Batavia, Buitenzorg
WE were due to arrive at Batavia two days after leaving Banca, but this happy event was delayed by a breakdown in the engine room which took something like six hours to repair. What its nature was we were unable to discover, but from all I saw of their engineering, it is more than likely that some of that gold laced dignity got fouled in the thrust block, and interfered with the action of the propelling shaft. Such dignity on board ship is about as dangerous as dynamite.
We obtained our first view of Java towards noon on the third day; a long, low, tree-clad coast, just discernible above sea level. About three o’clock we went through the usual pilot formalities, and steamed past the lighthouse into the small harbour of Tanjong Priok, as the seaport of Batavia is called. As we entered, clouds covered the sky, it began to rain, and m consequence the dirty water inside the breakwater, the slimy stone wharfs, desolate wind-tossed palm trees, and general air of cholera and sudden death, produced a picture that was the reverse of inspiriting. Moreover, there were Malay boys on the wharf, and as we have said before, we dislike Malays intensely. These particular specimens were not a cheerful gang; they were ill dressed and half fed, some of them wore scarecrow uniforms, while others had only loin cloths and brass badges of gorgeous lettering and dimensions to signify that they were hotel touts. Every mother’s son had something to say, and every mother’s son pestered you with his attentions until he was allowed an opportunity of saying it. We had lost our angelic temper earlier in the day, and in consequence were not in the humour to be trifled with. We had hazy ideas of presenting the skeletons of those we slew to the British Museum, labelled ‘Malay Hotel Touts,’ but were induced to abandon the notion when we considered the question of freight. Who would pay freight on a dead Malay?
We had been given to understand that the Dutch Government is particularly severe on smuggling, so as we had nothing we wanted to get in, we were ready, nay, even ostentatiously anxious, to have our things examined, and to receive praise for our enforced honesty. I notice this is often the way with folk who have no option but to be law-abiding. Whether they are so scrupulously honest when temptation and opportunity come their way, is another matter.
The work of overhauling passengers’ baggage is carried on by Malays under the superintendence of a gorgeously attired Customs officer who sits near, keeping up the dignity of Dutch character. That’s just the sort of occupation to suit a Java Dutchman: he’ll keep up his dignity when everything else is gone. What I want to know is what he does with it when he goes to bed. As it’s the most precious article he’s got, surely he doesn’t leave it lying about promiscuously with his clothes? Perhaps he — But there, I am wandering again.
The customs building is an unpretentious shed about as large as a sixth-rate country chapel. The comfort of the public is not considered at all, the reason being, I presume, that the public who require comfort do not go to Java. Having safely passed our baggage and convinced the authorities that shaving soap was not dynamite, nor a collar box an infernal machine, we wandered through the gates to the railway station, whence a train runs at long intervals to Batavia. For the benefit of future travellers in Java, let me here narrate a little incident that occurred at this station: an incident which will go a long way towards showing the peculiar customs of the country, and the love of Javanese Dutchmen for strangers, and Englishmen in particular.
Before asking at. the booking office for a ticket to Batavia, we took the precaution to examine a printed notice posted on the wall. This notice informed the public that fares to Batavia were half a guilder or 10c?. each. Accordingly, approaching the window, we demanded tickets and placed the amount stated on the counter. The Chinese clerk, with a quickness that betrayed continual practice of the little game, took our measures, and pushed the money back, signifying on his fingers that it was not enough, that he wanted a whole guilder apiece, or in other words, twice the proper fare; and this, for the reason that we were Englishmen or foreigners. We remonstrated, pointing to the notice, but all in vain; he shrugged his shoulders and declined to give us a ticket. Whereupon, fearing we might be betrayed into slaying him, we sought the gorgeously liveried station-master, and placed the matter, as well as we could, before him. He also saw our nationality and shrugging his shoulders, turned upon his heel.
The train was just on the point of starting, and as it was the last that day, it remained for us either to pay the amount demanded, or to camp where we were till morning. Eventually, with a hurricane of grumbling and ill-humour, to which we added our prayers for the welfare of the Dutch Government, the station-master, and his clerk, we paid and got aboard. This is a solid, cold-drawn, unsophisticated fact!
The journey from Tanjong Priok to the capital occupies about half-an-hour, and is extremely uninteresting. The road lies through green, slimy swamps, unwholesome native villages, and eye-wearing canals. Along these latter crawl native barges, wonderful constructions built of filth and bamboo.
We had decided to honour the Hotel des Indes (to which we had been recommended) with our disastrous patronage. So, on arriving at Batavia, having called two small dos-a-dos carts (one for ourselves and one for our luggage) we started. These conveyances are drawn by ponies about the size of Shetlands, and are driven by Malay boys. When the cart has a good weight behind, the pony finds all his time taken up trying to remain on terra firma.
It had been raining copiously and the roads were covered with a thick black slush. Because we were arrayed in clean white suits and spotless pith helmets, and were conscious that our arrival at the H6tel des Indes would provoke excitement, we told our driver, in a language he did not understand, to drive slowly, and on no account to bring the mud between the wind and our nobility.
In spite of our precautions, however, a few spots flicked in upon us as we clattered out of the station yard. We said it was annoying, and hoped it would not occur again. Trying to wipe it off we made it worse. Then it began to shower in in wholesale quantities. We expostulated with our driver, but he only grinned vacantly and took no notice. It grew worse. It literally poured in upon us, under and over, round every corner, and through every crevice, until we were ‘covered and exasperated from head to foot. Then a thunderstorm took a hand in the game, and in three minutes we were drenched through and through. Being decently brought up young men, with Christian tempers, we restrained ourselves; but when the mud, rain, perspiration, and annoyance got into our helmets, and started the green lining running down our foreheads and round the back of our ears, the tension was too great and we gave way. By the time we entered the Hotel des Indes, on the verandahs of which we could see many young and well favoured ladies partaking of afternoon tea, we were not conceited about our appearances. Thus, costume makes cowards of us all.
The Hotel des Indes is of peculiar construction, being built in the form of a square, the centre of which is a garden. On two sides of this, and fronting two sides of the square, are long verandahed corridors of sittingrooms and bedrooms. The main street forms the third side, while an imposing marble dining saloon, with the servants’ offices, kitchens and stables, makes up the fourth. The whole effect is curious, but by no means displeasing. The servants are invariably Malays, and are the most idle, loafing, vicious specimens of an idle, loafing, and vicious race. Of one member of the brotherhood I shall have more to say anon!
Now, when we are strangers in strange countries, we always regard it as our duty to criticise the manners and customs of the regions into which we drift in true British fashion, finding fault with what does not suit us, and discounting that of which we cannot help but approve. Let us consider one Batavian custom.
Previous to dinner it is the habit in Java to assemble in the verandah of the dining hall, to discuss the doings of the day and to whet the appetite with small drinks, composed of gin and a sort of Angostura bitters. This compound is served free of cost, and is one of the only customs worthy of favourable comment.
During dinner we heard that a magnificent free concert was to be held that evening in the Military Gardens. With that promptness which ever distinguishes our actions (when entertainments were free) we decided to attend it. Accordingly, about nine o’clock, having suitably attired ourselves, we called a gharry, and desired to be driven to the festive scene. All Batavia, fashionable and otherwise, appeared to be making in the same direction, and the beauty of the night, it was full moon, was in itself an excuse for the frivolity.
After a short drive our carriage drew up before a pair of imposing gates, the entrance to lamplit gardens of fairy-like beauty. In the centre of these gardens stood a magnificent marble mansion, and towards this we wended our way.
On entering we found ourselves in a spacious hall, filled with ladies and gentlemen, Malay waiters, small tables and chairs. A fine military band was performing at one end, and to quote an eminent writer, everything and everybody was as merry as a marriage bell. After a little hunting we discovered a vacant table, seated ourselves, and bade a boy bring us some wine. Sipping it, we listened to the music and criticised our neighbours with considerable point and freedom in the security of our own language. When we had seen and heard enough, we departed, convinced that we had conferred an honour upon the Dutch nation, of which it (the Dutch nation) might justly be proud. It was not until next day that we learnt that nine out of every ten Java Dutchmen have a perfect knowledge of English, and that while we, thinking ourselves so omnipotent in our English exclusiveness, had been showing off before strangers, we had, in reality, been uninvited intruders upon a private club. Why we had not been fired out neck and crop will ever pass my understanding. We had our punishment, however. We were the cheapest couple in Java that day, I can assure you! We could have been purchased for less than cost price, with even then a substantial discount for cash !
In the course of the afternoon, our pride received another shock, for not only was it unmistakably borne in upon us that our countrymen’s presence was not appreciated in Java, but beyond that, if we ourselves desired to remain more than twenty-four hours in the island, we must apply, humbly, for permission so to do, attending at the Government office, and answering any questions that might be put to us. What was worse we should be compelled to pay dearly for the privilege conceded. Should we desire to remain for more than one month, we must be prepared to serve a lengthy period in the black and tan militia regiments of the island. This being so, the following morning, we secured an interpreter, a Yankee sea captain, who professed to understand Dutch and attended at the office. Our companion was full of his own importance, and was going to fix things up for us right away. ‘We needn’t bother,’ he said, ‘but were just to sit tight and leave everything to him.’
The office was a peculiarly dirty hole, and the official in charge more than matched it.
When we entered, he was spoiling a clean piece of paper under the pretence of writing, and gazed up at us with a vacant stare. It was not until after our companion had shouted something incomprehensible at him for fully five minutes, in a voice like a saw sharpener crossed with a steam fog-horn, that he began to acquire some distant glimmering of the reason for our presence there. Then taking from a shelf a bulky volume, he prepared to start interrogations, and the dialogue proceeded somewhat as follows:
Official (a long sentence hopelessly unintelligible).
Interpreter (losing the thread of it). ‘Vast heaving! Have another try! Put your helm over, mate, and go upon another tack,’ etc. etc.
Official (a still longer sentence delivered in mid-breath).
Interpreter (with a grin like a horse collar). ‘Ah! I reckon I’ve located him now — wants to know your names, where you come from, and what you blamed well want here!’
We furnish the requisite information and the official begins again, but is immediately interrupted.
Interpreter. ‘Dog gone my cats! he’s got a tongue like a blank paddle boat. Let up and have another try, blank you !’
Official (warming to his work and saying twice as much in half the time).
Interpreter (beginning to get fogged), ‘Back her! Back her all you know. I’m clean out of soundings!’
Official (shouting and gesticulating wildly, and throwing away his greasy spectacles to allow his features better play).
Interpreter (losing his temper, at the top of his voice). ‘Stop! stop! stop! blank — blank — double blank. Ain’t yer never going to let me have a deal. Want all the talking to yerself, do yer? (Goes at it himself for a space; then with an air of conviction) I’ve got it. Wants to know how many times you have been in gaol, and if you’ve got the measles or small-pox?’
We feel distrustful, but answer in the negative. Evidently something is wrong, for they begin again.
Interpreter (after a minute’s anxious thought), ‘Lord! what a simple thing, to be sure. Wants to know how many times you’ve been married. No? Wants certificate of your births. No? Wants to see your vaccination marks. No? Your Sunday school papers. No? Well, may I be hanged for a pink-eyed beachcomber if I know what he does want anyhow!’
This being just the conclusion we have long since come to, we start in on our own account, and have everything satisfactorily settled in less than two minutes. Next time we want papers taken out we’ll deny ourselves the luxury of an interpreter. I’m not saying anything against interpreters, mind you, but I do think it is necessary that they should understand something about the language.
Among the many things which must strike new arrivals in Java as peculiar is the dress of the residents, before and after the business of the day. Of course one soon sees that it is just what is wanted for the climate, but even with that excuse it is — well — peculiar! The man’s dress consists of a loose, white Chinese jumper, called a kabia, somewhat resembling a small English smock-frock, a pair of gaily patterned trousers (or a sarong) and Chinese grass slippers. The Dutch lady, if she desires to be in the fashion, lets her hair down, wears a short lawn peignoir, a sarong (sheet of native cloth) loosely wound round the hips and tucked in at the side, thrusts her bare feet into dainty slippers, and almost invariably carries a fan. Attired in this fashion, men and women sit together in the verandah, sip tea, smoke, and talk the polite chit-chat of the day, undisturbed by any thought of appearances. But until the new comer gets used to it, it makes him, to say the very least of it, uncomfortably modest.
There were two young Dutch ladies, with whose charms we were much impressed, residing at number 23 on our verandah. Every afternoon at five o’clock they attired themselves after the fashion I have just described, and with much fluttering of fans and clattering of tiny shoe heels, proceeded past our chairs on their way to the bath. We were filled with admiration, and on the strength of their appearances purchased sarongs and kabias for ourselves, declaring that the following afternoon should see us correspondingly attired. Accordingly, after our walk next day, we retired to our respective rooms to don our war paint.
The kabia is easily put on; not so the sarong. But as I had carefully studied the manner of fastening it from every person I had seen wearing one, 1 felt sure I could manage it. I did not know that it is a deep and a designing garment, expressly meant to compass the fall of man. I was to learn that later!
Removing my nether garments, I unrolled the cloth and twisted it round my legs, to discover that the pattern was not straight. I started again; but this time I had it too much on one side, and it would not tuck in. I sat down to think it over. Of course in a second I saw my mistake and began again; but this time it wouldn’t work at all. It fell down ignominiously, and I said the first thing that occurred to me. Once more I thought it out.
Naturally I saw my mistake directly; it was as clear as noonday. Instead of beginning on the left, I should have begun on the right, twisted it over and then tucked it in. I tried and failed. In front it was excellent, but behind it was impossible; my legs were exposed to the vulgar gaze. Six times I tried and six times I failed; then, kicking the offending garment into a corner, I marshalled my feelings and expressed myself as became the situation.
Remembering the old maxim ‘Try, try, try again,’ I recovered the cloth, made another attempt, and after half-a-dozen failures, achieved a fairly successful garment. Thrusting my feet into a pair of slippers, I sought the Long’un. I found him standing in the centre of his room, in the likeness of our father Adam before the fall. There was an expression on his face I had never seen there before. He was angry.
In response to my question, he waved a crumpled dish-clout in my face and said with untranslatable scorn:
‘What’s wrong? Why this bally thing’s wrong! I thought I knew how to put it on, but I’ve tried and tried, this way and that, till I’m just black in the face. Do you believe I can get it right? No, nor within three feet of it. It isn’t manufactured right! It’s my belief it’s a fraud!’
‘Let me show you!’ I said. ‘Don’t lose your temper with an unoffending cloth! It’s as easy as falling off a log. See! first you turn this over — so! Then that over — so. No! that’s not right either. Ah! I see — this back, so! No! Confound the thing — this way? No! Like this? No! Over here? No! Oh, hang the thing. How is it? Never mind, I’ll undo mine, and then you can see for yourself.’
I undid it, and with shame be it written, try how I would, couldn’t do it up again. After that, for ten minutes that room was just sulphurous. I say sulphurous, because it’s the only term that expresses it. When we did get them right we were hot and cross, and our pleasure for the afternoon was completely spoilt. Now you know why I say the sarong is a designing garment.
After the bath and afternoon tea, European habiliments are donned, and the fashionable world betakes itself for a walk or drive as the case may be. The men, great dandies, in fashions patriarchal elsewhere, always promenade at this hour, bare-headed. The cool of the evening is delightful, and when the band plays on the King’s Plain, the scene is not only animated but roost enjoyable. The elegant landaus of the elite, drawn by diminutive ponies and driven by Malays, parade up and down (the coachmen wear their livery boxers above their turbans in a most comical fashion); horsemen trot in stately circles round and round the band, while small nigger boys, of all colours and sizes, survey the scene with unimaginable awe.
The day following our adventure with the Government official and the passport was dedicated to visiting Buitenzorg — the sanatorium of Batavia, a lovely spot, located among the mountains about forty miles inland. Once again we trusted ourselves to a colonial railroad, and once again, as in C!Colombo, our track followed a long panorama of exquisite views. Dutch railways are well built, somewhat after the Yankee fashion, but the pace of the train was, if anything, slower than that of our Kandyan journey. However, we did not mind that much, the prospect from the carriage windows compensated for everything. Continually coming into view were mountain peaks and gently swelling hills, tiny waterfalls and crystal rivulets, with here and there a glimpse of the blue sea, many hundred feet below, just showing through exquisite settings of cocoa palms, bananas, custard and breadfruit trees. Nor was this all, for as we approached our destination, we could see, peering down on us from among the clouds, the two mountain guardians of Buitenzorg, Salahk and twin-headed Pangerange and Gede.
Arriving at our destination, we refreshed ourselves, and then sought the Botanic Gardens which surround the summer residence of the governor of the colony. It would be impossible to conceive anything more beautiful than these gardens, and I can quite believe the Dutchmen’s boast to be correct, when they assert that they are the finest in the world. Even those of Peredenya sink into insignificance beside them. Surely”, never save in the garden of Eden could vegetation flourish as it does here. The sights, the sounds, and the perfumes, are lovely beyond compare. Beautiful vistas, seemingly endless, lead the visitor down to the bubbling, dashing stream which marks the boundary of the garden. Avenues of palms, bananas, and kanarie trees draw him thence from beautiful spot to still more beautiful spot, while up above him towers Salahk mountain, eight thousand feet into the sky, a strange yet fitting contrast to all this loveliness below.
Here also may be seen the tomb of Lady Stamford Raffles, the wife of Java’s only English governor, who died in Buitenzorg in 1814. I doubt if a more peaceful spot for a resting place, could be discovered in the world. Surely it would be even worth dying in Java to secure one like it.
Next morning, by the early train, we returned to Batavia, bidding a reluctant farewell to sweet Buitenzorg and old Salahk in mid heaven, shrouded in his veil of mist.
After what we had so lately left, even Batavia, with her lavish colouring, looked almost poor and insignificant; and yet there is much that is worth seeing in Batavia. (I mean things on the outside of the tourist line.) For instance, there are quarters in the Calli Bazaar which would well repay the trouble of a visit; quarters where few Englishmen have been, and where men live who have endless stories of life and death to tell! There are to be found Chinese joss houses, opium dens, fan-tan shops, and queer corners of every kind; all of absorbing fascination, and each with a new yarn for him who has the wit to understand.
We explore and explore, and as we do the days slip by, till our supply of money runs so short that it behoves us to be moving on again. Once more we hold a council meeting, and go into the question thoroughly. The result is less satisfactory than it has ever been before. We discover that it will be absolutely necessary for us to find a large sum before it will even be possible to think of leaving the island. How to raise this amount is a reflection which causes us ever increasing concern. There is only one way. All things negotiable must be put into the common pool — watches, chains, jewellery, and clothes; and whatever is saleable must be sold. But who will buy? This is another puzzle, but eventually we solve it. Chinese hawkers are continually peddling their wares up and down the verandahs of the hotel; we must try them. This is accordingly done, an opportunity being seized during the time the rest of the hotel is enjoying its siesta. A Chinaman never wants a sleep when he sees a chance of doing business, and one long-pigtailed rascal sits under a tree in the garden watching us. We beckon him over, and put the question to him. He expresses himself willing to trade.
Going on the plan that it is bad policy to lead trumps first, we begin with two pairs of trousers, which, though well worn, are still presentable. After a little haggling, they bring two guilders, or equal to three and fourpence. What use they can be to him, seeing he doesn’t wear trousers, I cannot understand. A shooting coat follows, with a silk handkerchief thrown in to make a bargain. A whole suit succeeds the shooting coat, and a nearly new Inverness cape the suit. By the time these sales are concluded, folk are beginning to reappear in the verandahs, and we shut up shop until the morrow, having realised eighteen guilders, or equivalent to thirty shillings, by our exertions.
Next day, as soon as siesta time comes round, we resume our barter, passing from wardrobes to jewellery. The fun grows fast and furious, and after haggling like old Jew tradesmen for nearly two hours, at closing time we have disposed of two good watches and one chain, for a sum, in guilders, equivalent to four pounds eighteen shillings. Affairs are looking up!
Next afternoon an amusing incident occurs. The story of our sales has leaked out, and one or two other Chinamen with keen eyes to business chance along. To meet a long felt want, we parade a gold chain worth about six pounds, if only for its gold. It passes from hand to hand. The bidding commences, and gradually works up to perhaps a quarter of the value of its weight. Then it begins to flag, and we spur them on till it reaches about half the amount we are disposed to take. At this point, two Chinamen retire to consult, eventually returning with another offer, which, however, we decline. All this time, among the bidders, is one little pock-marked Celestial, who has been suffering agonies of desire for it. A look of intense longing is in his eyes, and marking this, we bring all our powers of persuasion to bear upon him. At last he can resist no longer, and rises like a greedy trout to the price we want, stipulating that he must first be allowed to take it down to some superior Chinaman in the town, in order that its metal may be tested. This at first we are disinclined to permit, but when he offers to leave his packs of merchandise with us as security for his return, we are induced to reconsider our decision. Dragging his wares into the Long’un’s sittingroom, we agree to his request, making the stipulation that I am allowed to go with him. This, in his turn, he is not disposed to allow, on the excuse that it would not do for a white man to be seen where he is going. But we are adamant, and eventually, leaving the Long’un mounting guard over the security, I set off with him.
Our route is a devious one. We wind in and out of highways and byways, cross canals and thread evil-smelling courts, till I am bewildered beyond measure. At length we stop, turn to the right, and ascend to the top of as ramshackle an old Dutch dwelling as the mind can conceive. The house, from garret to cellar, is alive with Chinamen, each of whom seems to be filled with an intense desire to know what I am doing there. They interrogate my companion, but he is a man of business, and has no time to waste on idle gossip. Beckoning me to follow him, he scuds up the stairs and disappears into a room on the right, closing the door behind him. I attempt to follow, but the door is barred in my face. After waiting five minutes I begin to think I’ve been trapped — but no — the door opens and I am invited to enter.
It is only a little room, but it is filled chock-a-block with Chinamen. As I show myself, an old fellow pushes his way through the crowd, and comes towards me, jabbering incessantly. Under my careful supervision, he examines, tests, and weighs the chain, and evidently gives my companion considerable advice thereon. At the end of his harangue I am allowed to understand that the bargain is completed. The old fellow, who is undoubtedly a man of considerable importance, counts out the sum in guilders, and I prepare to receive it. But this is by no means suited to the Celestial mind. There are the cases, and the amount of the purchase cannot be paid over until they are found intact. We return to the hotel.
Once there, the boxes are recovered and carefully examined, and not till then is the price of the chain handed over. When it is, we are the richer by four pounds five shillings, making a total sum of ten pounds thirteen. Next day, our studs and rings bring us in another fifty shillings, and this done, we are in a position to meet our engagements in Java, and proceed upon our way.
A boat is expected in a few days from Colombo to coal, en route for Thursday Island. We book passages by her, and begin to feel that we are at length nearing our destination.
Earlier in the chapter I promised a reference to Malay servants. I give it now, and in the giving beg to be allowed to say that I know what I’m talking about.
First and foremost, the Malay may be summed up in a very few words: he is idle, slovenly, and hopelessly immoral. In spite of any personal inconvenience it might cause him, he would rather deceive you than not. He detests work, and he prefers sitting on your doorstep, expectorating designs on the pavement, to earning any number of guilders by honest labour. His duties as chambermaid are insults to your common sense. He doesn’t make your bed because your bed doesn’t require making: he simply punches the pillow into shape, and slaps the mattress; then he empties your basin out of the window, regardless of passers-by, wipes the dust off your boots on your best pair of trousers, and if he takes anything away to brush, nine times out of ten fails to bring it back. If asked for it, he swears by all his heathen gods he never saw it. That’s the Malay all over!
Early on the Saturday following our Chinese experience, our boat was signalled, and as on this occasion we were to be first class passengers (the only class carried), we had no desire to run the risk of missing her. Accordingly, paying our bill, and collecting what was left of our baggage, we hired two carts and proceeded to the railway station, en route for the port. Half an hour later we were on board, and before sundown were steaming out of the harbour. Java was a thing of the past.