We landed next morning at Tumpat, thus far justifying faith, for nothing
noteworthy was visible from our anchorage. Tumpat is on the present main
channel of the delta of the Kelantan, a river which changes its mind
about its channels now and then; and from Tumpat crossed the river to
Kota Bharu, the capital of the native state of Kelantan, where its Sultan
resides. To have such a name, and a Sultan, and to be placed on the
shore of the China Sea in such a light, should be enough for any town.
From what I could see of it, one might do well at Kota Bharu. It has a
rest-house, a rambling and capacious building of timber, where I thought
it would be easy to stay for so long that one might forget to go. Near
my bedroom wild bees had a home behind a beam, and I could sit and watch
a living brown fresco moving its pattern on the planks of the wall. Next
door to the bees was a colony of wasps. No courtesies were exchanged.
The bees never went to the wasps, though the wasps occasionally came to
look at the bees, but never stayed long, for the disapproval of the bees
was instant, though they did not appear to resent some little tricks I
played on them. While watching the bees one afternoon a chichak, a small
gecko who lives on the walls and ceilings of every house and attends to
the flies and moths, slid out of a crack about a yard from the bees. He
seemed astonished by so great a number of flies, and lifted himself on
his hands to get a better view of them. He was obviously puzzled, and
instead of his usual lightning dash he made a slow and careful approach
to within a few inches of a bunch of the bees. Then he remained as still
as the graining of the wood, till a bee happened to walk toward him. He
fled back to his crack like the flick of a whip.
My friend I had found in the ship, whose name may be Smith, told me,
however, that this was no time to watch flies. I must go to a Chinese
shop and buy frying pans and provender, while he went to the Sultan’s
prime minister, or chancellor, or caliph, to obtain a mandate which would
require the local chiefs to regard us friendly-wise.
That afternoon, by invitation, we saw a bull-fight, at which the Sultan
and his court were present. The Malays of Kelantan, their disposition
being entirely happy, delight in the fighting of bulls, buffaloes,
rams, cocks, and fish. The Sultan, it was whispered, keeps registers of
all the fighting animals in the state, is regularly informed of their
condition, and arranges the tournaments. This was one. It was a sparkling
festival. But for those fighting bulls, I should never have seen so many
of the ladies of Kota Bharu. The massed colors of their silk _sarongs_
and head scarfs were emphatic and influential. Each bull seemed to be
hidden within the ambush of a rainbow; from his happy seclusion he sent
out his distracting shrill challenges. They were humped cattle, small
but athletic, with brass or silver guards to the points of their horns.
Their hoofs were polished. Their coats played like satin with the light.
They were haughty. To the caresses which would have won the coldest
rajah they were massively indifferent. They appeared to know that their
part in the show was not love, and to sternly reject it. The favorite
was a little black animal. He was quiet, even sleepy. He submitted to
the shampooing of his coat and the massaging of his limbs with the proud
nonchalance of a popular champion. Children might play with him, and
they did. And while the children played, the bookmakers gave the picture
a familiar touch of Epsom Downs. Malays are dour and irreclaimable
gamblers, and I found that to share this human failing no knowledge of
the vernacular is necessary. The betting was two to one on the champion.
The two bulls for the first round were led by their men into a large
inclosure. There for a space they were fondled in opposite corners,
while, so far as I could see, good advice was whispered earnestly into
their ears. The guards to their horns were removed, and a man from each
went over to inspect the sharp horns of the other animal, probably for
poison. Then a gong droned, and the comely gladiators were marched to
face each other at a distance of about fifty yards. The gong crashed, and
the crowd raised the shrill and fearful Malay war cry. Each bull exploded
in a cloud of dust.
[Illustration: _The Fighters Stood with Horns Interlocked, Waiting for
Each Other to Move_]
I felt at that moment a spasm of apprehensive indignation at the cruelty
of it; but the bulls understood each other. It was all right. Anyhow, one
bull understood the other. The little champion appeared to be outmatched.
He kept carefully his front on feet as nimble as a cat’s, but was pushed
about the field. I felt I could only wait for his end. There were sharp
convulsive onsets, or the fighters stood with horns interlocked, waiting
for each other to move. But I noticed each time that it was the big
aggressive fellow who moved first. Once the two fighters separated—gazed
round calmly at us while their flanks heaved—ignored each other—showed
clearly that this was fun and that they had had enough of it. But the war
cry aroused them, and the cry rose an octave when they met in the shock
of another charge. The champion stumbled at the impact. His opponent
instantly became distinctly savage and more active, and the bookmakers
thereupon raced round the inclosure, offering three to one on the
champion, which I thought was ridiculous logic. The champion was bleeding
at the shoulder. He was tired and was in retreat. Once or twice now, when
their horns were mingled and they stood with their muzzles to the ground
for a breathing space, like statues, watching each other, I thought I
observed that the little fellow experimented with his challenger. He
appeared to test him with a modest feint or two. Yet this only inflamed
to fury his enemy, who drove him backward again straddle-legged over a
dozen yards or so.
This happened once too often. At the end of one of these retreats the
little champion played some caper. I do not know what. I could not see
it. It was instantaneous. But there the big bull was, on his ribs, and
his enemy’s armed front was prodding his belly, daring him to move. The
beaten bull, lately so aggressive, did not move. Once he raised his head,
and if there was not in his eyes a pathetic appeal to let him off, then
I do not know that expression. The champion understood it, like the
gentleman he was. He turned away his head, as though he had forgotten
something, and on the instant the defeated gladiator was on his feet and
trotting away briskly to his corner.