The sudden manner in which the rivers rise after heavy rain is wonderful; and the flat forests beside or near the rivers often become flooded. You may go to bed at night, and awake to find the native house in which you slept surrounded by acres of water a yard deep in the morning. This is especially true of flat tracts, through which streams flow near the great water-sheds inland. Considerable damage results to the cultivated patches on the hills from these sudden rains; and formidable land-slips not unfrequently take place on the steep hills near the rivers. Cultivation near the capital is, however, of a poor description, compared with the plains of Menkabong, Tawaran, and Tampassuk, or the hills further inland.
A lover of nature who sees a tropical country for the first time, cannot help but enjoy the bright light and heat, the vegetable glories of flower, fruit, and leaf, called forth by the rain and sunshine—of a clime where winter is unknown. And yet, with all the sunshine and showers, the tropical blossoms are in a way aristocratic and exclusive, and never mingle socially in bosky masses, as do our own wildings; and it is not possible to name half-a-dozen of them that could at all compare with the blue-bells, or heather, the buttercups, primroses, forget-me-nots, anemones, violets, and rosy lychnis of our own cool moist woods and pastures.
During a year’s rambles in one of the richest and most fertile of tropical islands, I saw nothing really fresh and spring-like; nothing like the “green and gold” of daffodils, and the tender young grass of April, or the royal glory of a summer iris, or an autumnal crocus on its mossy bed. This much is ever lacking in the forest primæval; and even in gardens—Eastern gardens—beautiful as they undoubtedly are in many ways, the sameness, the cloying degree of permanency observable in the forests, becomes intensified, and so still more unsatisfying. The plants seem always to present the same aspect; and although most of them are at their best when revived by the rains, just after the dry season, yet the charm of freshness is destroyed by the number of evergreens everywhere, and the driblets of bloom kept up by them nearly all the year round.
Still the beauty of tropical gardens is lovely of its kind. You have, or may have, all the tropical treasures of Kew—palms, ferns, and orchids—around you in the open air; but all this is as the beauty of a lovely woman, jaded by over-enjoyment, the whirl of a whole season’s gaieties! There is elegance of form, and charm of colour, all the refinement of cultured beauty, sure enough. Victoria water-lilies, and dainty nymphæas in open air pools, the flesh-tinted blooms, and umbrageous leafage of the sacred lotus also; the noble amherstia, with its pendants of crimson and gold,—groves of feathery-leaved palms—all this, and very much more, is common; but it is astonishing how soon one tires of this plethora of floral charms, and how eager becomes the longing to sniff the homely fragrance of pinks and wall-flowers; to stoop for a violet from a mossy hedge-bank, or a snow-drop even from a cotter’s garden. Indeed, there is no gainsaying the fact, as has been pointed out by Wallace and others, that the most lovely and satisfying, the most sociable of all flowers, are those of temperate climates.
CHAPTER IX.
A VOYAGE TO SULU.
Sulu Archipelago—Long drought—Jungle fires—Sandakan—Good water supply—Insects and birds—How an alligator was utilised—A boat excursion—Visit to the shore—A Chinese trader—Chinese hospitality—Slavery—A walk by the river—Manilla hemp—Native tombs—Frangipane—or the “dead man’s flower”—Rough walking—Interesting birds.
After having spent some time on the north-west coast of Borneo, varied by collecting expeditions further in the interior of the Murut and Dusun countries, I took a passage on the small trading steamer Far East, bound for Sandakan and the Sulu Archipelago. An intelligent young Scotchman, Mr. W. C. Cowie, part owner and engineer, was on board, and enlivened the voyage with a fund of information relating to the habits, customs, and trade of the natives among whom we were going. We were accompanied by his brother, who was going to reside in Sulu for trading purposes, and several Chinese and Malay traders also had taken deck passages. We sailed about 7 A.M. on April 5th, and the weather being fine we obtained capital views of the Bornean coast as we steamed along.
This was the greatest season of drought which had been known here for some time, nearly five months without rain, and this under a tropical sun, and in several places we could see jungle fires raging along the coast. The monsoon was dead against us, and we met numerous native boats flying down to Labuan before the wind. These were laden with pearl-shell, trepang, etc., and were mostly from the islands of Balabac and Palawan; some, however, had come round from the north-east coast of Borneo, and even from the Sulu isles. In about a fortnight the monsoon is expected to change, when they will find no difficulty in returning safely. At sunset, and again at sunrise, we saw “Kina Balu” towering up into the clouds, and apparently very near to the coast, but the distance is very deceptive. It was dark when we entered Sandakan Bay, and about three o’clock on the morning of the 8th, I was awakened by the rattling of the anchor-chains, and found we were at Sandakan itself. It is merely a small trading station consisting of about a dozen “ataps,” or palm thatched houses built over the water, and a long “jimbatan,” or jetty, also on piles, serves as a roadway and a landing stage for produce.