looked it, when it was discovered that out of the dozen pigs they had raised, we
had allowed over half to escape. Then, too, their lives were insured, in a way; for
they knew that their deaths would cost us twenty big Mexican dollars.
Pig-hunting is the one big-game hunt that can be indulged in on the Malay
Peninsula without great preparation and danger. Deer and tapirs are scarce.
Tigers, or harimau as the Malays call them, abound, but live in the depths of the
almost inaccessible jungle, and come forth only at rare intervals, except in the
case of the man-eaters, who are usually ignominiously caught in pitfalls, very
seldom affording true sport. Elephants are still hunted in the native states north
of Singapore, but the sport is too expensive for the generality of sportsmen. One
of the peculiar attributes of the Malayan tiger is his decided penchant for
Chinese flesh, repeatedly striking down Chinese coolies in the fields to the
exclusion of the Malays or Europeans who are working by their side. Perhaps
once a month, a tiger or his skin will be brought into the city by natives, and
several times at night I have heard them in the jungle; but to my knowledge only
three have been shot by European sportsmen during my residence in the island.
So wild pigs really remain the one item of big game.
The pigs live in the jungle bordering plantations in which they can range for
pineapples, sweet potatoes, and tapioca root. They are the ordinary wild hog,
black in color, and fleet of foot. The older ones have good-sized tusks and show
fight when cornered. The lone sportsman has very little chance of obtaining a
shot, so they are hunted in large companies of from five to fifteen guns. Such
parties generally organize a hunt at least once a week and leave Singapore early
in the morning for an all-day shoot.
The pig hunts organized by the officers of the Royal Artillery are the largest, and
as a description of one is a description of all, I will take one up in regular order,
rather than quote from many.
We left Singapore at six o’clock in the morning in a four-horse dray. As the sun
had not reached the tops of the trees, the atmosphere was mild and pleasant. A
half-hour took us outside the great cosmopolitan city, of three hundred thousand
inhabitants. The low, cool bungalows with their wide-spreading lawns gave
place to the grass-thatched huts of the Chinese coolies, and the omnipresent
eating-stalls. A hard-packed road carried us through almost endless cocoanut
groves. At intervals a Malay kampong, or village, was revealed in the heart of