When we arrived at Batavia, we were driven in a cab, with a native coachman on the box, to the Hôtel de Java. I had got hold of some Japanese words and kept repeating to him: “Plan, plan,” which means “go slowly.” The inhabitants were probably taking their “siesta,” during the sweltering heat of midday: troops, natives, animals, were all asleep. Batavia seemed deserted, all the houses had dropped their blinds. We only saw lizards in the streets, warming themselves in the sun.
The Hôtel de Java is a square, one storied building with an open courtyard in the middle and a veranda supported by pillars on the whole length of the front. The rooms are barely furnished, the floors covered with mats; there are wire nettings in the doors and windows to keep away the midges, who weren’t even honourable enough to wait until sunset before attacking you. There are no bells in the hotel and I grew hoarse calling the Malay “boy” for some information I wanted. With many gesticulations he began to gabble in an unknown tongue to me, and I was obliged to write down my requests on a bit of paper which the “boy” carried to the office. One may well imagine how promptly my demands were satisfied.
The veranda was full of creole ladies seeking relief from the sunshine outside and whiling away the dreary midday hours reclining in hammocks and cane-lounges, clad in loose transparent night-jackets, stockingless, with their hair in curling-pins, their discarded shoes lying on the floor. The climate makes them indolent. They enjoyed their “siesta” smoking cigarettes and drinking iced lemonade.
We had tiffin in the dining-room. The Dutch cooking does not please me. Tiffin always begins with the traditional “reistafel,” a dish of chipped meat and rice, without any seasoning to it. The meat is lean and unsavoury, and the dairy products are very bad. The cattle in Java are very small, looking more like goats than cows. The natives are not exacting in this country, cocoa-nuts serve them both as food and drink; they eat the pulp and drink the milk.
Towards evening, the town became animated; the streets were full of bustle. Europeans go out in the streets bareheaded, and seem to have forgotten their hats.
We drove in a tram through the three towns. Batavia is a city of many canals; it reminded me of Rotterdam. We saw lots of natives bathing in the Grand Canal. When passing the Portuguese Gate, we were shown a big cannon which is the object of a queer sort of pilgrimage for barren Malay women, who bring offering to the cannon in order not to remain childless in their wedded life.
October 17th.—I passed a wretched night, tossing and turning in my bed, half smothered with mosquito-curtains, which effectually keep off any little breath of air there is. In that awful heat sleep was out of the question. As soon as I lay down I felt myself devoured by quantities of famished creatures who greedily awaited their prey, and with which I fought a desperate battle, persevering in the chase with a fine sporting spirit until morning.
Batavia does not enchant me. The heat is tremendous. We have determined to-day to go and seek freshness on the wooded slopes of Buitenzorg, the summer resort of the Dutch Resident, situated a few hours out of Batavia. The railway-line from Batavia to Buitenzorg is one of the most picturesque in the world. Marvellous landscapes spread out before our admiring eyes. What vegetation! There are thick mighty palms, bananas and dense tropical jungle. The road is very steep and we ascended slowly along wide precipices, stopping only twice at neat little railway-stations. The higher we mounted the fresher the air became. We rolled now between sugar-cane, vanilla and cotton plantations, with trees covered with white flakes, and passed picturesque villas with tall cocoa-nut palms casting cool shadows on the low flat roofs. The tropical sun made the train like a furnace. After three hours’ drive we saw a settlement of low dwellings, at the foot of blue hills, half hidden in an eucalyptus forest and gigantic mimosas. It was Buitenzorg!
When we left the train, an aide-de-camp of the Resident came up to my husband and offered his carriage to drive us to the Hôtel du Chemin de Fer. The hotel is kept by a Frenchman. We entered a courtyard surrounded by several low buildings. Our apartment disappointed me by the doubtful cleanliness of its beds denuded of coverlets and sheets. Lizards were running about the ceiling and the walls. A barefooted “boy” arrayed in a white loose jacket, armed with a feather-brush and a duster, came to tidy our bedroom. He first swept the petroleum lamp (there are no candles to be had in this corner of the globe) and then began to dust our beds with the same brush. It won’t be an easy task to civilise him!
Our windows looked out into the garden. Green coffee-trees covered with white flowers and ripe fruit, peeped into our room, and a sweet musky aromatic odour pervaded the air.