WE ESTABLISH DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS
Shall we ever forget that sunrise and how the glow in the east chased
the pregnant shadows? Never! We are not afraid, that is, afraid in the
usual sense of the term. If the natives had attacked us we should have
joyously risen to the occasion and put Mr. Colt to the fore to argue for
us. It was the suspense we minded. Those things which we can see and
gage with our full consciousness never bother us. It is the unseen and
mysterious that we dread. When one does not know what to expect, nor
from which direction the danger may come, it is the nerve tension, the
high-keyed alertness, that saps the system of its reserve stamina and
makes the goose-flesh crawl along the spine at the slightest
unidentified sound. It is the intangible, the unseen, the insidious
stealthy danger that creeps upon one unawares, that strikes in the dark
where one is unable to strike in return, that make the night vigil
nerve-racking. Genial old Imagination creates dangers that do not exist.
Dawn is welcome to the watcher, always, but doubly so when one is
literally between covetous devils and the deep sea.
To control, one must gather things into the grip of one’s own hands. One
must take the initiative; therefore, we shall go early this morning to
the kampong. We are just making ready the things we shall need while
away from camp when there drifts to us on the fresh breeze a wild
cadence which quickens the pulse. Whether it is war-cry or song of
welcome we do not know, but it sounds ominous to our unaccustomed ears,
at any rate. Our heads pop out from the tents _concerto_, much like
those of the impossible policemen of the movies, and our eyes pop also
at what we see. In the distance comes the gang. They are making their
way toward our camp with considerable esprit de corps, weapons wildly
waving and throats roaring. This will bear looking into, we feel, and
the Colts are loosened tentatively in their holsters. As the savages
draw near we heave a sigh or two of relief, for we realize that this at
least is not The Moment.
Those who are not yelling at the top of their leather lungs are laughing
and they come to a walk as they approach our sacred demesne. Obedient to
our instructions of yesterday, they halt at the furrow in the sand that
marks the limits of our arm’s-length hospitality and stand there like a
throng of spoiling-for-something children. We advance to meet them and
they chatter volubly at us and hold out their hands as though demanding
something. One of them, who evidently has heard the Malay traders name
the weed in his own tongue, asks—or, rather, shouts,—“_Rocco!_” which is
Malay for “tobacco.” It is the old familiar “rush act” that they are
giving us and we are too much relieved at their unwarlike attitude to
refuse them.
The open carton is dragged out with despatch and each of the natives is
presented with one blue package. The black men cavort around like a lot
of exuberant school-boys while awaiting their turn to receive the little
present. Finally they begin to cluster too close and as the task of
distributing the tobacco becomes difficult and contact with greasy,
smelly arms and clutching hands inevitable, we toss the remaining
packets over the heads of the nearer ones and there ensues a wild
scramble.
Many of them lose out in the mêlée and must do without, while many have
received two portions. Those who fail to get any come to the dead-line
and with hands outstretched ask for some, but this we refuse. They must
be taught decorum. They hang around for a time and finally drift away in
the direction of the kampong, where their more successful brothers have
gone. Some of them seem to be much put out, and we turn over in our
minds the advisability of calling them back and giving each a package of
tobacco. A moment’s consideration, however, convinces us that this would
be an admission of weakness and would be taken advantage of later. When
the white man has concluded a matter he must let the native know that it
is settled for all time.
When the last of the cannibals has departed and we reenter our tent to
conclude our preparations for the visit to the kampong we encounter Moh.
With the coming of the howling crew of savages he dived into the tent to
hide, and he now crawls from beneath a cot as nearly white as his olive
skin will permit.
Moh believed this to be his last hour on earth and he tried to prolong
the agony by hiding. He is speechless with fright, for he could hear the
racket outside the tent, but could not see what was transpiring. Never,
never again will he leave his fair home in Java to go adventuring with
Americans! His cup is brimming over and his voice, when it returns,
quavers in a falsetto ecstasy of trepidation. As a fighting-man, Moh is
a good cook. That suffices.
Our march to the kampong is one of many thrills. The natives whom we
believed to have returned to the village have simply withdrawn to the
screening jungle and from its cover watch us with none too friendly
interest. They do not like the idea of our visit, for their women are in
the village and they are not sure that we may not take a liking to some
of them and carry them off. This has been done in times past by other
white men in other kampongs and for all we know may have been done right
here. Our purpose in coming to their country is, of course, inexplicable
to the savages and necessarily we are objects of great distrust.
Now and then we see shadows flitting noiselessly from tree trunk to
thick-growing shrubbery as they follow our course and twice we encounter
stalwart warriors standing like sentinels near the pathway as though
disdainful of concealment. These, as we smilingly address them, merely
grunt a non-committal reply and glower at us through narrowed lids. As
we pass them they withdraw into the undergrowth, to travel silently
abreast of us but well out of sight.
When we finally step out of the dimness of the jungle into the clearing
of the kampong we find an apparently deserted village. News of our
coming has preceded us, and all the inhabitants are hiding indoors. One
glance down the little street shows us that the kampong is different
from the one we visited at Merauke. This one consists of five low shacks
each of which is tenanted by several families, and it has no enclosing
wall. Each house is similar to its neighbor and measures roughly, one
would say, fifty feet in length by twenty in width. The side walls must
be seven or eight feet in height and the roof rises to a ridge about
fifteen feet above the ground. Centrally located in the street end of
the house is the only door of which it boasts, and perched above and
around this dark opening are grisly reminders of deceased foemen who
have passed beyond via the roasting-pit. Over each of the doorways hang
the skulls of several human beings, interspersed with those of
crocodiles that the braves of the household have killed in their
hunting-excursions.
Before the first of the shacks a short, forked sapling is planted and
from each of the lopped-off branches of the fork there grins at us in
loose-jawed mockery a sun-bleached reminder that the Kia Kias are a
people of perverted taste. As we near the entrance of this dwelling we
are greeted by a savage whom we do not remember having seen before. He
is clad in the conventional nothingness, but is adorned with the gayest
of feathered headgear. He carries two throwing-spears and a dainty stone
mace that would cause complete anæsthesia in an elephant. That stone
war-club in the hands of a boy of sixteen would spoil a whole day for
us, if he could wield it, but in the hands of the six-foot savage who
fashioned it for real use it is positively ruinous.
The black man greets us with a grunt. That grunt may mean anything, we
tell ourselves, and proceed to translate it as one of friendliness and
welcome. By means of the sign language we endeavor to convey the fact
that we are come as friends and are paying our duty call in return for
the kindly interest shown us only this morning. During our Delsarte
exercises others of the clan approach to gaze at us with suspicious
eyes, and Moh, who carries the cameras and a box of tin trinkets
intended for the women, draws closer to our heels.
[Illustration: We made presents of tin jewelry to the natives, but what
they wanted was tobacco]
[Illustration: Feathered head-dresses moving through the tall grass told
us of the natives watching our progress toward the kampong]
Evidently our meaning becomes clear to them, for they unbend a little
and a smile flits over some of the paint-besmeared visages that now
surround us. We have come to make some presents to the women, for they
rule the kampongs, but just now they are nowhere in sight. We ask for
them, and loud chatter ensues. At first the men seem a little dubious as
to our intentions, but by showing them a package of tobacco and
indicating that they have already tasted of our generosity we make them
understand that we merely wish to present the women with a token of our
good-will.
One of the crowd is despatched by the chief to round up the timorous
females and after some delay they appear, huddled in a hand-holding
group, at the other end of the village, which end they firmly refuse to
leave. It is beneath the dignity of a white man to go to the native, so
we simply stand and wait, though with apparent annoyance. The chief—or,
as they call him, _kapala kampong_—senses that we are somewhat miffed at
the reluctance of the women and takes things into his own hands. Turning
toward the women, he bellows to them to come immediately. The commands
of the chief in matters of this kind seem to carry some weight, for the
women saunter in our direction, trying to appear coyly indifferent, but
probably scared. Finally, when they have entered the circle of men which
opens to receive them, we break the silence and turn to Moh with a
request for the box of trinkets. In it are gold-washed bracelets and
chains that glitter enticingly in the sunlight, and we expect the women
to break into cries of extreme delight when we open it. We are not a
little surprised, as we display the contents, at the utter lack of
enthusiasm; even when we go so far as to place the necklaces upon them,
the women merely regard the trinkets with mild curiosity.
Our little _coup de maître_ has fallen flat, so to speak. One of the
dusky damsels relieves the situation for us. She is inclined to be
forward, but this we do not think of censuring, for it saves the day.
She says in very good Malay, “_Ada rocco?_” It is tobacco they want.
Luckily, we have a little with us and when it is distributed among the
ladies, who immediately fill their mouths with it, diplomatic relations
are opened. They seem ready to entertain almost any proposal, within
reason, that we may make. We seize the opportunity to impress upon them
that as long as we are their guests and are treated as such, each member
of the tribe will receive his or her daily ration of tobacco. All this
palaver, carried on as it is in the sign language, takes time, but the
savages seem to catch our meaning with increasing facility. Yes, we are
getting along famously. We even essay the making of a photograph or two,
but the cameras are regarded with suspicion, so we desist and let the
matter rest until we shall have become better acquainted. There will, no
doubt, be plenty of time for picture-taking.
With a sweeping gesture, we indicate the rest of the kampong, and the
chief, not to be outdone in generosity, gives us the key to the city by
means of an all-embracing wave of his arm. This is as it should be, and
we thank him, with a “we-expected-as-much” air, and proceed to inspect
the entire place. In fact, the only one of us who does not seem to be
quite at ease is Moh. He is having a bad day.
[Illustration: Twice we encounter stalwart warriors standing like
sentinels, as though disdainful of concealment]
[Illustration: The body is placed in a sitting position after being
gaily decorated for the funeral]