Читать книгу In Singapore - Clarence Stratton - Страница 9
ОглавлениеSOUNDS, SIGHTS, AND SMELLS
On the day of the ship’s arrival at Singapore, Thomas was up on deck long before dawn, shivering in that damp wind which, in the tropics, announces the day, with its false hope of cool airs. He wondered again at the skill of the pilots in these waters crowded with irregular islands, these strange-speaking foreigners who miraculously guide their craft along the winding channels of these treacherous seas.
He noticed that the stumpy steamer was higher in the water than she had been on leaving Penang, because of the loss in weight in the coal she had burned, and he thanked his stars there had been no head winds to delay them.
The flashes of the lighthouses were paling in the coming day. The red ones no longer showed at all. On his right, through breaks in the mist, he could catch glimpses of tall mountains, their crests and sides tinted with the gray and pink of mother-of-pearl by the rays of the still invisible sun. They were so airy, so delicate, as they hung poised in the atmosphere with no view of their lower slopes or bases or even of the island from which they sprang, that he could hardly believe they were real.
He rubbed his eyes and thought of Sindbad. Why, certainly! That was why he had recalled the Arabian Nights, read years ago. Wasn’t it somewhere in these islands that Sindbad the Sailor had rubbed his magic lamp and had found grinning and prancing apes and little brown men that resembled them? If only, now that he was on the spot, he could read those fascinating tales of magic again! Perhaps he could, during evenings when he should be waiting for the events of the next day.
He could now make out clearly the island on which Singapore is built. The channel here swung far out to turn the edge of the shallows. There bobbed the dumpy little lightship, just extinguishing its beacons. All the craft on the surface of the oily water were steering straight for that white tower on the crest of Lighthouse Hill. That rising trail of smoke on the horizon might be mounting from an active volcano.
How long it took to reach the port! In that air, against the unreflecting surface of the sunless ocean, objects can be seen at amazing distances. Where did all the ships come from? The answer to that question was easy. They came from all over the globe, for Singapore is the corridor to both the East and the West.
Could the harbor accommodate all these boats steering towards it as rapidly as their propelling force—steam, electricity, gas, wind, hand, and foot power—could make them move? Then he felt reassured that there would be space, for he noticed that just as many craft were making away from the harbor and were scattering to all points of the compass.
His ship was close in before the risen sun threw the regular morning haze across the wide waters. He could see fat Chinese and slender Malays sousing the decks of their sampans or painting their timbers. Every one of these strange contraptions seemed to have a pet duck tied to its rear deck.
About the rickety old wharves so many small boats were made fast that it was possible to walk for miles without touching the mainland. The docks and decks were piled with masses of commodities that Thomas later learned were tortoises, sharks’ fins, copra, bales of rice and tea, cases of chopsticks, pots of grease, baskets of golden pork, cases of noodles, piles of live fish and stacks of dried fish, sun-cured vegetables, buckets of watermelon seeds, and tins of motor gasoline.
The wild confusion of landing, the heaps of personal baggage lugged about by the uncouth native passengers, the “Come along now; step lively,” of the calm British officials, the jabbering in twenty languages, and the uncertainty of what he had better do first would have appalled Thomas a month before. But by now he had seen two cities of this outlandish part of the world, and already he called himself a thoroughly seasoned traveler.
He passed from the end of the landing plank as briskly as he could, stepped off to the right to be out of the surging current of pushing humanity hurrying from the steamer, dropped his American looking suitcases beside him, and frankly stared all around him.
Across the strip of narrow water he could see the soaring crests of the mountain ranges outlined against the cloudless sky.
“Sumatra,” he reminded himself, like a schoolboy mastering a geography lesson.
The city before him seemed more compact at close range than it had from the water. From right to left swept the stately Harbor Front Road, with its imposing hotels and large business blocks. He regarded the rows with curiosity, realizing that with his reduced pocketbook their luxuries and wares were not for him.
Should he find the post-office and ask for mail? There could hardly be any letters for him yet. Besides, the lure of the city made itself felt. He must start out at once to explore. If he chanced on the post-office, well and good;—he might go in, if something more enticing were not drawing him along behind it.
Wealthy Europeans must live in the villas he had noticed in terraces on the overtopping hill above the massed roofs of the main city. Well, he very likely had seen all of them that was necessary for him. Did Oriental hotels have a room where he could check his baggage, as hotels had at home? He could find out.
He decided to cross the road.
Resisting the assaults of half a hundred willing workers of all shades of skin and of all varieties of dress, he carried his own bags across the road, narrowly escaping collisions with loping jinrickshas and racing motor cars, and once being forced to walk round a parked cart drawn by two beautiful wide-horned white oxen.
His entrance into the most expensive hotel in the entire Malay Peninsula, carrying his own baggage, caused a mild riot, although the attendants never once let Thomas know how peculiar an animal they considered him in this land where no white man does any physical labor for himself, so cheap is native help. He later learned that if he should be sitting four feet from the pitcher of water and the glasses, and the native servant were forty yards away, it was too much effort to cross the four feet to pour his own glass of water. No; the house-boy should be called from forty yards away to do this strenuous bit of work.
In fifteen minutes the alert American youth learned that the city—like several western mushroom towns of his own land—made a good showing only on the outside to the casual visitor. It “put up a good front,” as he wrote to Bill Johnson. Only the European residents and (this was astonishing to Tom) the Chinese lived in quarters that were better than slums. The other Chinese section and the Indian and Japanese districts were tawdry and mean, no matter how picturesque at first glance.
He had been told on the Portlander that Chinatown was the district to live in. He was drawn by the odors of the outdoor Chinese cook shops, with their fat-bellied owners; but he decided he could never learn to juggle a bowl of food and two long chopsticks on a street curb in the gaze of passing Russians, British, Malays, Portuguese, Dutchmen, Japanese, and slumming American tourists.
He wondered whether the closed fronts of buildings hid opium dens, gambling joints, or joss temples. He fell in beside a parade led by a Chinese brass band, blaring away at a tune he thought he knew. But, for the life of him, he could not be sure. A strain that sounded familiar was swept away by some terrible discords from the clarinet and bass horn. The booming of the big drum was terrible. The procession wound in and out along the narrowing streets and along alleys darkened by tall houses, whose overhanging balconies were crowded with spectators.
His pulse beat faster as the musicians banged and blew, and his feet moved along in perfect time with the marked rhythm. Only after an hour of twisting and doubling did it dawn on him that perhaps this parade was not getting anywhere very promptly. A pair of white sailors turned around from a sloppy dish of noodles and rice which they were sharing from the top of a barrel.
“Pipe the brass band,” he heard one exclaim.
“Rats!” the other objected. “It’s only a Chinese funeral.”
Thomas turned back and in vexation at himself plunged down the first narrow opening that led towards the water-front.
It was impossible for him to go directly to any point; first, because he had no real reason for trying to get anywhere; and second, because, like all boys, he had eyes in his head and inquisitive feelings all over him. In this narrow alley he came upon the most amazing store he had ever seen. No pet shop in any city he knew could be put in the same class with it. He thought of the usual assortment of pet canaries, a cage or two of kittens, a few runs of fashionable puppies for ladies, the certain bowl of goldfish, once in a long while a parrot, and, more rarely still, a timid little monkey.
But this Singapore pet shop! There were birds like darting flames or bouquets of flowers; a score of various kinds of monkeys, of all sizes and colors, long-haired, short-haired, bearded, and shaved; parrots screeching in all languages; giant lizards; chameleons that flashed new colors upon their bodies while you watched them do it; pet ducks for house porch or boat deck; dome-shelled lumbering tortoises and their soft-skinned eggs; cute little snakes like lengths of colored cord; huge puffy serpents, too slow to harm any one; sharp-eyed mongooses, that would be only too happy to pounce upon all these snakes, sink their sharp teeth into their necks just below their heads, and hang on for dear life through all the thrashing of the long bodies; cormorants to be used in fishing, with the metal ring around their necks so they could not swallow the fish they seize; pet crickets in tiny cages—the delight of poor Chinese youngsters; in the large aquarium, a fish with the brilliant red, yellow, and blue of a gorgeous parrot and a beak that could bite through wood; other fish as transparent as folded tissue paper; painted sparrows and birds of paradise; cockatoos and golden pheasants.
A strange feeling in the pit of his stomach made Thomas realize that a menagerie is not a pleasant place to live in. The closeness of the atmosphere and the terrific odors of the establishment drove him to the outer air, gasping for relief.
Decidedly, the food and the smell made it impossible for him to think of living in the Chinese quarter.
Business was not very brisk at the Sailors’ Mission, and there he found a small room. Here, even if he could not have the three native servants entirely at his beck and call, he could be as cool as the tropics permit and, more attractive still, as odorless. Best of all, he could be clean.
Early that evening he took a hot bath and tumbled into bed. He did not wake up for fourteen hours. This long sleep was just what a healthy, thoroughly tired boy needed, and he awoke next morning with new courage for the great quest in which he had, so far, seemingly made but little progress.
