CHAPTER XX

During my residence in Sarawak, I witnessed several epidemics of cholera, and to any who have nervous temperaments, its advent is alarming. On one of its visitations, some curious incidents occurred, on account of the superstitious practices of the Chinese residing in Kuching.

In order to allay panic as much as possible, the Rajah and I drove or rode every morning through the Bazaar, where cholera was rife and where the atmosphere was impregnated with the smell of incense and joss-sticks, set burning by the Chinese in order to mitigate the plague. Many devices were resorted to by these people, superstitious and otherwise. I remember one magnificent junk, built regardless of expense, the Chinese merchants and their humbler and poorer brethren giving their dollars and cents ungrudgingly to make this vessel glorious, as a sop to stay the ravages of the infuriated god. The junk was placed on wheels and dragged for three miles down a bad road to a place called Pinding, where it was launched on the waters of the river, to be borne by the tide—it was hoped—to the sea. The procession accompanying this vessel was extremely picturesque. Great banners, scarlet, green, and blue, on which were embroidered golden dragons, etc., were carried by Chinamen, and the clashing of cymbals made a most frightful noise.

Nor was this the only procession organized whilst the cholera was at its height. One morning, after I had been riding round the settlement, and had got off my pony at the door of our stables across the river, I saw in the distance a crowd of people coming along the road, shouting, clashing cymbals, and bearing something aloft. This “something,” on coming nearer, turned out to be a man seated on a chair looking like an arm-chair, but formed entirely of swords, their sharp edges forming the back, the seat, and the arms. The man was naked, with the exception of a loincloth and a head-handkerchief. His head rolled from side to side, his tongue protruded, and only the whites of his eyes could be seen. I thought he must be mad or in a fit, but one of our Syces told me the man was trying to allay the cholera. The mob following him was screeching, yelling, bounding about, beating gongs, and making a terrific noise. As it swept close to where I stood, I could see that no one in the crowd took notice of anybody or anything in their way. The procession went round the Chinese quarters of the town, and, meanwhile, the man in the chair was apparently immune from wounds. Our English doctor subsequently examined the chair, and having realized for himself the sharpness of its blades, he could not understand how the man could have escaped cutting himself to pieces.

This gruesome procession took place morning and evening during the first weeks of the epidemic, but instead of allaying the scourge it appeared to have the effect of increasing it. Moreover, the minds of the people were in danger of becoming unhinged by this daily spectacle, and the man who sat in the chair was beginning to exercise an undesirable influence over the people in the Bazaar. This senseless proceeding also became a serious obstacle to the more intelligent attempts to stamp out the disease. The Rajah therefore ordered the procession to be suppressed. The day after the order was given, the Rajah and I were driving in one of the roads near the town, when we met the forbidden procession with a still more numerous following of Chinamen than hitherto. The Rajah said nothing at the time, but when we reached the Palace he sent a force of police under an English officer to arrest the sword-chair man and imprison him. The following morning, before daylight, a band of Chinamen encircled the gaol, and somehow managed to liberate the fanatic. The Rajah, hearing of this matter, sent for the principal shopkeepers in the Bazaar, and informed them that if the man was not restored to the prison before six o’clock that evening he would turn the guns of the Aline on to their houses in the Bazaar, and batter them down over their heads. It was an exciting time. I remember seeing the Aline heave anchor and slowly take its position immediately in front of the Bazaar. At five o’clock that evening a deputation of Chinamen asked to see the Rajah. “The man is back in gaol,” they said; “he will not trouble the town any more.” The Rajah smiled genially at the news, shook hands with each member of the deputation, and I realized again, as in so many other cases, the Rajah’s wisdom in dealing with his people. The man who was the cause of the trouble was subsequently sent out of the country.

There are many mysteries regarding these curious Eastern people which Europeans are not able to fathom. Another practice of the Chinese, when in any straits or when about to embark on some new commercial enterprise, is to lay down burning charcoal for the space of several yards, over which two or three initiated individuals are paid to walk barefooted. If they come through the ordeal unscathed, which I am given to understand is nearly always the result, the enterprise is considered a favourable one. This practice was once resorted to in Kuching, when a company of Chinese merchants, anxious to open up pepper and gambier gardens in Sarawak, set certain Chinamen to gambol up and down the fiery path unscathed. The pepper and gambier gardens were established, and proved a great success. One can only wonder how it is that these people’s bare skins appear to be impervious to fire and to sharp instruments.

The outbreak of cholera did not confine itself entirely to the Chinese quarter. It began picking out victims here and there, and the Kampong of my friends, Datu Isa and her relations, also suffered severely. Every morning, notwithstanding, my Malay friends found their way to the Astana, and during one of these visits, whilst we were talking quite happily and trying to keep our minds free from the all-absorbing topic of the sickness that was laying so many low and bringing mourning to so many houses in Kuching, I saw the Datu Tumanggong’s wife, a buxom lady of forty years, fat and jolly in appearance, suddenly turn the ashy-green colour that reveals sickness amongst these people. She rubbed her chest round and round, and then exclaimed: “Wallahi, I feel very ill.” Good heavens! I thought, she is seized with cholera. Datu Isa said to me, “Wallahi, perhaps the sickness!” I had recourse to heroic methods. I sent for a bottle of brandy, some hot water, and chlorodyne. I gave the poor lady a strong dose of the spirit (which certainly, being a Muhammadan, she had never tasted before), mixed with about twenty drops of chlorodyne. The mixture filled half a tumbler, and I told her to drink it and she would feel all right. She was trembling and frightened, but did not demur for one instant, and swallowed the draught, making an extraordinary gulp in her throat. She gave me back the tumbler, and immediately sank back on the floor and lay inanimate on the rugs in my room. For one moment I thought I had killed her, and looked at Datu Isa and my other friends to see how they would take it. “You have cured her, Rajah Ranee,” they said. “We will go home and leave her to finish her sleep.” I pretended to feel no anxiety, although I must say I did not feel very comfortable.

I sent for Ima, and we two stayed in the room to await developments. The lady lay like a log, and her pulse beat very fast. After some time, I saw her colour becoming restored, and in the space of two hours she sat up and appeared to be perfectly well again. “Wallah, Rajah Ranee,” she said. “You do understand. You white people have secrets that no one else can know.” Personally, I was not so sure, but I was delighted when I realized she was none the worse, and saw her escorted down the path to her boat by Ima and the boat-boys. Her attack and my remedy did not appear to do her any harm, for, from that day, she always came to me for help in any ailment.

The Rajah was called away from Kuching during the epidemic, and I was alone with the children at the Astana. One morning, a chief, whom I knew very well, paid me a friendly call. We sat and talked on the verandah, and I thought he had never been so talkative or seemed so full of life as on that particular morning. About eleven o’clock we shook hands, and he went back to his house. That same day, as I was getting up after my afternoon nap, Talip came to my room and asked whether Datu Mohammed’s wife could have some flowers from our garden. “Certainly,” I said; “tell them to pick what flowers they like. But I did not know Datu Mohammed was having a feast to-day.” “He is not,” Talip replied; “he died of cholera at three o’clock.” This was said with a smile, for Malays, whenever they have sorrowful or tragic news to impart, always smile, in order, I suppose, to mask their feelings. The death of a favourite cat would elicit sighs and groans, but in any sorrow they hide their true feelings, even from their nearest relations.

Some of the Malays had curious methods in trying to combat the disease. There was an old lady living in Kampong Grisek, called Daiang Kho, who was beloved by the Malays of Kuching on account of her blameless life, her rigorous attention to religious duties, and above all, because she had achieved the great pilgrimage to Mecca. Daiang Kho had brought with her from Mecca a Muhammadan rosary, and this was made great use of in cases of illness in Kuching. The rosary was placed in a tumbler of cold water over night, and the liquid poured into various bottles the next morning, to be used as medicine. Daiang Kho informed me that the cures performed by the rosary were wonderful, but, as we all know, in some cases mind triumphs over the body, and I was not therefore surprised at hearing that this innocuous drink had sometimes been successful in curing sufferers when attacked by the first symptoms of disease.