The Sultan remained several days and we spent much of our time in talking over the problems of government. These conversations ended by my becoming a sort of foreign adviser in all dealings with European countries. Later, before Trengganu was made a British protectorate, he awarded me some valuable tin concessions. The new arrangement under the British government was made satisfactorily; he received a suitable pension and he passed happily into a purely honorary position in his state, relieved of all the complexities of political administration. When I last saw him, he was living in indolent comfort, surrounded by his wives—and his two-story brick palace was at last completed.
It took more than a week after the departure of the Sultan of Trengganu for the natives to get their fill of celebration. While they feasted and danced, I made my plans for the stocks in which the sixty elephants were to be broken.
The breaking of elephants, especially so large a herd, is a long, tedious job. I was thankful that I had Prince Omar with me to keep the natives working. The hunter, who kills and skins his animals, has a simple life compared with the collector, who must not only take the animals alive and uninjured, but convey them through miles of jungle country to a port. Months of hard labor were before us, and the success of the expedition was by no means assured, even though we had our elephants safe in the stockade. It was to be a great test in managing the natives.
There is only one thing that a Malay values, and that is his kris—his knife. To lose this cherished possession means to lose honor. There is a saying to the effect that money will buy everything but a lucky kris. Their disregard of money makes all dealings with Malays extremely difficult, and their dislike for work has completely blocked more than one project. To my mind, the Malays are the laziest people in the world.
When work is an exciting or amusing game, such as the hunt, they will go on for days without signs of fatigue. They seem to keep alive by some fanatic energy. But when work is just plain labor, they will say "Wait," or "I must think." Or a Malay may say candidly: "Sir, I have just had plenty to eat. I am content." Many times I have had a Malay tell me, when I asked him to do some work, that he had enough rice and fish for the day and that he might die during the night. It is an unanswerable argument. Tomorrow's food can be found when tomorrow comes.
The Malay's food is simple and his clothes are few. With no more effort than dropping a few seeds and covering them with earth, he can grow most of the food he needs, aside from his rice and fish. One catch of fish will supply his family for weeks and give him a surplus to sell to the Chinese traders. With the money he can buy some cloth and a little powder. Six or seven good-sized chickens cost one Mexican dollar; eggs cost one Mexican cent; yams, one or two cents each; pineapples, two or three cents. Why worry about the tomorrow that may never come? Why should a Malay gentleman, who believes in Allah and whose stomach is full, do the labor that can be done by heathen, pig-eating Chinese?
"Will you row me across the river?" I asked a Malay one day.
"Tûan, I have eaten and I have had plenty," he responded. "You may take my boat and row yourself across the river. Tomorrow, if Allah grants me life and if I need the boat, I will swim over for it."
That Malay trait of living for the moment has led many a European to murder, and more than once it made me feel like running âmok. It is maddening. Getting work out of Malays is a fine art, a science to be learned only after years of patient arguing and cajoling. And yet, with all their laziness, they are lovable people. In most cases they are brave and willing to do anything for a person they like.
Under the circumstances, sick with fever and worn out by the drive through the jungle, I was entitled to some doubt as to what the next few months would bring. The Sultan had left strict orders that I was to be provided with all the labor I needed, and Omar was there to assist me. However, I waited with anxiety to see what the attitude of the natives would be after they had finished celebrating, and I was encouraged to find that I had earned the name Tûan Gâjah—Sir Elephant. They were deeply impressed by the power of the white man who had engineered a great drive of sixty elephants and who owned the exceedingly marvelous gun that his man, Ali, displayed with such proud ostentation.