Liz and Nellie by Shonna Slayton

Author:Shonna Slayton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amaretto Press

26

In Which Nellie Bly Unwittingly Uncovers Another Woman’s Beauty Secret

THE FIFTH DAY out, a Monday, we anchored at Penang, or Prince of Wales Island, one of the Straits Settlements. As the ship had such a long delay at Colombo, it was said that we would have but six hours to spend on shore. With an attentive chap named Maury as escort, I made my preparations and was ready to go the moment we anchored.

We went ashore in a sampan. The Malay oarsman rowed hand over hand, standing upright in the stern, his back turned towards us as well as the way we were going. Frequently he turned his head to see if the way was clear, plying his oars industriously all the while. Once landed he chased us to the end of the pier demanding more money, although we had paid him thirty cents, just twenty cents over and above the legal fare.

After hiring a carriage we drove to where a waterfall comes bounding down the side of a naturally verdant mountain which has been transformed, half way up, into a pleasing tropical garden. The picturesque waterfall is nothing marvelous. It only made me wonder from whence it procured its water supply, but after walking until I was much heated, and finding myself just as far from the fount, I concluded the waterfall’s secret was not worth the fatigue it would cost.

On the way to the town we visited a Hindu temple. Scarcely had we entered when a number of half-clad, barefooted priests rushed frantically upon us, demanding that we remove our shoes. However, the temple being built open, its curved roof and rafters had long been utilized by birds and pigeons as a bedroom. Doubtless ages had passed over the stone floor, but I could swear nothing else had, so I refused emphatically and unconditionally to un-boot myself. I saw enough of their idols to satisfy me. One was a black god in a gown, the other was a shapeless black stone hung with garlands of flowers, the filthy stone at its base being buried ‘neath a profusion of rich blossoms.

English is spoken less in Penang than in any port I visited. A native photographer, when I questioned him about it, said:

“The Malays are proud, Miss. They have a language of their own and they are too proud to speak any other.”

That photographer knew how to use his English to advantage. He showed me cabinet-sized proofs for which he asked one dollar each.

“One dollar!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “That is very high for a proof.”

“If miss thinks it is too much, she does not need to buy. She is the best judge of how much she can afford to spend,” he replied with cool impudence.

“Why are they so expensive?” I asked, nothing daunted by his impertinence.

“I presume because Penang is so far from England,” he rejoined, carelessly.

A Chinese joss-house, the first I had seen, was very interesting. The pink and white roof, curved like a canoe, was ornamented with animals of the dragon tribe, with their mouths open and their tails in the air.

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