MALAY SKETCHES
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
UNADDRESSED LETTERS
_Crown 8vo, 6s. Third Edition_
“Deep gratitude is due to Sir Frank for giving these letters to the world
... the lazy descriptions of Eastern life, the musings on great scenes,
the stories, and the utterances of social wisdom are all delightful,
and add body to a book remarkable for a rare delicacy and charm.”—_The
Athenæum._
“His narrative style is admirable, and his episodes are always
interesting. One could read for many hours of the clever mongoose and
tigers and crocodiles.... Sir Frank Swettenham has a pretty humour....
The style in which these ‘Unaddressed Letters’ is written is excellent.”—
_The Pall Mall Gazette._
THE REAL MALAY
PEN PICTURES
_Crown, 8vo, 6s._
“No pen except that of Mr. Conrad has drawn the Malay character so
faithfully or so graphically.... It is a combination that is very
alluring, and we confess to finding Sir Frank Swettenham’s book of Malay
sketches most fascinating reading.”—_The Pall Mall Gazette._
“Sir Frank Swettenham understands perhaps better than any other roving
Englishman ‘The Real Malay.’”—_The Morning Post._
[Illustration]
MALAY SKETCHES
BY
SIR FRANK ATHELSTANE SWETTENHAM
JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD
LONDON AND NEW YORK MDCCCCIII
THIRD EDITION
Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON & CO.
London & Edinburgh
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
I. THE REAL MALAY 1
II. THE TIGER 12
III. A FISHING PICNIC 19
IV. THE MURDER OF THE HAWKER 25
V. MĔNG-GĔLUNCHOR 31
VI. ÂMOK 38
VII. THE JÔGET 44
VIII. THE STORY OF MAT ARIS 53
IX. LÂTAH 64
X. THE ETERNAL FEMININE 83
XI. IN THE NOON OF NIGHT 92
XII. VAN HAGEN AND CAVALIERO 103
XIII. THE PASSING OF PĔNGLIMA PRANG SĔMAUN 112
XIV. BĔR-HANTU 147
XV. THE KING’S WAY 161
XVI. A MALAY ROMANCE 179
XVII. MALAY SUPERSTITIONS 192
XVIII. WITH A CASTING-NET 211
XIX. JAMES WHEELER WOODFORD BIRCH 227
XX. A PERSONAL INCIDENT 248
XXI. NAKODAH ORLONG 270
XXII. EVENING 281
PREFACE
This is not a book of travels, nor is it, in even the smallest sense, the
record of a traveller’s experiences in a foreign land. It is a series of
sketches of Malay scenery and Malay character drawn by one who has spent
the best part of his life in the scenes and amongst the people described.
These pages contain no statistics, no history, no geography, no science,
real or spurious, no politics, no moralising, no prophecy,—only an
attempt to awaken an interest in an almost undescribed but deeply
interesting people, the dwellers in one of the most beautiful and least
known countries in the East.
The traveller will come in time, and he will publish his experiences of
Malâya and the Malays; but while he may look upon the country with a
higher appreciation and paint its features with a more artistic touch, he
will see few of those characteristics of the people, none of that inner
life which, I make bold to say, is here faithfully portrayed.
FRANK SWETTENHAM.
THE RESIDENCY, PERAK, _28 March 1895_.
“Quel est donc ce pays, disaient-ils l’un a l’autre, inconnu
a tout le reste de la terre, et où toute la nature est d’une
espèce si différente de la nôtre?”
VOLTAIRE
Imagine yourself transported to a land of eternal summer, to that Golden
Peninsula, ’twixt Hindustan and Far Cathay, from whence the early
navigators brought back such wondrous stories of adventure. A land where
Nature is at her best and richest: where plants and animals, beasts of
the forest, birds of the air, and every living thing seem yet inspired
with a feverish desire for growth and reproduction, as though they were
still in the dawn of Creation.
And Man?
Yes, he is here. Forgotten by the world, passed by in the race for
civilisation, here he has remained amongst his own forests, by the banks
of his well-loved streams, unseeking and unsought. Whence he came none
know and few care, but this is the land that has given to, or taken from,
him the name of a Race that has spread over a wider area than any other
Eastern people.
Malâya, land of the pirate and the _âmok_, your secrets have been well
guarded, but the enemy has at last passed your gate, and soon the
irresistible Juggernaut of Progress will have penetrated to your remotest
fastness, slain your beasts, cut down your forests, “civilised” your
people, clothed them in strange garments, and stamped them with the seal
of a higher morality.
That time of regeneration will come rapidly, but for the moment the Malay
of the Peninsula is as he has been these hundreds of years. Education and
contact with Western people must produce the inevitable result. Isolated
native races whose numbers are few must disappear or conform to the views
of a stronger will and a higher intelligence. The Malays of the Peninsula
will not disappear, but they will change, and the process of “awakening”
has in places already begun.
It might be rash to speculate on the gain which the future has in store
for this people, but it is hardly likely to make them more personally
interesting to the observer. This is the moment of transition, and these
are sketches of the Malay as he is.
Jetons-nous dans cette petite barque, laissons-nous aller au
courant: une rivière mène toujours à quelque en droit habité;
si nous ne trouvons pas des choses agréables, nous trouverons
du moins des choses nouvelles
“‘Allons,’ dit Candide, ‘recommandons-nous à la Providence’”
VOLTAIRE
MALAY SKETCHES
I
THE REAL MALAY
He was the mildest manner’d man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat
BYRON, _Don Juan_
To begin to understand the Malay you must live in his country, speak
his language, respect his faith, be interested in his interests, humour
his prejudices, sympathise with and help him in trouble, and share his
pleasures and possibly his risks. Only thus can you hope to win his
confidence. Only through that confidence can you hope to understand the
inner man, and this knowledge can therefore only come to those who have
the opportunity and use it.
So far the means of studying Malays in their own country (where alone
they are seen in their true character) have fallen to few Europeans,
and a very small proportion of them have shown an inclination to get to
the hearts of the people. There are a hundred thousand Malays in Perak
and some more in other parts of the Peninsula; and the white man, whose
interest in the race is strong enough, may not only win confidence
but the devotion that is ready to give life itself in the cause of
friendship. The Scripture says: “There is no greater thing than this,”
and in the end of the nineteenth century that is a form of friendship all
too rare. Fortunately this is a thing you cannot buy, but to gain it is
worth some effort.
The real Malay is a short, thick-set, well-built man, with straight
black hair, a dark brown complexion, thick nose and lips, and bright
intelligent eyes. His disposition is generally kindly, his manners are
polite and easy. Never cringing, he is reserved with strangers and
suspicious, though he does not show it. He is courageous and trustworthy
in the discharge of an undertaking; but he is extravagant, fond of
borrowing money, and very slow in repaying it. He is a good talker,
speaks in parables, quotes proverbs and wise saws, has a strong sense
of humour, and is very fond of a good joke. He takes an interest in
the affairs of his neighbours and is consequently a gossip. He is a
Muhammadan and a fatalist, but he is also very superstitious. He never
drinks intoxicants, he is rarely an opium-smoker. But he is fond of
gambling, cock-fighting, and kindred sports. He is by nature a sportsman,
catches and tames elephants, is a skilful fisherman, and thoroughly at
home in a boat. Above all things, he is conservative to a degree, is
proud and fond of his country and his people, venerates his ancient
customs and traditions, fears his Rajas, and has a proper respect for
constituted authority—while he looks askance on all innovations, and
will resist their sudden introduction. But if he has time to examine
them carefully, and they are not thrust upon him, he is willing to be
convinced of their advantage. At the same time he is a good imitative
learner, and, when he has energy and ambition enough for the task, makes
a good mechanic. He is, however, lazy to a degree, is without method or
order of any kind, knows no regularity even in the hours of his meals,
and considers time as of no importance. His house is untidy, even dirty,
but he bathes twice a day, and is very fond of personal adornment in the
shape of smart clothes.
A Malay is intolerant of insult or slight; it is something that to him
should be wiped out in blood. He will brood over a real or fancied stain
on his honour until he is possessed by the desire for revenge. If he
cannot wreak it on the offender, he will strike out at the first human
being that comes in his way, male or female, old or young. It is this
state of blind fury, this vision of blood, that produces the _âmok_. The
Malay has often been called treacherous. I question whether he deserves
the reproach more than other men. He is courteous and expects courtesy in
return, and he understands only one method of avenging personal insults.
The spirit of the clan is also strong in him. He acknowledges the
necessity of carrying out, even blindly, the orders of his hereditary
chief, while he will protect his own relatives at all costs and make
their quarrel his own.
The giving of gifts by Raja to subject, or subject to ruler, is a custom
now falling into desuetude, but it still prevails on the occasion of the
accession of a Raja, the appointment of high officers, a marriage, a
circumcision, ear-piercing, or similar ceremony. As with other Eastern
people, hospitality is to the Malay a sacred duty fulfilled by high and
low, rich and poor alike.
Though the Malay is an Islam by profession, and would suffer crucifixion
sooner than deny his faith, he is not a bigot; indeed, his tolerance
compares favourably with that of the professing Christian, and, when
he thinks of these matters at all, he believes that the absence of
hypocrisy is the beginning of religion. He has a sublime faith in God,
the immortality of the soul, a heaven of ecstatic earthly delights, and a
hell of punishments, which every individual is so confident will not be
his own portion that the idea of its existence presents no terrors.
Christian missionaries of all denominations have apparently abandoned the
hope of his conversion.
In his youth, the Malay boy is often beautiful, a thing of wonderful
eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows, with a far-away expression of sadness and
solemnity, as though he had left some better place for a compulsory exile
on earth.
Those eyes, which are extraordinarily large and clear, seem filled with
a pained wonder at all they see here, and they give the impression of a
constant effort to open ever wider and wider in search of something they
never find. Unlike the child of Japan, this cherub never looks as if
his nurse had forgotten to wipe his nose. He is treated with elaborate
respect, sleeps when he wishes, and sits up till any hour of the night if
he so desires, eats when he is hungry, has no toys, is never whipped,
and hardly ever cries.
Until he is fifteen or sixteen, this atmosphere of a better world remains
about him. He is often studious even, and duly learns to read the Korân
in a language he does not understand.
Then, well then, from sixteen to twenty-five or later he is to be
avoided. He takes his pleasure, sows his wild oats like youths of a
higher civilisation, is extravagant, open-handed, gambles, gets into
debt, runs away with his neighbour’s wife, and generally asserts himself.
Then follows a period when he either adopts this path and pursues it, or,
more commonly, he weans himself gradually from an indulgence that has not
altogether realized his expectation, and if, under the advice of older
men, he seeks and obtains a position of credit and usefulness in society
from which he begins at last to earn some profit, he will, from the age
of forty, probably develop into an intelligent man of miserly and rather
grasping habits with some one little pet indulgence of no very expensive
kind.
The Malay girl-child is not usually so attractive in appearance as the
boy, and less consideration is shown to her. She runs wild till the
time comes for investing her in a garment, that is to say when she is
about five years old. From then, she is taught to help in the house and
kitchen, to sew, to read and write, perhaps to work in the _padi_ field,
but she is kept out of the way of all strange menkind. When fifteen or
sixteen, she is often almost interesting; very shy, very fond of pretty
clothes and ornaments, not uncommonly much fairer in complexion than the
Malay man, with small hands and feet, a happy smiling face, good teeth,
and wonderful eyes and eyebrows—the eyes of the little Malay boy. The
Malay girl is proud of a wealth of straight, black hair, of a spotless
olive complexion, of the arch of her brow—“like a one-day-old moon”—of
the curl of her eyelashes, and of the dimples in cheek or chin.
Unmarried girls are taught to avoid all men except those nearly related
to them. Until marriage, it is considered unmaidenly for them to raise
their eyes or take any part or interest in their surroundings when men
are present. This leads to an affectation of modesty which, however
over-strained, deceives nobody.
After marriage, a woman gets a considerable amount of freedom which
she naturally values. In Perak a man, who tries to shut his womenkind
up and prevent their intercourse with others and a participation in
the fêtes and pleasures of Malay society, is looked upon as a jealous,
ill-conditioned person.
Malays are extremely particular about questions of rank and birth,
especially when it comes to marriage, and _mésalliances_, as understood
in the West, are with them very rare.
The general characteristics of Malay women, especially those of gentle
birth, are powers of intelligent conversation, quickness in repartee,
a strong sense of humour and an instant appreciation of the real
meaning of those hidden sayings which are hardly ever absent from their
conversation. They are fond of reading such literature as their language
offers, and they use uncommon words and expressions, the meanings of
which are hardly known to men. For the telling of secrets, they have
several modes of speech not understanded of the people.
They are generally amiable in disposition, mildly—sometimes
fiercely—jealous, often extravagant and, up to about the age of forty,
evince an increasing fondness for jewellery and smart clothes. In these
latter days they are developing a pretty taste for horses, carriages, and
whatever conduces to luxury and display, though, in their houses, there
are still a rugged simplicity and untidiness, absolutely devoid of all
sense of order.
A Malay is allowed by law to have as many as four wives, to divorce
them, and replace them. If he is well off and can afford so much
luxury, he usually takes advantage of the power to marry more than one
wife, to divorce and secure successors; but he seldom undertakes the
responsibility of four wives at one time. The woman on her part can, and
often does, obtain a divorce from her husband. Written conditions of
marriage, “settlements” of a kind, are common with people in the upper
classes, and the law provides for the custody of children, division of
property, and so on. The ancient maiden lady is an unknown quantity,
so is the Malay public woman; and, as there is no society bugbear, the
people lead lives that are almost natural. There are no drunken husbands,
no hobnail boots, and no screaming viragoes—because a word would get rid
of them. All forms of madness, mania, and brain-softening are extremely
rare.
The Malay has ideas on the subject of marriage, ideas born of his
infinite experience. He has even soared into regions of matrimonial
philosophy, and returned with such crumbs of lore as never fall to the
poor monogamist.
I am not going to give away the secrets of the life behind the curtain;
if I wished to do so I might trip over difficulties of expression; but
in spite of the Malay’s reputation for bloodthirstiness, in spite of
(or because of, whichever you please) the fact that he is impregnated
with the doctrines of Islam, in spite of his sensitive honour and his
proneness to revenge, and in spite of his desire to keep his own women
(when young and attractive) away from the prying eyes of other men, he
yet holds this uncommon faith, that if he has set his affections on a
woman, and for any reason he is unable at once to make her his own, he
cares not to how many others she allies herself provided she becomes his
before time has robbed her of her physical attractions.
His reason is this. He says (certainly not to a stranger, rarely even
to his Malay friends, but to himself) “if, after all this experience,
she likes me best, I have no fear that she will wish to go further
afield. All Malay girls marry before they are twenty, and the woman who
has only known one husband, however attractive he may be, will come
sooner or later to the conviction that life with another promises new
and delightful experiences not found in the society of the first man to
whom destiny and her relatives have chosen to unite her. Thus some fool
persuades her that in his worship and passion she will find the World’s
Desire, and it is only after perhaps a long and varied experience that
she realizes that, having started for a voyage on the ocean, she finds
herself seated at the bottom of a dry well.”
It is possible that thus she becomes acquainted with truth.
II
THE TIGER
Yon golden terror, barred with ebon stripes
Low-crouching horror, with the cruel fangs
Waiting in deathly stillness for thy spring
ANON.
Some idea of what Malays are in their own country may best be conveyed
by taking the reader in imagination through some scenes of their daily
life. The tiger, for instance, is seldom deliberately sought; if he
kills a buffalo a spring gun is set to shoot him when he returns for his
afternoon meal, but sometimes the tiger comes about a village, and it is
necessary to get rid of so dangerous a visitor. Let me try and put the
scene before you.
But how describe an Eastern dawn? Sight alone will give a true impression
of its strange beauty. Out of darkness and stillness, the transition to
light—intense brilliant light—and the sounds of awakened life, is rapid
and complete, a short half hour or less turning night into tropical day.
The first indication of dawn is a grey haze, then the clouds clothing
the Western hills are shot with pale yellow and in a few minutes turn to
gold, while Eastern ranges are still in darkness. The light spreads to
the Western slopes, moves rapidly across the valleys, and suddenly the
sun, a great ball of fire, appears above the Eastern hills. The fogs,
which have risen from the rivers and marshes and covered the land, as
with a pall, rise like smoke and disappear, and the whole face of nature
is flooded with light, the valleys and slopes of the Eastern ranges being
the last to feel the influence of the risen sun.
That grey half-light which precedes dawn is the signal for Malays to be
stirring. The doors are opened, and, only half awake and shivering in
the slight breeze made by the rising fog, they leave their houses and
make for the nearest stream, there to bathe and fetch fresh water for the
day’s use.
A woman dressed in the _sârong_, a plaid skirt of silk or cotton, and
a jacket, walks rapidly to the river, carrying a long bamboo and some
gourds, which, after her bath, she fills, and begins to walk home
through the wealth of vegetation that clothes the whole face of the
country. She follows a narrow path up from the bed of the clear stream,
the jungle trees and orchards, the long rank grasses and tangled creepers
almost hiding the path. Suddenly she stops spellbound, her knees give way
under her, the vessels drop from her nerveless hands, and a speechless
fear turns her blood to water; for there, in front of her, is a great
black and yellow head with cruel yellow eyes, and a half-open mouth
showing a red tongue and long white teeth. The shoulders and fore feet
of the tiger stand clear of the thick foliage, and a hoarse low roar
of surprise and anger comes from the open mouth. An exceeding great
fear chains the terrified woman to the spot, and the tiger, thus faced,
sulkily and with more hoarse grumbling, slowly draws back into the jungle
and disappears. Then the instinct of self-preservation returns to the
woman, and, with knees still weak and a cold hand on her heart, she
stumbles, with what speed she may, back to the river, down the bank, and
to the friendly shelter of the nearest dwelling.
It takes little time to tell the story, and the men of the house, armed
with spears and _krises_ and an old rusty gun, quickly spread the
news throughout the _kampong_, as each cluster of huts and orchards
is called. Every one arms himself with such weapons as he possesses,
the boys of sixteen or seventeen climb into trees, from which they
hope to see and be able to report the movements of the beast. The men,
marshalled by the _ka-tua kampong_, the village chief, make their plans
for surrounding the spot where the tiger was seen, and word is sent by
messenger to the nearest police-station and European officer.
Whilst all this is taking place, the tiger, probably conscious that too
many people are about, leaves his lair and stealthily creeps along a path
which will lead him far from habitations. But, as he does so, he passes
under a tree where sits one of the young watchmen, and the boy, seizing
his opportunity, drops a heavy spear on the tiger as he passes, and gives
him a serious wound. The beast, with a roar of pain, leaps into the
jungle, carrying the spear with him; and, after what he considers a safe
interval, the boy climbs down, gets back to the circle of watchers, and
reports what has occurred.
For a long time, there is silence, no one caring to go in and seek a
wounded tiger—but this monotony is broken rudely and suddenly by a shot
on the outskirts of the wide surrounding ring of beaters where a young
Malay has been keeping guard over a jungle track. Instantly the nearest
rush to the spot only to find the boy badly wounded, after firing a shot
that struck the tiger but did not prevent him reaching and pulling down
the youth who fired it.
Hardly has a party carried the wounded man to shelter, than news arrives
that, in trying to break the ring at another point, the tiger has sprung
upon the point of a spear held in rest by a kneeling Malay, and, the
spear, passing completely through the beast’s body, the tiger has come
down on the man’s back and killed him. The old men say it is because,
regardless of the wisdom of their ancestors, fools now face a tiger with
spears unguarded, whereas in the olden time it was always the custom to
tie a crosspiece of wood where blade joins shaft to prevent the tiger
“running up the spear” and killing his opponent.
The game is getting serious now and the tiger has retired to growl and
roar in a thick isolated copse of bushes and tangled undergrowth from
which it seems impossible to draw him, and where it would be madness to
seek him.
By this time, all the principal people in the neighbourhood have been
collected. The copse is surrounded and two elephants are ridden at
the cover, in the hope of driving the wounded tiger from his shelter.
A vain hope, for, when the huge beasts get inconveniently near to
him, the tiger, with a great roar, springs on to the shoulder of the
nearest elephant and brings him to his knees. The terrified occupants
of the howdah are thus deposited on the ground, but lose no time in
picking themselves up and getting away. The elephant with a scream of
terror whirls round, throwing off the tiger with a broken tooth, and,
accompanied by his fellow, rushes from the place and will not be stopped
till several miles have been covered and the river is between them and
their enemy.
Severe maladies want desperate and heroic remedies. After a short
consultation, a young Malay chief and several of his friends, armed only
with spears, express their determination to seek the tiger where he lies.
They immediately put the plan into execution. Shoulder to shoulder and
with spears in rest, they advance to the copse. They have not long to
wait in doubt for the wounded and enraged beast, with open mouth and eyes
blazing fell purpose, charges straight at them. There is the shock of
flesh against steel, an awful snarling and straining of muscles and the
already badly wounded tiger is pinned to the ground and dies under the
thrusts of many spears.
The general result of a tiger hunt, under such circumstances, is the
death or serious injury of one or two of the pursuers.
III
A FISHING PICNIC
I have given you lands to hunt in,
I have given you streams to fish in,
Filled the river full of fishes
LONGFELLOW
Now come to a Malay picnic.
Again, it is early morning, the guests have been invited overnight and
warned to come on their elephants and bring “rice and salt.” By the time
the sun is well up there are fifty or sixty people (of whom about half
are women), mounted on twelve or fifteen elephants, and some boys and
followers are prepared to walk.
The word is given to make for a great limestone hill rising abruptly out
of the plain, for, close round the foot of this rock, eating its way into
the unexplored depths of subaqueous caves, flows a clear mountain-bred
stream, and, in the silent pools which lie under the shadow of the cliff,
are the fish which with the rice and salt, will make the coming feast.
The road lies through six or seven miles of open country and virgin
forest, and it is 9 or 10 A.M. before the river is reached, the elephants
hobbled, and the men of the party ready for business.
In days gone by, the method would have been to _tuba_ the stream above
a pool, but this poisoning of the water affects the river for miles,
and dynamite which is not nearly so destructive is preferred. The plan
is to select a large and deep pool round which the men stand ready to
spring in, while the women make a cordon across the shallow at its lower
end, ready to catch the fish that escape the hands of the swimmers. Two
cartridges of dynamite with a detonator and a piece of slow match are
tied to a stone and thrown into the deepest part of the pool, there is
an explosion sending up a great column of water, and immediately the
dead fish come to the surface and begin to float down stream. Twenty
men spring into the pool, and with shouts and laughter struggle for the
slippery fish; those which elude the grasp of the swimmers are caught by
the women. It will then be probably discovered that no very big fish have
been taken; and, as it is certain that some at least should be there,
the boldest and best divers will search the bottom of the pool and even
look into the water-filled caves of the rock that there rises sheer out
of the stream. Success rewards this effort, and, from the bed of the
pool, some sixteen or eighteen feet deep, the divers bring up two at a
time, great silvery fish weighing ten to fifteen pounds each. There is
much joy over the capture of these _klah_ and _tengas_, the best kinds of
fresh water fish known here, and, if the total take is not a large one,
the operation will be repeated in another and yet another pool, until a
sufficient quantity of fish has been secured and every one is tired of
the water.
There is a general change of wet garments for dry ones, no difficult
matter, while long before this fires have been made on the bank, rice
is boiling, fish are roasting in split sticks, grilling, frying, and
the hungry company is settling itself in groups ready for the meal. It
is a matter of honour that no plates should be used, so every one has a
piece of fresh green plantain leaf to hold his rice and salt and fish,
while nature supplies the forks and spoons. Whether it is the exercise,
the excitement, or the coldness of the two hours’ bath, that is most
responsible for the keen appetites is not worth inquiring, but thorough
justice is done to the food; and if you, reader, should ever be fortunate
enough to take part in one of these picnics, you will declare that you
never before realised how delicious a meal can be made of such simple
ingredients. Some one has smuggled in a few condiments and they add
largely to the success of the Malay _bouille-abaisse_, but people affect
not to know they are there, and you go away assured that rice and salt
did it all. That is part of the game.
And now it is time to return, the sun has long passed the meridian, and
there is a mile or two of forest before getting into the open country.
The timid amongst the ladies feign alarm (Malays are sensible people who
take only the young to picnics, and leave the old to mind the houses),
and a desire to get away at once, but there are others who know what is
in store for them.
The elephants are brought up and each pannier is found to be loaded
with jungle fruit, large and small, ripe and unripe, hard and soft,
but generally hard as stones. Every one knows the meaning of this and,
as the elephants kneel down to take their riders, you may observe that
usually two men sit in front, two women behind, and the latter are
anxious about their umbrellas and show a tendency to open them here
where, in the gloom of the forest, they are not needed. The first two
or three elephants move off quickly, and, having turned a corner in the
path, disappear. It is necessary to proceed in Indian file, and as the
next elephant comes to this corner he and his company are assailed by
a perfect shower of missiles (the jungle fruit) from the riders of the
first section of elephants who are slily waiting here to surprise those
behind. The attack is returned with interest and the battle wages hot
and furious. The leaders of the rear column try to force their way past
those who dispute the path with them, and either succeed or put the enemy
to flight only to find a succession of ambuscades laid for them, each
resulting in a deadly struggle, and so, throughout the length of the
forest, the more venturesome pushing their way to the front or taking up
an independent line and making enemies of all comers, until, at last,
the whole party clears the jungle and, taking open order, a succession
of wild charges soon gets every one into the fray and, the supply of
ammunition having run out, there is nothing left but to count the damage
done.
It is principally in broken umbrellas which have been used as shields,
but some garments are stained, and there may be a few bruises treated
with much good humour, and, by the time the party has straightened its
dishevelledness, it is found that miles of otherwise tedious journey have
been passed and every one is home ere the lengthening shadows suddenly
contract and tell the sun has set.
IV
THE MURDER OF THE HAWKER
It is a damned and bloody work,
The graceless action of a heavy hand
_King John_
One afternoon, in 1892, a foreign Malay named Lenggang, who made a living
by hawking in a boat on the Perak River, left Bota with his usual cargo
and a hundred dollars which his cousin, the son of the _Penghulu_, had
been keeping for him. He was alone in the boat and dropped down stream,
saying he would call at some of the villages that line at intervals the
banks of the river.
The next day this man’s dead body, lying partly under a mosquito curtain,
was discovered in the boat as it drifted past the village of Pulau Tiga.
The local headman viewed it, but saw nothing to arouse his suspicions,
for the boat was full of valuables and a certain amount of money, while
nothing in it seemed to have been disturbed, and there were no marks of
violence on the corpse, which was duly buried.
When the matter was reported, inquiries were made but they elicited
nothing. Some months after the relatives of the dead man appeared at
Teluk Anson, and said they had good reason to believe that he had met
with foul play, indeed that he had been murdered at a place called
Lambor—a few miles below Bota and above Pulau Tiga. An intelligent Malay
sergeant of police proceeded to the spot, arrested a number of people,
who denied all knowledge of the affair, and took them to Teluk Anson.
Arrived there, these people said they were able to give all the necessary
information if that would procure their release, as they had only
promised to keep their mouths shut so long as they themselves did not
suffer for it.
The details of the story as told in evidence are as follows, and they are
very characteristic of the Malay:
It appears that the hawker duly arrived in his boat at Lambor, and there
tied up for the night to a stake, about twenty feet from the bank of the
river. Shortly afterwards a Malay named Ngah Prang, stopped three of
his acquaintances walking on the bank, asked them if they had seen the
hawker’s boat, and suggested that it would be a good thing to rob him.
They said they were afraid, and some other men coming up asked one of
those to whom the proposal had been made what they were talking about,
and, being told, advised him to have nothing to do with the business and
the party dispersed.
That evening, at 8 P.M., several people heard cries of “help, help, I
am being killed,” from the river, and five or six men ran out of their
houses down to the bank, a distance of only fifty yards, whence they saw,
in the brilliant moonlight, Ngah Prang and two other men in the hawker’s
boat, the hawker lying flat on his back while one man had both hands at
his throat, another held his wrists, and the third his feet; but it is
said that those on the bank heard a noise of rapping as though feet were
kicking or hands beating quickly the deck of the boat. It only lasted for
a moment and then there was silence.
As those who had been roused by the cries came down the bank they called
to the men in the boat, barely twenty feet away, and lighted at their
work by the brilliancy of an Eastern moon, to know what they were doing;
they even addressed them by their names, but these gave no answer, and,
getting up from off the hawker, untied the boat, one taking a pole and
another the rudder and disappeared down the river. The hawker did not
move. He was dead.
The witnesses of this tragedy appear then to have returned to their homes
and slept peacefully. Several of them naïvely remarked that they heard
the next day that the hawker had been found dead in his boat, and it
appears that when one of these witnesses, on the following day, met one
of the murderers, he asked him what he was doing in Lenggang’s boat, and
the man replied that they were robbing him, that he held the hawker by
the throat, the others by the hands and feet, but that really they had
got very little for their trouble.
Meanwhile the three murderers told several of the eye-witnesses of the
affair that, if they said anything, it would be the worse for them,
and nothing particular occurred till a notice was posted in the Mosque
calling upon any one who knew anything about Lenggang’s death to report
it to the village Headman. Then Ngah Prang, who apparently was the
original instigator of the job, as so often happens, thought he would
save himself at the expense of his friends, and actually went himself to
make a report, and, meeting on the way one of the eye-witnesses going on
a similar errand, he persuaded him to give a qualified promise to help in
denying Ngah Prang’s complicity while convicting the others.
Needless to say that, from the moment the first disclosure was made and
communicated to the police, resulting in the arrest of a number of those
who had actually witnessed the crime, every smallest detail was gradually
brought to light, the hawker’s property, even his own clothes, gradually
recovered, the money stolen from him traced, and no single link left
wanting in the chain of evidence strong enough to convict and hang the
guilty men. That indeed was the result.
I have told the story of this crime, which is devoid of sensational
incident, because it will give some idea of the state of feeling in
a real Malay _kampong_ of poor labouring people far from any outside
influence. The man murdered was a Malay; the idea that he was worth
something which could be obtained by the insignificant sacrifice of his
life seems to have at once suggested that Providence was putting a good
thing in the way of poor people, and those who were not afraid determined
that the opportunity was not to be lost. The murder is discussed
practically in public; it is executed also in public, in the presence of
a feebly expostulating opposition, and then every one goes to bed. The
only further concern of the community in the matter is as to how much the
murderers got. For them the incident ends there, and, if any one has any
qualms of conscience, they are silenced by the threats of the men who so
easily throttled the hawker.
It is only when inquiries are pushed, and things are made generally
unpleasant for every one, that the truth is unwillingly disclosed, and
the penalty paid.
V
MĔNG-GĔLUNCHOR
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and winkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And trumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing
SOUTHEY
The Malays of Perak occasionally indulge themselves in a form of
amusement which, I believe, is peculiar to them. Though of ancient
origin, it is not well known even here, and, as new sensations are the
desire of our time, I offer it to the jaded pleasure-seekers of the West.
Given a fine sunny morning (and that is what most mornings are in Perak)
you will drive four or five miles to the appointed place of meeting, and
there find a crowd of one or two hundred Malay men, women, and children,
who have been duly bidden to _mĕng-gĕlunchor_ and to take part in the
picnic which forms a recognised accompaniment to the proceedings.
A walk of a couple of miles along a shady jungle path brings the party to
the foot of a spur of hills, whence a clear mountain stream leaps down
a succession of cascades to fertilise the plain. There is a stiff climb
for several hundred feet until the party gains a great granite rock in
the bed of the stream, large enough to accommodate a much more numerous
gathering. In a “spate” this rock might be covered, but now the water
flows round it and dashes itself wildly over the falls below. Up-stream,
however, there is a sheer smooth face of granite, about sixty feet long,
inclined at an angle of say 45°, and, while the main body of water finds
its way down one side of this rock and then across its foot, a certain
quantity, only an inch or two deep, flows steadily down the face. The
depth of water here can be increased at will by bamboo troughs, leading
out of the great pool which lies at the head of the waterfall. At the
base of the rock is an inviting lynn not more than four feet deep. On
either side, the river is shut in by a wealth of jungle foliage through
which the sun strikes at rare intervals, just sufficiently to give the
sense of warmth and colour.
It is delightfully picturesque with all these people in their
many-coloured garments, grouped in artistic confusion, on bank and rock.
They only sit for a brief rest after the climb, to collect wood, make
fires and get the work of cooking started, and you will not be left long
in doubt as to the meaning of _mĕng-gĕlunchor_. It is to slide, and the
game is to “toboggan” down this waterfall into the lynn at its base.
A crowd of little boys is already walking up the steep, slippery rock.
They go to the very top, sit down in the shallow water with feet straight
out in front of them and a hand on either side for guidance, and
immediately begin to slide down the sixty feet of height, gaining, before
they have gone half way, so great a speed that the final descent into the
pool is like the fall of a stone. They succeed each other in a constant
stream, those behind coming on the top of those who have already reached
the lynn.
But now the men, and lastly the women, are drawn to join the sliders and
the fun becomes indeed both fast and furious. The women begin timidly,
only half way up the slide, but soon grow bolder, and mixed parties of
four, six, and eight in rows of two, three, or four each, start together
and, with a good deal of laughter and ill-directed attempts at mutual
assistance, dash wildly into the pool which is almost constantly full of
a struggling, screaming crowd of young people of both sexes.
If you understand the game, the slide is a graceful progress, but, if you
don’t, if you fail to sit erect, if you do not keep your feet together,
above all, if you lose your balance and do not remain absolutely straight
on the slide, then your descent will be far from graceful, it may
even be slightly painful, and the final plunge into the lynn will be
distinctly undignified. It is well to leave your dignity at home, if you
go to _mĕng-gĕlunchor_ with a Malay party, for those who do not weary
themselves with tobogganing become absolutely exhausted with laughing at
the sliders. The fascination of the thing is extraordinary, and, to read
this poor description, you would think it impossible that any sane person
would spend hours in struggling up a steep and slippery rock to slide
down it on two inches of water, and, having gained a startling velocity,
leap into a shallow pool where half a dozen people will be on you before
you can get out of the way. And yet I am persuaded that, if your joints
are not stiff with age and you are not afraid of cold water, or ridicule,
or personal damage (and you will admit none of those things) you would
_mĕng-gĕlunchor_ with the best of them, nor be the first to cry “hold,
enough.”
It is usual for the men, when sliding down the rock, to sit upon a
piece of the thick fibre of the plantain called _upih_. It is perhaps
advisable, but the women do not seem to want it. It is surprising that
there are so few casualties and of such small importance—some slight
abrasions, a little bumping of heads, at most the loss of a tooth, will
be the extent of the total damage, and with a little care there need be
none at all.
By 1 P.M. every one will probably be tired, dry garments are donned,
and a very hungry company does ample justice to the meal. An hour will
be spent in smoking and gossip, and, as the shadows begin to lengthen,
a long procession slowly wends its way back, down the slippery descent,
across the sunny fields, and through the forest, to the trysting-place
where all met in the morning and whence they now return to their own
homes.
The intelligent reader will realise that this is a game abounding in
possibilities, but the players should be chosen with discrimination and
with due regard to individual affinities.
A sunny climate and surroundings of natural beauty are necessary; but
a wooded ravine on the Riviera or by the shore of an Italian lake, a
clear stream leaping down a steep rocky bed, and the rest can be easily
arranged by a little cutting and polishing of stone.
Besides the novelty and charm of the exercise, the exhilarating
motion, the semblance of danger, the clutchings at the nearest straws
for help—there are infinite opportunities for designing and donning
attractive garments wherein the graceful lines of the human form would be
less jealously hidden than in the trappings of stern convention.
Puffed sleeves and a bell skirt, Louis XIV. heels and an eighteen inch
waist, would be inconvenient and out of place when sliding down a
waterfall in the hope of a safe and graceful plunge into a shallow lynn.
But if the company be well chosen, the _venue_ and the climate such as
can be found at a hundred places between St. Tropez and Salerno, if
there is in the costumes and the luncheon only a fair application of
Art to Nature, the Eastern pastime is capable of easy and successful
acclimatisation in the West. And as the knights and dames stroll slowly
down the wooded glen, and the sinking sun strikes long shafts of light
across their path, glorifying all colours, not least the tint of hair
and eyes, the pleasure-seekers, if they have not by then found some more
mutually interesting topic, will be very unanimous in their praise of
_Mĕng-gĕlunchor_.
VI
ÂMOK
There comes a time
When the insatiate brute within the man,
Weary with wallowing in the mire, leaps forth
Devouring ... and the soul sinks
And leaves the man a devil
LEWIS MORRIS
Mention has been made of the Malay _âmok_, and, as what, with our happy
faculty for mispronunciation and misspelling of the words of other
languages, is called “running amuck,” is with many English people their
only idea of the Malay, and that a very vague one, it may be of interest
to briefly describe this form of homicidal mania.
_Mĕng-âmok_ is to make a sudden, murderous attack, and though it is
applied to the onslaught of a body of men in war time, or where plunder
is the object and murder the means to arrive at it, the term is more
commonly used to describe the action of an individual who, suddenly and
without apparent cause, seizes a weapon and strikes out blindly, killing
and wounding all who come in his way, regardless of age or sex, whether
they be friends, strangers, or his own nearest relatives.
Just before sunset on the evening of the 11th February, 1891, a Malay
named Imam Mamat (that is Mamat the priest) came quietly into the house
of his brother-in-law at Pâsir Gâram on the Perak River, carrying a spear
and a _gôlok_, _i.e._ a sharp, pointed cutting knife.
The Imam went up to his brother-in-law, took his hand and asked his
pardon. He then approached his own wife and similarly asked her pardon,
immediately stabbing her fatally in the abdomen with the _gôlok_. She
fell, and her brother, rushing to assist her, received a mortal wound in
the heart. The brother-in-law’s wife was in the house with four children,
and they managed to get out before the Imam had time to do more than stab
the last of them, a boy, in the back as he left the door. At this moment,
a man, who had heard the screams of the women, attempted to enter the
house, when the Imam rushed at him and inflicted a slight wound, the man
falling to the ground and getting away.
Having secured two more spears which he found in the house, the murderer
now gave chase to the woman and her three little children and made short
work of them. A tiny girl of four years old and a boy of seven were
killed, while the third child received two wounds in the back; a spear
thrust disposed of the mother—all this within one hundred yards of the
house.
The Imam now walked down the river bank, where he was met by a friend
named Uda Majid, rash enough to think his unarmed influence would prevail
over the other’s madness.
He greeted the Imam respectfully, and said, “You recognise me, don’t let
there be any trouble.”
The Imam replied, “Yes, I know you, but my spear does not,” and
immediately stabbed him twice.
Though terribly injured, Uda Majid wrested the spear from the Imam, who
again stabbed him twice, this time in lung and windpipe, and he fell.
Another man coming up ran unarmed to the assistance of Uda Majid, when
the murderer turned on the new-comer and pursued him; but, seeing Uda
Majid get up and attempt to stagger away, the Imam went back to him
and, with two more stabs in the back, killed him. Out of the six wounds
inflicted on this man three would have proved fatal.
The murderer now rushed along the river bank, and was twice seen to wade
far out into the water and return. Then he was lost sight of.
By this time the news had spread up stream and down, and every one was
aware that there was abroad an armed man who would neither give nor
receive quarter.
For two days, a body of not less than two hundred armed men under the
village chiefs made ceaseless but unavailing search for the murderer. At
6 P.M. on the second day, Imam Mamat suddenly appeared in front of the
house of a man called Lasam, who had barely time to slam the door in his
face and fasten it. The house at that moment contained four men, five
women, and seven children, and the only weapon they possessed was one
spear.