once its masters, its slaves, and its prey.
When they have at last been fairly beaten by the monsoon, the fisher folk betake
themselves to the scattered coast villages, which serve to break the monotonous
line of jungle and shivering casuarina trees that fringe the sandy beach and the
rocky headlands of the shore. Here under the cocoa-nut palms, amid chips from
boats that are being repaired, and others that still lie upon the stocks, surrounded
by nets, and sails, and masts, and empty crafts lying high and dry upon the beach
out of reach of the tide, the fishermen spend the months of their captivity. Their
women live here all the year round, labouring incessantly in drying and salting
the fish which have been taken by the men, or pounding prawns into blâchan,
that evil-smelling condiment which has been so ludicrously misnamed the
Malayan Caviare. It needs all the violence of the fresh, strong, monsoon winds to
even partially purge these villages of the rank odours which cling to them at the
end of the fishing season; and when all has been done, the saltness of the sea air,
the brackish water of the wells, and the faint stale smells emitted by the nets and
fishing tackle still tell unmistakable tales of the one trade in which every
member of these communities is more or less engaged.
The winds blow strong, and the rain falls heavily. The frogs in the marshes
behind the village fill the night air with the croakings of a thousand mouths, and
the little bull-frogs sound their deep see-saw note during all the hours of
darkness. The sun is often hidden by the heavy cloud-banks, and a subdued
melancholy falls upon the moist and steaming land. The people, whom the
monsoon has robbed of their occupation, lounge away the hours, building boats,
and mending nets casually and without haste or concentrated effort. Four months
must elapse before they can again put to sea, so there is no cause for hurry. They
are frankly bored by the life they have to lead between fishing season and fishing
season, but they are a healthy-minded and withal a law-abiding people, who do
little evil even when their hands are idle.
Then the monsoon breaks, and they put out to sea once more, stretching to their
paddles, and shouting in chorus as they dance across the waves to the fishing
grounds. During this season numerous ugly and uncleanly steamboats tramp up
the coast, calling at all the principal ports for the cargoes of dried fish that find a
ready market in Singapore, and thus the fisher folk have no difficulty in
disposing of their takes. Prices do not rank high, for a hundredweight of fish is
sold on the East Coast for about six shillings and sixpence of our money, but the
profits of a season are more than sufficient to keep a fisherman and his family in
decency during the months of his inactivity. The shares which are apportioned to