During my residence in Sarawak, I witnessed several epidemics of
cholera, and to any who have nervous temperaments, its advent is
alarming. On one of its visitations, some curious incidents occurred,
on account of the superstitious practices of the Chinese residing in
Kuching.
In order to allay panic as much as possible, the Rajah and I drove
or rode every morning through the Bazaar, where cholera was rife and
where the atmosphere was impregnated with the smell of incense and
joss-sticks, set burning by the Chinese in order to mitigate the
plague. Many devices were resorted to by these people, superstitious
and otherwise. I remember one magnificent junk, built regardless of
expense, the Chinese merchants and their humbler and poorer brethren
giving their dollars and cents ungrudgingly to make this vessel
glorious, as a sop to stay the ravages of the infuriated god. The junk
was placed on wheels and dragged for three miles down a bad road to a
place called Pinding, where it was launched on the waters of the river,
to be borne by the tide--it was hoped--to the sea. The procession
accompanying this vessel was extremely picturesque. Great banners,
scarlet, green, and blue, on which were embroidered golden dragons,
etc., were carried by Chinamen, and the clashing of cymbals made a most
frightful noise.
Nor was this the only procession organized whilst the cholera was at
its height. One morning, after I had been riding round the settlement,
and had got off my pony at the door of our stables across the river, I
saw in the distance a crowd of people coming along the road, shouting,
clashing cymbals, and bearing something aloft. This “something,” on
coming nearer, turned out to be a man seated on a chair looking like
an arm-chair, but formed entirely of swords, their sharp edges forming
the back, the seat, and the arms. The man was naked, with the exception
of a loincloth and a head-handkerchief. His head rolled from side to
side, his tongue protruded, and only the whites of his eyes could be
seen. I thought he must be mad or in a fit, but one of our Syces told
me the man was trying to allay the cholera. The mob following him
was screeching, yelling, bounding about, beating gongs, and making a
terrific noise. As it swept close to where I stood, I could see that no
one in the crowd took notice of anybody or anything in their way. The
procession went round the Chinese quarters of the town, and, meanwhile,
the man in the chair was apparently immune from wounds. Our English
doctor subsequently examined the chair, and having realized for himself
the sharpness of its blades, he could not understand how the man could
have escaped cutting himself to pieces.
This gruesome procession took place morning and evening during the
first weeks of the epidemic, but instead of allaying the scourge it
appeared to have the effect of increasing it. Moreover, the minds
of the people were in danger of becoming unhinged by this daily
spectacle, and the man who sat in the chair was beginning to exercise
an undesirable influence over the people in the Bazaar. This senseless
proceeding also became a serious obstacle to the more intelligent
attempts to stamp out the disease. The Rajah therefore ordered the
procession to be suppressed. The day after the order was given, the
Rajah and I were driving in one of the roads near the town, when we
met the forbidden procession with a still more numerous following of
Chinamen than hitherto. The Rajah said nothing at the time, but when we
reached the Palace he sent a force of police under an English officer
to arrest the sword-chair man and imprison him. The following morning,
before daylight, a band of Chinamen encircled the gaol, and somehow
managed to liberate the fanatic. The Rajah, hearing of this matter,
sent for the principal shopkeepers in the Bazaar, and informed them
that if the man was not restored to the prison before six o’clock that
evening he would turn the guns of the _Aline_ on to their houses in
the Bazaar, and batter them down over their heads. It was an exciting
time. I remember seeing the _Aline_ heave anchor and slowly take its
position immediately in front of the Bazaar. At five o’clock that
evening a deputation of Chinamen asked to see the Rajah. “The man is
back in gaol,” they said; “he will not trouble the town any more.”
The Rajah smiled genially at the news, shook hands with each member of
the deputation, and I realized again, as in so many other cases, the
Rajah’s wisdom in dealing with his people. The man who was the cause of
the trouble was subsequently sent out of the country.
There are many mysteries regarding these curious Eastern people which
Europeans are not able to fathom. Another practice of the Chinese,
when in any straits or when about to embark on some new commercial
enterprise, is to lay down burning charcoal for the space of several
yards, over which two or three initiated individuals are paid to walk
barefooted. If they come through the ordeal unscathed, which I am given
to understand is nearly always the result, the enterprise is considered
a favourable one. This practice was once resorted to in Kuching, when
a company of Chinese merchants, anxious to open up pepper and gambier
gardens in Sarawak, set certain Chinamen to gambol up and down the
fiery path unscathed. The pepper and gambier gardens were established,
and proved a great success. One can only wonder how it is that these
people’s bare skins appear to be impervious to fire and to sharp
instruments.
The outbreak of cholera did not confine itself entirely to the Chinese
quarter. It began picking out victims here and there, and the Kampong
of my friends, Datu Isa and her relations, also suffered severely.
Every morning, notwithstanding, my Malay friends found their way to the
Astana, and during one of these visits, whilst we were talking quite
happily and trying to keep our minds free from the all-absorbing topic
of the sickness that was laying so many low and bringing mourning to
so many houses in Kuching, I saw the Datu Tumanggong’s wife, a buxom
lady of forty years, fat and jolly in appearance, suddenly turn the
ashy-green colour that reveals sickness amongst these people. She
rubbed her chest round and round, and then exclaimed: “Wallahi, I
feel very ill.” Good heavens! I thought, she is seized with cholera.
Datu Isa said to me, “Wallahi, perhaps the sickness!” I had recourse
to heroic methods. I sent for a bottle of brandy, some hot water, and
chlorodyne. I gave the poor lady a strong dose of the spirit (which
certainly, being a Muhammadan, she had never tasted before), mixed
with about twenty drops of chlorodyne. The mixture filled half a
tumbler, and I told her to drink it and she would feel all right. She
was trembling and frightened, but did not demur for one instant, and
swallowed the draught, making an extraordinary gulp in her throat. She
gave me back the tumbler, and immediately sank back on the floor and
lay inanimate on the rugs in my room. For one moment I thought I had
killed her, and looked at Datu Isa and my other friends to see how they
would take it. “You have cured her, Rajah Ranee,” they said. “We will
go home and leave her to finish her sleep.” I pretended to feel no
anxiety, although I must say I did not feel very comfortable.
I sent for Ima, and we two stayed in the room to await developments.
The lady lay like a log, and her pulse beat very fast. After some time,
I saw her colour becoming restored, and in the space of two hours she
sat up and appeared to be perfectly well again. “Wallah, Rajah Ranee,”
she said. “You do understand. You white people have secrets that no one
else can know.” Personally, I was not so sure, but I was delighted when
I realized she was none the worse, and saw her escorted down the path
to her boat by Ima and the boat-boys. Her attack and my remedy did not
appear to do her any harm, for, from that day, she always came to me
for help in any ailment.
The Rajah was called away from Kuching during the epidemic, and I was
alone with the children at the Astana. One morning, a chief, whom I
knew very well, paid me a friendly call. We sat and talked on the
verandah, and I thought he had never been so talkative or seemed so
full of life as on that particular morning. About eleven o’clock we
shook hands, and he went back to his house. That same day, as I was
getting up after my afternoon nap, Talip came to my room and asked
whether Datu Mohammed’s wife could have some flowers from our garden.
“Certainly,” I said; “tell them to pick what flowers they like. But I
did not know Datu Mohammed was having a feast to-day.” “He is not,”
Talip replied; “he died of cholera at three o’clock.” This was said
with a smile, for Malays, whenever they have sorrowful or tragic news
to impart, always smile, in order, I suppose, to mask their feelings.
The death of a favourite cat would elicit sighs and groans, but in any
sorrow they hide their true feelings, even from their nearest relations.
Some of the Malays had curious methods in trying to combat the disease.
There was an old lady living in Kampong Grisek, called Daiang Kho, who
was beloved by the Malays of Kuching on account of her blameless life,
her rigorous attention to religious duties, and above all, because she
had achieved the great pilgrimage to Mecca. Daiang Kho had brought with
her from Mecca a Muhammadan rosary, and this was made great use of in
cases of illness in Kuching. The rosary was placed in a tumbler of cold
water over night, and the liquid poured into various bottles the next
morning, to be used as medicine. Daiang Kho informed me that the cures
performed by the rosary were wonderful, but, as we all know, in some
cases mind triumphs over the body, and I was not therefore surprised
at hearing that this innocuous drink had sometimes been successful in
curing sufferers when attacked by the first symptoms of disease.