I had a talk with the kapala and a large number of people who soon gathered in front of the pasang-grahan. The Dayaks who originally lived here have disappeared or amalgamated with the Malay intruders, who in this case are largely composed of less desirable elements. It soon became evident that no information could be gained from these people in regard to the traditions of the place. One man said that if I would wait four or five days (in which to be exploited by the wily Malay) he would undertake to bring me three old men of the place, whereupon the kapala, who was more obliging than the rest, went to fetch one of these, who pretended to have no knowledge in such matters.

In order to get relief from the increasing throng of men and boys, I went for a walk, in which I was joined by the kapala and the mantri, a small native police authority whom the controleur had sent with me to be of assistance in making arrangements with the Malays. An old-looking wooden mosque, twenty years old according to reports, stands at the turn of the road. Near by is a cemetery covered with a large growth of ferns and grass, which hides the ugly small monuments of the graves. The houses lie along a single street in the shade of cocoanut-palms and other trees. On account of the white sand that forms the ground everything looks clean, and the green foliage of handsome trees was superb. Everywhere silence reigned, for the women, being Mohammedans, remain as much as possible inside the houses, and no voice of playing or crying child was heard.

On returning from our walk, near sunset, I asked the kapala how much I had to pay for the bringing ashore of my baggage. "Fifteen rupia" (florins) was the answer. As things go in Borneo this was an incredibly excessive charge, and as my intention was to go by boat to the Dayak kampong on the lake, and from there march overland to the small river, Kuala Sampit, I demanded to know how much then I would have to pay for twenty men that I needed for the journey. "Five rupia a day for each," he said. Dayaks, who are far more efficient and reliable, are satisfied with one rupia a day. Those near by protested that it was not too much, because in gathering rubber they made even more a day. At that rate it would have cost me a hundred florins a day, besides their food, with the prospects of having strikes for higher pay all the way, according to the Malay custom.

Luckily the Selatan had delayed its departure until next morning, so I was not yet at the mercy of the greedy natives. The kapala seemed to have as little influence with the people as the mantri, who plainly was afraid of them. I got a prahu and went out to the captain, who arranged to take us back next day, away from these inhospitable shores. At dusk he accompanied me ashore, and in a refreshingly courageous manner read them the text, telling them that I, who came recommended from the Governor-General, was entitled to consideration; that it was a disgrace to the Malay name to behave as they had done, etc. While I was eating my evening meal two long rows of men were sitting outside on the ground, watching the performance with close attention.

Next morning the Selatan's boat came to assist in bringing us on board again. After the captain's severe arraignment last night the mantri seemed to have spurred up his courage. He said that two rupia would be sufficient to pay for our luggage. I gave one ringit (f. 2.50), which the captain said was ample. The kapala, who had exerted himself to get our things on board again, thanked me for the visit and we steamed away, arriving safely in Sampit a couple of days later.



CHAPTER XII

THE WAR CHANGES MY PLANS—CHOLERA—UP THE GREAT BARITO RIVER—PURUK TJAHU— DECIDE TO STAY AMONG THE MURUNGS—A DANCING FEAST

In the beginning of July I returned to Bandjermasin, where I packed my collections and despatched them to Europe. I decided to send what goods I had, with my two assistants, to Macassar on Celebes, where the Dayaks who were to take part in the New Guinea undertaking would also be transported. It might be possible for Chonggat to do some collecting in the neighbourhood of the town. At all events, it would be more convenient to have them wait for me there than to take them to Java. Having secured passes from the resident for the two men, and given them recommendations to the Norwegian consul in Macassar, I departed for Batavia to take the last steps in fitting out my expedition to New Guinea.

At this stage of my proceedings the war broke out. On August 6 I had an audience of the Governor-General, who informed me that he was then unable to let me have either soldiers or ship for my explorations. The day before he had recalled his own great expedition on the Mamberamo in Northern New Guinea, and advised me to wait for a more favourable opportunity, promising that he would later give me all assistance. The commanding general was equally agreeable. As I had never been in British India I decided to go there while awaiting developments regarding the war, so the following Saturday found me on my way to Singapore. Here I first arranged for the safe return of my two assistants, who had been left in Macassar, where cholera had broken out. Usually natives, who range under the category of labourers, go as deck-passengers on steamers in the East. Therefore, after I had bought second-class tickets for them, and the Dutch Packet Boat Company had courteously offered to have a man meet them on arrival, I felt satisfied that they would have no trouble in landing. I then continued my journey over Penang to Madras.

In spite of the continuation of the war and the great fascination of India, in April, the following year, 1915, I decided to return to the Dutch Indies and undertake an expedition to Central Borneo, parts of which are unexplored and unknown to the outside world. Briefly, my plans were to start from Bandjermasin in the south, ascend the Barito River, and, branching hence into its northern tributary, the Busang, to cross the watershed to the Mahakam or Kutei River. Following the latter to its mouth I should reach the east coast near Samarinda. This journey, I found, would take me through a country where were some tribes never before studied.

At Colombo I took the Dutch steamer Grotius, which gave me a very pleasant week. The Dutch are a kindly nation. There were fifteen children on first-class playing on deck, and I never heard them cry nor saw them fighting. After more than nine months' absence I again found myself in Batavia, and from there I went to Buitenzorg to ask an audience of the Governor-General. He offered to give me all assistance in furthering my project, and I had the pleasure of being invited to dine at the palace. A large open carriage, with quaint, old-fashioned lanterns, called for me. The coachman and footman were liveried Javanese. It was a beautiful, cool, starlit evening in the middle of June when we drove up the imposing avenue of banyan-trees which leads to the main entrance. The interior of the palace is cool and dignified in appearance, and the Javanese waiters in long, gold-embroidered liveries, whose nude feet passed silently over the marble floor, were in complete accord with the setting.

Several weeks had to be spent in preparation for the trip. It was decided that in Borneo I should be furnished with a small escort. Further, Mr. J. Demmini, photographer in the well-known Topografische Dienst in Batavia, was attached to the expedition, as well as Mr. H.P. Loing, a native surveyor of the same institution. After much searching I finally found a man, Rajimin, a native of Batavia, who seemed competent to collect birds and animals. My kinematograph was out of order, but fortunately I succeeded in replacing it with a secondhand Path. The first week in August we departed from Tandjong Priok by steamer, bound for Bandjermasin, Borneo.

On our arrival in Sourabaia we learned that cholera was prevalent in Bandjermasin, and our steamer carried serum for the doctors of the garrison there. Early in the morning we steamed up the river, viewing the usual scene of Malays bathing and children running out of the houses to see the steamer pass. The most urgent matter demanding attention was to have Rajimin, the taxidermist, vaccinated, as well as the two native boys I had brought from Batavia. There were nine deaths a day, but while it is unpleasant to be at a place where such an epidemic is raging, there is reassurance in the knowledge that the bacillus must enter through the mouth, and that therefore, with proper precautions, it is unnecessary for anybody to have cholera.

A Dutch doctor in Sourabaia told me that he had been practising two years on the Barito River in Borneo, and had gone through a severe epidemic of cholera, but neither he nor his wife had been affected, although their native boy, while waiting at table, fell to the floor and in two hours expired. His wife disinfected plates, forks, spoons, and even the fruit, in a weak solution of permanganate of potassium. Of course there must be no alcoholic excesses. In the tropics it is also essential, for several reasons, always to boil the drinking water.

The Dutch use an effective cholera essence, and if the remedy is applied immediately the chances for recovery from the attack are favourable. The lieutenant who accompanied me through Central Borneo told me that he saved the life of his wife by immediately initiating treatment internally as well as by bathing, without waiting for the doctor's arrival, for the attack occurred in the middle of the night. After three or four hours she was out of danger. One evening at the Bandjermasin hotel I was startled by seeing our three Javanese men taking a sudden and determined departure, carrying all their belongings. One of the hotel boys who occupied the room next to them had shown the well-known symptoms of cholera, whereupon they immediately decamped. I at once informed the manager, who gave the boy a dose of cholera essence, and an hour later he was better. The next morning he was still improving, and on the following day I saw him waiting at table.

The resident, Mr. L.F.J. Rijckmans, was kind enough to order the government's good river steamer Otto to take us up the Barito River to Puruk Tjahu, a distant township, where boats and men might be secured and where the garrison would supply me with a small escort. Toward the end of August we departed. On account of the shallow water the Otto has a flat bottom and is propelled by a large wheel at the stern. We had 5,000 kilograms of provisions on board, chiefly rice and dried fish, all stored in tin cans carefully closed with solder. There were also numerous packages containing various necessary articles, the assorting of which would be more conveniently done in Puruk Tjahu. We also brought furniture for a new pasang-grahan in Muara Tewe, but the steamer could have taken much more.

The evening of our departure was delightful, and a full moon shed its light over the utan and the river. I occupied a large round room on the upper deck, and felt both comfortable and happy at being "on the move" again. Anchoring at night, there are about five days' travel on the majestic river, passing now and then peaceful-looking kampongs where people live in touch with nature. A feeling of peace and contentment possessed me. "I do not think I shall miss even the newspapers," I find written in my diary.

On approaching Muara Tewe we saw low mountains for the first time, and here the river becomes narrower and deeper, though even at the last-named place it is 350 metres wide. The water assumed a deeper reddish colour and was speckled with foam, indicating a certain amount of flood caused by rains higher up the river. We passed a family of wild pigs grubbing up the muddy beach in search of roots. There was a large dark one and a huge yellowish-white one, besides four young pigs dark in colour. At Muara Tewe, where we had to make a stay of two days, the doctor of the garrison said that in the case of the common species of wild pigs the full-grown ones are always light in hue. Doctor Tjon Akieh, who came here from Surinam, had some amusing monkeys, a native bear, tamer than most cats, and a very quiet deer. In a steam-launch he had gone four days up the Ajo River, a tributary to the Barito from the east, which passes between limestone cliffs. In that locality the Dayaks are rarely visited by Malays and therefore have retained their excellent tribal characteristics. The men are inclined to obesity.

After leaving Muara Tewe we passed many small kampongs which were less attractive than those at the lower part of the river. The farther one proceeds the more inhabited are the banks. In this vicinity, eleven years previously, a violent Malay revolution which had lasted two years was finally suppressed. As usual, the revolt was headed by a pretender to the sultanate. The steamer in which we travelled was a reminder of those days, for it had two gun-mountings on its deck and my cabin, round in shape, was lightly armoured.

Puruk Tjahu (puruk = small hill; tjahu = running out into the water) lies at a bend of the river in a somewhat hilly and quite attractive country, which is blessed with an agreeable climate and an apparent absence of mosquitoes. The captain in charge of the garrison told me that he, accompanied by the native kapala of the district, was going on a two months' journey northward, and at his invitation I decided to follow him as far as Sungei Paroi. I hoped that on my return a supply of films and plates, ordered from London and already overdue, might have arrived. It was, however, a very difficult proposition to have everything ready in three days, because it was necessary first to take out of my baggage what was needed for the journey. It meant the opening of 171 boxes and packages. Convicts were assigned to assist in opening and closing these, which afterward were taken to a storehouse, but as I had no mandur I alone had to do the fatiguing work of going through the contents. The doctor of the garrison kindly furnished me with knives and pincers for the taxidermist, as the collector's outfit was missing from the boxes that had been returned from Macassar.

The Otto needed only one and a half hours to run down stream to the Muara Laong, a Malay kampong at the mouth of the river Laong, which we intended to ascend by boats to the kampong Batu Boa, where the overland journey was to begin. As soon as we arrived in the afternoon the kapala was sent for to help in procuring a sufficient number of prahus for the next day. I brought twenty-nine coolies from Puruk Tjahu to serve as paddlers. The kapala was unable to find enough prahus, but it had grown dark, so we waited, hoping for better luck next day.

In the morning search was continued, but no great results were obtained. The Malays evidently disliked to rent their boats, which were coming in but slowly. In the meantime our luggage was being unloaded to the landing-float. Mr. Demmini was able to secure some large prahus, among them a specially good one belonging to a Chinaman, and the goods were placed in them. At 11 A.M. all the baggage had been unloaded from the steamer, and having worked like a dog for the last few days I felt that I had earned twenty minutes for my usual bath, applying tepid water from a tin can, with rough mittens. According to the opinion of those best able to judge, bathing-water in the tropics should be of the same temperature as the body, or slightly lower. There are three important items in my personal outfit: A kettle in which drinking water is boiled, another (of a different colour) in which water for bathing is heated, and a five-gallon tin can which serves as a bathtub.

Much refreshed from my bath, I felt ready for further action. In the morning I had requested the captain not to wait for me, and he had already left. At 12 o'clock the Otto departed, and a few minutes later our flotilla was under way. We stayed over night at Biha, a small but clean Dayak kampong. The Murungs, as seen here for the first time, are rather shy, dark-complexioned, somewhat short and strongly set people. They are not ugly, though their mouths always seem ungainly. The next day we arrived at a Malay kampong, Muara Topu, which is less attractive on account of its lack of cleanliness and its pretense of being civilised.

I soon realised that it would not be possible to overtake the captain, still less to proceed overland, as our men from Puruk Tjahu were rather a poor lot. They were Malays with the exception of three Dayaks, and one of these, an Ot-Danum, had accepted Islam and therefore had imbibed many Malay ideas. The majority of them were personally amiable, but physically, with few exceptions, they were even below the Malay average, having weak, ill-balanced bodies. I saw one man, when pushing his prahu, fall into the water twice, and the men in my prahu often nearly upset it. In view of these conditions I decided to stop over at the large kampong Tumbang Marowei. Something might be gained by a stay among the Murungs, and meantime the overdue photographic supplies, much needed for our inland expedition, would possibly arrive.

The kampong created a pleasant impression, the space in front toward the river, which the Dayaks are compelled to clear and keep clean, being unusually extensive—almost approaching a boulevard on the river bank. Along this are four communal houses arranged lengthwise, in two pairs, and elevated on upright posts. Between the groups and farther back is a smaller house. There are areca-palms and other trees planted in front, and at the back the vast jungle begins immediately. Most of the people were absent, burning trees and bushes that had been cut down to make new fields for rice-planting, the so-called ladangs, but about sunset they returned, and all were quite friendly in their manners.

We asked the kapala if he could have the people dance in order that we might photograph them, but he said that would not be possible unless a feast were made, a necessary part of which would be the sacrifice of a babi (pig), whereupon an agreement was easily reached that I should pay for the babi six florins, and that the Murungs should perform. The feast was held one day later and was more interesting than I had expected. It took place in front of the house where the kapala resided, and here a sacred pillar stood, by the Katingans and others called kapatong, erected on the occasion of a death.

A striking feature in Dayak kampongs, especially in remote regions, is the presence of such upright pillars, carved more or less completely into human form and standing before the houses. These are invariably for the benefit of a dead person whom they guard, and if the deceased was well provided with earthly goods two or three are furnished. They are made of ironwood and often higher than a man, but usually only the upper part is actually worked into shape, though many instances are observed of smaller statues the entire surface of which is crudely carved. When a death occurs many duties are incumbent on the surviving relatives, one of the first being to make the kapatong, the soul of which waits on and guards the soul of the departed one.

A good-sized domestic pig had been brought in dependent from a long pole about which its feet had been tied, and it was deposited at the base of the kapatong. One man held an upright stick between the legs of the animal, while another opened the artery of the neck with one thrust of his knife. The pig was next lifted up by the carrying-pole so that the blood might run into a vessel, which was handed to a man who climbed the kapatong and smeared blood on the image of a human being at the top. This indicated that the feast was for the benefit of the soul of that ironwood statue, because it is an invariable custom for the blood of a sacrificed animal to be smeared on the principals of any feast or ceremony, and this is also done when attempting to cure or ward off illness. The same custom obtains in the case of those about to be married; or, if children are to be named, if a move is made to a new home, blood is first daubed on the house.

The pig was then carried a little farther away, where the space was more favourable for dancing, which soon began to our edification. It was the same type of dance that is universal among the Dayaks wherever I have been, although other varieties are seen in Borneo. This principal one consists of moving in a circle around the sacrificial offering, which is lying at the foot of an upright rod to the top of which a piece of cloth is tied, or at the base of a sacred jar (blanga). The participants join hands, and the movement is slow because an essential feature consists in bending the knees—heels together—down and up again, slowly and in time; then, moving one step to the left and bringing right heel to left, the kneeling is repeated, and so on. The men danced for a long time, at first by themselves, then the women by themselves, but most of the time the circle was made up of alternate men and women. The latter, most of them stocky and somewhat coarse-looking, danced with surprising excellence. Though children of nature may be without good looks, there is decided attraction in their grace and easy movements.

It did not look difficult, so I joined in the dancing, as I have done many times among other races. Greatly to the amusement of the natives I demonstrated that I had caught the right steps, and then seated myself in a chair which was the pride of the kapala and which had been brought out for my benefit. While watching the performance I was surprised to see two of the women, about the only ones who possessed any charm of appearance, coming toward me, singing as they advanced. Each took me by a hand and, still singing, led me forward to the dancing circle, where a man who had been offering rice brandy to the people from a huge horn of the water-buffalo adorned with wood shavings, stepped forward and offered it to me. Lifting it I applied my face to the wide opening as if drinking. Twice I pretended to drink, and after participating a while longer in the activities I retired to my place of observation.

No doubt the Dayaks had gladly acceded to my wishes in making the feast, because dancing and sacrifice are believed to attract good spirits which may be of assistance to them. In the evening there was a banquet with the pig as the pice de rsistance; and a young fowl was sent to me as a present.



CHAPTER XIII

DAYAK CURE OF DISEASE—EVIL SPIRITS AND GOOD—ANIMISM—BLIANS, THE PRIEST-DOCTORS—THE FEAST OF RUBBER-GATHERERS—WEDDINGS—IN PRIMITIVE SURROUNDINGS

A day or two later the kapala, evidently solicitous about our comfort, asked permission to perform for three consecutive nights certain rites for the purpose of curing several sick persons. The reason for his request was that they might be noisy and prove disturbing to our rest. The ceremonies consisted in singing and beating drums for three hours, in order to attract good spirits and drive away the evil ones that had caused the illness. One of the patients, who had malaria, told me later that he had been cured by the nightly service, which had cost him forty florins to the doctor.

Among the aborigines of Borneo whom I visited, with the possible exception of the Punan nomads, the belief in evil spirits and in good ones that counteract them, both called antoh, is universal, and to some extent has been adopted by the Malays. Though various tribes have their own designations (in the Duhoi (Ot-Danum) ntu; Katingan, talm; Kapuas, teln; Kahayan, kambae), still the name antoh is recognised throughout Dutch Borneo. Apprehension of evil being predominant in human minds, the word is enough to cause a shudder even to some Malays. There are many kinds of both evil and good antohs; some are male, some female, and they are invisible, like the wind, but have power to manifest themselves when they desire to do so. Though sometimes appearing as an animal or bird, an antoh usually assumes the shape of a man, though much larger than an ordinary human being. Caves in the mountains are favourite haunts of evil antohs. In the great rivers, like the Barito and the Katingan, are many of huge size, larger than those in the mountains. Trees, animals, and even all lifeless objects, are possessed by antohs good or bad. According to the Katingans the sun is a benevolent masculine antoh which sleeps at night. The moon is a feminine antoh, also beneficent. Stars are the children of the sun and moon—some good, some bad.

To drive away malevolent antohs and attract benignant ones is the problem in the life philosophy of the Dayaks. The evil ones not only make him ill and cause his death, but they are at the bottom of all troubles in life. In order to attract the good ones sacrifices are made of a fowl, a pig, a water-buffalo, or, formerly, a slave. Hens' eggs may also be proffered, but usually as adjuncts to the sacrifice of an animal. If a child is ill the Katingan makes a vow that he will give Antoh from three to seven eggs or more if the child becomes well. If it fails to recover the offering is not made.

The blood is the more precious part, which the Bahau of the Mahakam, and other tribes, offer plain as well as mixed with uncooked rice. The people eat the meat themselves, but some of it is offered to the well-disposed antoh and to the other one as well, for the Dayaks are determined to leave no stone unturned in their purpose of defeating the latter. The Duhoi (Ot-Danums) told me: "When fowl or babi are sacrificed we never forget to throw the blood and rice mixture toward the sun, moon, and 'three of the planets.'" With the Katingans the blian (priest-doctor) always drinks a little of the blood when an animal is sacrificed.

Singing to the accompaniment of drums, gongs, or the blian's shield, and dancing to the sound of drums or gongs, are further inducements brought to bear on the friendly antohs, which are attracted thereby. According to the belief which prevails in their primitive minds, the music and dancing also have a deterrent effect upon the malicious ones. Both evil and good antohs are believed to congregate on such occasions, but the dancing and music have a terrifying effect on the former, while on the latter they act as an incentive to come nearer and take possession of the performers or of the beneficiary of the function by entering through the top of the head. A primitive jews'-harp, universally found among the tribes, is played to frighten away antohs, and so is the flute.

A kindly antoh may enter a man and become his guardian spirit, to whom he occasionally offers food, but it never remains long because that would make the man insane. One must not step over a person, because a benevolent antoh that may be in possession is liable to be frightened away, say the Katingans and other Dayaks. In dancing with masks, which is much practised on the Mahakam, the idea is that the antoh of the animal represented by the mask enters the dancer through the top of his head.

The Penihings and Long-Glats of the Mahakam have an interesting belief in the existence of a friendly antoh which reminded me of the superstition of the "Nokken" in the rivers of Norway. It lives in rivers, is very rarely beheld by mortals, and the one who sees it becomes rich beyond dreams of avarice. The Long-Glats call it sangiang, a survival of Hindu influence. An old man in Long Tujo is reported to have seen this antoh, and according to him it had the appearance of a woman sitting underneath the water. No doubt other tribes have the same belief.

The most famous of antohs is the nagah, which may be good or evil, according to the treatment received from mortals, and being very powerful its help and protection are sought in a manner later to be described in connection with my travels on the Mahakam. The nagah guards underneath as well as above the surface of water and earth, but the air is protected by three birds which are messengers, or mail carriers, so to speak. They are able to call the good antoh and carry food to him; they are also attendants of man and watch over him and his food. Fowls and pigs are sacrificed to them as payment. They are—the tingang (hornbill), the sankuvai (formerly on earth but now only in heaven), and the antang (red hawk). As these birds are called by the same names in the tribes of the Katingans, Ot-Danums, Kahayans, and others, it may be presumed that their worship is widely prevalent in Borneo.

Among most if not all native races certain persons occupy themselves with religious services and at the same time cure disease. In Borneo, as far as my experience goes, these priest-doctors, whether male or female, are generally recognised by the name blian, or balian. Although some tribes have their own and different designations, for the sake of convenience I shall call them all blians.

While there are both male and female blians, the service of women is regarded as more valuable, therefore commands higher remuneration than that received by men. A Dayak explained to me: As there are two sexes among the antohs, so there are also male and female blians. He or she on occasion pretends to be possessed of helpful antohs, in some parts of Borneo called sangiangs. Besides assisting the blians in their work they enable them to give advice in regard to the future, illness, or the affairs of daily life. A blian may be possessed by as many as fifty good antohs, which do not remain long at a time. Although in the remote past men sometimes saw good or evil spirits, at present nobody is able to do so except blians, who also sing in a language that only they and the antohs understand.

The blian does not know how to take omens from birds and read the liver of the pig. There may be one expert along this line in the kampong and there may be none. The blians of the tribes visited by me can neither make rain nor afflict people with illness. Among the Long-Glats I saw them directing the great triennial feast tsa, at which they were the chief performers. The constant occupation of the blians, however, is to cure disease which is caused by a malicious antoh longing to eat human blood and desiring to drive away the human soul. When hungry an antoh makes somebody ill. The blian's rites, songs, dances, and sacrifices aim to induce a good antoh to chase away or kill the evil one which has taken possession of the patient, and thus make an opportunity for the frightened soul to return, which restores the man to health. This, without undue generalisation, is a short summary of the religious ideas which I found on the Mahakam and in Southern Borneo, more especially those of the Penihing, Katingan, and Murung. Further details will be found among descriptions of the different tribes.

Shortly afterward we all made an excursion up the river as far as Batu Boa, which, as is often the case, contains a Dayak as well as a Malay kampong. At the first one, a forlorn and desolate looking place, the kapala, who had an unusually large goitre, told me that eighteen men had been engaged by the captain for his journey northward from there, which definitely precluded any prospect of ours for an overland expedition, even if under other conditions it would have been possible. As for the Malays, I found them rather distant, and was glad to return to Tumbang Marowei.

Here a singular sight met us in a sculptured representation of a rhinoceros with a man on his back, entirely composed of red rubber, standing on a float and surrounded by a number of blocks made of the same material. White and red pieces of cloth tied to upright saplings on the float added a certain gaiety to the scene. Some of the kampong people had just returned from a rubber expedition, and part of the output had been cleverly turned into plastics in this way.

The rhino was about seventy-five centimetres high, strong and burly looking, and the posture of the young man on his back conveyed a vivid suggestion of action. They were now on their way to sell this to some Chinaman. The image was said to be worth from two to three hundred florins, and as there was considerable additional rubber, perhaps all of it approached a value of a thousand florins. Bringing this rubber from up country had occupied eighteen days, and it was the result of ten men's work for two or three months. Twice before during the last two years rubber had been brought here in the same manner.

First they considered it essential to make a feast for the badak (the Malay name for rhinoceros). When going out on their expedition they had promised to make a badak effigy if they found much rubber. As the man on its back represented the owner, there was the risk that one of the souls of the latter might enter his image, resulting in illness for the owner, to avoid which a pig would have to be killed and various ceremonies performed.

The festival was scheduled to take place in three days, but it had to be postponed one day on account of difficulties in procuring the pig. I presented them with three tins of rice and another half full of sugar, which they wanted to mix with water to serve as drink because there was no rice brandy. It required some exertion to bring the heavy image from the float up to the open space in front of the house where the rubber gatherers lived, but this had been done a day or two before the feast, the statue in the meantime having been covered with white cotton cloth. Several metres of the same material had also been raised on poles to form a half enclosure around the main object. The feast had many features in common with the one we had seen, as, for instance, dancing, and a good deal of Malay influence was evident in the clothing of the participants, also in the setting. Nevertheless, the ceremonies, which lasted only about two hours, were not devoid of interest.

The men, manifesting great spontaneity and enthusiasm, gathered quickly about and on the badak, and one of them took the rubber man by the hand. This was followed by pantomimic killing of the badak with a ceremonial spear as well as with parangs, which were struck against its neck. The man who was deputed to kill the pig with the spear missed the artery several times, and as blood was his first objective, he took no care to finish the unfortunate animal, which was still gasping fifteen minutes later.

An old woman then appeared on the scene who waved a bunch of five hens, to be sacrificed, whirling them over and among the performers who were then sitting or standing. The hens were killed in the usual way by cutting the artery of the neck, holding them until blood had been collected, and then leaving them to flap about on the ground until dead. Blood was now smeared on the foreheads of the principal participants, and a young woman danced a graceful solo.

Having ascertained, by sending to the kampong below, that I could obtain twenty men with prahus whenever I intended to move, I discharged with cheerful willingness most of the Puruk Tjahu Malays. Their departure was a relief also to the Murungs, who feared to be exploited by the Malays. As soon as the latter had departed in the morning, many Dayaks whom I had not seen before ventured to come up to the kitchen and my tent to ask for empty tin cans. The Malays had slept in the Dayak houses, and the last night one of them carried off the mat which had been hospitably offered him.

One day there were two weddings here, one in the morning and the other in the evening. A cloth was spread over two big gongs, which were standing close together on the floor and formed seats for the bride and bridegroom. She seemed to be about sixteen years old, and laughed heartily and frequently during the ceremony, which occupied but a few minutes. A man waved a young live hen over and around them, then went away and killed it in the usual manner, returning with the blood, which, with the help of a stick, he smeared on the forehead, chest, neck, hands, and feet of the bridal pair, following which the two mutually daubed each other's foreheads. The principal business connected with marriage had previously been arranged—that of settling how much the prospective bridegroom was to pay to the bride's parents. With most tribes visited I found the adjustment of the financial matter conclusive in itself without further ceremonies.

The officiating blian took hold of a hand of each, pulled them from their seats, and whisked them off as if to say: "Now you can go—you are married!" Outside the full moon bathed the country in the effulgence of its light, but being quite in zenith it looked rather small as it hung in the tropical sky.

The moist heat in the latter part of September and first half of October was more oppressive here than I experienced anywhere else in Borneo. When for a few days there was no rain the temperature was uncomfortable, though hardly rising above 90 F. As there was no wind Rajimin's skins would not dry and many spoiled. Flies, gnats, and other pests were troublesome and made it difficult even to take a bath. Itching was produced on the lower part of the legs, which if scratched would become sores that usually took weeks to heal, and though the application of iodine was of some avail, the wounds would often suppurate, and I have myself at times had fever as a result. The best remedy for these and like injuries on the legs is a compress, or wet bandage, covered with oiled silk, which is a real blessing in the tropics and the material for which any traveller is well advised in adding to his outfit.

Rain with the resultant cooling of the atmosphere seldom waited long, however, and when the river rose to within a metre of my tent, which I had pitched on the edge of the river bank, I had to abandon it temporarily for the house in which Mr. Demmini and Mr. Loing resided, a little back of the rest of the houses. Besides a kitchen, it contained a large room and a small one, which I appropriated. This house, which was five generations old and belonged to the brother of the kapala, had in its centre an upright pillar carved at the top which passed through the floor without reaching the roof. The house, as is the universal custom in Borneo, stands on piles, and in erecting it a slave who, according to ancient custom, was sacrificed, in that way to insure good luck, had been buried alive underneath the central post, which was more substantial than the others.

During rain it is conducive to a sense of comfort and security to be safely roofed and sheltered in a house, but usually I preferred my tent, and occupied it unless the river was too threatening. From the trees in its close proximity a species of small frog gave concerts every evening, and also occasionally favoured me with a visit. One morning they had left in my quarters a cluster of eggs as large as a fist, of a grey frothy matter, which the ants soon attacked and which later was eaten by the hens.

The fowls, coarse, powerful specimens of the poultry tribe, were a source of great annoyance on account of their number and audacity. As usual among the Malays, from whom the Dayaks originally acquired these domestic birds, interest centres in the males on account of the prevalent cock-fights, and the hens are in a very decided minority. For the night the feathered tribe settles on top of the houses or in the surrounding trees. Hens with small chickens are gathered together in the evening by the clever hands of the Dayak women, hen and brood being put into an incredibly small wicker bag, which is hung up on the gallery for the night. Otherwise carnivorous animals, prowling about, would make short work of them.

At dawn, having duly saluted the coming day, the numerous cocks descend from their high roosts and immediately begin their favourite sport of chasing the few females about. The crowing of these poorly bred but very powerful males creates pandemonium for a couple of hours, and it is like living in a poultry yard with nearly fifty brutal cocks crowing around one. During the remainder of the day sudden raids upon kitchen or tent by one or more of these cocks are of frequent occurrence, usually overturning or otherwise damaging something. Although repeatedly and easily frightened away, they return as soon as they see that the coast is clear again. This is the one nuisance to be encountered in all the kampongs, though rarely to the same extent as here.



CHAPTER XIV

THE SCALY ANT-EATER—THE PORCUPINE—THE BLOW-PIPE—AN UNUSUAL ADVENTURE WITH A SNAKE—HABITS AND CUSTOMS OF THE MURUNGS—AN UNPLEASANT AFFAIR

A Murung one day brought and exhibited to us that extraordinary animal, the scaly ant-eater (manis), which is provided with a long pipe-like snout, and is devoid of teeth because its only food, the ant, is gathered by means of its long tongue. The big scales that cover the whole body form its sole defence, and when it rolls itself up the dogs can do it no harm. Unable to run, it cannot even walk fast, and the long tail is held straight out without touching the ground. Its appearance directs one's thoughts back to the monsters of prehistoric times, and the fat meat is highly esteemed by the Dayaks. The animal, which is possessed of incredible strength in proportion to its size, was put in a box from which it escaped in the night through the carelessness of Rajimin.

A large live porcupine was also brought for sale by a Dayak woman who had raised it. The creature was confined in a kind of bag, and by means of its strength it managed to escape from between the hands of the owner. Although she and several Dayaks immediately started in pursuit, it succeeded in eluding them. However, the woman believed implicitly that it would return, and a couple of days later it did reappear, passing my tent at dusk. Every evening afterward about eight o'clock it was a regular visitor, taking food out of my hand and then continuing its trip to the kitchen, which was less than a hundred metres farther up the river bank. Finally it became a nuisance, turning over saucepans to look for food and otherwise annoying us, so I bought it for one ringit in order to have it skinned. The difficulty was to catch it, because its quills are long and sharp; but next evening the Murungs brought it to me enmeshed in a strong net, and how to kill it was the next question.

The Dayaks at once proposed to shoot it with the sumpitan—a very good scheme, though I fancied that darkness might interfere. However, in the light of my hurricane lamp one man squatted on the ground and held the animal, placing it in a half upright position before him. The executioner stepped back about six metres, a distance that I thought unnecessary, considering that if the poisoned dart hit the hand of the man it would be a most serious affair. He put the blow-pipe to his mouth and after a few moments the deadly dart entered the porcupine at one side of the neck. The animal, which almost at once began to quiver, was freed from the entangling net, then suddenly started to run round in a small circle, fell on his back, and was dead in less than a minute after being hit.

It was a wonderful exhibition of the efficiency of the sumpitan and of the accuracy of aim of the man who used the long heavy tube. The pipe, two metres long, is held by the native with his hands close to the mouth, quite contrary to the method we should naturally adopt. The man who coolly held the porcupine might not have been killed if wounded, because the quantity of poison used is less in the case of small game than large. The poison is prepared from the sap of the upas tree, antiaris toxicaria, which is heated until it becomes a dark paste. It is a fortunate fact that these extremely efficient weapons, which noiselessly bring down birds and monkeys from great heights, are not widely distributed over the globe. If one is hit by the dart which is used when destined for man or big game, and which has a triangular point, it is said that no remedy will avail.

Rajimin, the taxidermist, had frequent attacks of malaria with high fever, but fortunately he usually recovered rapidly. One day I found him skinning birds with his pulse registering one hundred and twenty-five beats a minute. I engaged a Murung to assist in making my zoological collections, and he learned to skin well and carefully, though slowly. Judging from the number of long-nosed monkeys brought in, they must be numerous here. These animals are at times met in droves of a hundred or more passing from branch to branch through the woods. When old they cannot climb. One morning this Dayak returned with three wah-wahs, and related that after the mother had been shot and had fallen from the tree, the father seized the young one and tried to escape, but they were both killed by the same charge.

On account of adverse weather conditions most of the skins here spoiled, in some degree at least, in spite of all efforts, especially the fleshy noses of the long-nosed monkeys. A special brand of taxidermist's soap from London, which contained several substitutes for arsenic and claimed to be equally efficient, may have been at fault in part, though not entirely, the main cause being the moist heat and the almost entire lack of motility in the air. So little accustomed to wind do the natives here appear to be that a small boy one day jubilantly drew attention to some ripples in the middle of the river caused by an air current.

My Malay cook was taken ill, so I had to do most of the cooking myself, which is not particularly pleasant when one's time is valuable; and when he got well his lack of experience rendered it necessary for me to oversee his culinary operations. One day after returning to my tent from such supervision I had a curious adventure with a snake. It was a warm day about half past one. All was quiet and not a blade stirred. I paused near the tent opening, with my face toward the opposite side of the river, which could be seen through an opening among the trees. Standing motionless on the bank, which from there sloped gradually down toward the river, more than a minute had elapsed when my attention was distracted by a slight noise behind me. Looking to the right and backward my surprise was great to perceive the tail-end of a black snake rapidly proceeding toward the left. Hastily turning my eyes in that direction I beheld the well-shaped, powerful, though somewhat slender, forward part of the serpent, which, holding its head high, almost to the height of my knee, made downward toward the river.

In passing over the open space along the river bank it had found its path obstructed by some boxes, etc., that were in front of the tent opening, and had suddenly changed its route, not noticing me, as I stood there immovable. It thus formed a right angle about me scarcely twenty-five centimetres distant. At first glance its shape suggested the redoubtable king cobra, but two very conspicuous yellow parallel bands running obliquely against each other across the flat, unusually broad head, indicated another species, though probably of the same family.

The formidable head on its narrow neck moved rapidly from side to side; I felt as if surrounded, and although the reptile evidently had no hostile intentions and appeared as much surprised as I was, still, even to a nature lover, our proximity was too close to be entirely agreeable, so I stepped back over the snake. In doing so my foot encountered the kettle that contained my bathing water, and the noise probably alarmed the serpent, which rapidly glided down the little embankment, where it soon reached the grass next to the river and disappeared. It was a magnificent sight to watch the reptile, about two and a half metres in length, jet black and perfectly formed, moving swiftly among the trees. The Malays call this snake, whose venom is deadly, ular hanjalivan, and according to the Murungs a full-grown man dies within half an hour from its bite. This species appears to be fairly numerous here.

At times the natives here showed no disinclination to being photographed, but they wanted wang (money) for posing. Usually I had to pay one florin to each, or fifty cents if the hair was not long. At other times nothing would induce them to submit to the camera. A young woman recently married had a row with her husband one night, and the affair became very boisterous, when suddenly they came to terms. The trouble arose through her desire to earn some pin-money by being photographed in the act of climbing an areca palm, a proceeding which did not meet with his approval.

There were three female blians in the kampong whom I desired to photograph as they performed the dances connected with their office, but the compensation they demanded was so exorbitant (two hundred florins in cash and nine tins of rice) that we did not reach an agreement. Later in the day they reduced their demand to thirty florins for a pig to be used at the dancing, which proposition I also declined, the amount named being at least six times the value of the animal, but I was more fortunate in my dealings with the two male blians of the place, one of them a Dusun, and succeeded in inducing them to dance for me one forenoon.

The two men wore short sarongs around their loins, the women's dress, though somewhat shorter; otherwise they were nude except for bands, to which numerous small metal rattles were attached, running over either shoulder and diagonally across chest and back. After a preliminary trial, during which one of them danced with much lan, he said: "I felt a spirit come down in my body. This will go well." The music was provided by two men who sat upon long drums and beat them with fervour and abandon. The dance was a spirited movement forward and backward with peculiar steps accompanied by the swaying of the body. The evolutions of the two dancers were slightly different.

In October a patrouille of seventeen native soldiers and nine native convicts, under command of a lieutenant, passed through the kampong. In the same month in 1907 a patrouille had been killed here by the Murungs. It must be admitted that the Dayaks had reason to be aggrieved against the lieutenant, who had sent two Malays from Tumbang Topu to bring to him the kapala's attractive wife—an order which was obeyed with a tragic sequence. The following night, which the military contingent passed at the kampong of the outraged kapala, the lieutenant and thirteen soldiers were killed. Of course the Dayaks had to be punished; the government, however, took the provocation into account.

The kapala's wife and a female companion demanded two florins each for telling folklore, whereupon I expressed a wish first to hear what they were able to tell. The companion insisted on the money first, but the kapala's wife, who was a very nice woman, began to sing, her friend frequently joining in the song. This was the initial prayer, without which there could be no story-telling. She was a blian, and her way of relating legends was to delineate stories in song form, she informed me. As there was nobody to interpret I was reluctantly compelled to dispense with her demonstration, although I had found it interesting to watch the strange expression of her eyes as she sang and the trance-like appearance she maintained. Another noticeable fact was the intense attachment of her dogs, which centred their eyes constantly upon her and accompanied her movements with strange guttural sounds.

With the Murungs, six teeth in the upper front jaw and six in the under one are filed off, and there is no pain associated with the operation. The kapala had had his teeth cut three times, first as a boy, then when he had one child, and again when he had four children. The teeth of one of the blians had been filed twice, once when he was a boy and again when he had two children.

If a man has the means he is free to take four wives, who may all be sisters if he so desires. As to the number of wives a man is allowed to acquire, no exception is made in regard to the kapala. A brother is permitted to marry his sister, and my informant said that the children resulting from this union are strong; but, on the other hand, it is forbidden for cousins to marry, and a still worse offence is for a man to marry the mother of his wife or the sister of one's father or mother. If that transgression has been committed the culprit must pay from one to two hundred rupias, or if he cannot pay he must be killed with parang or klevang (long knife). The children of such union are believed to become weak.

When twelve years of age girls are regarded as marriageable, and sexual relations are absolutely free until marriage; in fact, if she chooses to have a young man share her mat it is considered by no means improper. If a girl should be left with child and the father cannot be found she is married to somebody else, though no man is forced to wed her. Marriage relations are very strict and heavy fines are imposed on people at fault, but divorces may be had provided payment is made, and a widow may remarry if she desires to do so.

When a person dies there is much wailing, and if the deceased is a father or mother people of the same house do not sleep for three days. The corpse remains in the house three days, during which time a root called javau is eaten instead of rice, babi and bananas being also permissible. The body is washed and wrapped in white cotton cloth, bought from Malay traders, and placed in a coffin made of iron-wood. As the coffin must not be carried through the door, the house wall is broken open for it to pass on its way to a cemetery in the utan. Sometimes as soon as one year afterward, but usually much later, the coffin is opened, the bones are cleaned with water and soap and placed in a new box of the same material or in a gutshi, an earthen jar bought from the Chinese. The box or jar is then deposited in a subterranean chamber made of iron-wood, called kobur by both Malays and Murungs, where in addition are left the personal effects of the deceased,—clothing, beads, and other ornaments,—and, if a man, also his sumpitan, parang, axe, etc. This disposition of the bones is accompanied by a very elaborate feast, generally called tiwah, to the preparation of which much time is devoted.

According to a conception which is more or less general among the Dayaks, conditions surrounding the final home of the departed soul are on the whole similar to those existing here, but before the tiwah feast has been observed the soul is compelled to roam about in the jungle three or four years, or longer, until that event takes place. This elaborate ceremony is offered by surviving relatives as an equivalent for whatever was left behind by the deceased, whose ghost is regarded with apprehension.

Fortunately the Murungs were then preparing for such an observance at the Bundang kampong higher up the river where I intended to visit. They were making ready to dispose of the remains of no less a personage than the mother of our kapala. A water-buffalo would be killed and the festival would last for a week. In three years there would be another festal occasion of two weeks' duration, at which a water-buffalo would again be sacrificed, and when a second period of three years has elapsed the final celebration of three weeks' duration will be given, with the same sacrificial offering. Thus the occasions are seen to be of increasing magnitude and the expenses in this case to be on a rising scale. It was comparatively a small affair.

About a month later, when I stopped at Buntok, on the Barito, the controleur of the district told me that an unusually great tiwah feast had just been concluded in the neighbourhood. He had spent ten days there, the Dayaks having erected a house for him to stay in. More than two hundred pigs and nineteen water-buffaloes had been killed. Over three hundred bodies, or rather remains of bodies, had previously been exhumed and placed in forty boxes, for the accommodation of which a special house had been constructed. These, with contents, were burned and the remains deposited in ten receptacles made of iron-wood, those belonging to one family being put in the same container.

Some of the Dayaks were much preoccupied with preparations for the Bundang ceremony, which was postponed again and again. They encouraged me to participate in the festivities, representing it as a wonderful affair. I presented them with money to buy a sack of rice for the coming occasion, and some of them went at once to Puruk Tjahu to purchase it. Having overcome the usual difficulties in regard to getting prahus and men, and Mr. Demmini having recovered from a week's illness, I was finally, early in November, able to move on. Several people from our kampong went the same day, and it looked as if the feast were really about to take place.

We proceeded with uneventful rapidity up-stream on a lovely day, warm but not oppressively so, and in the afternoon arrived at Bundang, which is a pleasant little kampong. The Dayaks here have three small houses and the Malays have five still smaller. A big water-buffalo, which had been brought from far away to be sacrificed at the coming ceremonial, was grazing in a small field near by. The surrounding scenery was attractive, having in the background a jungle-clad mountain some distance away, which was called by the same name as the kampong, and which, in the clear air against the blue sky, completed a charming picture. We found a primitive, tiny pasang-grahan, inconveniently small for more than one person, and there was hardly space on which to erect my tent.

There appeared to be more Siangs than Murungs here, the former, who are neighbours and evidently allied to the latter, occupying the inland to the north of the great rivers on which the Murungs are chiefly settled, part of the Barito and the Laong. They were shy, friendly natives, and distinguished by well-grown mustaches, an appendage I also later noted among the Upper Katingans. The people told me that I might photograph the arrangements incident to the feast as much as I desired, and also promised to furnish prahus and men when I wished to leave.

The following day Mr. Demmini seemed worse than before, being unable to sleep and without appetite. The festival was to begin in two days, but much to my regret there seemed nothing else to do but to return to Puruk Tjahu. The Dayaks proposed to take the sick man there if I would remain, but he protested against this, and I decided that we should all leave the following day. In the evening I attended the dancing of the Dayak women around an artificial tree made up of bamboo stalks and branches so as to form a very thick trunk. The dancing at the tiwa feast, or connected with it, is of a different character and meaning from the general performance which is to attract good antohs. This one is meant to give pleasure to the departed soul. The scene was inside one of the houses, and fourteen or fifteen different dances were performed, one of them obscene, but presented and accepted with the same seriousness as the other varieties. Some small girls danced extraordinarily well, and their movements were fairylike in unaffected grace.

Enjoying the very pleasant air after the night's rain, we travelled rapidly down-stream on the swollen river to Tumbang Marowei, where we spent the night. There were twenty men from the kampong eager to accompany me on my further journey, but they were swayed to and fro according to the dictates of the kapala, who was resolutely opposed to letting other kampongs obtain possession of us. He wanted to reserve for himself and the kampong the advantages accruing from our need of prahus and men. To his chagrin, in the morning there arrived a large prahu with four Murungs from Batu Boa, who also wanted a chance at this bonanza, whereupon the kapala began to develop schemes to harass us and to compel me to pay more.

Without any reason whatsoever, he said that only ten of the twenty men I had engaged would be able to go. This did not frighten me much, as the river was swollen and the current strong, so that one man in each of our prahus would be sufficient to allow us to drift down to the nearest Malay kampong, where I had been promised men some time before. At first I was quite concerned about the loading of the prahus, as the natives all exhibited a marked disinclination to work, the kapala, as a matter of fact, having ordered a strike. However, with the ten men allowed I was able by degrees to bring all our goods down to the river bank, whereupon the kapala, seeing that I was not to be intimidated, permitted the rest of the men to proceed.

It was an unpleasant affair, which was aggravated by what followed, and was utterly at variance with my other experiences during two years among the Dayaks. I was greatly surprised to observe that some of the men who had been loitering near our goods on the bank of the river had begun to carry off a number of large empty tins which had been placed there ready for shipment. These are difficult to procure, and being very necessary for conveying rice, salt, and other things, I had declined to give them away. The natives had always been welcome to the small tin cans, also greatly in favour with them. Milk and jam tins are especially in demand, and after they have been thrown away the Dayaks invariably ask if they may have them. As they are very dexterous in wood-work they make nicely carved wooden covers for the tins, in which to keep tobacco or other articles.

Returning from one of many tours I had made back to the house from where our belongings were taken, I caught sight of three Murungs running as fast as they could, each carrying two large tins, the kapala calmly looking on. I told him that unless they were immediately returned I should report the matter to the government. This had the desired effect, and at his order no less than sixteen large tins were promptly produced.

This was surprising, but as a faithful chronicler of things Bornean I feel obliged to tell the incident, the explanation of which to a great extent is the fact that the natives here have been too susceptible to the demoralising Malay influence which has overcome their natural scruples about stealing. It must be admitted that the Dayaks wherever I have been are fond of wang (money), and they are inclined to charge high prices for the articles they are asked to sell. They have, if you like, a childish greed, which, however, is curbed by the influence of their religious belief before it has carried them to the point of stealing. Under continued Malay influence the innate longing for the possession of things very much desired overwhelms them and conquers their scruples.

We afterward discovered that several things were missing, of no great importance except a round black tin case containing thermometers and small instruments, which without doubt had been appropriated by the owner of the house where we had been staying. Two or three weeks previously he had begged me to let him have it, as he liked it much and needed it. I said that was impossible, but evidently he thought otherwise. Perhaps the Murungs are more avaricious than other tribes. I was told in Puruk Tjahu that they were greedy, and it seems also as if their scruples about stealing are less acute than elsewhere in Borneo. The reputation of the Dayaks for honesty is great among all who know them. As far as my knowledge goes the Murungs are mild-mannered and polite, but not particularly intelligent. The higher-class people, however, are intelligent and alert, manifesting firmness and strength of mind.

It was one o'clock before we were able to start, but circumstances favoured us, and after dark we reached the kampong at the mouth of the Laong River, where we made ourselves quite comfortable on the landing float, and I rejoiced at our recent escape from an unpleasant situation. The following day we arrived at Puruk Tjahu. After a few days' stay it was found expedient to return to Bandjermasin before starting on the proposed expedition through Central Borneo. A small steamer belonging to the Royal Packet Boat Company maintains fortnightly connections between the two places, and it takes only a little over two days to go down-stream.



CHAPTER XV

FINAL START FOR CENTRAL BORNEO—CHRISTMAS TIME—EXTENT OF MALAY INFLUENCE—THE FLOWERS OF EQUATORIAL REGIONS—AT AN OT-DANUM KAMPONG—THE PICTURESQUE KIHAMS, OR RAPIDS—FORMIDABLE OBSTACLES TO TRAVEL—MALAYS ON STRIKE

Having arranged various matters connected with the expedition, in the beginning of December we made our final start from Bandjermasin in the Otto, which the resident again courteously placed at my disposal. Our party was augmented by a military escort, under command of Onder-Lieutenant J. Van Dijl, consisting of one Javanese sergeant and six native soldiers, most of them Javanese. At midday the surface of the water was absolutely without a ripple, and the broad expanse of the river, ever winding in large curves, reflected the sky and the low jungle on either side with bewildering faithfulness. At night the stars were reflected in the water in the same extraordinary way.

In order to investigate a report from an otherwise reliable source about Dayaks "as white as Europeans, with coarse brown hair, and children with blue eyes," I made a stop at Rubea, two or three hours below Muara Tewe. It was a small and sad-looking kampong of thirteen families in many houses. Several children were seen, a little lighter of colour than usual, but their eyes were brown, and there was nothing specially remarkable about them nor the rest of the people whom the kapala called from the ladangs. Children lighter than the parents is a usual phenomenon in black and brown races. There was, however, one four-year-old boy conspicuous for his light hair and general blondness, who was different from the ordinary Dayak in frame and some of his movements; he was coarsely built, with thick limbs, big square head, and hands and feet strikingly large. There could be no doubt about his being a half-breed, neither face nor expression being Dayak. One hare-lipped woman and a child born blind were observed here. Other kampongs in the inland neighbourhood, mentioned in the same report, were not visited.

On our arrival at Puruk Tjahu the low water at first made it doubtful whether the Otto would be able to proceed further, but during the night it rose five metres, continued rising, and changed into a swollen river, as in springtime, carrying sticks and logs on its dirty reddish waters. After a foggy morning the sun came out and we had an enchanting day's journey, the movement of the ship producing a soft breeze of balmy air after the rainy night and morning. We passed a timber float stranded on high ground, with Malay men, women, and children who had been living there for weeks, waiting for the water to rise again as high as where it had left them. They evidently enjoyed the unusual sight of the steamer, and followed us attentively.

In the afternoon we arrived at Poru, a small, oppressively warm kampong, deserted but for an old man and one family, the others having gone to gather rattan in the utan. This was to be our starting-point, where our baggage would have to be put in convenient shape for travel in boat and overland, and where we hoped it might be possible to buy prahus and obtain men by searching the kampongs higher up the river. In this we were disappointed, so the lieutenant went back to Puruk Tjahu, in the neighbourhood of which are many kampongs, nearly all Malay, there as well as here. He took with him one soldier who had proved to have an obnoxious disease, leaving us with five for the expedition, which we deemed sufficient.

On Christmas day I bought from an old Dayak a large, ripe fruit called in Malay nangca (artocarpus integrifolia) of the jack fruit family. It is very common. Before maturing it is used as an every-day vegetable, which is boiled before eating. I was surprised to find that when fully ripe this fruit has an agreeable flavour of banana, but its contents being sticky it is difficult to eat. The sergeant, with the culinary ability of the Javanese, prepared for the holiday a kind of stew, called sambil goreng, which is made on the same principle as the Mexican variety, but decidedly superior. Besides the meat or fish, or whatever is used as the foundation, it contains eight ingredients and condiments, all indigenous except red pepper and onions.

In the ladangs is cultivated the maize plant, which just then was in condition to provide us with the coveted green corn, and carried my thoughts to America, whence the plant came. Maize is raised on a very limited scale, and, strange to say, higher up the river the season was already over. At Poru we tried in vain to secure a kind of gibbon that we heard almost daily on the other side of the river, emitting a loud cry but different from that of the ordinary wah-wah. Rajimin described it as being white about the head and having a pronounced kind of topknot.

As far as we had advanced up the Barito River, Malay influence was found to be supreme. The majority of the kampongs are peopled by Malays, Dayaks at times living in a separate section. This relation may continue at the lower courses of the tributaries, yielding to a Dayak population at the upper portions. In the kampongs, from our present camp, Poru, up to the Busang tributary, the population continues to be subject to strong Malay influence, the native tribes gradually relinquishing their customs, beliefs, and vernacular. But back from the river on either side the Dayak still easily holds his own.

The old kapala of Poru had an attractive eight-year-old granddaughter, of a singularly active and enterprising disposition, who always accompanied him. He called my attention to the fact that she wore a solid-looking gold bracelet around each wrist, a product of the country. In the dry season when the river is low two or three hundred Dayaks and Malays gather here to wash gold, coming even as far as from Muara Tewe. The gold mixed with silver is made into bracelets, wristlets, or breastplates by these natives.

The lieutenant had been unable to secure more than sixteen men, all Malays, which was insufficient for the six prahus we had bought. Therefore it became necessary to travel in relays, the lieutenant waiting in Poru until our men and prahus should return from Telok Djulo, for which kampong the rest of us started in late December.

After considerable rain the river was high but navigable, and two days' travel brought us to a rather attractive kampong situated on a ridge. Rajimin accompanied by Longko, the principal one of our Malays, went out in the evening to hunt deer, employing the approved Bornean method. With a lamp in the bow the prahu is paddled noiselessly along the river near the bank. Rusa, as a large species of deer are called, come to the water, and instead of being frightened are attracted by the light. Rajimin, who was of an emotional and nervous temperament, missed two plandoks and one rusa, Longko reported, and when he actually killed a rusa he became so excited that he upset the prahu.

We started before seven o'clock on a glorious morning, January first. On the river bank some trees, which did not appear to me to be indigenous, were covered with lovely flowers resembling hibiscus, some scarlet, some yellow. I had my men gather a small bunch, which for several hours proved attractive in the prosaic Malay prahu. The equatorial regions have not the abundance of beautiful flowers that is credited to them by popular belief. The graceful pitcher-plants (nepenthes) are wonderful and so are many other extraordinary plant creations here, but they cannot be classed as beautiful flowers in the common acceptation of the word. There are superb flowers in Borneo, among them the finest in existence, orchids, begonias, etc., but on account of the character of their habitats, within a dense jungle, it is generally difficult to see them. The vast majority of orchids are small and inconspicuous, and in hunting for magnificent ones the best plan is to take natives along who will climb or cut down the trees on which they grow.

On the third day the river had become narrow and shallower, and early in the afternoon we arrived at Telok Djulo, a kampong of Ot-Danums interspersed with Malays. It is composed of many houses, forming one side of an irregular street, all surrounded with a low fence for the purpose of keeping pigs out. The storehouses recalled those of the Bulungan, with their wide wooden rings around the tops of the supporting pillars, to prevent mice from ascending. Outside of the fence near the jungle two water-buffaloes were always to be seen in the forenoon lying in a mud-pool; these we were warned against as being dangerous. These Dayaks, who are shy but very friendly, are said to have immigrated here over thirty years ago. They are mostly of medium size, the women stocky, with thick ankles, though otherwise their figures are quite good. The Ot-Danum men, like the Murungs, Siangs, and Katingans, place conspicuously on the calf of the leg a large tatu mark representing the full moon. When preparing to be photographed, men, women, and children decorate their chests with crudely made gold plates shaped nearly like a half moon and hanging one above another, generally five in number. One of the blians was a Malay.

Here we had to stay two weeks, while the remainder of our baggage was being brought up and until a new station for storing goods had been established in the jungle higher up the river. Rajimin had an attack of dysentery, and although his health improved he requested permission to return, which I readily granted notwithstanding his undeniable ability in skinning birds. He was afraid of the kihams, not a good shot, and so liable to lose his way in the jungle that I always had to have a Dayak accompany him. It is the drawback with all Javanese that, being unaccustomed to these great jungles, at first they easily get lost. Rajimin joined a few Malays in building a small float, on which they went down the river. Several Malays aspired to succeed him as taxidermist, but showed no aptitude. I then taught one of our Javanese soldiers who had expressed interest in the matter. Being painstaking and also a good shot, the new tokang burong (master of birds), the Malay designation for a taxidermist, gave satisfactory results in due time.

One day while I was taking anthropometric measurements, to which the Ot-Danums grudgingly submitted, one of them exhibited unusual agitation and actually wept. Inquiring the reason, I learned that his wife had jilted him for a Kapuas Dayak who, a couple of nights previously, when the injured man was out hunting wild pigs for me, had taken advantage of the husband's absence. Moreover, the night before, the rival had usurped his place a second time, compelling the husband to go elsewhere. The incident showed how Dayak ideas were yielding to Malay influence. He was in despair about it, and threatened to kill the intruder as well as himself, so I told the sergeant to strengthen the hands of the kapala. I could not prevent the woman's disloyalty to her husband, but the new attraction should not be allowed to stay in the house. This had the effect of making the intruder depart a few minutes later, though he did not go far away. The affair was settled in a most unexpected manner. The kapala being absent, his substitute, bonhomme mais born, and probably influenced by her relatives, decided that the injured husband must pay damages f. 40 because he had vacated his room the night he went out hunting.

We procured one more prahu, but the difficulties of getting more men were very great, one reason being that the people had already begun to cut paddi. Though the new year so far brought us no rain, still the river of late had begun to run high on account of precipitation at its upper courses. High water does not always deter, but rapid rising or falling is fraught with risk. After several days' waiting the status of the water was considered safe, and, leaving three boatloads to be called for later, in the middle of January, we made a start and halted at a sand slope where the river ran narrow among low hills, two hundred metres below the first great kiham. Malay rattan gatherers, with four prahus, were already camped here awaiting a favourable opportunity to negotiate the kihams, and they too were going to make the attempt next morning. As the river might rise unexpectedly, we brought ashore only what was needed for the night.

Next day at half-past six o'clock we started, on a misty, fresh morning, and in a few minutes were within hearing of the roar of the rapids, an invigorating sound and an inspiring sight. The so-called Kiham Atas is one kilometre long. The left side of the river rises perpendicularly over the deep, narrow waters, the lower part bare, but most of it covered with picturesque vegetation, especially conspicuous being rows of sago palms. The prahus had to be dragged up along the opposite side between big stones. Only our instruments were carried overland, as we walked along a foot-path through delightful woods, and at nine o'clock the prahus had finished the ascent.

Not long afterward we approached the first of the four big kihams which still had to be passed and which are more difficult. Having been relieved of their loads the prahus were hauled, one at a time, around a big promontory situated just opposite a beautiful cascade that falls into the river on the mountainous side. Around the promontory the water forms treacherous currents. Above it eight or nine Malays pulled the rattan cable, which was three times as long as usual, and when the first prahu, one man inside, came into view from below, passing the promontory, it unexpectedly shot out into the middle of the river, and then, in an equally startling manner, turned into a back current. This rapidly carried it toward an almost invisible rock where Longko, who was an old hand on this river, had taken his stand among the waves and kept it from foundering. The Malays were pulling the rattan as fast as they could, running at times, but before the prahu could be hauled up to safety it still had to pass a hidden rock some distance out. It ran against this and made a disagreeable turn, but regained its balance.

The next one nearly turned over, and Mr. Demmini decided to take out the kinema camera, which was got in readiness to film the picturesque scene. In the meantime, in order to control the prahu from the side, a second rattan rope had been tied to the following one, thereby enabling the men to keep it from going too far out. This should have been done at the start, but the Malays always like to take their chances. Though the remaining prahus did not present such exciting spectacles, nevertheless the scene was uncommonly picturesque. After nine hours of heavy work, during most of which the men had kept running from stone to stone dragging rattan cables, we camped on a sand-ridge that ran out as a peninsula into the river. At one side was an inlet of calm, dark-coloured water into which, a hundred metres away, a tributary emptied itself into a lovely waterfall. A full moon rose over the enchanting landscape.

At half-past six in the morning we started for the next kiham, the so-called Kiham Mudang, where we arrived an hour later. This was the most impressive of all the rapids so far, the river flowing between narrow confines in a steady down-grade course, which at first sight seemed impossible of ascent. The river had fallen half a metre since the day before, and although most kihams are easier to pass at low water, this one was more difficult. The men, standing in water up to their arms, brought all the luggage ashore and carried it further up the river. Next the prahus were successfully pulled up, being kept as near land as possible and tossed like toys on the angry waves, and pushed in and out of small inlets between the big stones. In three hours we effected the passage and in the afternoon arrived at Tumbang Djuloi, a rather prettily situated kampong on a ridge along the river.

I was installed in a small house which was vacant at one end of the little village, the greater part of which is Malay. There were two houses belonging to Ot-Danums which I found locked with modern padlocks. Nearly all Malays and Dayaks were at the ladangs, where they spend most of their time, remaining over night. Coal, which is often found on the upper part of the Barito River, may be observed in the bank of the river in a layer two metres thick. It is of good quality, but at present cannot be utilised on account of the formidable obstacle to transportation presented by the kiham below.

Our Malays soon began to talk of returning, fifteen of the twenty-four men wanting to go home. Payment having been refused until the goods left below had been brought up, a settlement was reached and the necessary men, with the sergeant, departed for Telok Djulo. In the meantime we began to convey our belongings higher up the river, above the next kiham, where they were stored in the jungle and covered with a tent cloth.

After the arrival of the luggage which had been left behind, there was a universal clamour for returning home, the Malays professing great disinclination to proceeding through the difficult Busang country ahead of us. Even those from Puruk Tjahu, who had pledged themselves to continue to the end, backed out. Though wages were raised to f. 1.50 per day, only eight men remained. To this number we were able to add three Malays from the kampong. One was the Mohammedan guru (priest), another a mild-tempered Malay who always had bad luck, losing floats of rattan in the kihams, and therefore passed under the nickname of tokang karam (master of misfortune). The third was a strong, tall man with some Dayak blood, who was tatued. Djobing, as he was named, belonged to a camp of rattan workers up on the Busang, and decided to go at the last moment, no doubt utilising the occasion as a convenient way of returning.

I was glad to see him climb down the steep embankment, carrying in one hand a five-gallon tin, neatly painted, which had opening and cover at the long side, to which a handle was attached. Under the other arm he had the usual outfit of a travelling Malay, a mat, on which he slept at night and in which were wrapped a sheet and a few pieces of light clothing. His tin case was full of tobacco and brought forth disparaging remarks from the lieutenant, who was chary of the precious space in the prahus.

Having successfully passed the censor Djobing was assigned to my prahu, where he soon showed himself to be a very good man, as alert as a Dayak and not inclined to save himself trouble. He would jump into the water up to his neck to push and steer the prahu, or, in the fashion of the Dayaks and the best Malays, would place his strong back under and against it to help it off when grounded on a rock. When circumstances require quick action such men will dive under the prahu and put their backs to it from the other side.

There was little chance of more paddling, the prahus being poled or dragged by rattan, and many smaller kihams were passed. We entered the Busang River, which is barely thirty-five metres wide at its mouth, flowing through hilly country. The water was low at that time, but is liable to rise quickly, through rains, and as it has little opportunity for expansion at the sides the current flows with such violence that travel becomes impossible. The most difficult part of our journey lay before us, and the possibility of one or two, or even three months' delay on account of weather conditions is then taken as a matter of course by the natives, though I trusted to have better luck than that.



CHAPTER XVI

ARRIVAL AT BAHANDANG—ON THE EQUATOR—A STARTLING ROBBERY—OUR MOST LABORIOUS JOURNEY—HORN-BILLS—THE SNAKE AND THE INTREPID PENYAHBONG—ARRIVAL AT TAMALOE

Bahandang, where we arrived early in the second afternoon, is the headquarters of some Malay rubber and rattan gatherers of the surrounding utan. A house had been built at the conflux with the river of a small affluent, and here lived an old Malay who was employed in receiving the products from the workers in the field. Only his wife was present, he having gone to Naan on the Djuloi River, but was expected to return soon. The place is unattractive and looked abandoned. Evidently at a previous time effort had been made to clear the jungle and to cultivate bananas and cassavas. Among felled trees and the exuberance of a new growth of vegetation a few straggling bananas were observable, but all the big cassava plants had been uprooted and turned over by the wild pigs, tending to increase the dismal look of the place. A lieutenant in charge of a patrouille had put up a rough pasang-grahan here, where our lieutenant and the soldiers took refuge, while I had the ground cleared near one end of it, and there placed my tent.

Not far off stood a magnificent tree with full, straight stem, towering in lonely solitude fifty metres above the overgrown clearing. In a straight line up its tall trunk wooden plugs had been driven in firmly about thirty centimetres apart. This is the way Dayaks, and Malays who have learned it from them, climb trees to get the honey and wax of the bees' nests suspended from the high branches. On the Barito, from the deck of the Otto, I had observed similar contrivances on still taller trees of the same kind called tapang, which are left standing when the jungle is cleared to make ladangs.

A few days later the rest of our party arrived and, having picked up six rubber gatherers, brought the remainder of the luggage from their camp. Some men were then sent to bring up the goods stored in the utan below, and on February 3 this was accomplished. An Ot-Danum from the Djuloi River, with wife and daughter, camped here for a few days, hunting for gold in the river soil, which is auriferous as in many other rivers of Borneo. They told me they were glad to make sixty cents a day, and if they were lucky the result might be two florins.

We found ourselves in the midst of the vast jungles that cover Borneo, serving to keep the atmosphere cool and prevent air currents from ascending in these windless tropics. We were almost exactly on the equator, at an elevation of about 100 metres. In January there had been little rain and in daytime the weather had been rather muggy, but with no excessive heat to speak of, provided one's raiment is suited to the tropics. On the last day of the month, at seven o'clock in the morning, after a clear and beautiful night, the temperature was 72 F. (22 C.). During the additional three weeks passed here, showers fell occasionally and sometimes it rained all night. As a rule the days were bright, warm, and beautiful; the few which were cloudy seemed actually chilly and made one desire the return of the sun.

Our first task was to make arrangements for the further journey up the Busang River to Tamaloe, a remote kampong recently formed by the Penyahbongs on the upper part of the river. We were about to enter the great accumulation of kihams which make travel on the Busang peculiarly difficult. The lieutenant's hope that we might secure more men from among the rubber gatherers was not fulfilled. The few who were present made excuses, and as for the others, they were far away in the utan, nobody knew where. We still had some Malays, and, always scheming for money or advantage to themselves, they began to invent new difficulties and demand higher wages. Although I was willing to make allowances, it was impossible to go beyond a certain limit, because the tribes we should meet later would demand the same payment as their predecessors had received. The old Malay resident, who in the meantime had returned from his absence, could offer no advice.

Finally exorbitant wages were demanded, and all wanted to return except four. As the lieutenant had expressed his willingness to proceed to Tamaloe in advance of the party and try to hire the necessary men there, it was immediately decided that he should start with our four remaining men and one soldier, while the rest of us waited here with the sergeant and four soldiers. On February 4 the party was off, as lightly equipped as possible, and if all went well we expected to have the necessary men within three weeks.

On the same afternoon Djobing and three companions, who were going up to another rattan station, Djudjang, on a path through the jungle, proposed to me to transport some of our luggage in one of my prahus. The offer was gladly accepted, a liberal price paid, and similar tempting conditions offered if they and a few men, known to be at the station above, would unite in taking all our goods up that far. The following morning they started off.

The Malays of these regions, who are mainly from the upper part of the Kapuas River in the western division and began to come here ten years previously, are physically much superior to the Malays we brought, and for work in the kihams are as fine as Dayaks. They remain here for years, spending two or three months at a time in the utan. Djobing had been here four years and had a wife in his native country. There are said to be 150 Malays engaged in gathering rattan, and, no doubt, also rubber, in these vast, otherwise uninhabited upper Dusun lands.

What with the absence of natives and the scarcity of animals and birds, the time spent here waiting was not exactly pleasant. Notwithstanding the combined efforts of the collector, the sergeant, and one other soldier, few specimens were brought in. Mr. Demmini, the photographer, and Mr. Loing were afflicted with dysentery, from which they recovered in a week.

As a climax came the startling discovery that one of the two money-boxes belonging to the expedition, containing f. 3,000 in silver, had been stolen one night from my tent, a few feet away from the pasang-grahan. They were both standing at one side covered with a bag, and while it was possible for two men to carry off such a heavy box if one of them lifted the tent wall, still the theft implied an amount of audacity and skill with which hitherto I had not credited the Malays. The rain clattering on the roof of the tent, and the fact that, contrary to Dutch custom, I always extinguished my lamp at night, was in their favour. After this occurrence the lamp at night always hung lighted outside of the tent door. All evidence pointed to the four men from Tumbang Djuloi who recently left us. The sergeant had noticed their prahus departing from a point lower down than convenience would dictate, and, as a matter of fact, nobody else could have done it. But they were gone, we were in seclusion, and there was nobody to send anywhere.

In the middle of February we had twenty-nine men here from Tamaloe, twenty of them Penyahbongs and the remainder Malays. The lieutenant had been successful, and the men had only used two days in coming down with the current. They were in charge of a Malay called Bangsul, who formerly had been in the service of a Dutch official, and whose fortune had brought him to distant Tamaloe, where he had acquired a dominating position over the Penyahbongs. I wrote a report of the robbery to the captain in Puruk Tjahu, and sent Longko to Tumbang Djuloi to deliver it to the kapala, who was requested to forward it. There the matter ended.

I was determined that the loss, though at the time a hard blow, should not interfere with the carrying out of my plans. By rigid economy it could, at least partially, be offset, and besides, I felt sure that if the necessity arose it would be possible later to secure silver from Dutch officials on the lower Mahakam River. Bangsul and some Penyahbongs, at my request, searched in the surrounding jungle growth and found a hole that had been dug of the same size and shape as the stolen box, where no doubt it had been deposited until taken on board the prahu.

The day previous to our departure Mr. Demmini again was taken ill, and in accordance with his own wish it was decided that he should return. I let him have Longko in command of one of the best prahus, and in time he arrived safely in Batavia, where he had to undergo further treatment. Longko, the Malay with the reputation for reliability, never brought back the men and the prahu; their loss, however, was greater than mine, as their wages, pending good behaviour, were mostly unpaid.

Shortly after their prahu had disappeared from view, on February 20, we departed in the opposite direction. Our new crew, of Penyahbongs mostly, who only lately have become acquainted with prahus, were not quite so efficient as the former, but much more amiable, laughing and cracking jokes with each other as they ran along over the rocks, pulling the rattan ropes of the prahus. No sooner did we ascend one kiham than we arrived at another, but they were still small. Although the day was unusually warm, there was a refreshing coolness in the shade under the trees that grow among the rocks along the river.

Early in the afternoon we camped at the foot of the first of twelve great kihams which must be passed before arriving at Djudjang, the rattan gatherers' camp. During a heavy shower a Penyahbong went into the jungle with his sumpitan and returned with a young rusa, quarters of which he presented to Mr. Loing and myself. Bangsul had travelled here before, and he thought we probably would need two weeks for the journey to Djudjang from where, under good weather conditions, three days' poling should bring us to Tamaloe. He had once been obliged to spend nearly three months on this trip.

We spent one day here, while all our goods were being taken on human backs to a place some distance above the kiham. Four Malays and one Penyahbong wanted remedies for diseases they professed to have. The latter seemed really ill and had to be excused from work. The rest said they suffered from demum (malaria), a word that has become an expression for most cases of indisposition, and I gave them quinine. The natives crave the remedies the traveller carries, which they think will do them good whether needed or not.

Much annoyance is experienced from Malays in out-of-the-way places presenting their ailments, real or fancied, to the traveller's attention. The Dayaks, not being forward, are much less annoying, though equally desirous of the white man's medicine. An Ot-Danum once wanted a cure for a few white spots on the finger-nails. In the previous camp a Penyahbong had consulted me for a stomach-ache and I gave him what I had at hand, a small quantity of cholera essence much diluted in a cup of water. All the rest insisted on having a taste of it, smacking their lips with evident relish.

Early next morning the prahus were hauled up the rapids and then loaded, after which the journey was continued through a smiling, slightly mountainous country, with trees hanging over the river. We actually had a course of smooth water, and before us, near the horizon, stretched two long ridges with flat summits falling abruptly down at either side of the river. At two o'clock in the afternoon we reached the foot of two big kihams, and Bangsul considered it time to camp. It must be admitted that the work was hard and progress necessarily slow. Nevertheless, it was so early in the day that I suggested going a little further. Soon, however, seeing the futility of trying to bring him to my way of thinking, I began arrangements for making camp. Better to go slowly than not to travel at all. Close to my tent, growing on low trees, were a great number of beautiful yellow and white orchids.

Toward sunset, Bangsul surprised me by bringing all the men to my tent. He said they wanted to go home because they were afraid I should expect too much of them, as they all wanted to travel plan-plan (slowly). The Penyahbongs before me were of a decent sort, and even the Malays were a little more gentle and honest than usual. Bangsul was "the whole thing," and I felt myself equal to the situation. This was his first attempt at a strike for higher wages and came unexpectedly soon, but was quickly settled by my offer to raise the wages for the six most useful and strongest men.

After our baggage had been stored above the head of the kihams, and the prahus had been taken up to the same place, we followed overland. As we broke camp two argus pheasants flew over the utan through the mist which the sun was trying to disperse. We walked along the stony course of the rapids, and when the jungle now and then allowed a peep at the roaring waters it seemed incredible that the prahus had been hauled up along the other side. Half an hour's walk brought us to the head of the kihams where the men were loading the prahus that were lying peacefully in still waters. The watchmen who had slept here pointed out a tree where about twenty argus pheasants had roosted.

Waiting for the prahus to be loaded, I sat down on one of the big stones of the river bank to enjoy a small landscape that presented itself on the west side of the stream. When long accustomed to the enclosing walls of the dark jungle a change is grateful to the eye. Against the sky rose a bold chalk cliff over 200 metres high with wooded summit, the edge fringed with sago palms in a very decorative manner. This is one of the two ridges we had seen at a distance; the other is higher and was passed further up the river. From the foot of the cliff the jungle sloped steeply down toward the water. The blue sky, a few drifting white clouds, the beautiful light of the fresh, glorious morning, afforded moments of delight that made one forget all the trouble encountered in getting here. It seems as if the places least visited by men are the most attractive.

Four hornbills were flying about. They settled on the branches of a tall dead tree that towered high above the jungle and deported themselves in strange ways, moving busily about on the branch; after a few minutes three of them flew away, the other remaining quietly behind. There are several kinds of hornbills; they are peculiar birds in that the male is said to close with mud the entrance to the nest in the hollow stem of the tree, thus confining the female while she is sitting on her eggs. Only a small hole is left through which he feeds her.