A Visit to Java / With an Account of the Founding of Singapore

by W. Basil Worsfold

But the largest of the native towns and those in the neighbourhood of which the most important of the Hindu remains are to be found, such as Soerabaia, Samarang, Solo, Djokja, and Magalang, are situated in the centre and east of the island. As I have before explained, the western and eastern railways are not yet connected, and therefore the railway alone will no longer be sufficient to convey the traveller to his basis of operations. In planning his journey to these towns he will have to weigh the relative advantages of three routes, and to consider the opportunities offered by three means of locomotion—railway, steamboat, and post-carriage.

In another place[4] I have given in detail, with full information as to distances and expenses, the three possible routes to the temples from Batavia, and therefore I need speak here only in general terms.

The principal coast towns can be reached by the steamships of the Netherlands India Company (or its successor), which average about 1000 tons, and are said to be fairly comfortable. As the fares are comparatively high, most people will prefer to avoid the discomforts incidental to a steamboat, augmented by the conditions of the place—natives and strange food. In travelling by road very considerable fatigue must be undergone, and of course the expense is greater than that incurred in travelling by rail or steamboat. Also, as in such travelling smaller towns and less-known districts are traversed, it is especially desirable to have a "boy," or native servant (who can talk English), to communicate with the natives in the Javanese and Sundanese dialects, since in the out-of-the-way districts Malay is not understood. The railways are much the same as elsewhere, except that the rate of travelling is slower and the cost of travelling rather more than usual. As part of the railways are held by private companies, there is a slight variation in both of these particulars on different lines. The construction of railways in Java began in 1875. Ten years later there were 261 miles of private, and 672 miles of Government, railways open for traffic. Since then this extent has been increased, but in 1891 the railway system was still incomplete, by reason of the gap between Garoet and Tjilatjap.

There is another important consideration which will affect the choice of routes and of means of conveyance, and that is the question of language. The natives in the big towns and all servants in hotels and private houses speak Malay, which is the official language for communication between them and the Europeans. There is always supposed to be one man in each native village (or campong) who can speak this language. Malay handbooks are published in Singapore, and although such books cannot be bought, as far as I know, in Batavia, they can often be borrowed; or, failing this, a few necessary phrases can be written down. Such a phrase, for example, as this: Apa nama ini? ("What is the name of this?") will serve to supply the place of many vocabularies. The language, which from its soft sounding has been called "the Italian of the Tropics," is very simple, and seems to consist almost exclusively of nouns (i.e. substantives, adjectives, and pronouns). The verb "to be" and prepositions are often omitted, e.g. Pighi bawa ini Tuan X— = "Go [and] take this [to] Mr. X——" and most substantives can be formed into verbs. Combinations of substantives are used; e.g. Kreta api ("fire-carriages") = "railway." Again, many European words are adopted bodily. In sadoe a Frenchman will easily recognize a corruption of dos-à-dos; ayer brandy (or ayer whisky), literally "water-brandy," will present no difficulties to the average Englishman. "Butter" is mentega, a Portuguese word. The vowels have the same value as in the Continental languages.[5]

It is obvious that the few words and phrases necessary for everyday life can be easily acquired in such a language, and most people will find the process rather amusing than otherwise. If, however, it is desired to escape this trouble, or to gain a more complete knowledge of the ideas of the natives, a "boy" who speaks English can be secured at Batavia, who will act as valet and interpreter.[6] In communicating with the Dutch residents and the European shop-people in the towns, there is no difficulty experienced, since nearly every one can speak English; if not, recourse can be had to French or German.

In addition to obtaining the formal permission to travel already mentioned, in order to see native ceremonies and enjoy big-game shooting, it is necessary to get recommendations to the residents of the native regencies, and in any case it is desirable to have as many private introductions as possible.

But, however well supplied with such recommendations they may be, all travellers are sure to be more or less dependent on hotels. In Java, as in other tropical countries, the hotels are large one or two storied buildings, with rows of rooms opening upon broad verandahs screened with bamboo blinds, and arranged round courtyards planted with trees. The general living-room and the dining-room have one or more sides open to the air, and are arranged with a view to coolness. The style of cooking in Dutch India is different from that in British India, and has one special peculiarity the—rice table, which will be described hereafter; and of course there are minor differences, depending upon the conditions of the place and society. To persons who are prepared to enjoy life (and this is the spirit in which one should travel), the little eccentricities and deficiencies will be a source of amusement, and give additional zest to the travelling experience. But no invalid or dyspeptic should enter the portals of a Javan hotel. As for accommodation, suites of rooms can be engaged, but the ordinary traveller has a large bedroom with the proportion of the verandah belonging to it; this latter is fitted with a bamboo screen, table and chairs, and a hanging lamp, and is for all intents and purposes a sitting-room. The bedroom also is furnished with a view of securing coolness; the floor is covered with matting, and the furniture is not very luxurious; its chief feature is a tremendous bedstead. Now, a Javan bedstead is quite sui generis, and requires a ground plan. The ordinary size is six feet square. It is completely covered with mosquito curtains, and has no clothes, the broad expanse being broken by two pillows for the head and a long bolster (called a Dutch wife) which lies at right angles to the pillows. This latter is one of the numerous contrivances for securing coolness. The ordinary routine of hotel life is much the same as elsewhere in the island. At half-past six a coolie comes to the door and awakes you, bringing tea or coffee when you want it. Some time subsequently you proceed in pyjamas, or (if a lady) in a kabaia (or loose jacket) and sarong (native dress) to the bath-room, which is an important feature in every Eastern hotel. Generally speaking, it is not so very much removed from what Mr. Ruskin would desire. It is a large room with bare walls and a marble floor, on which is placed a cistern or jar of water, from which water is taken with a hand-bucket and poured over the bather, who stands upon a wooden framework. The water runs away from the edges of the room, but I never felt quite sure that it didn't come back again afterwards. The walls are sometimes decorated with mirrors, and there is often an arrangement for a shower-bath. But very generally the bather has nothing but bare walls and a huge earthen jar such as Aladdin and the forty thieves would use at Drury Lane. At Singapore this same arrangement obtains, and there it is related that a young midshipman, going to the bath-room and being confronted by a bare interior with nothing but the big jar in the middle of it, very naturally concluded that this was the bath. He quickly stripped and got into it; but once in he found it impossible to get out again. After vain endeavours, he rolled the big jar over bodily, and, smashing it on the floor, triumphantly emerged from the fragments. His friends afterwards pointed out to him that there was a hand-bucket there, and enlightened him as to its uses.

Breakfast consists of light breads, eggs, cold meat in thin strips, and fruit, and is served about nine. After breakfast any serious business should be accomplished before the great heat of the day sets in. At 12.30 rice-table (or tiffin) commences. This is a serious meal, and must carry you on till eight o'clock in the evening. The first dish, or rather series of dishes, is that from which the meal takes its name—rice-table. In partaking of this the visitor first places some boiled rice upon a soup plate, and then on the top of it as many portions of some eight or ten dishes which are immediately brought as he cares to take—omelette, curry, chicken, fish, macaroni, spice-pudding, etc.; and, lastly, he selects some strange delicacies from an octagonal dish with several kinds of prepared vegetables, pickled fish, etc., in its nine compartments. After this comes a salad, some solid meat (such as beefsteak), sweets, and fruit. Finger-glasses are always provided, and one notices that the salt is always moist, and also that it is not customary to provide spoons for that article. At four, or thereabouts, tea is brought to your room. This serves to rouse you from your siesta, and you then proceed (being by this time again in pyjamas) to take your second bath. After that, European garments are worn, and it is cool enough either for driving or walking. The dinner, which is served at eight, is much like an ordinary à la Russe dinner, except that there are rather more small vegetable dishes than is customary elsewhere.

In the Hôtel der Nederlanden at Batavia (and there are plenty of others like it) there is something of the life which is described as belonging to the baths in ancient Roman watering-places. Imagine a long courtyard, with deep verandahs, trees only screening you from the opposite side; around you men in pyjamas, with their feet resting on the arms of their easy-chairs, smoking or taking various iced drinks from long glasses; ladies dressed in the beautiful native garment (the sarong) and the lace-trimmed white jacket (the kabaia), promenading with children. Opposite you is a little Dutch maiden, whose golden hair and white skin contrasts with the dark complexion of her baboe, or nurse. She is dressed in a flowing white robe, and is putting on her stockings in the most negligé attitude, for it is now time to go out—4 p.m.—while her mother stands by and scolds her. Everywhere coolies are squatting on the ground in their bright garments, or standing busied with the ordinary duties of service, and baboes are playing with their little charges. You are yourself dressed in such a way that you would probably feel uncomfortable were you discovered so dressed in your dressing-room at home; but here you feel perfectly at ease—such is the magical effect of climate—whether promenading in your loose garments or reclining in your easy-chair and gazing coolly upon the occupants of the carriages which cross the courtyard. Or perhaps you are engaged in a chaffing-match with one of the native vendors—Chinese, Malay, or Javanese—who are ever ready to persuade you to buy the commonest trifles at the most fancy prices.

The native servants are very quick and willing to do the visitor's commands; indeed, disasters generally arise from an excess of diligence on their part. For instance, in a damp climate it is an excellent general rule for your "boy" to keep your clothes aired by laying them in the sun two or three times a week; but it is a trifle embarrassing to a modest and impecunious person to see the whole of his wardrobe exhibited urbi et orbi in front of his room on the verandah. The pyjamas, suspended in airy fashion, floating in the wind; the coats and trousers hung up on strips of wood so that their full extent is exposed to the sun and air; the pair of pumps, on which only last night he had congratulated himself as looking quite smart by gaslight, now standing confessed in all the unseemliness of bulging sides and torn lining; even the domestic slippers too. Yet such was the scene which met my gaze as I returned from breakfast at nine o'clock in the courtyard of the Hotel Belle Vue at Buitenzorg. Trop de zèle, I thought.