One of my places of predilection in the country is called Lundu. It
differs from most of the other settlements in Sarawak by the fact that
a good deal of agriculture goes on in the neighbourhood, and that the
country is flat near the Government Bungalow. We embarked for this
place in the _Aline_, and although the water is shallow on the bar we
managed to time our arrival at high tide, when the nine feet necessary
to float our yacht enabled us to steer our way comfortably into the
river, the banks of which are sandy at the mouth. Groves of talking
trees grew close to the sea, and tufts of coarse grass were dotted
over the sands. As we proceeded farther the soil became muddy and
nipa palm forests appeared. We could see the mountain of Poe, three
thousand feet in height, towering inland. It is one of the frontiers
between the Dutch country and Sarawak, so that the Rajah and the Dutch
Government each possess half of this mountain. It is not so precipitous
as is Santubong, and has forest trees growing thickly right up to the
top. Fishing stakes were stretched across some of the sandbanks at
the mouth, but not a living soul was to be seen on the sea-shore. We
steamed through a broad morass, crossed in every direction by little
streams travelling down to the main river. Farther on we noticed, about
twenty or thirty yards from the banks, a tree full of yellow blossoms,
like a flaming torch in the green gloom of the jungle. No one could
tell me what these blossoms were, and I was deeply disappointed at our
inability to reach the tree and obtain some of its branches, which
might as yet be unknown to science. It would have taken our sailors
many hours to hew their way to it, so we contented ourselves with
looking through opera glasses, across a jungle of vegetation, at the
gorgeous blossoms, although that did not help us to discover what the
tree was.[11] A little farther on were huts built near the river, and
we could see men sitting on the rungs of ladders leading from their
open doors to the water.
When we arrived at Lundu, our friend Mr. Bloomfield Douglas, Resident
of the place and living in the comfortable Government bungalow situated
a few yards from the river, came to meet us at the wharf, accompanied
by a number of Dyaks. A Dyak chief styled the Orang Kaya Stia Rajah,
with his wife and relations, came on board with Mr. Douglas to take us
on shore. Both men and women wore the conical hats of the country, made
of the finest straw. A piece of light wood delicately carved to a point
ornamented their tops, which were made splendid with bright colours.
My old friends, the Dyak women, were affectionate and kind. They took
hold of my hand, sniffed at it, and laid it gently back by my side;
some of the Dyak men followed suit. These people never kiss in European
fashion, but smell at the object of their affection or reverence. I
always felt on such occasions as though two little holes were placed on
the back of my hand.
On the day of our arrival, the sun was blazing overhead and it was
fearfully hot. Our shadows were very short as we moved along, and the
people lined the way right up to the Resident’s door. We had to touch
everybody individually as we marched along, even babies in arms had
their little hands held out to touch our fingers. These greetings took
some time in the overpowering heat of midday, and it was a great relief
when at last we reached Mr. Douglas’s pretty room, which he had been
wise enough to leave unpainted and unpapered. The walls were made of
the brown wood of the country, and were decorated with hanging baskets
of orchids in full flower, vandalowis, philaenopsis, etc.--a mass of
brown, yellow, pink, white, and mauve blooms, hanging in fragile and
delicate cascades of colour against the dark background. Rare and
wonderful pots of ferns were placed in my bedroom, and quantities of
roses, gardenias, jasmine, and chimpakas scented the whole place.
In the evening we took a walk round the settlement. The many
plantations of Liberian coffee trees looked beautiful weighed down with
green and scarlet berries, some branches still retaining their snowy
blossoms. The contrast of berries and flowers, with the glossy dark
green of the leaves, made them a charming picture in the landscape.
We went through fields planted with tapioca and sugar-cane, and
across plantations of pepper vines. These latter are graceful things,
trained up poles, with small green bunches hanging down like miniature
clusters of green and red grapes. In every corner or twist of the road
we met little groups of men and women waiting for us. They stood in
the ditches by the side of the paths until we came up to them, when
they jumped out, rushed at us, sniffed at the backs of our hands, and
retired once more to the ditches without saying a word.
During the night I heard the Argus pheasant crying in the woods, in
response to distant thunder. These beautiful birds roam about the hill
of Gading, which is close by the bungalow and thickly covered with
virgin forest. The sound they make is uncanny and sorrowful, like the
cry of lost souls wandering in the sombre wilderness of innumerable
trees, seeking to fathom the secrets of an implacable world. Any sudden
loud sound, as of a dead tree falling or the rumble of thunder, however
remote, apparently calls forth an echo of terror from these birds.
[Illustration: MALAY STRIKING FIRE FROM DRY TINDER]
The next evening the chief of the village invited us to a reception
at his house, situated a short distance from the bungalow. It was a
fine starlight night, and we walked there after dinner. The house was
built much in the same way as are other Sea Dyak houses, the flooring
being propped on innumerable poles about thirty feet from the ground.
A broad verandah led into the living-rooms, but, as usual, we had to
climb a slender pole with notches all the way up, leaning at a steep
angle against the verandah. The chief, with an air of pomp and majesty,
helped me up the narrow way as though it were the stairway of a palace.
His manner was courtly and his costume magnificent. His jacket and
trousers were braided with gold, and the sarong round his waist was
fastened with a belt of beaten gold.
The house was full of people: Dyaks who had come from far and near,
Chinamen resident in the place, Malays from over the Dutch border,
and even a few Hindoos, or Klings, were to be seen. The chief took us
to the place prepared for us at the end of the verandah, where was
hung a canopy of golden embroideries and stiff brocades. Branches of
sugar-canes and the fronds of betel-nut palms decorated the poles of
the verandah. A great many lighted lamps hung from the roof, and the
floor was covered with fine white mats. Bertram, Mr. Douglas, Dr.
Langmore, and I sat on chairs, whilst the rest of the guests squatted
on mats laid on the floor.
The women and young girls sat near me, one of the latter, whose name
was Madu (meaning honey), being very pretty indeed. Her petticoat of
coarse dark cotton was narrow and hardly reached her knees, and over
this she wore a dark blue cotton jacket, fastened at the neck with
gold buttons as big as small saucers. Her eyes were dark, beautiful
and keenly intelligent, and her straight eyebrows drooped a little at
the outer corners. The high cheek-bones, characteristic of her race,
gave her a certain air of refinement and delicacy, in spite of her nose
being flat, her nostrils broad, and her lips wide and somewhat thick.
Her hair was pulled tightly off her forehead, and lay in a coil at
the nape of her neck; it seemed too heavy for her, and as she carried
her head very high, the great mass looked as though it dragged it
backwards. Her hair, however, had one peculiarity (a peculiarity I had
never seen in Sarawak before); it was streaked with red, and this made
Madu unhappy, for Malays and Dyaks do not like the slightest appearance
of red hair, some of the tribes shaving their children’s heads from
early infancy until they are seven years old, in order to avoid the
possibility of such an occurrence. The little creature looked pathetic,
as she sat nursing her sister’s baby, around whose wrist was tied a
black wooden rattle, like a small cannon-ball. The baby was about two
months old, and appeared to be healthy, but a sudden kick on its part
removed a piece of calico, its only article of clothing, when I saw
that the child’s stomach had been rubbed over with turmeric, to prevent
it from being seized by the demon of disease. The chief told his
daughter to leave the child to its nurse, when a very old lady rushed
forward and took it away.
Refreshments were then handed round. We had glasses of cocoa-nut milk,
cakes made of grated cocoa-nut and of rice flour, intensely sweet.
There were large trays of pumeloes, cut in quarters, together with
oranges, bananas, and mangosteens. Glasses of gin, much diluted with
water, were handed to the male guests, and after refreshments a place
was cleared right down the room, the chief’s native friends sitting on
mats on the floor, leaning against the walls.
The orchestra was placed on one side of the hall. It consisted of a set
of gongs, called the Kromang, seven or eight in number, decreasing in
size, fixed in a wooden frame, each gong sounding a different note--a
scale, in fact. These gongs are beaten by one individual, and when
skilfully played they sound like running water. Other members of the
orchestra played gongs hung singly on poles, and there were also drums
beaten at both ends with the musician’s fingers. These instruments
played in concert and with remarkable rhythm were pleasant to listen
to. When the band had finished the overture, two young men got up after
an immense amount of persuasion, and walked shyly to the middle of the
cleared space. They were dressed in Malay clothes--trousers, jackets,
and sarongs--and smoking-caps, ornamented with tassels, were placed
on one side of their heads. They fell down suddenly in front of us,
their hands clasped above their heads, and bowed till their foreheads
touched the floor. Then they got up slowly, looked at one another,
giggled, and walked away. The master of the house explained that they
were shy, and thought their conduct quite natural. It was evidently
the thing to do, for several other couples went through this same
pantomime. At last the first couple were induced to come back, when
their shyness vanished, and the performance began.
One of the dancers held two flat pieces of wood in each hand, clicking
them together like castanets. The other man danced with china saucers
held in each hand, keeping time to the orchestra by hitting the saucers
with rings of gold which he wore on each forefinger. He was as skilful
as any juggler I had seen, for he twisted the saucers round and round,
his rings hitting against them in time to the music with wonderful
accuracy. The dancers were never still for a second. Their arms
waved about, their bodies swayed to and fro, they knelt first on one
knee with the other leg outstretched before them, then on the other,
sometimes bending their bodies in a line with the floor--the castanets
and the saucers being kept going the whole time. Although the movements
looked stiff, it was impossible for them to be ungraceful, and at every
new pose they managed to fall into a delightful arrangement of lines.
The dances were evidently inspired by Malay artists, although performed
by Dyaks, for they were full of restraint.
Other dances followed, all interesting and pretty. Sometimes empty
cocoa-nut shells, cut in two, were placed in patterns on the floor.
The dancers picked up one in each hand, clashing them together like
cymbals, whilst hopping in and out of the other cocoa-nuts, this
performance being called by the people “the mouse-deer dance,” for they
imagine that the noise made by clashing the cocoa-nut shells resembles
the cry of plandoks (mouse-deer) in the forests.
After the men had finished, the women’s turn came. These wore stiff
petticoats of gold brocade, hanging from under their armpits and
reaching almost to the floor, under which were dark blue cotton
draperies hiding their feet. The pretty Madu, with the red-streaked
hair, headed a procession of about thirty young women and girls, who
emerged from the open doorway at the other end of the room, in single
file. They stretched out their arms in a line with their shoulders, and
waved their hands slowly from the wrists. Their sleeves were open and
hung from the elbow weighted with rows upon rows of golden knobs. With
their heads on one side and their eyes cast down, they looked as though
they were crucified against invisible crosses, and wafted down the
middle of the hall. When they approached us, they swayed their bodies
to right and left and extended their arms, beating the air gently with
their hands, keeping exactly in line, and followed Madu’s gestures so
accurately that from where I stood I could only see Madu as she headed
the dancers. It would be interesting to know the origin of such dances.
I imagine the Hindoo element pervades them all. How surprised these
so-called savages would be if they were present at some ballet, with
women in tights and short stiff skirts, kicking their legs about, or
pirouetting on one toe, for these natives are innately artistic, if
kept away from the influence of European art and its execrable taste.
Each time a movement more graceful than the last was accomplished by
these young women, the men evinced their approbation by opening their
mouths and yelling, without showing any other signs of excitement on
their immovable faces.
The dances went on for some time, after which wrestling matches took
place between little boys of the tribe, about eleven or twelve years of
age. When one of these small wrestlers was defeated he never showed bad
temper or appeared maliciously disposed towards his conqueror.
We all enjoyed ourselves, and it was late when we left this hospitable
house. The chief and his daughters offered us more cocoa-nut milk,
cakes, and bananas, and the leave-taking took some time. One old Sea
Dyak, who had been very conspicuous during the evening, for he had
bounded about and joined in the dances, took my hand and put it into
the hand of a friend of his, another Sea Dyak, whom he particularly
wished me to notice. “You make friends,” he said, “for my friends are
your friends.” I hope I responded sympathetically, and after a while we
managed to drag ourselves away.
Our hosts escorted us back to Mr. Douglas’s bungalow. I led the way,
hand in hand with the chief, and Bertram followed, hand in hand with
the chief’s son, who kept assuring Bertram that he felt very happy,
because they had become brothers, for was not Rajah Ranee, his mother,
walking home hand in hand with his father, and as he was doing the
same with her son, that quite settled the relationship. The orchestra
followed us the whole way home, and the people sang choruses to
impromptu words, composed in our honour by the poet of the tribe. The
chief told me the song was “manah” (beautiful), as its words were in
honour of Bertram and me.
A recent shower had left the night fine and the air cool, as we went
through avenues of betel-nut palms and over carpets of lemon grass,
whose long spikes beaten over the path by the rain gave a delightful
fragrance crushed by so many feet. We crossed a little bridge over a
bubbling stream, and passed by Chinese houses, whose inhabitants opened
their windows to look at our midnight procession. When we reached the
bungalow, the arbor tristis or night-flowering jasmine was in bloom
all over the garden, and white moon-flower bells hung wide open over
the verandah. Half an hour later, as I leaned out of the window of my
bedroom, I could still hear the people singing on their way back to the
village. The trees in the garden were full of fireflies looking like
stars entangled in the branches.
We left Lundu the next day with regret. We were sorry to say good-bye
to our kind host, Mr. Douglas, and to the Dyaks of the place, and
as we steamed away I felt almost inclined to cry. Although I may be
accused of being unduly emotional, I am not ashamed to own that after
a visit in any of the Sarawak settlements I always left a piece of my
heart behind.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] This tree, which no one could tell me the name of
at the time, was the only one of its kind I had seen;
therefore, it was not strange I formed the idea it might
be unknown to science. Its leafy image persisted in my
mind, and the thought of it haunted me. I have now been
informed that it is not unknown, and is a creeper,
called Bauhinea, and not a tree at all. Seen at a
distance, its appearance is like that of a tree in
blossom, for it completely covers--and perhaps smothers--
the tree upon which it fastens itself.