PERSONAL CONTACT WITH THE ABORIGINES

In spite of the objections of the Director, and the suspicions of the police and of the hydra-headed ‘they,’ I did not, while in Formosa, confine either my interests or my exercise to ricksha-riding[30] or to “tennis-ball.”

My chief interest lay with the mountain tribes—the aborigines; my chief exercise consisted in what my Japanese friends called “prowling” among these tribes. Sometimes accompanied by another English teacher and a servant, sometimes by my son or secretary, sometimes quite alone, I went up into the mountains; going as far as I could by “trolly” (or toro, as the Japanese call it[31])—a push-car, propelled by Chinese-Formosan coolies, on rails laid by the Japanese—rather, under their instructions—into the mountains, for the purpose of bringing camphor-wood and crude camphor down to the great camphor-refining factory in Taihoku. From the terminus of the toro line I “prowled.”

For permission to go into the mountains—and permission for almost every movement on the part of a “foreigner” is necessary in the Japanese Empire, in Formosa even more than in Japan proper—I am indebted to Mr. Hosui and to Mr. Marui, the two most courteous Japanese officials whom I met in Formosa. I wish here to express my gratitude to both.[32]

The tribe that I first studied, and of which I saw perhaps more than of any other during my residence in Formosa, was the great Taiyal tribe of the north—reputed to be the most bloodthirsty on the island, and whose territory now covers almost as much as that of all the other tribes together.[33] From Taiyal territory I sometimes “prowled” over into that of the Saisett and Bunun tribes. This was perhaps not strictly according to official permission; I was told that it was “too dangerous.” But the spice of danger—perhaps also the “forbidden-fruit” element—made these walks the more interesting; and I still have my head on my shoulders.

The southern tribes I approached by water from the east coast; my first visit to them being during the first Christmas—rather, New Year[34]—vacation that I spent on the island. Of this visit I retain a somewhat vivid recollection, for two reasons. One because of the great cliffs of the east coast, a glimpse of which I caught in passing; the other because of the novel mode of debarkation, necessitated by stormy weather, at Pinan,[35] a port in Ami territory, just north of that occupied by the Paiwan and Piyuma tribes.

I embarked at Keelung, on one of the small coasting steamers, sailing around the east coast to Takao,[36] the southernmost port of the island. It was just south of Giran[37] that we passed the great cliffs, said to be the highest in the world. For about twenty-five miles these giant cliffs rise perpendicularly from the sea to a height of about 6,000 feet. This towering wall of granite—for such the rock seemed to be—is one of the most imposing sights that in my wanderings about the world I have seen.

The weather was grey and drizzling when we left Keelung, but it was just after we had left Karenko,[38] the first port south of the great cliffs—the second day out—that the storm broke. Those who have weathered a storm in a small boat know what this means. In all the guide-books, and other books dealing with Formosa, that I have seen, it is said that the sea-route, up and down the coast of the island, “can be safely followed only during six months of the year,” i.e. the spring and summer months. “Safely” is probably, like other words, a matter of individual definition. Personally I should be inclined to substitute the word “comfortably” for “safely,” judging from my own experience, both on this trip and on a subsequent one. That is, as far as the actual voyage is concerned, if one be content to remain on board the steamer from Keelung to Takao, where there is a good harbour. With the exception of one or two who disembarked at Karenko, the other passengers—all Japanese, naturally—seemed glad enough to do this. I, however, had not come on this trip for the sake of the sea-voyage, or with the object of reaching Takao—now a Japanese town, the southern terminus of the railway which starts from Keelung in the north—and which I could much more easily have reached by rail had I wished to visit it. Takao, like all the other large towns of the island, is on the western side of the great mountain range,[39] contains no aborigines, and, especially to one who has lived for some years in Japan, is of no especial interest.

The purpose of my trip was to study the aborigines of the east coast and those who lived in the narrow south-eastern peninsula of the island. It had not been possible for me to obtain police permission to cross—or to attempt to cross—the great mountain range; therefore I knew that my only hope of studying the eastern and south-eastern aboriginal tribes lay in landing at Pinan. The captain tried to dissuade me. He said that no man among his passengers would think of landing; much less should a woman attempt it. Would I not wait until another trip when the weather was calmer, or when I had a companion—one of my own race (on this occasion I happened to be quite alone and the only “foreigner” on board). He really did not like to take the responsibility.... But I assured him that he would be absolved of all responsibility “if anything happened” to me—a euphemism that he several times used, in his rather good, Scotch-accented English (he had been about the world among seafaring men). Also that my Government would not hold his Government responsible if “anything happened.” My blood would be on my own head.

The captain at last rather lost patience. He told me of some sensible missionaries—he stressed the adjective (he seemed to think I was a senseless one; apparently he could not conceive of any white woman wanting to go among “heathen” except for the purpose of “converting” them)—who in similar stormy weather had sailed around the island three times before they had dared to attempt a landing at a Chinese-Formosan village on the coast. I explained that the length of my vacation would not make such a proceeding possible in my case, and that rather than go on to Takao, I preferred to go ashore—or to attempt to do so—in one of the canoes in which some men of the Ami tribe had put out from shore, and in which they were evidently endeavouring to reach the ship. I was told it was their custom to do this, whenever a Japanese ship approached, in order to barter commodities.

The captain said rather grimly that would be my “only chance on this trip,” as, with the exception of a few articles which he would give the savages, if they succeeded in reaching the ship when it came to anchor, he would not attempt to discharge the cargo he had for Pinan, but would defer that until the return voyage from Takao....

The Ami canoes succeeded in reaching the ship, and I succeeded in persuading the captain to have a ladder lowered for me to descend. This, however, only after further argument, for the captain declared he had believed I was only “bluffing” (where he had learned this delightfully expressive word I do not know), when I had said that I was willing to trust myself to the Ami and to one of their canoes. He said, however, that these coast Ami were sek-huan—“half-tame,” he explained, when interpreting the expression—and that as far as my life was concerned, this would probably not be in danger, if I succeeded in reaching the shore; that is, so long as I did not venture into the interior. On this point I would make no promise, and the captain did not press the matter. He was probably glad to be rid of a passenger whom he evidently regarded as a missionary of less than average missionary intelligence. To do him justice, however, when the canoes were tossing on the waves at the side of the ship, he called down to one of the savages, who was evidently the chief, or leader, of those who had ventured out, a few words in mixed Japanese and Ami dialect. This he assured me was an order to look well after my life and comfort. The fact that I understood enough Japanese to know that the captain referred to me as the “mad one,” did not detract from my appreciation of his order.

I clung to the ladder until the crest of a wave brought the little canoe sufficiently high for me to drop into the arms of the chief, who deposited me, also the small bag I had with me—which one of the crew of the steamer had thrown down to him—in the bottom of the boat. Then shouting an order to the men in the several other canoes, the chief and the one other man in the same canoe with him—and me—began to paddle for shore. The order that the chief shouted was evidently to the effect that the men in the other boats were to wait and get certain things from the steamer, for on looking back, when the canoe in which I was rose on the crest of a wave, I could see bundles being lowered from the ship’s side into the canoes. What these contained I do not know, and soon it became impossible to watch, for the waves rose higher; the salt water was in my eyes, and was pouring constantly over my head and face. I was drenched to the skin, in spite of the supposedly waterproof coat that I wore. The chief’s assistant had given up paddling and was vigorously bailing the boat with a large gourd, or calabash. The chief alone paddled.

I had been in the boats of other Pacific islanders; these had been much more skilfully managed. I soon realized that in seamanship the Formosan aborigines could not compare with the Hawaians, the Filipinos, or with most of the peoples of the South Seas; perhaps for one reason, because their canoes carry no outrigger. Or is this effect, rather than cause? Is it because of their lack of seamanship at the present time that they venture into the waves in outriggerless canoes?

At any rate, whatever they lack in skill in the navigation of sea-craft, the Ami at least are not lacking in personal bravery, or in a sense of responsibility. When the canoe was swamped by the waves—as, soon after leaving the ship, I realized must inevitably be the case—the chief motioned me to get on his back, and when I had done so, began to swim for shore. He did this quite coolly, almost as if it were a matter of course, although he had never before seen a white woman; apparently regarding the whole affair from the Oriental, “it is ordered,” point of view. The other man in the boat seemed for a moment to be more at a loss, but at an order from the chief he dropped the now useless paddle, which for some reason (or none) he still held, and rescued my little travelling-bag, first taking the handle between his teeth, then, in spite of the waves, managing in a rather dexterous fashion—by means of the strip of homespun hemp-cloth which he had been wearing as a loin-cloth—to lash it to his shoulders, swimming with legs and one arm as he did so.

Thus from the water—literally—I reached the territory of the east coast tribes and southern tribes of the island. What I learned of their manners and customs I shall write in its proper place.[40] But I want here to record my appreciation of the courage and also the cool, matter-of-course calmness of the Ami chief, whose presence of mind undoubtedly saved my life on this occasion, as my own awkward attempts at swimming would never have carried me through those waves. So rough were they that it was with difficulty I was able even to cling to the back of the chief. Had the water been colder I should probably not have been able to do so. But at that latitude—a little south of the Tropic of Cancer—sea-water, even in January, is never numbingly cold.

Rather different was my experience on the occasion of another winter vacation during my stay in Formosa. That vacation I spent in the mountains, as I wished to visit certain sub-tribes of the Taiyal that I had not seen. Because of the altitude, it was—certainly by contrast with the plain below—bitterly cold. There had been flurries of snow during the day. I had with me, as guide and luggage-bearer, a Chinese-Formosan coolie, an elderly man, who was supposed to be well acquainted with the mountain trails—to have tramped them since his youth, when as a charcoal-burner he had ventured into the mountains for fuel. Thus had he recommended himself to me. However, perhaps because of the snowy greyness of the day, he managed to lose his way. I had—fortunately—a pocket compass with me. In such Chinese-Formosan dialect as I had acquired—inadequate enough—I attempted to explain the meaning of the pointing needle. My guide declared he understood, and said that in order to regain the trail we must go in a certain direction. Going in this way, it was necessary to cross a stream, which usually was little more than a shallow brook. Because of the winter rains,[41] however, this had become so swollen that it was almost a torrent, and when we reached it we found, instead of a shallow stream that could easily have been waded, or crossed over on stepping-stones, a great body of water, dashing over fallen trees, and swirling around boulders which normally lay far beyond its banks.

My guide, accustomed, as are all Chinese coolies—both in Formosa and on the mainland—to carrying burdens on his back, volunteered thus to carry me, declaring he could easily do so. I acquiesced; and thus “pick-a-back” fashion we started. The guide was a tall man, and, though the water came well up on his thighs, he felt his way carefully with a stout staff that he carried, and all seemed going well, in spite of the fact that it was growing dark, when, without warning, the man gave a startled, guttural cry—in the unexpected fashion of the usually phlegmatic Chinese when really frightened—shook me from his shoulders, and, stooping until his whole body was submerged in the water, shuffled rapidly to a boulder behind which he crouched. Dropped thus suddenly almost to my waist into very cold water, which was running with a swift current, I was nearly swept off my feet. I managed, however, to make my way to a boulder, near the one behind which my guide was cowering. As I drew myself up out of the water on to the boulder, I angrily demanded of him the reason of his extraordinary behaviour.

“Light of Heaven,” the man replied, in a low voice, between chattering teeth, “be not angry. It is a seban—a head-cutter—there.” With a motion of his head he indicated a figure that I had not seen, standing at the edge of the water.

“I was wary,” my guide continued, “I heard a movement in the bushes. I looked up—I saw. Now our heads must surely go. As it was with our fathers——” The man continued to murmur, growing more incoherent in his terror, and evidently more than half benumbed with the cold, as I found myself also becoming.

I decided that possible decapitation was preferable to freezing—especially as the agreeable stage of pleasant dreams, which is said to accompany actual death from cold, had not been reached; only that of extreme discomfort. The small weapon that I usually carried with me on these mountain trips was in my hand-bag, which, with my other impedimenta, was on the bank that we had left. My guide had promised to return for these things after carrying me across the water. However, there are times when it is better to flee from evils that one knows.... I hailed the seban, and, although he spoke a variety of Taiyal dialect a little different from that of which I knew a few words, he evidently understood the situation. Indeed, under the circumstances, words were scarcely necessary for such understanding. The man’s grin of comprehension pleased me. It was so human—so Aryanly human—that it was refreshing after the mask-like stolidity of both Chinese and Japanese to which for some time I had been accustomed; for these two peoples, however differing in other respects, are on this point at one. They equally regard it as a mark of the lowest breeding to allow any expression of emotion—of genuine feeling, of whatever kind—to be reflected in their features. Even the coolies, imitating their masters, have, as far as possible, adopted the code of the latter on this point. All wear a mask that is seldom, or never, dropped. The seban, however, are not trained in Confucian ethics; hence the play of joy and sorrow, of amusement and of other emotions, on their more mobile features.

The expression of that particular seban, at the moment, was one of mixed amusement and sympathy. I am afraid that he rather enjoyed the plight of the cowering Chinaman. For generations the Chinese-Formosans and the aborigines of the island have been hereditary foes. However, I made him understand that my guide—or the one who was supposed to act in that capacity—was not to be molested. The seban nodded in comprehension. Then by signs he made me understand that he would—if I so chose—carry me in safety to his side of the water, which he had seen I was trying to reach. My clothing was drenched, I was chilled to the bone, my fingers I found too numb to move. I realized that my hold on the boulder could not last much longer. The Chinese I knew could not be depended upon in the proximity of the seban. Indeed, the poor wretch (the Chinese) I feared could scarcely manage to get himself out of the water, so completely had he been unnerved by the unexpected appearance of the seban—one belonging, it seemed, to a sub-tribe which he had especial reason to fear. For me it was a choice between trusting myself unaided to the torrent—and, in my benumbed condition, I knew I should soon be swept off my feet—and accepting the offer of the friendly seban. Naturally I chose the latter alternative.

When I signalled the seban my acceptance of his offer, he again grinned, took his knife from his loin-cloth and, holding it out of reach of the water, stepped into the stream, which swirled about his loins. I was glad enough to slip from my precarious hold on the boulder to the shoulders of the seban, who, true to his word—as in my dealings with the aborigines I found them always to be with those who have not betrayed them—carried me safely to the shore. Then still holding me on his shoulders, for I was too benumbed with cold and fatigue to walk, he strode on to a fire a little distance away, around which a number of his people were gathered. I learned later that these were members of a village community higher up in the mountains, whose bamboo huts had been destroyed by recent torrential rains. The homeless people were camping temporarily near the foot of a great tree, in the branches of which the spirits of their ancestors were supposed to dwell; also the spirits of the Great White Fathers of Long Ago—obviously the seventeenth-century Dutch—to whom the priestesses of the demolished village had been offering constant prayers. My appearance among them was hailed as an answer to their prayers, which accounted for the fact, as I also later learned, that when I was carried into camp—a very benumbed and bedraggled goddess—both men and women fell on their faces, and some of the children fled shrieking in terror.

I have since wondered whether perhaps these two chance occurrences—one a storm at sea, the other a torrential rainfall in the mountains, which by accident brought me among two divisions of the aborigines, one those of the east coast, the other those of the northern mountains, in the fashion that I have described—had not something to do with the very friendly relations which existed between these “NaturvÖlker” and me. Certainly the rÔle of the sea-born (or river-born) goddess was not one that I was anxious to play, or that I had in mind, on either occasion. But a few chance words of some of the people—after I had learned a little of their language—led me to believe that the fact that I had “come to them out of the water” contributed to the esteem in which I was held; made certain in their minds the conviction that I was the spirit of one of the beloved white rulers of old, returned from the elements. (Why a spirit should choose this particularly uncomfortable method of approach—or of return—was not quite clear.) That I had come among a matripotestal people probably accounted for the fact that none of the aborigines seemed to think it strange that the spirit of one of the Great White Fathers should choose to reappear in the body of a woman. That such a spirit had returned seemed to be the general supposition among the northern tribes. Among those of the south there were some who held, apparently, that a Goddess of the Sea (or “from out of the sea”) had come to them—one to whom semi-annual offerings were customarily made.

When I realized the reason for the regard in which I was held by these people a sense of the ludicrous overcame me. School-day struggles with Virgil—buried in some region of the subconscious—were recalled; these even more strongly when one day I overheard a discussion among some of the tribespeople regarding my walk. I neither hobbled as did the Chinese-Formosan women, nor did I walk with the toed-in, short steps of the Japanese women (a few of the coast aborigines had seen Japanese women).

“Feet strangely covered, stone-defying. With no burden on her back, freely, with long steps, she walks, as must the females of the gods from whom we spring.”

“Et vera incessu patuit dea,” etc. Curiously similar the idea, though the words in which this time it was voiced were those of this strange Malay dialect.... The childhood of the world! Still in odd comers it exists, and can, with seeking, be found.