A PORT-HOLE VIEW OF SOUTHERN ASIA
WITH our eight hundred dollars each we felt somewhat flush. We
realised, however, that it would probably be a long time before we
could obtain positions that would pay us as well as those we had left
in Hawaii, China and the Philippines, and we foresaw that we might
have difficulty about getting work in Europe that would even pay our
expenses. For these reasons, although now comparatively opulent, we
decided to continue the steerage route.
We sailed from Hongkong in the forward part of the French Mail liner
_Caledonien_ for Saigon, Indo-China. Our only companions in the
steerage on this three-day trip were thirty Japanese women of the
underworld going to settle in the _La Petite Paris_, as Saigon is
frequently called. The meals on this steamer were not bad in quality
for steerage fare but were not numerous enough. The first meal of each
day took place at nine o'clock in the morning and the second and last
was served at eight in the evening. Each eater was allotted a piece of
bread--the sturdy production of some French cook--a bottle of wine,
meat and potatoes, and in the evening a pudding of some sort. We spent
the long hours between meals reading or conversing to the best of our
ability with the Japanese prostitutes.
The _Caledonien_ began winding her way up the Mekong River to Saigon,
about fifty miles inland. French Indo-China is a beautiful spot and
Saigon with its fifty thousand inhabitants, many of whom are French, is
indeed a miniature Paris. It is a gay little town with many substantial
buildings, numerous cafés and ornate theatres. Scores of quaint tables,
at many of the restaurants, are placed on the sidewalks and sometimes
out into the street, completely closing it for traffic. At these tables
hundreds of pleasure-loving French people sit during the afternoons and
evenings, tranquilly sipping their wine. They chat and laugh as though
they didn't have a care in the world. The natives of Cochin-China are
Annanese, a similar people to the Chinese. Both the men and the women
dress their hair in a knot on the top of their heads, and as they both
wear trousers it is difficult for the new arrival to distinguish the
sexes.
The steerage quarters of the _Caledonien_ were crowded to their
capacity by the large number of Frenchmen and women who came aboard at
Saigon. In order to make room for his countrymen, the steward moved
Richardson and me from our stateroom, in the forward part of the ship,
to a cabin between the engines and the kitchen. We did not realise
what sort of a place it was until it came time to retire. It was
hotter than Hades and there was no more chance for a breath of fresh
air to get into this dingy compartment than for light to penetrate
a photographer's dark room. One glance was enough. We made our beds
on the bow of the ship. We were rudely and suddenly awakened by the
French steward, who was as mad as a man could be when he saw his clean
bed-clothes on the dirty deck, covering two crusty Americans. He
grabbed the sheets and blankets, uncovered us with one jerk and left
us clad in only our night clothes to scramble nearly the length of the
ship, through the steerage crowds, to our stateroom.
This French steward was a most irritable being and was continually
worried at the actions of Richardson and myself. He would fly off
into a fearful tirade of French when he found us taking a bath in
the first-class passengers' tub, or when he saw us steal food from
the breakfast table to sustain us until the evening meal, or when he
discovered us asleep in a different part of the deck each night with
the clean bed-spreads. He became so cranky that he even called us down
when we spotted the coarse cloth on the table in the mess-room. He
became so needlessly exasperated at whatever we did that Richardson and
I devised means by which we could provoke the old fellow.
The _Caledonien_ spent a day at Singapore. This was the hottest day I
ever experienced and the sun's rays seemed to have more penetrating
powers than usual. I thought I should liquefy from the way in which I
perspired and only for my thick pith hat, which protected my head and
neck from the sun, I surely should have been a victim of sunstroke.
Richardson and I had planned a trip to Java but gave up the idea and
went directly to Ceylon. The _Caledonien_ dropped anchor in the harbour
of Colombo and we were taken ashore in a small boat propelled by one
oar at the stern. We obtained rooms at the Y.M.C.A. at sixteen cents
a day. This rate did not include bed-clothes, which all travellers in
Ceylon and India have to furnish themselves. We each bought a blanket
which we carried strapped to the outside of our suit cases.
If it were not for the intense heat, I would agree with Mark Twain
that Ceylon is the most beautiful island in the world. Eliminating its
temperature, it is Paradise on earth. With it, it is Hell. Colombo
is built about several small lakes whose shores are a very jungle of
graceful palms and other dense tropical plants. There is a beautiful
driveway along the beach which is the promenade for the wealthy of
the place and, during the afternoon, one can almost imagine that he
is on some fashionable European thoroughfare from the numerous grand
carriages and well-groomed horses which pass. Richardson and I swept
back and forth on this lengthy boulevard in our rickshaws. We continued
into Cinnamon Park, where most of the Europeans live. We had foolishly
agreed to pay our rickshaw coolies by the hour. My man became so
apparent in his efforts to loaf that I remarked to Richardson that he
was the slowest and laziest horse I had ever driven.
"Mister, I'm a man, not a horse," said my coolie angrily and in
excellent English, stopping and dropping the shafts of the vehicle.
I never was so startled in my life. This was the first horse that I had
ever had speak to me. I had become so accustomed to rickshaw men with
whom I could not communicate that this man's clear and to-the-point
remark completely confused me for a minute.
"Then you are the poorest man I ever saw," I finally said, "and if you
don't show some signs of a horse very soon, you will find yourself out
of a job."
My threat to discharge him had no effect in increasing his momentum.
Richardson and I dismissed both men, paid them off and returned to town
on foot.
After a short trip to Kandy in the interior of Ceylon, we sailed for
India. It was a night's journey to the little seaport town of Tuticorin
and we took second-class passage.
The two hundred or more naked coolies of the steerage were walking
down the pier towards the shore. Richardson and I were following
close behind. Presently a man in uniform uttered a shrill call. The
two hundred coolies stopped and separated into two columns. The
uniformed man beckoned to us to come on. "Gangway for two white men,"
had evidently been the nature of the call. We were not used to such
treatment. We were generally included in those swept aside. We were
now in a land where the native, if he doesn't respect the white man,
at least pretends that he does. This ceremonious entrance into India
struck us as funny and we giggled our way down the double line of
salaaming Tamils and Singhalese.
"It's too bad you're not a Christian," remarked a strange and simple
looking man as I, smoking a cigarette, was waiting for my train at the
Tuticorin station.
"Why?" I asked, blowing a cloud of smoke in his face.
"Just think of all the good you could do while travelling around the
world."
"How do you know that I am not a Christian?"
"I was simply putting out a feeler," he said, somewhat embarrassed.
"I think I am a Christian but, probably, not according to your ideas."
"Perhaps."
"What is a Christian?" I asked, interested to know what the man's ideas
were.
"When a man is saved he is a Christian."
"Isn't it rather difficult to know when such a happy state of affairs
exists?" My train drew into the station at this moment and the
theological dialogue was brought to a sudden conclusion. I left this
simple but well-meaning person, my pocket full of his pamphlets. He
was a member of the sect of "Plymouth Brethren" working by himself
converting the heathen. If he uses no more tact on the natives than
he did on me his efforts should be flat failures. I was told by a
prominent missionary that there are many such persons in India who are
labouring independently of an ecclesiastical organisation, the results
of whose work are not very substantial.
Leaving our baggage at the station at Madura, Richardson and I rode
in a springless cart to Pasumalai--a distance of about three miles.
This cart was pulled by two bulls who were spurred on to greater speed
by their naked driver who sat on the shafts and cruelly twisted their
tails. We were going to call on the Rev. Dr. J.P. Jones, a prominent
Congregational missionary and author of books on India, and have him
outline an itinerary for us.
Dr. Jones was leaving on an inspection tour of several of the mission
schools in a near-by jungle, as we arrived at his house. He asked us
to accompany him and also invited us to spend a couple of days at his
home. We explained that we had left our baggage in Madura and that,
although we appreciated his kindness, we did not want to impose on him.
He insisted and sent a coolie to Madura for our bags.
It was about noon when we left with Dr. Jones to visit the schools.
The three of us rode in another seatless and springless cart drawn
by two bulls. We passed through several small native settlements and
towards evening came to one of about two hundred inhabitants. It was a
thief caste village. Stealing was the sole trade of all the men. They
made no pretence at doing anything else. Although closely guarded by
the British police they were successful in robbing and looting the
neighbouring villages. Each night at twelve o'clock there was a roll
call but, even after this hour, they would grease their bodies in order
to slip from the grasp of their pursuers, get away and carry on their
work.
A number of shirtless women were threshing shocks of wheat as we
entered the little settlement of mud huts, each with its thatched roof.
Naked children were playing in the streets. Our advent soon became
known and the village drummer, squatted by the school house, announced
our arrival and summoned the people to come and meet us. It was hardly
a minute before we were surrounded by two hundred or more odd and
inquisitive-looking people. If I had not known where I was I should
have thought myself in the wilds of Africa. The black bodies of the
naked men glistened in the sunlight; the young boys and girls, clad in
nothing but the happy smile of youth, hovered about us like a swarm
of butterflies, and the almost nude women, remaining a little aloof,
stared at us with eyes of intense curiosity.
Every man in this interesting group was a thief. I began to get
worried for fear one of them might steal my watch or the few coins I
had in my purse. Dr. Jones allayed my fears when he informed me that
there wasn't a pick-pocket among them. A hundred thieves and not one of
them a pick-pocket! This was strange. I couldn't understand it. I had
thought that this means of appropriating another man's possessions was
fundamental and indispensable to the profession. I discovered also that
these robbers never used pass keys, pistols, flash lights or gas pipes
as means to hold up their neighbours. They didn't have such things. Now
the mystery of a hundred thieves with no pick-pockets was solved. There
were no pockets to pick. Their victims wore no clothes and they had had
no training along this line. They didn't know a pocket when they saw
one.
[Illustration: _Upper_: THE FOREIGN BUSINESS SECTION OF SINGAPORE]
[Illustration: _Lower_: THE VILLAGE DRUMMER SUMMONING THE PEOPLE ON OUR
ARRIVAL]
Dr. Jones led the way into the small mud-walled school house. The room
was full of naked boys and girls. The fathers and mothers crowded in
at the rear of the little hall. They were an interesting and simple
lot of savages. Richardson and I were given seats of honour near the
teacher's desk and a wreath was placed about our necks. Dr. Jones asked
for a report from the native teacher and also questioned several of
the pupils on their lessons. He then explained to his audience that
Richardson and I were Americans travelling around the world. He went
into detail defining an American. He asked the chief of the village, a
much whiskered and hairy-chested man, if he had any message to give us.
"Tell them to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and they will get around
all right," were the chief's words of greeting as interpreted by Dr.
Jones.
"Why don't you believe in Him yourself?" asked the doctor.
"Don't waste your time on us old fellows. We are past saving. We have
been thieves all our lives and you can't change us now. Do all you
can to help the children and you will be doing a good work," was the
chief's reply.
All the natives gathered in the street in front of the school for the
customary foot races which Dr. Jones held on each of his visits. There
were four races: one for the boys; one for the girls; one for the women
and one for the men. They were all eager to take part for the doctor
distributed a few coins as prizes to the winners. The rivalry was
intense and, at the conclusion of each race, there was much confusion
with many disputes as to who finished first. Dr. Jones insisted on
being the judge and all were informed that they must abide by his
decision or all the games would be called off.
That evening we enjoyed the hospitality of Dr. Jones. I slept in a
comfortable bed, protected by a fine mosquito net and cooled by the
breeze of a huge punka--which was operated by a coolie woman who sat on
the porch all night and pulled the rope.
In the cities of India foreigners use electric fans and in the rural
districts a native-propelled punka. It is so intensely hot in some
parts of the country that if the coolie goes to sleep on the job the
foreigner immediately awakens.
Twenty thousand people die each year from snake bite in India. I awoke
to find a small reptile in my room. The floors of the houses are built
close to the ground and the doors and windows are often left open for
ventilation. Snakes are so numerous that they frequently find their way
into the huts of the natives and occasionally into the houses of the
foreigners.
Railroad travel in India is the cheapest I have ever known. From Madura
to Trichinopoly is a distance of about one hundred miles. We rode
native third-class and our tickets cost us but eight annas (sixteen
cents) each.
There are five classes of travel on Indian trains: first-class,
second-class, intermediate, European third-class and native
third-class. The trains are divided into compartments with a capacity
of from twelve to twenty-four passengers. The first-class seats are
covered with leather cushions and the seats of the other classes
decrease in softness to the hard and cold benches of the native
third-class. The first-class accommodations are used exclusively by
British officials, missionaries, resident Europeans and tourists.
The native third-class is a cattle train. These bare stall-like
compartments are crowded with naked coolies--men, women and
children--who are jammed in by the train guards like dried prunes. I
have seen coolie after coolie slammed into one of these compartments,
already full to the roof, until I thought the poor beggars would all
die of suffocation.
The first-class fare is usually twelve or fifteen times greater than
the native third-class. Our tickets from Madura to Trichinopoly would
have cost us about $2.50 each for first-class.
The cheapest possible fare from Calcutta to Bombay, a distance of
over fifteen hundred miles and a three-day trip, is about $2.80. This
rate is for native third-class accommodations. The first-class fare
would be about fifty dollars and the intermediate classes would be
proportionately graduated in price.
Richardson and I usually travelled native third-class. We were always
able to get an empty compartment, which we would monopolise to the
exclusion of the natives. We ordered the poor chaps away as though they
had no right in their own country. Conductors do not stay on the trains
but remain at the stations where they take up the tickets as the trains
arrive. They proved to be a negligent lot and frequently failed to
collect our tickets. Richardson saved his uncollected fares and found
that they totalled two thousand miles. We were in India two and a half
months, travelled over five thousand miles and our railroad fares were
only $24.40 each.
We rented bicycles in Trichinopoly. These vehicles were the most
decrepit and ancient pieces of machinery in active service on this
earth. Richardson's wheel had lost its back pedal feature. In other
words, it was impossible to put on the brakes. He could not stop
himself unless he fell off or came to a hill. We rode through the
crowded streets of Trichinopoly. Rich was a reckless rider. I thought
he was trying to kill a native child. With his uncontrollable bicycle
it is a mystery to me how he avoided running down several of the
thousands of naked little babies who played in the dust of the street.
Every moment one of them would dash in front of him. I expected that we
should land in jail charged with manslaughter.
Neither Trichinopoly or Tanjore has European hotels and the caste
system excludes the unclean foreigner from the native inns. For twelve
annas (twenty-four cents) we obtained a clean room on the second floor
of the station. It contained a large bed, an electric fan and a private
bath. We ate our meals in the station restaurant. Such prices and
arrangements are hard to beat.
Life seems to be a battle for coin. I could write a volume on the
number of street lights I have seen in different parts of the world
over the matter of a few cents. A Japanese coolie will wrangle for an
hour over a _sen_. I have seen a score of Chinese grapple for a _cash_
piece. It is hard to tell what a Filipino wouldn't do for a _centavo_.
However, I think a native of India can kick up more fuss over a
two-cent piece than any man alive.
Richardson and I had returned from the Roman Catholic Cathedral in
Madras where Saint Thomas is said to be buried. We had made the trip in
a double-seated rickshaw drawn by one man. By arrangement in advance
the coolie had agreed to make the journey for ten annas. This, we were
told, was a generous amount for the distance. I felt that he had had a
hard time pulling two heavy men so I gave him a rupee, over-paying him
six annas. He wasn't satisfied and bellowed for more. Richardson and
I ignored him and went to our room on the third floor of the Y.M.C.A.
building. The coolie followed us up the three flights of stairs. He
had worked himself into a genuine state of anger. At first it was a
pretence. We locked him out in the hall, where he remained at our door
for twenty minutes pleading and begging for more money. I made up my
mind that he could pursue me to America or haunt me the rest of my
life, but I would not pay him any more. I could be stubborn myself.
He realised that I had made a mistake in over-paying him in the first
place and he now thought that I was a tenderfoot and that I should
sooner or later yield. The Y.M.C.A. authorities finally put him out of
the building.
The incident did not end here. It became the main topic for discussion
among the coolies of Madras. Each time we ventured on the streets a
dozen of them would molest us and trail after us jeering and shouting
a lot of jargon which we did not understand. They became regular pests
and life in Madras grew almost unbearable. We stood firm and resolved
not to give an anna more even if we had to fight every coolie in
Southern India.
In a few days we left for Calcutta. We rode from the Y.M.C.A. to the
railroad station in a bus. As we alighted at the entrance of the
station, we were sighted by a group of coolies who made a mad rush
at us from across the court. Others dropped their rickshaws and came
plunging towards us from all directions like a huge flying wedge. We
scrambled into the station, forced our way through the ticket gates,
climbed aboard the first car and in two minutes were speeding towards
Calcutta. That angry mob would have annihilated us in about five
seconds.