The great Sorceress--The forest seen from above--A struggle
for life--The crimes of plants--Everlasting twilight--Births
and deaths--Concerts by forest vocalists--The "durian"--The
"ple-lok"--Vastnesses unexplored by science--Treasures
intact--Para Rubber--The Samaritans of the jungle--The
forest and its history.
To speak of the forest without having seen it, and after having seen it,
to describe its marvellous beauties, are equally impossible tasks.
When Art shall have re-produced faithfully the magnificent harmonies of
colour, voice and outline peculiar to the jungle, it may be said that
there are no more secrets of beauty for it to penetrate, because nowhere
else has Nature been so profuse in bestowing her multifarious tints or
has manifested Life with such triumphal glory of fecundity; nowhere else
can be found such a prodigious variety of forms and attitudes or such
ineffable multiplicity of sounds.
Like a paean of love the forest breaks forth from the bosom of its
great Mother and rises eagerly, passionately towards the sun, its
Benefactor.
Were it possible to soar on high and look down upon that wide verdant
sea, its infinite gradations of green, enlivened here and there by the
audacious brightness of a thousand wondrous flowers, we should have
under our eyes the most complete, artistic and suggestive representation
of life and its struggles.
The gigantic trees shoot up straight towards the sun, each one seeming
to strive to outstrip the other; but a thick and even more ambitious
undergrowth of plants twine round their trunks and enclose them in a
tenacious embrace, then twisting, and creeping, amongst the spreading
boughs, reach and cover the highest tops where they at last unfold their
several leaves and flowers under the sun's most ardent gaze.
The tree, thus encircled and suffocated by the baneful hold of the
climbers, lacks light and breath; the sap flows in scarce quantities
throughout its organism and it languishes under the shade of the close
tendrils; swarms of insects increase its agony by making their food and
their nests of its bark; reptiles make love within the hollows of its
trunk and at last the day comes when the lifeless giant falls with a
frightful crash bearing with it the murderous parasite that is the
victim of its own tenacity, which first raised it to bask in the
sunshine and then caused it to be crushed under the rotten weight of its
former supporter.
These are furious embraces of envy and jealousy; phrenzies of egotism in
the vegetable kingdom: strange expressions of formidable hate and love,
of oppression and vengeance.
All these myriads of plants are invaded by the irrepressible mania to
ascend as high as possible and to receive the first, the most burning,
perhaps the most pernicious, but the most liberal kiss of the sun. And
they all hasten to arrive as though fearing to be superseded in the
ascent as much by the colossal tree destined to brave centuries--if its
massive roots are not ruined by its minute foes--as by those slender
growths of a month or a day.
"Higher still! Always higher!" the green-leafed multitude seem to cry,
"Excelsior!"
* * * * *
The sun never penetrates under this tangled mass of vegetation except
where an opening has been made by the hands of the savages or by the
work of lightning and hurricane.
In the dim light of its damp atmosphere the interminable rows of tall
straight trunks, some stout and some slight, assume the oddest shapes
which can appeal to the observer's phantasy. Now they are colonnades,
adorned with pendant festoons stretching away into the distance; now
they are mysterious aisles of monster temples; now they are the
unfinished design of some giant architect whose undertaking was arrested
by a sudden, mystic command. However fruitful may be the imagination of
the artist he would here always find fresh and superb inspiration from
the enthralling sight of Nature's virginal beauties.
The stagnant waters of the ponds, round which the frogs croak and the
leeches crawl, are plentifully strewn with water-lilies, reeds and other
aquatic plants.
On the hoary trunks of ancient trees whole families of orchids have
insinuated themselves into little clefts in the bark, and flower there
in the brightest of colours: red, purple, blue and also white.
Everywhere there is a joyous exuberance of life and vigour. Each day
begins or ends the cycle of time destined to the vegetable inhabitants
of the jungle, because as there is no regular round of seasons the
plants and flowers finish their course according to the short or long
existence prescribed them by natural laws, and one continually sees
dried and withered leaves and flowers falling to the ground whilst
others open and blossom in their stead. Those that die to-day afford
nourishment to the new-born generation and in this manner there is a
ceaseless renovation of the various species without any need of a
gardener to prepare the soil.
The exuberance of animal life is in equal proportion, as there is
abundance of food for all.
A deep and uninterrupted buzz fills the air; it comes from the cicadas
whose monotonous note wearies the ear, and from hornets and bees of
every description that keep up an incessant hum as they suck Juices from
the plants or dive their antennæ into the ripe fruit or perhaps into
some carrion lying near. The bassoon-like sound never ceases a single
instant and tells the listener how innumerable are the populations of
insects which live and generate their sort under the shade of their
jungle retreat. Other inexplicable noises--far off crashes, mysterious
sounds that chill one's veins, howls that make one shiver--for a sole
moment break the noon-day silence. What is their origin? Nobody can say.
* * * * *
The different animal sounds to be heard in the forest follow a rule
which knows no exception.
The day is hailed by a full concert warbled from the throats of
feathered songsters. This morning hymn rises in all its innocent purity
to the skies whilst the fierce protaganists of the past night's bloody
tragedies slink off to their dens and leave the field free to the more
gentle herbivorous animals.
[Illustration: The durian tree.
_p._ 64.]
But at noon, when the sun is casting down its hottest rays upon that
vast emerald palace of life, gay voices are hushed and the forest echoes
only with the drowsy buzzing of insects.
As evening draws near the birds once more begin to chirp and trill, they
salute the setting sun and fly away to rest. Then the monkeys commence
their screeching and chattering and soon after the owls and other night
birds take their turn, making the now dense darkness more terrible with
their harsh, sinister cries. Little by little as the night deepens,
bellows, roars and howls resound upon every part in a slow crescendo
until they are fused into a general and appalling uproar which could not
be more awful if the gates of Hell were to be opened on Earth.
* * * * *
I am not an artist and still less a scientist but as a simple observer I
like to take note of all that is worthy of notice and that is possible
for me to transmit in an intelligible form.
Having depicted, to the best of my ability, the characteristics of
forest life, I think it will be well--setting aside its magic charms and
manifold wonders which would make a poet even of one who has no tendency
for poetry--to describe, in a more practical way, some of its products.
I will begin with the durian, or _sumpà_, the fruit of which is unknown
in our country.
It is a very large tree, growing to the height of 40 or 50 metres and
distends around it a huge pavilion of rich branches, covered with little
leaves.
It is to be found sometimes singly and sometimes in clumps and is the
only tree that the Sakais show any interest in multiplying, and this
cultivation, if we may so call it, is done by them almost
unconsciously, not from any sentimental feeling but rather from the
effect of a sentiment and a superstition.[4] It produces a most
extraordinary quantity of fruit, the exquisite flavour of which it is
difficult to match. It has been calculated that every tree bears, on an
average, about 600 durians but some have even reached the enormous
figure of 1000.
If one were treating of berries or nuts this would not be so remarkable
but each fruit of the durian weighs about two kilograms and is as large
as a child's head. For this reason it is a dangerous thing to stand or
pass under one of these trees when the fruit is quite ripe as so heavy a
ball falling from a height of forty or more metres would suffice to
split open one's head even if the long prickles with which it is covered
did not make it more to be feared.
The Sakais are quite greedy over durians and Mr Wallace writes that its
delicate flavour is so exquisite it would well repay the expense and
disturbance of a journey Eastward on purpose to taste it.
This assertion of the English writer may be somewhat exaggerated but for
my own part, I must say that I have never tasted anything more
delicious. But not everyone can enjoy or appreciate this strange fruit
for the disgusting smell that distinguishes it and that is apt to cause
nausea to a weak stomach.
Imagine to have under your nose a heap of rotten onions and you will
still have but a faint idea of the insupportable odour which emanates
from these trees and when its fruit is opened the offensive smell
becomes even stronger.
When mature, that is to say in the months of August and September, the
durians fall to the ground and are eagerly gathered up by the natives,
who at the period of their ripening, leave the women and children, the
old and the sick in their villages and encamp themselves in the forest
around these precious trees.
The outside of the durian is ligneous and is covered with strong
prickles of nearly an inch long. The interior consists of a great many
small eggs each one being wrapped in a fine film which, when broken,
reveals a pulp of the consistency and colour of thick custard. A big
seed is embedded in the centre of each egg, almond-like in size and
form, although not so flat.
I cannot describe in any way the flavour of this fruit which the real
Sakai calls _sumpà_. I can but repeat that it is exquisite and far
superior to any sweet dainty prepared by cook or confectioner. There is
nothing to equal it, and in eating one does not discern the least smell
as the disagreeable stench comes from the husk alone and the worse it
is, the more delicate is the taste of the pulp.
This fruit is too perishable for it to be exported to far countries even
if there was any chance of its finding favour in European markets, in
consequence of its horrible smell, which does not however protect it
from the voracity of the monkeys and their rodent companions--especially
the squirrels--that manage, in spite of its formidable prickles, to make
a hole in the husk and nibble out some of its contents leaving the rest
to rot inside.
To my knowledge the durian is not subject to any malady which might
effect the annual quantity of fruit to be gathered, this depending
entirely upon whether the wind has blown violently, or not, during the
time it was in flower.
This King of Trees, as it is called by the Sakai, will grow and prosper
nearly to the height of a thousand metres, and its fruit is preserved by
pressing it into large tubes of bamboo after the seeds have been picked
out.
The Sakais frequently exchange these original pots of jam for other
articles equally prized by them, such as tobacco and beads.
Another fruit, so delicious that it may almost be said to rival the
durian, is the _plè lòk_.
The tree on which it grows cannot be ranked amongst the giants of the
forest. It has big and long leaves something like those of the orange
but whilst on the top they are a glossy black in under they are of a
still glossier green.
The fruit, that ripens between September and November, is the size of a
peach but it is covered with a very thick husk (nearly black outside,
and a rusty red inside) after the sort of our walnuts. The pulp is
divided into a lot of quarters each one enclosed in a very thin skin. It
looks like snow-white Jelly and in fact melts in the mouth at once,
leaving only a little kernel. The flavour is sweet and exceedingly
pleasant.
The husk is utilized by the Sakais for producing a dye with which to
paint their faces and also for making a decoction as a remedy against
diarrhæa and pains in the stomach.
The Sakais are immensely fond of this fruit as indeed any European,
accustomed to the finest sweets, might be, the more so as it never does
any harm or brings about an indigestion, even when eaten in large
quantities.
Besides these two grand lords of the forest I will also mention the _ple
pra_, a colossus that, modestly, but without avarice, supplies the Sakai
with excellent chestnuts.
It is impossible, notwithstanding my desire, to describe the many other
trees and fruits which form the richness of the forest, as it would take
too long. Further on, in a chapter dedicated to poisons, I have named
some of the most dangerous in this respect, but between those that are
the ministers of Death and those that are the means of Life to the
simple jungle-dweller, there are countless species to which it would be
difficult to assign a particular class.
Many of these latter are regarded by the natives with distrust, perhaps
without any reason, but from who knows what strange belief transmitted
from father to son? And in the heart of the forest who is there to study
and make experiments upon such leaves and fruits in order to ascertain
if they are perfectly edible?
I, for instance, am of opinion that the fruit of the _giù ù ba a_ could
be safety used and to a great extent.
It is like a little pumpkin, green outside and yellowish-white inside. A
kind of oil is extracted from its pulp which, when cooked, is not of a
disagreeable taste and does one no harm. But the _giù ù ba a_ is a
creeper and it is among these parasites that poisons abound and this is
why the fruits obtained from them are used with reluctance and if
possible, avoided altogether.
* * * * *
Treasures not to be imagined are still hidden in the profound recesses
of the Malay forest; priceless treasures for medical science and for
industry.
Could the former but discover the exact therapeutic and venomous virtues
of some of those plants, many of which are quite unknown to botanists,
what innumerable new and potent remedies might be found to enrich the
pharmacopoeia of civilized people!
Agriculture, in all its varied branches, could here find incalculable
treasures of fertility!
Without counting the rice that gives a wonderful annual product, the
Indian-corn that gives two harvests a year and the sweet potatoes that
give three, there is the yam, the _sikoi_,[5] the sugar-cane, coffee,
pepper, tea, the banana, the ananas, indigo, sago, tapioca, gambier,
various sorts of rubber, gigantic trees for shipbuilding, and so on.
The Para Rubber, from which is extracted our gutta percha grows
marvellously well in the Malay soil and requires very little attention
or expense.
There is the _ramiè_ whose fibres will by degrees supplant the silk we
get from cocoons, or mixed together will form an excellent quality of
stuff. It is a herb with long, fibrous stems which when well beaten out
and bleached become like a soft mass of wool. After being carded it can
be spun into the finest threads as shiny and pliant as silk itself.
[Illustration: The Durian.
_p._ 65.]
This plant flourishes to a great extent in Perak and its stems may be
cut off twice a year. It only needs to be cultivated, for industry to be
provided with a new and precious element. In fact there are few who do
not know that the greater part of Chinese silk stuffs are woven with the
_ramiè_ fibres, but its utility might have a much larger extension if it
were made an object of study by those capable of drawing from it
profitable results.
Very few lands, I think, have been so favoured by capricious Nature as
the Malay Peninsula where she seems to have taken delight in bestowing
her treasures of flora and fauna as well as underground ones, for
several gold and tin mines are being worked, whilst lead, copper, zinc,
antimony, arsenic and many other metals are constantly being found,
besides some rich veins of wolfram, although a real bed of the latter
ore has not yet been discovered.
If once the still lazy but honest forces of the Sakais could be utilized
by turning them towards agriculture, all this natural wealth might be
sent to the World's markets and a sparse but good people, susceptible of
great progress, would be gradually civilized.
* * * * *
The Para Rubber, referred to above, constitutes one of the greatest
riches of the Malay agricultural industry.
Both soil and climate are very favourable for its cultivation in the
Peninsula, so much so that a tree attains the maturity necessary for the
production of this valuable article in four years, if special care and
attention is given it, or in five or six if left to its natural growth
(as in Ceylon), whilst in other places it takes eight and even ten
years.
Not many years ago the British Government had a limited space of ground
planted, with seeds brought from Brazil, as a simple experiment. The
result was encouraging enough to induce the Institute of Tropical
Researches--initiated under the auspices of the Liverpool University,
with the object of developing Colonial commerce--to make plantations
which in one season yielded no less than 150,000 pounds of gum.
About three years ago 60,000 acres of land were planted with Para
Rubber, the Government providing the seed at a very low rate.
It is calculated that each acre contains from 125 to 250 trees according
to the quality of the ground and its position.
These plantations continue to increase with surprising rapidity and it
may be said, at the present day, that four million trees are to be found
in an area of 200,000 acres.
When one considers that each tree renders, on an average, from 5 to 6
pounds of gum, and that that of Perak--chemically proved to be pure--is
quoted on the market at 6/10 per pound--whilst the best produced by
other countries does not exceed 5/7--one can form a pretty correct
estimate of the enormous sum derived from the Para rubber of Perak.
It was generally supposed that this valuable tree would suffer if it
surpassed a thousand metres in height but in the Malay Peninsula it
grows and nourishes even higher than 1,600 metres, especially the
so-called _ficus elasticus_ and India-rubber.
The British Government is doing its best to increase this cultivation,
and "its best" in this case really means "the very best" because besides
concession of land, and the providing of seed at a low rate, the
Government aids this industry, in which so many millions are invested,
by the making of fine, wide high-roads as well as by maintaining
railways for the conveyance of goods, fixing a minimum tariff for the
transport.
Perhaps some one will accuse me of being too partial in my remarks upon
the work done by the British Government in this its remote Eastern
Protectorate, but having assisted for many years in the ever increasing
agricultural and commercial development of the peninsula, and having
seen the steady conquest civilization has made by means of the most
practical and surest methods--such as the patient training of the
natives to the love of work, and the prompt and conscientious
administration of justice--I cannot but admire the enlightened and
benificent activity displayed by the English in those parts.
* * * * *
Closed this parenthesis about the plantations, which are now spreading
far and wide over the forest (the wood-cutter's hatchet continually
clearing new tracts of land for agricultural enterprises), I want you to
return with me to the jungle which is still almost untrodden and where
Nature reigns supreme over the thick tropical vegetation.
Having already spoken briefly and in a disorderly way of the riches
which are here gratuitously offered--not the riches of Midas and
Pymalion, because mother Nature does not refuse food to her children
even if they are profaners of that wonderful temple of her fecundity--it
is right that I should now draw your attention to two great friends of
travellers in the forest. One is the bamboo and the other a creeper
called the "water vine".
The bamboo, known to us only as one of the plants least considered in a
large, well-kept garden, or as a polished walking stick, as the legs of
a fancy table of uncertain equilibrium or as a tobacco box ably worked
by Chinese or Japanese fingers, in the free forest becomes a colossal
inhabitant. Its canes, at first tender and supple, grow to such a size,
and so strong as to be used for water conduits. It is a vigorous and
invasive plant that covers the surrounding ground with new shoots
whilst in under its long roots spread out and suck up all the vital
nutriment to be found in the earth around.
To one who lives in the forest, the bamboo is as necessary as food
itself. It provides light, solid huts; it makes the blowpipe, arrow and
quiver; it serves for carrying water and preserving fruit; it forms a
safe recipient for poisonous juices; it is bottle and glass, and finally
supplies the native cooks with a saucepan that only they can use because
they have the knack of cooking their food without burning the bamboo. I
have often tried to do the same but the result has always been that pot
and pottage have been burnt together.
The bamboo has also a secret virtue of incalculable value to the thirsty
wayfarer, overcome by the heat of a tropical sun: it is a perfect
reservoir of water.
By boring a hole just under the joints of each cane more than half a
litre of clear water, not very fresh, but wholesome and good, gushes
out. It is rather bitter to the taste and serves to restore one's forces
as well as to quench one's thirst.
The water-vine also acts as a Samaritan in the jungle. Like all the
others of its sort this climbing plant closes some giant king of the
forest in its cruel embrace (thus depriving it of its strength) and then
falls in rich festoons from its boughs, swaying and rustling with every
breath of air.
By making a cut at the extremity of one of the sprays that hang down
towards the ground, a fresh, drinkable water flows out.
It is superfluous, perhaps, to add that this grand necessity for the
traveller on foot may be obtained from other sources: the streams that
are to be found trickling along here and there, and the huge leaves that
upon drying up secrete a certain quantity of rain water within them.
So the jungle gives to eat and to drink, with wonderful abundance and
variety, but woe to him who does not know her well, for she also
proffers Death in a thousand unsuspected and seductive forms!
* * * * *
How many times in the solemn, languid hour of noontide, when bird and
beast were drowsing from the heat, I have stood in the shade and
interrogated the forest upon its first violators and their descendants!
But my demands remained unanswered; in its superb grandeur it does not
interest itself in the tragic vicissitudes of animal or vegetable lives,
it makes no records, on the contrary, it quickly cancels all traces of
past events.
I have vainly asked: from whence came those who have found shelter and
solitude in the obscure depths of its wooded hills? How many centuries
have they dwelt in those lone, wild parts? I have asked if that shy and
dispersed tribe was not the remains of a once great and strong people
eclipsed by a younger, stronger, and more savage race? Sometimes
watching, with admiring eyes, the strange architectural forms taken by
the massive trunks and graceful vines, fantastic but always majestic, I
have asked the forest if it had not arisen upon the ruins of some long
ago and lost civilization and if those same forms were not an
inexplicable evocation of the gigantic creations of vanished genii of
which I seemed in imagination to catch faint glimpses?
But the forest remained mute and kept its impenetrable secret.
Only here and there, groups of trees, lower than the surrounding ones,
and between them spaces of ground, which had evidently once been
clearings and were not yet totally re-covered by jungle growth, gave
proof of Sakai nomadism even in other ages. No other sign of the past,
and my query, perhaps absurd, repeats itself. Am I before the savage
infancy of a people, or the spent senility of a race, lost sight of in
the course of centuries? If the latter, would there not be some relic
left of its existence; a fragment of stone or concrete substance
inscribed with the figures of its period? Is it possible that everything
has been buried from the sight of modern man, under the rank luxuriance
of grass and bush? Or is it not I who vainly dream under the impression
of the forest's mute grandeur and the thousands of voices that to-day
awake its echoes and to-morrow leave none behind?
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 4: In another chapter, wherein I describe the superstitions
and beliefs of the Sakais, I have spoken of the custom they have of
depositing food, tobacco, etc., on the tombs of their dead for a week
after they have been buried. Naturally everything, not devoured by beast
or insect, rots upon the spot and the seeds of the fruit find their way
into the ground. For this reason many new trees spring up in groups,
obtaining their first alimentation from the dissolution of the corpse.]
[Footnote 5: The _sikoi_ grows on high mountains and the women have to
take great pains in cleaning it before it is cooked. It is a grain
something like our millet and has good nutritive qualities.
The Sakays mix it with water and make a sort of "polenta" cooking it, as
usual, in their bamboo saucepans. It is a favourite dish with them when
eaten with monkey flesh, rats, pieces of snake, lizards, beetles and
various other insects which would be of rare entomological value to any
museum that possessed them.
Ignorant of the repugnant compound, that gave such a savoury taste to
the _sikoi_, at the beginning of my sojourn with the Sakays, I ate it
with relish after seasoning it with a little salt, an article not much
used amongst my mountain friends. But when I came to know what
ingredients gave it flavour I refused it, as kindly as I could not to
offend their susceptibilities, because my stomach rebelled against the
mess.]