THE ASSISTANT AND THE NAUTILUS
The whitewashed buildings of the government headquarters reflect the
sunlight with an intolerable glare as we swing up the path from the
road. At the door of the assistant’s office we are greeted by an
obsequious Ambonese in regulation white. His trousers are very short,
though whether by design or because of repeated shrinkings, I am not
prepared to say. On his head he wears a batik turban one corner of which
seems to flirt with us in feminine coquettishness as he bows and
scrapes. The “Residentee” is awaiting our pleasure, he informs us. From
the cool semi-darkness of the office comes a voice in soft Malay telling
the man to show the Tuans in, and forthwith we enter. After the terrific
glare of out-of-doors we grope momentarily, but our eyes soon
accommodate themselves to the grateful dimness and we see before us a
little brown-skinned man of some forty years, with bristling mustachios,
extending a friendly hand.
He is filled with the importance of the occasion. Are we well? Do we
like Merauke? Are we sufficiently comfortable in the passangrahan? Have
we recovered from the ennui of our long voyage? He showers us with
solicitation as to our welfare and immediately we feel that we are among
friends. It is a habit that these foreign officials have, to make one at
home upon the instant.
Greetings over and assurance given that all is as it should be, we,
running true to American form, get down to business. This is distinctly
painful to the “Residentee,” for as yet we are not really acquainted. He
lifts his hands in remonstrance and exclaims, “Ah, these Americans!” and
shakes his head as though nonplussed at our bustling impetuosity.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” he remarks audibly, but really to himself; then
to us: “You must slow down over here or you will not last; the heat, it
is too much.” He tells us this with a sage-like shake of his head.
His desire to please, however, outweighs his scruples against talking
business in the first ten minutes of an acquaintance and he asks us what
he can do for us, in the manner of one who will give anything yet
secretly fears that he may be asked the impossible. These Americans, you
know, think that just anything can be done. A wave of the hand and
presto, it is!
What we want is really a good deal, so, taking a fresh grip on our nerve
and with a deep breath to go on, we request in a low, dulcet voice: “The
loan of the government schooner and crew for a few weeks. We are very
much interested in the Kia Kias and should like to study them in their
homes, far away from outside influences. Will you be so kind as to let
us have the schooner for a trip around the western end of the island,
where the really wild tribes live?”
The Assistant heaves a sigh of relief. “What could be easier!” he
exclaims. His slim brown hand taps a bell on the desk before him and a
“boy” of fifty slides into adamantine immobility beside the doorway of
the sanctum. In a few terse words the captain of the _Nautilus_ is
summoned. It seems that our little Assistant is something of a martinet
with his men. When within range of his eye they straighten up with
ramrod stiffness. In his domain his word is law; rather, he _is_ the
law.
Ula, skipper of the _Nautilus_, has been lounging in the shade of the
Chinese _toko_, or general store, near the dock. The toko is but a few
rods from the Assistant’s office, and the man sent for the skipper
readily finds him. The two enter together and stand at attention while
the Assistant delivers himself of a long harangue in Malay that flows in
so rapid a stream that our unaccustomed ears catch only a small part of
it.
Ula does not seem inordinately happy over the prospect. From the mention
of prampoen and the assistant’s angry tone as Ula utters the word, we
gather that he has a new sweetheart who is occupying his time at
present. The conversation dies away in a moment, and the Assistant later
tells us that Ula wanted to know whether he might take the girl with him
to finish his courting.
Ula departs disconsolately for the schooner. The Assistant has ordered
it made ready for us to-morrow morning. He waves a deprecating hand at
our effusive thanks and says that he is only sorry that he cannot do
more for us. He asks us about America, meaning the United States, and we
chat for an hour. As the time for his siesta draws near we rise to go,
for in the islands one must never interfere with another’s midday sleep;
it isn’t done.
Before we take leave of the obliging little man he asks us to be
permitted as an especial favor to ship a party of five Kia Kias up the
coast a little distance on “our” schooner. They are some natives that
have just finished a one-month term in the local _hoosgow_ or jail. The
offense was trivial. There had been a disagreement in their village with
a visitor and when the argument ended the visitor was deceased.
“We have to check them a little,” remarks the Assistant. “We could not
fix the blame exactly, so we gathered up three men who were implicated
and two of them brought their wives.”
After further assurances on the part of the Assistant that the natives
shall in no way interfere with our convenience on the schooner, and from
us many expressions of our gratitude, we depart. As we walk down the
sweltering roadway along the riverfront we congratulate ourselves on the
success of the interview. The _Nautilus_ will save us many heartbreaking
miles of grueling jungle travel.
In the passangrahan Moh has a “rice-taffle” ready for us. Rice-taffle!
No wonder these Dutch gentlemen indulge in an all-afternoon siesta!
Every noon—rice-taffle! A tremendous bowl of rice, chicken cooked in
four or five different ways,—boiled, fried, roasted, and I don’t know
how to describe the others,—two or three varieties of fish; a peppery
soup-like sauce with which to drench the heaped-up contents of the
platter, and a dozen different sweetmeats, condiments, and garnitures.
It is so good that one invariably overeats and repletion, together with
the sultry heat of midday, brings a drowsiness that makes bed welcome.
Even the ever-businesslike Chinese closes his toko and sleeps until four
o’clock. At that hour, or shortly after, every one wakes up and the
splashing in the bath-house is prodigious. The evening coolness brings
the hour of the promenade and the streets and byways are gay with the
varicolored sarongs that the Malay women affect. The men come forth in
suits of white drill fresh from the dhobie and saunter along with
cigarettes aglow, leading by the hands naked kiddies for whom they have
a very genuine fondness.
Many of the little girls of, say, three to six years wear, suspended
from a single cord around their plump little loins, a pendant that
serves both as covering and ornament. This usually takes the form of a
gold or silver heart of possibly three-inch length and proportionate
width. It is amusing to watch a group of these innocents at play.
Sometimes a small girl’s heart becomes displaced, and hangs unnoticed
for a time upon her hip. This is not at all disconcerting to her or to
her infant male companions. When she discovers the disarrangement of
this sole article of her apparel she will stop play and readjust it with
the utmost unconcern and charming naïveté. Play is then resumed. Her
manner is precisely that of one of our high-school girls who pauses
between sets in tennis to powder her nose.
As we pass the people in the promenade, all from elders down to the
little naked tots, greet us with “_Tabe, Tuan_,” and the elders smile in
fond amusement at their offsprings’ baby lisping of the greeting. We
like the Malays very much; and the Chinese, too, for they are always
pleasant to us.