The Java and Arafura Seas — The Yahudi — Torres Straits — Thursday Island — New Guinea — Pearl Diving
THE voyage from Batavia to Thursday Island one long succession of exquisite pictures. The sky is almost invariably blue, the air soft and warm, while the sea strikes one as becoming every day more and more transparent and calm. On either hand a succession of lovely islands, tropical and in many cases volcanic, rise from the water, as if for the sole purpose of lending variety and interest to the voyage. At a distance they appear to be very similar, but on nearer approach we find in each some peculiar beauty the others seem to lack. They are, for the most part, the property of the Dutch, and in many instances prove themselves lucrative possessions. We pick them up one by one, only to leave them behind again — Bali, Lombok, Sumbawa, Flores, Adenara, Lomblem, Ombay, and Wetter.
We are not a large party in the saloon, but, as the old lady said of the mosquito bite, what there is is interesting. One man, connected with some mysterious branch of commerce, tells us that his father was a French Jew, his mother a Portugee, while he himself was born in Japan. For certain reasons we designate him the Yahudi, and the name fits him like a glove.
Another, an Australian gold miner, is returning home from a mining venture on the Malay Peninsula. His four companions had been murdered in a native rising, and he himself only escaped death by the skin of his teeth. Him, on account of his birthplace, we call ‘Gympie.’ There is also a Yankee drummer, who has, as he expresses it, peddled his wares in every town, large or small, throughout the known world, and who can, without stopping to think, reel off the names of the best hotels, and the most interesting people to call upon, in each. Another is a German count, presumably down on his luck, who is visiting Queensland with the idea of retrieving his fortunes by some means best known to himself.
The Yahudi is a perambulating nuisance. Before the voyage is half over, his presence is voted decidedly objectionable. He is selfish and egotistical to an abominable degree. He persists in monopolising the conversation at meal-times with outrageous and improbable stories, of which he himself is invariably the hero. At the same time it is only just to him to say that he flatly contradicts every assertion made by anyone else. The following is a fair sample of his style of fiction.
The conversation turns on the power of animals to make their wants understood in moments of danger or excitement. Says the Yahudi, craning his long neck round to see that everyone within half a mile is listening, and interrupting one of my choicest anecdotes, which, I am led to believe, I tell with considerable success:— ‘That recalls to my mind a singular adventure in Japan. One day, accompanied only by my dog, I was enjoying a morning’s shooting, when I noticed a fine cluster of ducks upon a neighbouring lagoon. To reach them without attracting attention was a difficult matter, for, barring a tree and a monster log some eighty yards to its right, there was no cover of any sort to be seen. Creeping warily along, I gained the shelter of the tree, and thence proceeded to wriggle myself under cover of the log. Once there, I took careful aim, fired both barrels, and brought down eight duck, two teal, a snipe, and a woodpigeon; but imagine my astonishment, when the smoke cleared away, at seeing the log, behind which I was crouching, rise up, wheel slowly round, and look me in the face. You may stare, gentlemen, but you cannot stare away the fact that it was an alligator, thirty-five feet long and four feet through, with a mouth like the entrance to the Bottomless Pit, yawning in my face. I took one good look at him, then went for the tree at express rate, leaving my gun behind me — not that, mind you, I had any fault to find with the gun, but because my mind was so set upon reaching the tree, that I had no time to think of other things. With the noise of a steam roller, the alligator came behind me, and we took our places — he at the bottom of the tree, I at the top. It was a moment of intense excitement, and I assure you that his conversation was as clear to me as noonday.
‘” Good morning! “ he began. “ You seem to have had an excellent day’s sport. Pray come down and let me assist you in collecting your bag! ”
‘” I thank you,” was my reply, at the same time taking a tighter grasp of my situation, as I noticed, with modesty, the appetite the sight of my legs was occasioning him, “ but at present I am too much entranced with the beauty of the landscape around me, to care much for fame as a sportsman. Pray collect and accept my game yourself! ”
‘This affability on my part caused him to betray his real feelings.
‘” Many thanks,” he replied, “ but wild duck requires too much hanging for my taste. Your legs, now — but there, do pray come down.” So saying, he opened his mouth and yawned till I could plainly see the undigested boots and celluloid collar of his last victim. After that we both felt that nothing further could pass between us.
‘Look me in the face, ladies and gentlemen, if you please. I assure you that for no less than eighteen hours I remained in that uncomfortable position, clinging to that branch, with the alligator’s mouth yawning like a gravel pit beneath me. You will ask why I did not shoot him. I reply, because my gun was on the plain, and my cartridges were in my pouch, and my pouch was with my faithful dog, and my faithful dog was in the interior of the alligator. Eighteen hours, nineteen hours, and even twenty hours went by, and still no chance of escape presented itself. I began to be annoyed, for my hunger was excruciating. At last a brilliant idea flashed through my brain.
‘Noticing that the alligator snapped ravenously at everything I threw to him, without pausing to ascertain its form or flavour, I produced my knife, and cut from the tree a stout stake, some three feet long. This I sharply pointed and notched at both ends. Then, judging my distance, I dropped it towards his mouth. As I expected, his ponderous jaws opened and closed on it perpendicularly. The result was all I could desire.
‘The force with which he closed his jaws drove one point through the roof of his mouth, the other through his tongue and out under his lower jaw. The notches prevented it from slipping back; he was transfixed and harmless. Descending from the tree, I bade him an affectionate adieu, and went home to bed, reflecting that man’s ingenuity is often more than a match for mere brute strength, while old Father Stick is still sufficient to satisfy the most enormous appetite.’
That was the Yahudi’s style exactly. As Gympie plaintively remarked in the smoking-room afterwards, ‘You may take it from me, that Yahudi’s just no more nor less than a fair cataclysm of a liar?’ Personally, I felt that even ‘cataclysm’ was hardly strong enough. But to return to my log-book.
Away to port lies Macassar, the wholesale warehouse of the Archipelago, whence are disseminated all the peculiar luxuries of the civilised West, and to which comes in return all the produce of the barbarous East. Beche de mer, trepang, beeswax, nutmegs, sandalwood, mussoi-bark, mother of pearl, tortoise-shell, birds of paradise skins — all find their way to the traders of Macassar.
Shipping of all sorts and sizes, from lordly warships to top-heavy native prahus and tiny sampans, is to be met with in these waters. The distances the latter do are almost incredible, and it is wonderful, considering the seas they must at times encounter, that more of them do not find watery graves. Now and again mysterious schooners may be seen slinking stealthily round the headlands, and, our captain observing them, becomes mysterious on the subject of illicit pearl-fishing among these islands. We cross question him in vain, his only answer is a wink and the sly remark, ‘If you stay in Thursday Island, you’ll find out soon enough.’ We begin to feel important.
Leaving Timor and the smaller islands thereabouts, we enter the Arafura Sea, and prepare ourselves to sight no more land till we pick up the islands in Torres Straits: a period of about five days.
Early on the morning of the sixth, with a big sea running, we catch a glimpse of Booby Island right ahead of us, surmounted by its lighthouse and encompassed by dashing breakers. Another hour-and-a-half's steaming brings us abreast of Prince of Wales Island, the largest of the Torres Strait group, and here we pick up our pilot. We notice that the whaleboat which brings him off is manned by Manilla boys (the bull is unintentional), pleasant young fellows of fair height, possessing light brown skins and very expressive features. They have the reputation of making excellent sailors.
The approach to Thursday Island, which, though the richest, is one of the smallest of the Torres Straits group, is charming. Hilly, attractive islands form an effective background to it, while the white roofs of pearling stations, peeping from amid dense masses of dark green foliage, the deep blue of the sea, and the varicoloured sails of the luggers and other small craft which dot it, all help to enhance the beauty of the picture.
Turning the corner of Prince of Wales Island, we find ourselves facing Port Kennedy, the capital of — and, in fact, the only town in — the group. The Government Residency stands boldly in the fore-ground, the union Jack waving on the flagstaff. Saluting the flag with a gun, we enter the harbour and come to an anchor in the small bay immediately opposite the township.
Looked at from the sea. Port Kennedy is peculiarly Australian. The houses are of matchboard, built on short thick piles; and here we renew our acquaintance with galvanised iron roofs, which have a particularly ugly look after the picturesque tiles of the East.
No sooner are we at anchor than our decks are covered with strangers of all descriptions. Arabs, Chinese, Cinghalese, Japanese etc. clamber over the side, everyone with something to sell, and everyone with a tremendous amount to say. We explain emphatically, even with threats of murder, that we have no money; that if we had, we shouldn’t want to see their goods, and further still, if by any chance we did see, nothing on earth could possibly induce us to buy them. They marvel and depart: a tourist who doesn’t want to look, much less to buy, seems past their comprehension; they shake their heads ominously for our future.
After tiffin, having collected our baggage and declined the Yahudi’s invitation to remain while he told the story of his uncle and the Japanese pig, we said goodbye to our friends on board, and departed ashore to seek our fortunes.
Landing on a rough wooden jetty, the services of the only cab on the island were secured, and with much state we proceeded to the Grand Hotel, which I may here remark is worthy of its name. It is indeed Grand, and its proprietress is not the least grand part of it. Folk who know her call her the Queen of Thursday Island, and we can cordially endorse the sentiment which prompts it; to her care and attention we owe more than we can ever repay. There are four or five other hotels on the island, but the Grand is the only one worthy of the name.
Our bedroom was situated upstairs on a broad verandah, and commanded a lovely view of the harbour and Prince of Wales Island opposite. What familiar scenes the mention of this verandah recalls to my mind. It was a favourite meeting place of Kennedyites, and I can conscientiously affirm that I have heard more tall yarns and seen more mixed liquors drunk inside its railings, than I’ve seen or heard in any other two verandahs in the wide, wide world. There the pearling skippers and mail-boat pilots do mostly congregate, and it is not good for a man whose head is softer than a jarrah block to be of the company.
The population of Thursday and adjacent islands is about 1,067, comprising representatives of pretty nearly every nationality under the sun, even to a poor solitary North–American Indian, marooned there by a travelling circus company some five years ago. Directly or indirectly the inhabitants are all dependent on the pearl shell, beche de mer, and tortoise-shell industries; and some idea of the importance of the place may be obtained when I say that in 1892 (the year in which we were there) the exports were valued at no less than 118,222l., including something like 20,000l. for guano from Paine Island, a tiny spot tucked away on the fringe of the Great Barrier Reef.
The government is administered by a Government Resident dependent on Queensland legislature. His duties are multifarious and his district is an exceedingly large one. He is a sort of Thursday Island ‘Ko–Ko,’ being an Honourable, an ex Minister of the Crown, Government Resident, police magistrate, collector of customs, registrar of births, deaths, and marriages, harbour master, &c., all rolled into one. He also finds time to be a very good fellow!
As in so many of the other places we had visited, the Chinese element is well represented, one block of stores being almost entirely their property. Papuans, Fijians, Manilla, and Solomon boys are also very much en evidence.
Though a good many pearling luggers were still in the harbour when we arrived, the majority of the fleet had put back to sea, after the New Year’s festivities, during which time the island had been a place of considerable mirth. Not unfrequently, these little jollifications terminate uproariously, sometimes even with blood-letting, though any very serious trouble has not occurred within the past five years.
Three or four years ago a number of natives clubbed together and purchased tickets in one of the large Melbourne Cup Sweeps. As they didn’t expect much to come of it, their delight may be imagined when it became known that they had drawn the winning horse and a prize of something like 30,000l. The amount fairly staggered them, and, puzzled to know what to do with it, they erected billiard saloons all over the town. That is why at every turn one is confronted with the sign, ‘Johnny Calcutta, Billiard Saloon Proprietor’; ‘Rhotoma Tommy — Billiards and Pyramids,’ &c. When the pearling fleet is in harbour these saloons prove lucrative possessions. And, while I am about it, let me remark that some of the signs in Thursday Island are the funniest I have seen anywhere. One, if I remember rightly, ran somewhat as follows:
Tommy Bombay
Tonsorial Artist. Barbering and Hair-cutting 6d,
D.V. Corns cut here.
For many days we paraded the settlement, familiarising ourselves with the life around us, but all the time keeping a sharp lookout for opportunities of employment. Had it not been for the anxiety our impoverished position caused us, it would have been vastly pleasant, for there was plenty to be seen.
I think were I asked to name one place in this world where fascinating people may be met with, I should declare for Thursday Island. Strange folk, whose proper homes should be between the cardboard covers of story books, are to be seen at every turn, playing billiards in the saloons, drinking in the grog shanties, or busily engaged on beautiful and mysterious vessels at anchor in the harbour: men with stories so fascinating, that we cannot doubt their probability; ‘Varsity’ and public school men, dead to the world; vagabond heirs to great names; romantic nobodies, and the riff-raff of all humanity, working, gambling, feasting or starving, as the case may be. There are Jesuit fathers in the priest’s house on the hill side, whose tales would have the same effect as curl papers; and when the missionary schooner comes in from New Guinea she not unfrequently brings with her one or two gaunt, haggard, fever-laden wretches whose stories are almost too strange, weird, and wonderful for credence.
Thursday Island being a pearling centre, there seems to be a tourist impression that it is always possible, during the time the mail-boat remains in harbour, to obtain from the natives first-rate pearls at sixth-rate prices. For this reason every idle, disorderly nigger, loafing edgeways through the sunshine, is supposed to have in his possession pearls of fabulous worth, of which ignorance alone prevents his knowing the value. Thus the tourist is evidently the instrument of Providence intended to relieve him of them at less than a quarter of their marketable price. Then arises the situation, if this be a delusion and there are no pearls, where can be the trade, and why does not the delusion die out? For even this self-same tourist, so ignorant in other matters, knows that it is not wise to ............