Round the Wonderful World

CHAPTER XXVI

THROUGH EASTERN STRAITS AND ISLANDS

In every long journey there comes a time when one feels a little dreary. So many new things have been seen that the mind and eye are tired. Then maybe there is just a touch of home-sickness mingled with it, and when one gets to a part less beautiful than what has gone before all at once there is a longing to turn and fly back to all that we are accustomed to. It seems to me that you and I are suffering from that now. We have left Burma behind, and for two days have ploughed down the Gulf of Martaban toward Penang in the Straits Settlements. We did not want to make friends with anyone on board, and were just a trifle grumpy even toward each other. We felt the parting from Joyce and her mother, who had made Burma so enjoyable, and we weren't ready to begin making new friends all at once.

Burma forms the western part of a great peninsula, and stretching out southward from it is a long arm, the shape of an Indian club, narrower in the neck and broadening out, to run up finally to a point. Alongside of the broadest part is the great island of Sumatra, belonging to the Dutch, who are our principal rivals in this region of the world.

"The captain's compliments, and we're going to set off some rockets to scare the sea-birds," says one of the officers, suddenly appearing beside us. "We're passing close by that little island there – Pulo Pera."

Now there is something to see we wake up at once. Sure enough there it is ahead, a little island rising like a cliff out of the water. It is evidently deep close in, for we go quite near to it. Just as we are abreast off goes rocket after rocket, and in a moment the scene is transformed as if by magic. A dense mass of shrieking, screaming birds springs to life. The moment before the sun was shining in a clear sky, now in an instant it is obscured as by a thick cloud. You never saw anything like it! The birds on the Bass Rock are fairly thick, but here – day is turned to night and the commotion and uproar are wildly exciting, like the clash of legions in the sky.

Long after we are past we can see them thinning down gradually as some keep dropping back on to their island home, while the more restless, nervous spirits still circle and swoop in loops and curves.

A marvellous sight!

Penang itself is an island, and as we swing round to the capital town, Georgetown, on the inner or land side, we see an astonishing mass of green, with a great hill clothed almost to the summit rising behind the town. We can go up there to-morrow if you like, as we have a day to spend here owing to a change of steamers.

As we come to anchor in the bay a perfect swarm of small boats, called sampans, dance round the ship, and the owners offer their wares with astonishing noise. Looking down you can see the yellow faces of the men who have narrow eyes and pigtails coiled round their heads under enormous hats. It looks as if we had tumbled into China by mistake, for these are nearly all Chinamen, and yet the inhabitants of this country are Malays. The Malay, however, is like the Burman in that he does not care to exert himself if he can help it, so he lets the Chink, as the Chinamen are familiarly called, do all the business. The rich earth yields a hundredfold, and the Malay has only to scratch a very little of it very gently, and plant or sow a small quantity of something, and he is provided for for a year! The Chinaman is an industrious soul and an uncommonly good market-gardener, so he grows vegetables for sale and makes a good thing out of it; half these boats are full of vegetables grown by the very men who are selling them.

Soon we are in a sampan, being rapidly rowed shore-wards. The man works the boat standing up and faces the way he is going; he does it very easily, with the ends of his long oars crossed over and worked almost entirely by wrist play. We are right under a high, old-fashioned-looking trading ship now; do you see that great eye painted on the bows? There is another on the other side. That shows it is a Chinese ship; the men have a superstition that the ship cannot see without these eyes. They say, "No got eye, no can see; no can see, no can savee."

Great rocks stick out from the foliage on the hillside, and nearer is the town, with its pretty thatched houses and palatial mansions and avenues of greenery. It is all slightly different from the countries we have seen already, and yet it is difficult to say quite where the difference lies. Here is our old friend the rickshaw man, only he is a Chinaman, of course, and some of these rickshaws are two-seated, so we can both get into one; the man who pulls starts off gently as if it were no trouble. He wears nothing above the waist, and we can see the well-developed muscles moving under his sun-browned skin. On the road we meet many Chinese women dressed in trousers; you must have seen some in Hyde Park, I think, for people often bring them over to England as nurses for their children, they are so clean and reliable. They all wear trousers like that, just plain, straight down, shapeless trousers, with a tunic falling over them; it is a neat and effective dress.

Whew! It's hot! I don't feel inclined to move a limb; this steamy heat is so much more trying than the heat we had in the dry zone of Burma, where you and Joyce got lost; there the nights were always cool, almost sharp sometimes. That building you are pointing at, with the dragons over the doorway, is a Chinese temple, and I don't suppose they would mind our going in at all. It looks nice and cool, anyway. We stop the rickshaw man and pass through several courtyards enclosed by high walls. In one is an open upper storey like a first-floor room with a wall knocked out; this is a stage. You may well ask how anyone in the courtyard can see the play – they can't! Only the favoured few who sit in the galleries get a good view!

In all the courts a few Chinamen lounge about on the steps; they are probably half-stupid with opium, for they are not naturally lazy. Passing on to the inner shrine we see a much-decorated screen, behind which an image is hidden, but we are not allowed to pull it aside. The room in which it stands is crowded with hideous figures, squat devils, grinning dragons, and other disagreeable forms. Before them are empty tin biscuit-boxes full of sand, in which are stuck messy little tapers. There is a funny smell of incense mixed with tallow in the air. It is a creepy, uncomfortable place, and the Chinese religion is not one that would attract a stranger; I expect you would have to be brought up in it to understand it!

Unfortunately next day our expedition to the mountain is spoilt by torrents of rain which stream down unceasingly, and time hangs heavy on our hands.

"It always rains here, all the year round, more or less," says a friendly Englishman in the hotel. "If you like I'll take you to see a well-to-do Chinaman who is a friend of mine. The Chinamen are all rich here, lots of them keep motors." We gladly accept and go off under borrowed umbrellas to the outskirts of the town. The house stands by itself in a clump of trees and is very imposing with its great white marble pillars; as we get near we see huge gold letters in weird characters all across the front. Then before we have time to notice any more we are in the hall looking at a great bowl of gold-fish, and in another minute our host is bowing before us. He is wearing a very magnificent embroidered coat of red silk with great wing-like sleeves; the embroidery is a marvel, dragons in blue and gold, and fishes of rainbow hues disport themselves all over it. Under it is a short black satin petticoat, rather like a kilt, and black boots with thick white felt soles. The gentleman is tall and well made, a fine figure of a man, and on his head is a little round black cap, from which escapes his pigtail. He stands bowing before us and shaking hands with himself, which, as a method of greeting, is perhaps better than our own way. He takes us into a dark gloomy room full of cabinets of black lacquer richly decorated with gold and mother-of-pearl. There are sombre carved wood chairs set back against the wall. It is all very costly, but to us it seems uncomfortable and funereal. The chief things that attract us are rows of little red pieces of paper of odd lengths hanging over strings from the ceiling, as if they were drying after a washing-day. The Englishman explains that the Chinaman is very proud of these, for they are all New Year's greetings from his friends, and the number of them shows what a popular man he must be. As the Chinese New Year's Day is on April the first, and that was only a week ago, these are all new; but if we had arrived at any time of the year we should have seen them just the same, for they are left hanging all the year round till the next lot arrives.

On the whole we are not sorry to leave Penang; we have felt limp all the time, worse even than we did in the Red Sea. The steamer we board this time is the Khyber of the P. & O. Company. She belongs to the Intermediate Line, which comes right out to Japan from England, taking about six weeks on the way. For anyone who wants change and rest and no worry that's a fine voyage, as the boats stop at many places. We shall go on with her to Japan. As we are starting on the steamer we hear various cracks and snaps from the boats near, where crackers are being exploded. The captain happens to pass on the way to the bridge and smiles as he hears them. "They're not firing salvos in our honour," he says; "they think the ship is full of devils, and in case a few have escaped and might land in their blameless boats, they're frightening them back again before it is too late." It makes a great difference to have a captain who takes an interest in his passengers and bothers to tell them incidents as they happen, though to him they may be dull as ditch water, as he has been through them all dozens of times already. The next time we meet the captain it is growing dusk, and he points ahead to what looks like a black rock looming up sheer from the sea. "Curious thing that," he says meditatively; "it's an island, Pulo Jarrak, – islands are all Pulo here, – and owing to the quantity of rain which falls here the vegetation grows so thickly it makes the island stand right out; even on a dark night you can see it ten to twenty miles off. It looks quite black."

We have only one stop on the way to Singapore, exactly midway between it and Penang, at Port Swettenham.

As we pass southward the Straits narrow and we can see the hills of Sumatra on one side, and sometimes funny little villages built on piles out over the water on the other. Pretty good sport to be able to drop a fishing-line out of one's front door, isn't it?

When the land gets very close on both sides we swing round suddenly, and behold! we are at Singapore, which, like Penang, is an island, and stands at the extreme south point of the long peninsula. It guards this useful passage where all the traffic between China and Japan on the one side comes to India on the other, just as Aden guards the Red Sea and Gibraltar the Mediterranean. Great Britain manages somehow to pick up all the lucky bits, and it is not by design either, it just happens that way. I can tell how this one happened; it was because there chanced to be a Man out here – a Man with a capital letter!

We go ashore and get into rickshaws and start for the town, which is a long three miles off. We shan't have time to do more than look round. The road runs by the docks at Singapore, which are enormous and extend all along the coast up to the town. On the way we pass men of all nations. There are natives of India, companies of Sikhs, Madrassees like Ramaswamy, – who is well on his way back to his master now, – Cingalese, Tamils with frizzy heads, little Japanese ladies in rickshaws, plenty of Chinese, and many Malays. The Malays are yellow rather than brown; they have just that slight narrowing of the eyes which tells they are akin to the Chinese, and they are, as a rule, well-made neat men, wearing loose blue skirts, with orange or red sashes, and large hats; some of them have short white jackets which are the universal top garments out here, when there are any at all.

The town itself is astonishingly well built; electric trams run everywhere, and there are splendid public buildings. As we trot along in our rickshaws we enter a large square. Do you see the name up there? Raffles Square. Sir Stamford Raffles was the man who made Singapore. In his time, the first part of the nineteenth century, Great Britain was very anxious to give away everything she had in the East to the first person who asked for it, as she did not want to fight about it, and could not see what use it could be, for the idea of Imperialism and Empire had not been developed. The Dutch asked largely and always got what they asked for, whether they had a right to it or not; this enraged Raffles, who happened to be out here, and so he looked around and noticed that the island of Singapore was placed in a wonderful position for trade, that it commanded the Straits, and that no one as yet had made any claim on it. He settled down here and put up the British flag. It was years before his country finally decided to acknowledge him and not give his territory up to the Dutch, who immediately asked for it; but in the end they did, and now here stands Singapore, a mighty city with miles of docks, a colossal trade, and a teeming population. There is a statue to Sir Stamford Raffles, as it is right there should be. The Botanical Gardens are worth seeing, and we can get tiffin in one of the palatial hotels, and then we must go back to the ship.

The scene in the bay as we depart is most lovely; ships of every nation are at anchor there, and as we pass out slowly we see island after island all covered with that rich green growth which is the result of the constant rain and warmth. Blue and green and gold is the world, and the little brown boys play about their water-built villages, tumbling in and out of the water, and living in the warm sea as much as on land day by day. Shoals of them come round us in their catamarans and dive for money, catching the silver bit as it twinkles down through the water, even though they make their spring from many yards off. As we get farther out we feel the difference in temperature at once, for now we are heading north, and the night is cold and rough – it is like passing into another climate.

These are wonderful seas, and dearly should I like some day to bring you on a cruise in and about this group of great islands to the south, which is like nothing else in the world! There is Borneo, that gigantic island, twice as large as the British Isles, which belongs partly to the British and partly to the Dutch. The story of Sir Stamford Raffles is outdone by the story of the Rajah of Sarawak, which shows that even in our own times the blood of Drake and Cook runs in the veins of Englishmen.

Hong-Kong is another island and also belongs to the British; it was given to them by treaty in 1841. As we sail in under the lee of the island by the narrow entrance to the bay between it and the mainland, we see what a splendid natural harbour this is. High above on the island rises what is called the Peak, and up and up and up it, in rows and terraces, are the houses of the people who live here. We can go up the Peak by a tram-line if we have time. The city is called Victoria, and is actually built on the rock or, rather, on terraces cut out of the face of it, one above the other. It is strange to find this little British colony isolated here on a bit of China, separated from the real China by half a mile of sea. As the steamer comes to rest on the mainland side at Kowloon Wharf we must take a ferry over to the city.

Once we are there we find a well-built town with wide roads, tree lined and very clean; there are many quite English-looking buildings of stone, and in the shops a strange mixture of wares, European and Eastern. Some of the shops are piled with the rich Eastern silk embroideries, ivory and lacquer work, carvings and fans, silver and metal work, paintings and furniture.

We have time to run up to the top by the tramway, and higher and higher as we go, houses still, houses all the way, and even at the very top there are some houses where the governor and other important people live in summer. It has been gloomy and cloudy all day, threatening rain, but just as we reach the summit the sun comes out in yellow glory, dropping to the West, and all the innumerable inlets and bays are turned to gold. The land between stands up in capes and cliffs and headlands, rather dim and misty, with the golden water flashing between.

We are off once more and up the coast to Shanghai, the last Chinese port we touch before going over to Japan.

Next morning we come up on deck to find a wet, clammy fog – we might be back in England again – how astonishing!

Now and again appearing out of the folds of swathing mist we see little islands and gaily painted fishing-boats, the owners of which seem bent on committing suicide. The boats sometimes are junks, with the square brown sails that we have by this time seen so often, or they are tiny little boats; whichever it is, they seem as if they deliberately tried to get under our bows, as you have seen village children run across in front of motor-cars. Again and again we feel the steamer sheer off a little to clear them, and sometimes she just succeeds in doing so. I expect the captain's temper is being pretty severely tried up there on the bridge. He stays there while the fog lasts, but when it clears a little in the evening he comes down for a hasty dinner.

Then we get at him and make fresh demands on his patience by questions. He seems to have a stock left, for he laughs good-humouredly when I speak of the native boats. "They do do it on purpose," he says; "they think it's good joss, as they say, – good luck that is, just to cross our bows. It means a never-ending look-out all along this coast, and nothing cures them. All the same they're some use when one gets fogged here, for you can generally tell where you are, to some extent, by the fishing-boats; they run in different colours and patterns at places along the coast, each part has its own special fashions in paint and rig."

He has hardly time to swallow his dinner before he is back on the bridge. It's a ticklish bit of navigation here.

We still thread our way close inshore through innumerable islands. One of them stands up stiff and straight, pointing like an obelisk to the sky. It is called the Finger Rock. We notice, too, very frequently, the white lighthouses, kept very clean. Then we go through a pass, two miles wide, called "Steep Island Pass," and are into the mouth of the Yangtsekiang River. Up this we go for a hundred miles before reaching Woosung, the Gravesend of Shanghai, which is still twelve or thirteen miles farther on. Then a turn and we are in sight of Shanghai with its factories and chimneys and great sheds called "godowns" with galvanised iron roofs. It is a disappointing place, but as we go farther on we see a public promenade and some clean, well-built stone houses. The Europeanised part of the city is, however, uninteresting, and we don't care to go into the native part by ourselves, so our chief amusement is watching the Chinese coolies loading and unloading the ship. Notice, they never push things on trollies, as our men do; they always carry everything slung on a bamboo. Even that great lump of iron, which must be part of some machinery, there it is, surrounded by a shouting horde of men, all slinging it up by their own little ropes, all giving a hand to carry the great mass along.

We have gathered very little of China in our short time at the ports, but we shall be able to get a better idea of Japan. Our first idea of it is when we stop at the island of Rokwren two days later and take on the pilot who is going to run us through the far-famed Inland Sea. At the same time two or three smart little Japanese doctors in European dress come on board to inquire into the health of passengers and crew, and give us a permit, for the Japs are most particular about not letting any foreign germs be landed on their shores, and at every port doctors come on board to make quite sure everyone is free from illness.

The next thing we know about Japan is her coal, for 1500 tons of it are brought on board, in little baskets, handed from one to another of long rows of men, women, and children, all working equally hard.

The narrow strait that leads into the Inland Sea is only a quarter of a mile wide, and after passing through it we steam along quietly amid the most beautiful scenery we have passed since leaving England. Everywhere are little islands, well cultivated, woody, and rocky. Rocks and hills and capes break up the vistas, and every time we turn a corner we see something better than before. The ship stops at Kobé, but, unluckily, you have got a touch of the sun and the doctor strictly forbids you to go on shore. Never mind, we'll soon be at Yokohama, which is far better.

By that time you are quite yourself again, and when the captain calls us up on deck you are eager to go. He points to a solid triangle of rock, sticking up out of the sea not very far distant, and as we look at it a flash of red flame spurts out into the air and something red-hot rolls swiftly down the scored sides. What does it remind you of? It is another Stromboli, of course!

"That," says the captain solemnly, "is the safety-valve of Japan. If it were blocked up there's no knowing what might happen." Then he swings round and points in another direction. Clear against the soft blue of the sky we see a sharp-pointed white cloud of a very curious shape, like an opened fan upside down. It seems quite detached from everything else, merely a curious snowy fan hanging in mid-air. "Why, it's Fujiyama, of course."

So it is! The famous Japanese mountain seen in thousands of the country's drawings and paintings; in fact, it has come to be a sort of national signboard. Now that we know where to look we see that the white fan part is merely the snow-cap running in large streaks downward, and that this rests upon a base as blue as the sky. Henceforward we shall see Fujiyama at many hours of the day – never a wide-spreading view but Fujiyama will be there, never a long road but Fujiyama at the end of it, never a flat plain without it. So odd is the great mountain, and so much character has it, that we feel inclined to nod good-night or good-morning to it when it greets us.

Then we enter the magnificent harbour of Yokohama with its hundreds of sampans, junks, tugs, ships, steamers, and every other craft. The smaller craft surround us clamorously, and looking down upon them we see that in almost every case there is a cat on board the junks, many of them tabby or tortoise-shell.

"'Cat good joss,' as the Chinamen would say," remarks a man standing near us, "specially three-coloured cats. They wouldn't give a fig for our lucky black ones without a white hair."

Hundreds of coolies are now clamouring for jobs all round. They are almost all dressed in blue, and those that wear upper garments have huge hieroglyphics of gay colours on their backs – these are the signs of their trades, or trades unions, as we might say, and each man wears his with pride.

So, with a fleet of attendant boats, gaily-dressed coolies, and complacent cats surrounding us, we come to our anchorage, say good-bye to the captain with great regret, and make our plunge into this new land.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAND OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE

We are standing in front of a mysterious gate which is yet not a gate. You must have seen pictures of Japan many a time, and in some of them there must have been one of these curious erections. Yet how can one describe it? The Greek letter Π is most like it. Imagine a giant Π with a second cross-bar below the top one. In Japan this is called a Torii. The one in front of us, rising like a great scaffolding far above our heads, is made of wood, but they are often of stone or metal too. They are always to be found before the entrance to a Shinto temple. There must have been some meaning in them once upon a time, but it is lost now, and they remain decorative but useless.

We have left our rickshaw and are climbing up a long, long flight of steps to a Shinto temple not far from Tokyo, the capital town of Japan. Very many of the Japs are Buddhists, but it is a strange sort of Buddhism, not pure like that of the Burmans, and is mixed up with another religion called Shinto, and many of the people are Shintoists altogether. This religion is vague and mystical, with much worship of spirits, especially the spirits of the elements – earth, air, fire, and water. Everyone who is dead becomes in some degree an object of worship, and the Jap thinks more of his parents and ancestors than his children – his dead ancestors especially being much venerated.

When we reach the top of the steps we find ourselves suddenly in a blaze of loveliness. To the right, to the left, and all around are cherry trees, covered thickly with blossom which hangs in wreaths and rosettes and festoons as if moulded in snow. The time for the best of the blossom is a little past, and the ground at our feet is as white as the trees, indeed whiter; for just here and there the fairy display on the trees is slightly browned. The scent is very sweet, and hangs in the air like delicate perfume. In the time of blossom there are many outings and festivities in Japan; people make up parties to go to the orchards, and thoroughly enjoy their beauty. Come right underneath the trees and look up, we can see the thick, heavily laden branches against the soft rich blue of a cloudless sky, and in our ears is the hum of a myriad bees. It is as if the freshness of early spring and the richness of full summer were mingled together.

As we wander on over the scented ground we notice, a little way off, a rather pathetic-looking Japanese in the national costume, with a flat board or book in his hand. He is looking at us earnestly, and follows on at a respectful distance behind us.

Next we come upon a quaint little garden on the lines of what we should call a landscape garden in England, but it is all on a tiny scale, as if made for dolls to walk in. There is a pond as big as a tea-tray, walks the breadth of one's foot, wee trees, gnarled with age and twisted and fully grown, but no higher than your knee. It is all so delicate and dainty and tiny that we are afraid to walk in it for fear we should spoil it; we feel thoroughly big and clumsy as Gulliver must have felt among the Lilliputians, and we expect every minute to see the rightful owners, wee men and women the size of a man's fingers, rushing out from the little summer-house with the curved roof at the end, and crying shrilly to us to go away!