Malay sketches

Some idea of what Malays are in their own country may best be conveyed by taking the reader in imagination through some scenes of their daily life. The tiger, for instance, is seldom deliberately sought; if he kills a buffalo a spring gun is set to shoot him when he returns for his afternoon meal, but sometimes the tiger comes about a village, and it is necessary to get rid of so dangerous a visitor. Let me try and put the scene before you.

But how describe an Eastern dawn? Sight alone will give a true impression of its strange beauty. Out of darkness and stillness, the transition to light—intense brilliant light—and the sounds of awakened life, is rapid and complete, a short half hour or less turning night into tropical day. The first indication of dawn is a grey haze, then the clouds clothing the Western hills are shot with pale yellow and in a few minutes turn to gold, while Eastern ranges are still in darkness. The light spreads to the Western slopes, moves rapidly across the valleys, and suddenly the sun, a great ball of fire, appears above the Eastern hills. The fogs, which have risen from the rivers and marshes and covered the land, as with a pall, rise like smoke and disappear, and the whole face of nature is flooded with light, the valleys and slopes of the Eastern ranges being the last to feel the influence of the risen sun.

That grey half-light which precedes dawn is the signal for Malays to be stirring. The doors are opened, and, only half awake and shivering in the slight breeze made by the rising fog, they leave their houses and make for the nearest stream, there to bathe and fetch fresh water for the day’s use.

A woman dressed in the sârong, a plaid skirt of silk or cotton, and a jacket, walks rapidly to the river, carrying a long bamboo and some gourds, which, after her bath, she fills, and begins to walk home through the wealth of vegetation that clothes the whole face of the country. She follows a narrow path up from the bed of the clear stream, the jungle trees and orchards, the long rank grasses and tangled creepers almost hiding the path. Suddenly she stops spellbound, her knees give way under her, the vessels drop from her nerveless hands, and a speechless fear turns her blood to water; for there, in front of her, is a great black and yellow head with cruel yellow eyes, and a half-open mouth showing a red tongue and long white teeth. The shoulders and fore feet of the tiger stand clear of the thick foliage, and a hoarse low roar of surprise and anger comes from the open mouth. An exceeding great fear chains the terrified woman to the spot, and the tiger, thus faced, sulkily and with more hoarse grumbling, slowly draws back into the jungle and disappears. Then the instinct of self-preservation returns to the woman, and, with knees still weak and a cold hand on her heart, she stumbles, with what speed she may, back to the river, down the bank, and to the friendly shelter of the nearest dwelling.

It takes little time to tell the story, and the men of the house, armed with spears and krises and an old rusty gun, quickly spread the news throughout the kampong, as each cluster of huts and orchards is called. Every one arms himself with such weapons as he possesses, the boys of sixteen or seventeen climb into trees, from which they hope to see and be able to report the movements of the beast. The men, marshalled by the ka-tua kampong, the village chief, make their plans for surrounding the spot where the tiger was seen, and word is sent by messenger to the nearest police-station and European officer.

Whilst all this is taking place, the tiger, probably conscious that too many people are about, leaves his lair and stealthily creeps along a path which will lead him far from habitations. But, as he does so, he passes under a tree where sits one of the young watchmen, and the boy, seizing his opportunity, drops a heavy spear on the tiger as he passes, and gives him a serious wound. The beast, with a roar of pain, leaps into the jungle, carrying the spear with him; and, after what he considers a safe interval, the boy climbs down, gets back to the circle of watchers, and reports what has occurred.

For a long time, there is silence, no one caring to go in and seek a wounded tiger—but this monotony is broken rudely and suddenly by a shot on the outskirts of the wide surrounding ring of beaters where a young Malay has been keeping guard over a jungle track. Instantly the nearest rush to the spot only to find the boy badly wounded, after firing a shot that struck the tiger but did not prevent him reaching and pulling down the youth who fired it.

Hardly has a party carried the wounded man to shelter, than news arrives that, in trying to break the ring at another point, the tiger has sprung upon the point of a spear held in rest by a kneeling Malay, and, the spear, passing completely through the beast’s body, the tiger has come down on the man’s back and killed him. The old men say it is because, regardless of the wisdom of their ancestors, fools now face a tiger with spears unguarded, whereas in the olden time it was always the custom to tie a crosspiece of wood where blade joins shaft to prevent the tiger “running up the spear” and killing his opponent.

The game is getting serious now and the tiger has retired to growl and roar in a thick isolated copse of bushes and tangled undergrowth from which it seems impossible to draw him, and where it would be madness to seek him.

By this time, all the principal people in the neighbourhood have been collected. The copse is surrounded and two elephants are ridden at the cover, in the hope of driving the wounded tiger from his shelter. A vain hope, for, when the huge beasts get inconveniently near to him, the tiger, with a great roar, springs on to the shoulder of the nearest elephant and brings him to his knees. The terrified occupants of the howdah are thus deposited on the ground, but lose no time in picking themselves up and getting away. The elephant with a scream of terror whirls round, throwing off the tiger with a broken tooth, and, accompanied by his fellow, rushes from the place and will not be stopped till several miles have been covered and the river is between them and their enemy.

Severe maladies want desperate and heroic remedies. After a short consultation, a young Malay chief and several of his friends, armed only with spears, express their determination to seek the tiger where he lies. They immediately put the plan into execution. Shoulder to shoulder and with spears in rest, they advance to the copse. They have not long to wait in doubt for the wounded and enraged beast, with open mouth and eyes blazing fell purpose, charges straight at them. There is the shock of flesh against steel, an awful snarling and straining of muscles and the already badly wounded tiger is pinned to the ground and dies under the thrusts of many spears.

The general result of a tiger hunt, under such circumstances, is the death or serious injury of one or two of the pursuers.