“Why, make my own way to Ulu Kelantan, to where that river rises, somewhere among the rhinoceroses over there.” The skipper pointed at the night beyond the open ports of the tiny saloon.
After that dinner I forgot my excursion to Bangkok. I did not want it. The young man assured me that he would not obstinately disapprove of my society, and that he thought I could furnish myself with what was needed for the trip up country at a place he called Kota Bharu. We should land next morning near there, at Tumpat. It was fortunate for me that night that those places were not on my map and that I could not prove my new friend did not know what he was talking about, for otherwise I might still have been prudent and continued in comfort and boredom my voyage up the Gulf of Siam.
CHAPTER XXXII
We landed next morning at Tumpat, thus far justifying faith, for nothing noteworthy was visible from our anchorage. Tumpat is on the present main channel of the delta of the Kelantan, a river which changes its mind about its channels now and then; and from Tumpat crossed the river to Kota Bharu, the capital of the native state of Kelantan, where its Sultan resides. To have such a name, and a Sultan, and to be placed on the shore of the China Sea in such a light, should be enough for any town. From what I could see of it, one might do well at Kota Bharu. It has a rest-house, a rambling and capacious building of timber, where I thought it would be easy to stay for so long that one might forget to go. Near my bedroom wild bees had a home behind a beam, and I could sit and watch a living brown fresco moving its pattern on the planks of the wall. Next door to the bees was a colony of wasps. No courtesies were exchanged. The bees never went to the wasps, though the wasps occasionally came to look at the bees, but never stayed long, for the disapproval of the bees was instant, though they did not appear to resent some little tricks I played on them. While watching the bees one afternoon a chichak, a small gecko who lives on the walls and ceilings of every house and attends to the flies and moths, slid out of a crack about a yard from the bees. He seemed astonished by so great a number of flies, and lifted himself on his hands to get a better view of them. He was obviously puzzled, and instead of his usual lightning dash he made a slow and careful approach to within a few inches of a bunch of the bees. Then he remained as still as the graining of the wood, till a bee happened to walk toward him. He fled back to his crack like the flick of a whip.
My friend I had found in the ship, whose name may be Smith, told me, however, that this was no time to watch flies. I must go to a Chinese shop and buy frying pans and provender, while he went to the Sultan’s prime minister, or chancellor, or caliph, to obtain a mandate which would require the local chiefs to regard us friendly-wise.
That afternoon, by invitation, we saw a bull-fight, at which the Sultan and his court were present. The Malays of Kelantan, their disposition being entirely happy, delight in the fighting of bulls, buffaloes, rams, cocks, and fish. The Sultan, it was whispered, keeps registers of all the fighting animals in the state, is regularly informed of their condition, and arranges the tournaments. This was one. It was a sparkling festival. But for those fighting bulls, I should never have seen so many of the ladies of Kota Bharu. The massed colors of their silk sarongs and head scarfs were emphatic and influential. Each bull seemed to be hidden within the ambush of a rainbow; from his happy seclusion he sent out his distracting shrill challenges. They were humped cattle, small but athletic, with brass or silver guards to the points of their horns. Their hoofs were polished. Their coats played like satin with the light. They were haughty. To the caresses which would have won the coldest rajah they were massively indifferent. They appeared to know that their part in the show was not love, and to sternly reject it. The favorite was a little black animal. He was quiet, even sleepy. He submitted to the shampooing of his coat and the massaging of his limbs with the proud nonchalance of a popular champion. Children might play with him, and they did. And while the children played, the bookmakers gave the picture a familiar touch of Epsom Downs. Malays are dour and irreclaimable gamblers, and I found that to share this human failing no knowledge of the vernacular is necessary. The betting was two to one on the champion.
The two bulls for the first round were led by their men into a large inclosure. There for a space they were fondled in opposite corners, while, so far as I could see, good advice was whispered earnestly into their ears. The guards to their horns were removed, and a man from each went over to inspect the sharp horns of the other animal, probably for poison. Then a gong droned, and the comely gladiators were marched to face each other at a distance of about fifty yards. The gong crashed, and the crowd raised the shrill and fearful Malay war cry. Each bull exploded in a cloud of dust.
The Fighters Stood with Horns Interlocked, Waiting for Each Other to Move