Across the Equator: A Holiday Trip in Java

by Thomas H. Reid

The road bore away to the left, and we were soon slipping and jolting down a mountain path that sank into a crater-like ravine. It was like a descent into the infernal regions. Disaster seemed inevitable. A mistake by the pony or the slightest lurch would have precipitated us down some hundreds of feet; but the guide knew his way and so did the pony, as, sure-footed and cautious, it picked its way, first on one side of the road and then on the other, descending, descending, lower and lower, where the pale light failed to penetrate. The hill on the other side loomed so high that one could not believe there was a way out. Pit-pat, pit-pat went the pony with steady step, now on hard road now on yielding lava mud, across fragile bamboo bridges covered with bamboo lathing, down, down, down till at last we reach the ford. The seat was not an easy one for the unaccustomed rider, whose hands and feet were chilled almost beyond feeling by the unwonted cold. But it was arm-chair ease compared with the experience on the other side, as the pony pluckily pounded his way up the zigzag path for the summit of the hill. How either guide or pony could see a path will ever remain a puzzle. The over-hanging vegetation blotted out any recognisable landmarks; not even the ribbon of a road was visible to the eye. But the top was reached, and believing we were now on the level road for Penandjaan we tried to open up conversation with our guide.

It is not easy to carry on a connected conversation with a native of the Teng'ger when one's Malay vocabulary consists of about twenty words—and half of these numerals—and the native's knowledge of the English language, as one soon learned, consists entirely of "Yes" and "No." Yet, it is wonderful what one will attempt in the dark—the loneliness was so overpowering that one felt compelled to break the awesome silence.

ROAD TO TOSARI.

But the conversation soon flagged, and one was thrown back upon one's own thoughts. And as the road once again shaped for another crater-like ravine, plunged in inkier darkness and shrouded in solemn stillness, thoughts surged rapidly through one's mind. The first thing that had attracted our attention as we mounted our pony was the delicious smell of roses in the grounds of the Tosari Hotel. Since nothing could be learned from the syce, nothing could be seen, nothing could be heard except the occasional bark of a dog from a remote hut on the hillside or the tuneful tingle of a bell on the neck of the uneasy occupant of an unseen cow-shed, one tried to learn something by the sense of smell. At first, the morning air was snell and sharp; there was an earthy aroma which suggested nothing but decaying vegetable matter, but soon it was succeeded by a pungent penetrating odour which made one wonder whence its source. This pungency remained for the remainder of the morning's ride, almost to the top of the mountain pass, some 9000 feet above sea-level, and we ascertained on our return that it proceeded from the enormous cabbages grown by the mountaineers for the markets on the plains of East Java.

As we plunged deeper into the forest, it was impossible to make out more than a dull outline of a white jacket and the white shoulder of our piebald pony. Had we not known that the guide was there, we might have wondered how the wonderful jacket succeeded in floating through space. The pony had no head to our sight; the reins we held in our hand might have been dispensed with so far as they acted as a guide to the pony, who picked his own foothold and followed the white jacket. With painful persistence, he picked the edge of the precipitous declivity which was lost in the bottomless abyss.

Once only we lost our way. Turn after turn was negotiated safely, first down into the bottom of the ravine and through the mountain torrent, then up the hillside again, mysterious zigzag after zigzag, and one had become reconciled to the jolting motion of the pony, the steady tramp of his tiny hoofs, and his heavy breathing where the path was steepest, and gave one's-self up to reverie. How terrible, we thought, must have been the scene on the mountain slopes when the enormous craters of the Teng'ger range were belching forth their death-dealing streams of lava, their showers of ashes and stones and choking sulphurous fumes! How insignificant was man before the powerful agencies of Nature! How bright were the occasional stars one saw wherever there was a break in the trees that lined our path! How wonderful that each of those stars, those planets, might be peopled by beings puzzling over the disputed facts of the Creation, as we were; who might also be worrying over a future existence and the redemption of a sinful people; who might be endeavouring to solve labour problems and trade disputes and discussing whether free trade or preferential tariffs were best for a nation's welfare! Was there somebody up in one of those other planets on a pony's back, as we were, robbing one's-self of much-needed rest to reach a mountain top to see the sun rise?

These and other thoughts kept recurring to one when, suddenly, as if it had been shot, the pony planted his forefeet and refused to follow the guiding lead of the syce.

We had made a wrong turning and the syce all but slipped over a precipice. Had it not been for the pony's instinct, all three of us would have been plunged into Eternity, and some of the problems of the previous moment might have been solved.