OUR CONSOLATION PRIZE
In our land the advent of a new member of the household is usually the
occasion of much todo. There are many whispered conferences and grave
speculations as to the advisability of this or that, and in many cases
Mother is summoned as mistress of ceremonies. Wife’s sister also may
attend and shuffle you unceremoniously out of the way of the trained
nurse that bustles by, redolent of some carbolic derivative, and utterly
unconscious of your existence. You who thought that you were in some
remote way interested, and at least partly responsible for the
commotion, are thrown temporarily into the discard and sometimes
permanently so.
This is not the case in Kia Kia households. There is no trained nurse.
There is no anæsthetic. Father’s feelings are not ruffled, for he may at
the moment be putting on his last coat of ochre or having his hair
re-dressed. Indeed, the farrowing of the family sow is of greater
moment, for the little pigs may be eaten, while the new human arrival
may not. True, after the child is born, it is the object of much
affection, but its actual advent is a matter that concerns the mother
only. In rare cases, we find, some friend of her own sex does attend,
but this is by no means the rule.
A young woman who we know is about to become a mother has just passed
our tent on her way into the jungle. She is going there alone. Something
in her demeanor tells us that this is to be the natal morning of a new
member of the tribe and the other women’s calls to her, as she wends her
way up the pathway, are significant. We question Intelligence, who is
fast becoming our instructor in things Kia Kia, and he describes to us
the method by which these savage mothers bring their offspring into the
world. With them nature takes its natural course. There have been no
displacements of internal organs in these women of the wilds, as there
has been in our women who wear tight corsets and destroy the natural
poise of the body and loins with high-heeled shoes.
When the woman we have just seen arrives at a place she has prepared the
day previous, where she knows she will be left severely alone, she
merely lies down and awaits her labor. When the new little being has
entered the big outside world in its natural, unassisted way, and the
proper time has come, it is the mother who handles the only instrument
used in the case,—a sharp sea-shell. She tenderly wraps the child in
broad leaves to protect its tender skin from insects, and within an
hour, or at most two, after the actual birth she returns proudly to the
kampong, carrying the little one, which is the object of much attention
from then on.
As Intelligence finishes his description one of his friends comes to the
tent and tells him that he is wanted elsewhere. Without excuse or
good-by, he rises and follows his friend away, leaving us for the time
being to our own devices.
The women of the shack nearest our tent are engaged in making _attaps_.
These are the thatch coverings with which the natives roof their homes.
The process is an interesting one and merits description. Several
bundles of cocoanut fronds have been gathered, and it is from these that
the women make the rain-proof roof sections. The midrib of each of the
fronds is stripped of the narrow sagittate leaves, split to render it
less thick and bulky, and cut into lengths of approximately four feet.
The leaves are then taken one by one and after being bent over the split
midrib are sewn upon it with fibers stripped from the stiff outer skin
of the rib. As the fronds selected have leaves nearly thirty inches
long, the section of attap when complete is about fourteen inches wide
and is as long as the stick which holds it together and supports it in
position when put to use. The leaves overlap one another and in
consequence the attaps will shed the hardest of the hard rains for which
these latitudes are noted. Not only are they admirable shelter from
inclement weather, but they are a great protection from the tropical sun
which beats fiercely during most of the year upon these shores. Nature
is kind to these people, for their every want is supplied by her from a
vast storehouse close at hand.
[Illustration: The men occupy their time with revision of their toilets,
rather than in doing the chores]
[Illustration: Sarah]
An interested observer of the making of the attaps is the ample Sarah,
the wabbly-fleshed sow that resides in our neighbor’s shack. We call her
Sarah, for that is the closest approximation our language affords to her
real name as pronounced by the natives.
Sarah finally decides that enough attaps have been completed for the
nonce and with porcine indifference to the plans of others deposits
herself with many wheedling grunts directly in front of one of the older
women and also upon the attap she is finishing. The woman roars with
laughter. She calls the attention of the others to Sarah’s appropriation
of the spot and Sarah adds to the conversation several louder grunts, as
though demanding attention. The woman slaps Sarah fondly upon her
swelling ham and proceeds to perform the operation that the big creature
has come to enjoy. Taking a short piece of one of the midribs, she
scratches Sarah’s back, which brings from the sow grunts of grateful
approval.
Moh has struck a deal with one of the women whereby we are kept supplied
with cocoanuts, which formerly were brought to us daily but of late have
been coming in decreasing numbers. He gives in return for five cocoanuts
one empty tomato can or a canned-corn tin. He has an eye to business and
the girl who made eyes at him a few days ago is now his customer.
Judging from his very businesslike attitude toward her, he has
discovered something unattractive about her. A young and very fearsome
Kia Kia spends a great deal of his time in her company.
Our safety razors are a great curiosity to the men, who shave in what to
us would be a most unpleasant way. They pluck their beards with tweezers
made of brass, of which there are several pairs in the kampong. These
are relics of former visits of Malay traders who come to the coast
during the calm season. When we shave, there invariably cluster around,
to watch the operation, a group of wondering men who shake their heads
as though the ways and implements of the white men were beyond their
comprehension. Our shoes are a source of amusement to them, for they
cannot understand why one should wish to incase the feet in such stiff,
unyielding contraptions. Our other clothing they admire greatly, and one
of them proudly wears one of our discarded shirts. The typewriter is a
continual source of wonder, for they sense the use to which it is put
and are awed by it as much as by anything that we possess.
Though it is midday, it suddenly grows dark and we go outside the tent,
where just a little while ago the glare was almost blinding. The entire
sky is overcast, and we see that we are to taste of a regular tropical
storm,—the first, in fact, that we have experienced since landing. The
wind is moaning through the palms in rapidly rising key, and the surf
not far distant is pounding upon the beach with a menacing roar. As the
wind rises the natives scurry around, gathering up their belongings, and
the children take to cover with cries of alarm. Even the dogs slink
through the little openings in the house fronts that are cut for their
especial use and in a surprisingly short space of time the kampong is
deserted.
We make a hurried examination of the guy-ropes of our tent and tighten
some of those that are loose.
The wind is fast becoming a hurricane and if it were not for the shelter
of the surrounding palms the tent would be blown flat in an instant. As
it is, however, it stands the tempest pretty well. The rain bursts upon
us without warning, obliterating from view the grove behind the tent.
The cocoas are thrashing wildly to and fro in a frenzy that makes us
wonder how they stand it. The torrential rain floods the kampong, which
for a few moments resembles a lake in which the houses are entirely
surrounded with water. A terrific peal of thunder follows one of the
most vivid of lightning-flashes and above the drumming patter of the
rain and the howling of the wind we hear the shrieks of the frightened
children in the shack next to us.
[Illustration: The _kapala kampong_ presents us with human skulls, the
highest token of their esteem]
[Illustration: A young and very fearsome Kia Kia spends a great deal of
his time with her]
The thirsty soil drinks up the moisture rapidly, and soon after the rain
ceases, which is scarcely ten minutes from the time the storm broke, the
ground is free of puddles. The air is cool and refreshing and there is a
clean smell in it that is invigorating. The sun comes out again and the
rain-washed palms take on a brighter green, as though some accommodating
painter had touched them up anew.
Our tent has shed the water perfectly, and we and our belongings are as
dry as one could wish. Shortly after the storm we have a visitor. It is
Intelligence. He brings with him our gifts of yesterday. These he
tenders us with downcast countenance, telling us at the same time that
he cannot find the bones of the Tuan.
His abject sorrow at disappointing us is evidence that he has met with
utter failure, though from what cause we are not sure. Very likely it is
on account of the opposition encountered from the other natives. As we
feel that his efforts in our behalf merit some token of our
appreciation, we tell him that he may keep the articles and he
withdraws, anxious to get away and cover his chagrin. Our hopes of
securing the remains of the Swiss must be abandoned.
Our disappointment is to be tempered, however, for in a short time signs
of life are evident in the spaces before the houses and we note that
drums are being tuned, feathered ornaments donned, and an air of
expectancy pervades the village. We recognize the signs as preparations
for a feast, and the loud squealing of a pig, ending abruptly, somewhere
back of the house, is conclusive evidence that a jollification is
planned.
Shortly before nightfall a delegation of natives waits upon us and
requests that we follow them to the beach. This we do, wondering the
while what is in progress; but as the men are most friendly in their
behavior, we feel sure that whatever it is, it is planned for our
entertainment. Arriving at the beach, we find the men of the kampong
assembled and as we step from the palms they raise their voices in a
chant of welcome. With all the wild savagery of the scene it is
strangely thrilling. As we approach they spread out and arrange
themselves in a large circle around a forked stick from which hang two
human skulls. We are led to the center of the circle where, after an
impressive speech by the kapala kampong, we are presented with the
skulls. These are a token of highest esteem and we accept them as
such,—and, too, as a sort of consolation prize for our disappointment of
an hour ago. Moh snaps a picture of the ceremony for us, but remarks
when returning the kodak:
“Tuan, ini gamber tida biak, Sahya korang preska brapa, Tuan. [Master,
this picture is not good; I do not know how, Master.]”
As it turns out, however, Moh got the picture.