FROM BUITENZORG TO TJI WANGI.
View of Mount Salak--Railway travelling in Java--
Soekaboemi--No coolies--A long walk--Making
a _pikulan_--Forest path--Tji Wangi at last.
It is two in the afternoon, and I have just taken the curious Javan meal
called _rice-table_. Everyone else in the hotel, visitors and servants
alike, are asleep. The doors of my rooms are all open, and there is a
through draught from the courtyard to the verandah, where I am seated in
a long easy chair with arms extending at will after the manner of the
tropics. By my side on a table are placed cigars, a glass of iced claret
and water, and a novel.
The view from the back rooms of the Hôtel Belle Vue at Buitenzorg is
famous. This afternoon I am looking at it for the last time, and it
seems more wonderful than ever. Let me try to describe it.
Immediately in front is the great triangular mass of Mount Salak. The
peak is 7000 feet above sea-level, and, like most of the Javan
mountains, it rises to its full height almost clear from its base. The
lower levels are luxuriantly covered with tropical forests, a covering
which gradually thins and dwindles until the apex of the triangle stands
out sharply against the sky. Between the hotel and the mountain there
stretches a sea of waving treetops. In the distance it is deep blue; as
it approaches it grows more and more green; then separate forms of palms
and bamboos can be distinguished, with red-tiled or brown-thatched roofs
showing between them. Immediately beneath me is the brown river
Tjiliwong, with bamboo cottages on its banks and natives bathing in its
waters.
Inside the courtyard no one is stirring. The dreamy silence is only
broken by the voices that rise from the river below, by the clacking of
the sarong weaver's shuttle or the dull boom of a far-away tom-tom.
Under such circumstances the conditions necessary for perfect physical
enjoyment are very fully realized. Yet it is at such moments that one is
apt to reflect how unimportant are these material considerations
compared with the advantages of strenuous and reasoned action. One longs
for the stir of life as it is felt in the great centres of European
population;
"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay."
Well, I was going to see some European energy on the morrow. At Batavia
an English resident had said, "When you are at Buitenzorg you should go
on to Soekaboemi and see a coffee plantation.' Subsequently he wrote
that his friend H---- would expect me on Tuesday at his coffee
plantation with an unpronounceable name in the Preanger district. The
morrow was Tuesday.
Soekaboemi was only thirty or forty miles away, but I left Buitenzorg at
eight o'clock in order to escape the discomfort of travelling in the
middle of the day. It goes without saying that trains in the tropics do
not carry you along as quickly as the Flying Dutchman or the Scotch
express. But I found the carriages comfortable enough, being built in
the American fashion, and furnished with Venetians to keep out the sun
and let in the air. Except the station-masters, all the officials were
Chinese or Javan natives. The guard who looked at my ticket wore the
traditional peaked cap and cloth uniform, but over his European garments
he had appended as usual his airy native costume. Of the four classes of
carriages two are reserved for Europeans, one for Chinese, and one for
the natives.
In leaving Buitenzorg I made the mistake of taking a first-class ticket.
In the first place, the carriage had not been dusted, and a cooly came
in and disturbed me with his brush. He made such a cloud of dust that I
had to beat a retreat. On my return I found the carriage clean, but the
dust transferred to my baggage. In the next place, all the Dutch
officials, and the planters and their wives, were travelling second
class, and I was left to enjoy (?) my compartment in solitary grandeur.
Had there been any one in the carriage, I should have found out that
Soekaboemi was not the right station for H----'s plantation. As it was I
could open and shut windows at will, and I was free to make the best of
my opportunities for sight-seeing--an object towards which the slow pace
of the train and the frequent and lengthy stoppages materially
contributed. Indeed, the crowds of natives at the stations were as well
worth studying as the mountains and plantations. I never saw elsewhere,
even in Java, such rainbow mixtures of colours as they contrived to
bring into their cotton jackets and dresses; and as for their plaited
hats, there was every possible variety of shape and size, from an
umbrella to a funnel.
For the first few miles the line ran southwards between Salak and Gedé.
On either side I could see stretches of mountain slopes luxuriously
wooded, while the brown stream Tji Sadanie, a tributary of the Kali
Besar, or "great river" of Batavia, playing hide-and-seek with the
railroad, afforded more than one charming "bit" of river, tree, and
mountain.
As we get away from the mountains the view widens. Masses of palms, dark
green bamboos, and other tropical growths fill up the distance. In the
foreground are irrigated rice terraces, with gleaming waters and the
freshest of verdure. Here copper-coloured natives are at work. Men are
ploughing the wet soil of the sawahs with buffaloes; women--often with
their babies slung on their backs with their long scarfs--are hoeing, or
weeding, or reaping. As the average monthly temperature does not vary
more than two degrees all the year round in Java, the process of
preparing the ground, sowing, and reaping go on simultaneously in the
ricefields. Every now and then we come across a queer little Noah's-ark
cottage in the midst of bananas and bamboos, with a tall palm or two
waving overhead. Salak remains long in sight. At first it towered in its
pride of greatness, then it grew soft in the blue distance. At last the
railway turns abruptly at Karan Tenjak, and it is gone.
As the train nears Soekaboemi the character of the country changes.
Plantations of sugar in the level country and of tea on the uplands take
the place of ricefields. The name Soekaboemi means "pleasant place," and
the town is the centre of the planting interest in Java. In its
immediate neighbourhood are coffee, cinchona, and tea plantations.
At a quarter to eleven the train drew up in a large and excellently
arranged station. I at once made my way outside. Here I looked in vain
for the horses and coolies I expected to meet me. After waiting some
moments, I confided my troubles to a bystander, addressing him in
French, which is spoken by the Europeans in Java almost as much as
Dutch. Fortunately Tji Wangi--the unpronounceable name of H----'s
plantation--seemed to be well known, and he grasped the situation at
once.
"You ought to have gone to Tji Reingass," he said; "the coolies will be
there."
"How far am I from Tji Wangi? Is it within driving distance?" I
inquired.
"Yes."
"Can I take a sadoe?"
"Yes, certainly."
There were several sadoes outside the station at Soekaboemi. As my
knowledge of Malay, the recognized language for communication between
natives and Europeans, was strictly limited, I asked my new friend to
find out if the Malay "boy" knew where Tji Wangi was. This he readily
did, and told me that it was all right; that he would take me to Tji
Wangi. So I got into the sadoe, expecting to be driven promptly to my
destination.
But the thing was not so simple. After an hour and a half of driving
over mountain roads, the Malay pulled up suddenly under the shelter of a
wayside inn. While I was wondering why he stopped, he coolly took out my
luggage and planted it in the middle of the road in front of the sadoe.
After this very broad hint, I got out too.
"Mana Tji Wangi" ("Where is Tji Wangi")? I said.
For answer he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the mountain.
"Brapa lama" ("How long")?
"Suku jam" ("A quarter of an hour"), was the mendacious and unhesitating
reply.
Meanwhile a cooly, who had been summoned from the ricefields, appeared
upon the scene and took up my Gladstone bag. Nothing remained for me but
to pay my mendacious Malay half the number of florins he demanded and
follow my new guide.
As a matter of fact, Tji Wangi was ten miles away on the other side of
the Goenoeng Malang, or Cross Mountain. This, of course, I did not know,
and so I set off cheerfully up the side of the mountain. Although it was
midday, the heat was not oppressive at this altitude (two thousand
feet), and I was clothed for the tropics. When an hour had passed and
there were still no signs of the plantation, I began to feel less
cheerful. I stopped and interrogated the cooly. He smiled blandly. _He_
at least was suffering from no misgivings. Like the young man in
"Excelsior," he pointed upwards. We met some natives; I accosted them
with "Mana Tji Wangi?" They too pointed up the mountain. At any rate, we
were travelling in the right direction. I noticed that the natives we
met behaved very differently from the saucy sadoe-drivers in the towns.
As we passed they stood on one side with their heads uncovered. When I
spoke to them, they squatted down and sat with their legs tucked up
under them and their hats off in a most uncomfortable way. I afterwards
learnt that these traditions of Oriental etiquette were preserved by the
Dutch and English planters in the interests of discipline. As the
plantations are often long distances apart, the Europeans have to rely
upon moral force to maintain their ascendency. Another half-hour passed
and still no signs of Tji Wangi. We had met no Europeans, and I was
beginning to get uneasy, when we came to a second inn.
Here I ordered a halt. The shade of the projecting roof was very
welcome. My eyes could not reach the dark interior, but they ranged
hungrily--I had eaten nothing since my early breakfast--over the
edibles laid out in front. There were fruits and cakes, little
messes of vegetables, dried fish, and other odd-looking delicacies
on plates. I decided on a big bunch of bananas. In payment I gave a
half-florin--worth rather less than a shilling of English money--and I
received in return quite a handful of silver and copper coins. I
concluded that bananas were not expensive in Java.
While I was eating my bananas, my cooly set to work to make a _pikulan_,
or shoulder-piece. He took a long bamboo and stripped off the leaves and
branches with his _gaulok_, a long knife which every native carries at
his waist. By the aid of this contrivance--borrowed from China--the
Javan natives carry burdens up to half a hundredweight without apparent
exertion for long distances. The spring of the bamboo eases the pressure
on the shoulder. On the same principle, an Australian carries his swag
with a lurch forward.
While he was busied with the pikulan, the cooly talked over the affairs
of the _Tuan Ingris_ (English gentleman) to a crowd of natives. Suddenly
I heard the word _kuda_. Fortunately _kuda_ (horse) was one of the words
I knew: and I at once ordered the kuda to be brought. Half a dozen
natives set off to find it. It turned out to be a very diminutive pony,
but I was not prepared to criticize.
We set out from the inn under brighter auspices. The cooly slung my
Gladstone bag at one end of the pikulan, and another small bag, with a
big stone to balance, at the other. He moved with an elastic step, as if
there was no greater pleasure in the world than carrying bags up
mountain paths, and beat the kuda hands down.
Relieved of the fatigue of walking, I could admire the mountain scenery.
As we climbed higher and higher, the stretches of green country grew
more extensive, and the blue mountains seemed to grow loftier in the
distance. Once over the saddle of the mountain, we descended rapidly
into a region of almost virgin forest. Ferns and large-leaved trees
overhung the path; from the verdant undergrowth there sprang at
intervals the vast round trunks of the rosamala trees. In the branches
high above, and beyond the range of any gun, the wild pigeons fluttered
and cooed. The spaces between the great trees were filled by a
background of dense forest.
About five o'clock the red roofs of the plantation came in sight. In
another five minutes I was being-welcomed with Anglo-Saxon heartiness.
"Ah!" said H----, as he looked at my little pony. "I sent you down a
horse that would have brought you up within the hour. You should have
gone to Tji Reingass; that is our station, not Soekaboemi. Johnston
ought to have known. Come in."
In H----'s comfortable den I soon forgot the various _contretemps_ of my
journey to Tji Wangi.