The Gardens of the Sun / A naturalist's journal on the mountains and in the forests and swamps of Borneo and the Sulu Archipelago

by F. W. Burbidge

In the lowland forests near the equator a peculiar phase of vegetation is not unfrequently seen. Trees one hundred feet to two hundred feet in height tower upwards on all sides; and one walks in the shade—diffused light is perhaps the more correct expression—the tree trunks being the pillars of Nature’s cathedral, and the leafy branches high up above represent the roof. All the vegetation you see around you on earth, rocks or fallen trunks, is represented by a few ferns, lindsayas, with bright steel-blue fronds a yard high, broad-leaved aroids, or ginger-worts; but epiphytes of all kinds seem totally absent: and the truth is, that, like lovable “Tom Bowling,” of Dibdin’s minstrelsy, they, too, have “gone aloft.” Above you is a world of light and air and sunshine which birds, insects, and flowers alike enjoy. You feel very small and helpless as you try to catch a glimpse of the plants and flowers so high above you, and almost envy the long-armed red monkeys that swing themselves so easily from bough to bough. The monkey, however, has a rival in the human natives of these forest wilds, and it would be extremely puzzling to find a tree so thick, or tall, or otherwise so difficult to climb, that the lithe and dusky native would fail to reach its summit. The chances are that he will literally walk up a slender tree in the neighbourhood with the aid of hands and feet, and then find a route to the one you wish him to explore by way of the interlaced branches so high above you. If any sufficiently stout lianas are dangling near, he ascends hand-over-hand in a way that would delight the most accomplished gymnast; and if the tree so stood that the ascent could only be accomplished by the direct way of its own gigantic trunk, then the chances are that a stair of bamboo pegs would enable the ingenious savage to effect his object of scouring the branches, and sending the epiphytes in showers to your feet. Nor does he neglect to glean such other jungle produce as comes in his way, such as gutta or indiarubber, camphor, dammar, or forest fruits for food or medicine.

This is in the forest primæval, but near clearings, or on the skirts of the forest near rivers, which let in the light and air, the phalænopsis and other epiphytes are less ambitious, and they may then be found in positions but little above the more plebeian terrestrial kinds of vegetation. This is also the case when, as sometimes happens, they are found on the trees which fringe little islands; and then not only do the plants receive a good deal of sunshine as it streams through the leafy twigs of the branches to which they cling, but it is also reflected back again from the glistening sea. The intense light in which they thus exist, added to the fervent heat and the deluge of rain which falls during six or seven months of the year, accounts for the enormous leaf and root growth made by these plants in their native habitats. The flowering of the plants is not so extraordinary, indeed rather disappointing, after the results which may be seen in English gardens. It is not so much the paucity of flowers produced, however, as their early destruction caused by the “unbidden guests” the orchids are made to entertain.

High up overhead the most lovely orchids hold their court in the sunshine: here they are really “at home” to their winged visitors. Now and then, however, you come across a newly-fallen tree—a very monarch of the woods—which has succumbed to old age and rude weather at last, and has sunk to the earth from which it sprang a seedling generations ago; its branches laden with everything inanimate, which had made a home in its branches. Some of these ruined trunks are perfect gardens of beauty, wreathed with graceful climbing plants, and gay with flowers and foliage. The fall of a large tree, and its smaller dependents, lets in the sun, and so the epiphytes do not suffer much for a time; and one may thus observe them in all their beauty.

Here, right in the collar of the tree, is a plant of the grammatophyllum orchid, big enough to fill a Pickford’s van, and just now opening its golden-brown spotted flowers on stout spikes two yards long. There, on that topmost branch, is a mass of the moth orchid, or phalænopsis, bearing a hundred snowy flowers at least; and in such healthy vigour is it, that lovers of orchids at home—supposing it could be flashed direct to “Stevens’s” in its present state—would outbid each other for such a glorious prize, until the hammer would fall at a price near on a hundred guineas, as it has done before for exceptional specimens of these lovely flowers.

There, gleaming in the sunlight, like a scarlet jewel, beneath those great leathery aroid leaves, is a cluster of tubular æschynanthus flowers; and here is another wee orchid, a tiny pink-blossomed cirrhopetalum, whose flowers and leaves scarcely rise above the bright carpet of velvety moss among which it grows. But what is that attractive gleam of gold and green swaying to and fro in the sunshine? Ah! that is a beauty of another kind! And a native, to whom it is pointed out, ejaculates, “Chalaka! ular Tuan!”—a wicked snake, sir; and we are content to move on, and leave him alone in his glory. We tramp on for an hour longer, without even the glimpse of a flower being visible, except here and there a few fragments on the ground, the remnant spolia of the flower world which exists on the roof of this grand cathedral of trees.

Half an hour further, and the increasing numbers of ferns and selaginella mosses suggest the presence of water in the neighbourhood, while the patches of graceful seedling calami or rattan palms increase at every step, the stones and trunks become moss-covered, and then at last the “sound of many waters” breaks on our ears with a cool and welcome noise, and a few minutes later we have “struck” the stream, as it rushes and sparkles amongst mossy and water-worn boulders down an open and sunny ravine. Some of the larger rocks are covered with a palm-like fern (Polypodium bifurcatum); and filmy ferns, of the most delicate form and texture, abound on the dripping stones.

As we sit down on the rocks, a small flock of gigantic hornbills “saw the air” with their great wings far above us, making a noise almost like a locomotive engine in their flight. Butterflies come with wobbling motion down the sunny clearing, formed by the shallow stream; and, as we are intent on the cold fowl and coffee, which forms our breakfast, the sanguinary stains on our white trousers prove that the wily jungle-leech has not been unmindful of his morning meal. How this little slimy monster loves to gorge himself with gore! The wonder, however, is how they exist when men are absent from the jungle they infest, as often happens. I suspect that human blood forms simply an accidental part of their supply. I know they exact all they can from the water buffaloes; and perhaps even the astute monkey is made to pay toll by these blood-suckers as often as may be. I have often watched them, when aroused by footsteps, as attached to a stick, or stone, or leaf, they wave their bodies about, or walk towards you with a caterpillar-like motion, in quest of happier hunting-grounds. A squeeze of wet tobacco juice is the best plan of dislodging them from your skin; for if pulled off, however deftly it be done, there is a chance of a bit of their sucker apparatus remaining in the wound, which will often cause it to become inflamed, and to fester in a troublesome manner.

We suffered a good deal from mosquitoes during the night; indeed sleep was nearly impossible, and in very shaded parts of the forest to-day the little pests fixed on our hands and faces with a persistency that was very annoying. We saw very few birds. A gorgeously attired bee-eater was secured by Mr. Treacher as we paddled up the creek; and “Bongsur,” who used an old Tower musket as a fowling-piece, secured a tiny spotted owl and one or two other small birds common to this district. We distinctly heard the whoops and yells of the Muruts, who were out pig-hunting, as we came along, but did not fall in with them. Just as we crossed the stream one of the men picked up a fruit of one of the several varieties of durian, which are here indigenous. It was about the size of a cricket-ball, and only contained two of its chestnut-like, pulp-covered seeds. The seeds were very large in proportion to the quantity of pulp, but the flavour was very delicious.

We had a long walk back to the creek where we had left our canoes, and reached the village about three o’clock, just before the commencement of a heavy shower. As it cleared up a little about five o’clock we took our guns and had a stroll across the padi fields behind the houses, returning to dinner about sunset. I shall not soon forget that dinner. Mr. Treacher had brought his Chinese “boy” who had cooked the previous day. My “boy” was a Madras Telinga to whom, of course, the lard or pork fat which the Chinese use in cooking is an abomination, so that my ingenious fellow, as it was his turn to prepare dinner, made us a fowl curry, using rancid cocoa-nut lamp oil in which to cook the fowl. We were rather hungry, and tried to get the stuff down, but had to give it up as a bad job. The nasty taste was most persistent, however; and for several days coffee, biscuit, rice, and even fresh fruit, seemed to have somewhat of the offensive cocoa-nut oil flavour about it. I remonstrated with my “boy” about the matter, with the usual result. “Yes, sah, that China boy bad man, sah; he tell me oil very good for curry, sah!” I have no doubt, but that the “China boy” enjoyed the joke with “a smile that was childlike and bland,” and doubtless he related the story to his pretty Malay wife on his return, with many “Ah yahs” and inward chuckling. We made shift with biscuit and coffee, and a smoke destroyed the bad taste for the time being.

This was the evening preceding the commencement of Ramadan, the “fast month” observed by all Mahomedans, and there was a great burning of gunpowder in the village. Muskets and small cannon were being discharged all over the place in honour of the event. Salutes of this kind, and the festive firing of shot-guns, however harmless it may seem in print, is in reality sometimes a little alarming. The powder used in charging may possibly be bad in quality; but as a great noise is thought to be the thing, any defect in its quality is pretty well made up for by the quantity used. I am not a very nervous person, but I once or twice felt just a little anxious as the natives amused themselves by firing a charge of five or six inches of powder from a seven-and-sixpenny German gun. I once saw some Sulus firing a salute from some old dismounted brass guns which were lashed on the floor of the wharf at Sandakan. They coolly sat down beside the ordnance, waved a bit of rope-yarn until the smouldering fire at one end brightened up into a glowing spark, and then plunged it into the touch-hole; nor did they seem in the least disconcerted as the guns sprang a yard into the air dragging up the nebong planks with them, the whole returning with a crash by reason of their elasticity.