's
social development, and modern thought but dimly realises the magnetic
spell of the days when the veil was first lifted between East and West,
and the wonders of untrodden shores disclosed to the pioneer. Heine, in
his _Lieder_, chants of the mystic nutmeg-tree as the ideal growth of
the tropical forest, for every stage of life and growth reveals some
fresh beauty in delicate bloom, glistening foliage, and fruit of
roseate gold. The spreading boughs, with their perfect contour and
emerald depths of light and shadow, suggest a typical picture of that
unfading Tree of Life in the midst of the earthly Paradise, round which
the passing ages weave innumerable dreams, while faith transplants it
to a fairer Garden than that of Eden. Where the winding woodland roads
lead along the shore, colossal screw-palms and silver-flowered
Barringtonias border the rocks, the sparkling azure of the sea visible
through the fantastic boughs, and the eternal song of the surf
vibrating through the still air with mysterious undertones. The brown
_campong_ of Banda Lonthar stands at the foot of the mossy steps which
lead to the summit of the wooded range, and command a superb view of
the island group. A further flight of stairs descends to the outside
coast or Achterval, but wherever we go, to quote the words of a modern
traveller, "we may imagine ourselves transported to the holy groves
whereof ancient poets sing." From the rich carpet of velvety moss and
plumy fern to the green vault of the leafy roof, the eye for once seems
"satisfied with seeing," for no hint of imperfection breaks the fairy
spell of enchantment in this poetic nutmeg-forest. Among serpentine
kanari roots, which stream across the mossy turf as though poured out
in liquid form and then petrified, we come across brown babies sleeping
in the shade, and cradled softly in the tender lap of earth, while the
mother, crooning a low song, pursues her work among the rustling
leaves. Terrace after terrace, the green aisles mount to the summit of
the great ridge, and the ruined forts on each wooded promontory recall
the long-past days when the "fruit of gold" demanded the increasing
vigilance of military power to defeat the onslaught of merchantman or
privateer, willing to run every risk in order to capture a cargo of
spices, and secure fabulous gains by appeasing the frantic thirst of
Europe for the novel luxury of the aromatic spoils. The mediæval craze
has died away, and the pungent spices of the Orient have taken a
permanent position of reasonable proportion in the culinary art of
modern times, but the glamour of the past, like the amber haze of a
tropical sunset, still environs the poetic tree in the island home
where, amid evergreen foliage and waxen flowers, the famous "fruit of
gold" still opens each coral-lined censer to exhale a wealth of undying
fragrance on the balmy air.