Sulu
That popular opera “The Sultan of Sulu” has made the island of Sulu one of the most-talked-of places on the map of our new possessions, but in the Philippines it is rarely called Sulu, being better known by its Moro name of Jolo, this being pronounced with the accent on the last syllable, so that it sounds not unlike that vulgar salutation of our Western World, “Hello!”
As first seen from our quarter-deck the village of Sulu was a thing of beauty, with its vivid tints of green and gold and amethyst, its red-sailed boats on the sunlit bay, and over all the strongly blue sky. Nor was this enchantment due entirely to distance, for on going ashore in the late afternoon, we found the town even more attractive than we had thought it from the sea.
On drawing up to the pier in the ship’s launch, all were surprised to find it built solidly of brick and stone, a rare departure in these waters, while at one side rose a round watch-tower, the architectural evidence of Spain’s ultimate victory, after numerous and heart-breaking failures, in establishing a fort at Sulu. Above this watch-tower, which might have been taken bodily from the stage-setting for a melodrama, floated Old Glory against the sunset sky; Moro fishing-boats, the breeze in their crimson sails, dotted the flushed bay; and to the north and east small, detached islands, tinged with a translucent purple like the skin of a grape, faded into the horizon.
Within the town’s mediæval loopholed walls everything adds to this picturesque effect, for the streets are laid out in broad boulevards, with here and there a park or plaza, riotous with bloom; the houses are large and well built, there being no nipa shacks within the four walls, and the only church of the place is refreshingly simple in design.
During our first morning ashore we visited the market, and found it a most interesting sight. The Moros, in their parti-coloured raiment, were squatted on the ground in a great circle, buying or selling fruits and vegetables, while under a covered shed at one end of the plaza stood those dealing in fish and crustaceans of all kinds.
These marketmen were eminently good to look upon from an artistic standpoint, and as they lounged around in groups or singly, one longed to imprison them on canvas in all the gorgeousness of their tropical colouring. One fishmonger, whom I especially remember, sported a ravishing costume, consisting of bright green trousers, skin-tight of course, a purple coat, and a high peaked hat of silver, gilt, and crimson. He might better have been in comic opera than in the humble occupation of selling crabs and lobsters.
The Moro women were particularly interested in the Burnside feminine contingent, but not to the extent of dogging our footsteps as did the natives elsewhere, several American women in town having helped satiate their curiosity. But they stared at us, nevertheless, with a deep and absorbing interest, the quartermaster’s wife, as usual, being the cynosure of all eyes, because of her exceptional height and slenderness, not to mention that astounding walking-skirt, which had apparently grown upon her, there being no visible means by which it could be put on and off.
It was that morning most of us saw for the first time the durian, of malodorous fame, whose taste is said to be as delicious as its smell is overpowering. The fruit was for sale in the market at a few pennies apiece, and had banishment from Sulu not been threatened as a punishment, I should certainly have tasted one, that I might more accurately describe it.
“If you’re bound to eat one of those nasty durians,” said a friend living in the town, “please take it on the ship and have the captain anchor out farther at sea. If you attempt to open one here, you’ll have the Sanitation Committee after you hotfoot!”