On Board the "Rocket"

by Robert C. Adams

After the bath the gentleman dresses for the day, either all in white or with a loose black sack coat. Breakfast is served, consisting of broiled fowl, eggs, fruits, &c., and at about ten o'clock the carriage takes him to his office. Between twelve and one a lunch is served on the business premises, the chief item of which is curry. This demands description. We have all seen bottled curry powder, but what is used on the spot is made fresh every day. The ingredients are ground upon a stone and mixed together. The meat of a cocoanut is grated, moistened with water and squeezed by the hand over the curry powder. Into this, prawns, or bits of fowl or meat, are placed and the dish is ready. Rice is first taken upon the plate and curry is added. A tray is handed containing a dozen little plates, each holding some kind of peppers, pickles, spices or chutney, and one is supposed to take a little of each, or else to make a judicious selection. A dried fish, called a Bombay duck, is broken up over the pile and more meat or fowl may be added, or else some fricadel, a delightful compound of bread, eggs and minced fowl. Finally all is thoroughly mixed together and eaten with the aid of a spoon or fork. This tastes better than it, probably, sounds to the reader's ears, and there is no recollection of the East more suggestive and fascinating to a former resident than the curry. It seems strange, however, that in such warm climates nature should crave such heating and stimulating food.

If it is not steamer-day, the gentleman will probably drive home at about four o'clock; the pajamas and bajou are donned, a book or short nap occupy an hour; another bath is taken, and the evening dress is assumed, which usually will be of white, with a short jacket, such as is worn by waiters in our hotels. A walk or drive is taken in the cool of the evening, ladies and gentlemen appearing without headdress or hats; or if hats are worn, they are light articles, made of cork or pith, with good ventilation. They meet where the band may be playing, or drive along the charming suburbs, or saunter to the club-house. Between seven and eight they sit down to dinner, and get up at some indefinite period between nine and day-light. The men smoke their cigars between the courses, drink liquors throughout the meal, and afterwards take a night-cap of brandy and water. They retire finally to beds covered with rattan mats, and devoid of bedclothes. A lamp remains lighted all night in the room, and consists of a glass tumbler half full of water, with cocoanut oil poured in, and a small wick floated on top in the centre. This is the lamp of the East.

The houses of the foreign residents are one-story structures, raised a few feet from the ground, built of brick or stone, covered with plaster and whitewashed. A broad flight of steps leads to a wide verandah, which is supplied with furniture, especially easy chairs of luxurious model, and this place is the sitting-room and reception hall of the family. Within are parlor and bedrooms, and at the back of the house is another verandah, generally used as a dining-room. One who takes an evening's walk, and as he passes each house, looks through the dark foliage at the brilliantly lighted verandah, with its family and social groups, will get a series of most enchanting tableaux. When the residents wish to be "not at home," they darken the front verandah and get further into their houses, so callers are spared useless inquiries. In the rear of the house, the servants' lodgings, kitchen and bath-house are placed. The kitchens are a novelty. A raised platform runs the length of the building, and on top of it, or in arches near the top, several fires are built as needed, one for each dish to be prepared. There is no chimney; the smoke not absorbed by the food, escapes through the doors. The servants are numerous, and each has his separate sphere. There is no "maid of all work" in the East. Every person has his "boy," who hovers about him in all his waking hours, and cares for him much as a nurse for a child. The boy is called for every trivial service, and I have heard the master shout repeatedly for the "suppada," as servants are called, and when he came running breathless from the rear of the house, he was ordered to move a chair that stood a few yards off, in order that the luxurious master could put his feet on it.

The vegetation of the East impresses the traveller with its luxuriant growth and beauty of form and color. There is no "Fall;" all is evergreen. The cocoanut trees abound, perhaps, most commonly. The form of its straight stem, with branches spreading from the top, and the fruit nestling at the summit, are familiar to all. It is interesting to see the natives climb these tall trunks to gather the cocoanuts. Sometimes they ascend by stepping upon notches cut in the tree, and at others they put a loop of rope around both ankles, and seize another loop with both hands, their arms encircling the tree; then alternately grasping the trunk with feet and hands they ascend swiftly, and soon the thump of the nuts on the ground is heard. Picking up a green one, and cutting a hole, you may obtain a delicious drink of sweet water. The "flame tree" attracts especial notice in Batavia. Its lower leaves are of a dark green, and grow gradually lighter until at the top they are straw-colored, forming a pyramid of light. Outside the limits of the town one comes to the jungle, which may thus be described, partly in another's words: Imagine a forest of gigantic trees standing together almost like the stalks in a wheat field. They are smooth and branchless for four-fifths of their height, and then spreading out, interlacing, form a complete canopy. Then a growth of shorter trees springs up, winding their branches in and out among the trunks; then comes a growth of ferns, palms and plants, and finally, the whole mass is woven together by a network of creepers and parasites, from the slender rattan to the vine as thick as a man's body. In the elbows of the trees are many orchidaceous plants thriving on the air and sending down their shoots into the network below. This jungle is absolutely impenetrable by man, but the tiger roams through it, and lurks on its border for the unwary passer-by. Beyond the jungle may be seen the "Paddy-fields," the light green color of the growing rice, pleasing the eye in contrast with the copper-colored beeches and the purple mountains beyond the plain. The graceful bamboo waves in every direction, and gains respect as being the most useful growth of the East, though botanists term it only a grass. Its uses are innumerable; but two extremes may be mentioned. With it the natives build their houses and beat their children. The tropical fruits require a word of mention. There is the durian, the favorite of the natives, smelling, it is said, like a dead elephant, and tasting, to my palate, like a mixture of nuts and onions. The mangosteen, the choicest of fruits; the delicious mango, the pummalow, rambutan, ducoe, and banana,—all awaken pleasant memories as the favorites of the table.

The natives are short, homely and copper-colored, or, as they like to describe themselves, "the color of gold." The men dress in jacket and pants, with the sarong wrapped about the waist, or hung loosely from the shoulders. The women wear the sarong and cobaiya previously described, and their general appearance so much resembles that of men, that it is sometimes difficult for an impartial eye to distinguish the sexes. The teeth are filed and stained black from chewing the betel nut, as it is deemed unbecoming to have "white teeth like a dog." The houses are of bamboo, covered with a thatched roof, and mounted on posts, and the front-door steps consist of a ladder. The food is chiefly rice; but if report is true many revolting creatures are devoured, and worms and white ants are occasionally taken "as a relish." The buffalo is a member of society that deserves notice. A hump on his back serves to hold the yoke, and he is driven by a string tied to a ring of rattan passed through the nose. After work they delight to stand in the river or canal, and with only their heads above water, enjoy a cooling off. The Dutch Government requires every native, who walks after dark, to carry a torch. This is composed of stems from the cocoanut tree, and is fanned into flame as the holder hears an approaching footstep. They vie with the fireflies in making the night attractive.

Many customs are striking to the visitor. The woman walks in front of the man, so that she may regulate the pace as she desires, a refinement we might copy. After marriage the husband goes to the bride's home and resides. A man leaves his property to his nephews and nieces, not to his own children, for he casts a slur upon female virtue by saying: "A man may be sure his sister's children are of his own blood, but who knows that his own are?"

Descriptions of life so luxurious as that of the East Indies may seem attractive and fascinating to dwellers in the harsh, northern climes; but there are compensations. The enervated East Indian resident sighs for the cold winter, the bracing sleigh ride, the animating change of seasons, cultivated society, the intellectual stimulus of scientific investigation and literary criticism, and though myself partial to the East in many respects, I would say with England's poet:

"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay."

In six days the cargo destined for Batavia was landed, and on a Saturday the vessel cleared for Singapore. The wind was ahead and it was a difficult and dangerous task to work out among the many shoals that lie in the harbor. No pilot could be obtained, and every one advised me to wait till Sunday morning, and start with the fair breeze that was sure to blow in its early hours. I had scruples about sailing on Sunday if it could be avoided, yet feared censure if I detained the vessel, so I resolved to make a start. We got under way, shot between the shoals and cleared the shipping in safety. We passed our Sunday quietly sailing across the Java Sea with the fresh N.W. Monsoon.

We had the task before us of beating up the Carimata Passage against a head monsoon and an opposing current. It was a difficult undertaking, often requiring weeks of fruitless labor, and a month was allotted for the passage to Singapore by our friends in Batavia. On a previous voyage I had found a disadvantage in having the crew engaged in work, which sometimes prevented prompt attention to the manœuvering of the vessel, indeed I considered once that I lost a day or two by being prevented from tacking ship at the moment desired. Now I gave orders that no jobs on the rigging, that were unnecessary, should be undertaken, but that the crew should be kept standing by to work ship. This then received sole attention. The sails were always trimmed, the yards braced, and with every favoring variation of wind we tacked and retacked, fighting our way with incessant vigilance by day and night, slowly gaining ahead in spite of the opposing forces. We steered by rocks and shoals, shot through the narrow Panambanga Channel off the west coast of Borneo, and then, with a steady beat through the Southern China Sea, we gained the Singapore Strait, and anchored in the harbor of Singapore eleven days and a half from Batavia. This was an exciting passage. Sailing night and day in those narrow waters occasioned a great tension of nerves and limited the opportunities for sleep. One night in particular remains in vivid remembrance, when near dangerous shoals, out of sight of land, and uncertain where the current might have drifted us, the hours of anxiety seemed like years, and in the morning I looked in the glass with a half-serious apprehension lest my hair had turned grey, according to stories we read of such effects being produced by strong emotions. But there were pleasant days, when gliding slowly by the evergreen islands, through the smooth blue waters full of minute objects of interest, with distant mountain ranges to rest the eye upon, life seemed as full of romantic enjoyment as the imaginations of fabled story.