Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  The moment we emerged from that narrow cut, we got a view of the white town of Aden, nestling in the very heart of what seems to be an extinct volcano. We were driven rapidly down the road, catching glimpses of gaudily-attired mounted policemen, water-carriers from the bay, with their well-filled goat-skins flung across their backs, camels loaded with cut stone, and black people of every description.

  When we drove into the town, which is composed of low adobe houses, our carriage was surrounded with beggars. We got out and walked through an unpaved street, looking at the dirty, uninviting shops. Very often we were urged to buy, but more frequently the natives stared at us with quiet curiosity.

  On spotting a bundle of the tooth sticks, I plunked down my penny for a dozen, though I am unable to state where they get their tree branches as I failed to see one living thing growing at Aden.

  In the heart of the town, we found the camel market, but beyond a number of camels standing, lying, and kneeling about, the sight was nothing extraordinary. Nearby was a goat market, but business seemed dull in both places.

  When we started to return to the ship, little naked children ran after us for miles, touching their foreheads humbly and crying for money. They all knew enough English to be able to ask us for charity.

  Upon reaching the pier, we found our driver had forgotten all the English he knew when we started out. He wanted one price for the carriage, and we wanted to pay another.

  “The price is listed on the board. We will pay no more,” stated the gentleman who was trying to give him our money.

  The driver refused to take it and blocked our path.

  After several tense moments, I spotted a native policeman in the crowd. “Over here!” I called out to him.

  The gentlemen explained our situation. The policeman, with a nod at us and a scowl at the driver, took the right change from us, handed it to the driver, and gave him, in addition, a lusty kick for his dishonesty.

  When we returned to the ship, we found sellers of ostrich eggs and plumes, shells, fruit, spears of sword-fish, and such things. In the water, on one side of the boat, were numbers of men, Somali boys, they called them, who were giving an exhibition of wonderful diving and swimming.

  They would actually sit in the water looking like bronze statues, as the sun rested on their wet, black skins. They sat in a row, and turning their faces up towards the deck, would yell methodically, one after the other, down the entire line: “Oh! Yo! Ho!”

  It sounded very like a chorus of bull-frogs and was very amusing. After finishing this strange music, they would give us a duet, half crying, persuasively, in a sing-song style: “Have a dive! Have a dive! Have a dive!”

  The other half, meanwhile, would put their hands before their widely opened mouths, yelling through their rapidly moving fingers with such energy that we gladly threw over silver to see them dive and stop the din.

  The moment the silver flashed over the water, all the bronze figures would disappear like flying fish, and, looking down, we would see a few ripples on the surface of the blue water–nothing more.

  After a time that seemed dangerously long to us, they would bob up through the water again. We could see them coming before they finally appeared on the surface, and one among the number would have the silver between his teeth, which would be most liberally displayed in a broad smile of satisfaction.

  Some of these divers were children not more than eight years old, and they ranged from that up to any age. Many of them had their hair bleached. As they were completely naked, excepting a small cloth twisted about the loins, they found it necessary to make a purse out of their cheeks, which they did with as much ease as a cow stows away grass to chew at her leisure.

  They never get out of the way of a boat. They merely sink and come up in the same spot when the boat passes. The bay at Aden is filled with sharks, but they never touch these black men, so they tell me, and the safety with which they spend their lives in the water proves the truth of the assertion. They claim that a shark will not attack a black man, and after I had caught the odor of the grease with which these men anoint their bodies, I did not blame the sharks.

  After a seven-hour stay at Aden, we left for Colombo, being followed a long ways out from land by the divers. One little boy went out with us on the ship, and when he left us he merely took a plunge from the upper deck into the sea and went happily back towards Aden, on his side, waving a farewell to us with his free hand.

  That night I tried my new tooth sticks. The wood wears into a soft pulp, and I found them the most efficient as well as pleasant toothbrush I had ever tried. I felt a regret that some enterprising firm had not thought of importing this useful bit of timber to replace the tooth-destroying brush used in America.

  The passengers endeavored to make the time pass pleasantly between Aden and Colombo. The young women had some tableaux vivants one evening, and they were really very fine posing as living pictures. In one they wished to represent the different countries. They asked me to represent America, but I refused, and then they asked me to tell them what the American flag looked like! They wanted to represent one as nearly as possible and to raise it to drape the young woman who was to represent America.

  Another evening, we had a lantern slide exhibition that was very enjoyable. During the exhibition, the Queen’s picture was thrown on the white sheet, and evoked warmer applause than anything else that evening.

  The loyalty of the English to their Queen on all occasions, and at all times, had won my admiration. Though born and bred a staunch American, with the belief that a man is what he makes of himself, not what he was born, still I could not help admiring the undying respect the English have for their royal family.

  We never had an evening’s amusement that did not end by everybody rising to their feet and singing “God Save the Queen.” I could not help but think how devoted that woman, for she is only a woman after all, should be to the interests of such faithful subjects.

  19

  In Which Elizabeth Bisland Takes A Late-Night Jinricksha Ride To See Native Japan

  MORE MEDIEVAL FOLK in blue stand about on the stone pier and welcome us with friendly smiles. Not to be outdone by Mrs. Baxter, Mrs. White assumes full command of our party and before we can decide for ourselves, she tucks us all into jinrickshas, and we are on our way to the hotel.

  “They can go as fast as five miles an hour!” she shouts back from her vehicle, which has taken the lead.

  The jinricksha is exactly the vehicle in which one would expect to ride in this land of fairy children – large perambulators that hold one person comfortably; but instead of being trundled from behind by a white-capped nursemaid, one of the Henry II gentlemen, who wears straw sandals and an enormous blue mushroom hat on his head, ensconces himself between the little shafts in front and prances noiselessly away with it.

  Our way lies along the Bund, a broad, handsome street on the waterfront, with a fringe of slim pine trees strange of outline as are those one is familiar with upon Japanese fans.

  Other jinrickshas are scampering about. Tonsured doll-babies in flowered gowns, such as one buys at home in the Oriental shops, are walking about here alive and flying queer-shaped kites, with a sort of calm unconscious elfishness befitting dwellers in fairyland.

  Two little Japanese ladies with pink cheeks, and black hair clasped with jade pins, toddle by on wooden pattens that clack pleasantly on the pavement. Their kimonos are of brightly colored crepe, and their sashes tied behind like bright-tinted wings. Every one – even the funny little gendarme who stands outside of his sentry-box like a toy soldier – gives us back smile for smile.

  All my fears of travel slip away, being replaced with awe and wonder and thrill of adventure. If all my visits to distant lands are as pleasant as this, I shall have the most wonderful time of my life.

  The Grand Hotel is at the upper end of the Bund, which lies along the waterfront of Yokohama Bay. I’m surprised at how western the hotel looks. If Madge had blindfolded me and
led me to the hotel, I would not have known I was in a country other than America. That is until another specimen of the Moyen-âge – this one in his stocking feet – arrives. He shows us into our beautiful rooms facing the water. Rooms with steam-heat and electric bells!

  We congregate back in the dining room where we hungrily pour over the bill of fare. To my relief, everything is English, but to my disappointment, so is the food. My purpose in travel, aside from going faster than Nellie Bly, is to experience different cultures, including the local fare.

  Mrs. Baxter holds up her menu to begin her lesson: “It is all numbered, dears. Simply tell the waiter the number you want and he will bring it to you. They speak no English a’tall. None whatsoever.” She and Mrs. White shake their heads at one another as if disappointed that everyone is not fluent in English.

  “But they must speak some English,” I remark casually, “if they know their numbers.” Madge and I exchange looks and stifle our smiles.

  Number one is the soup. Two is a fish dish. I skip ahead to the desserts at the bottom and see tea and coffee listed, each with their own numbers, lumped in with numbers for apple pie and lady fingers. My stomach will not know it has left America.

  After we order, I have Mr. White’s full attention. “Miss Bisland,” he says. “Are you familiar with the work of Rudyard Kipling? The Jungle Book?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Did you know that he spent part of his Honeymoon in this very hotel? Why, perhaps he and his bride dined at this very table.” Mr. White tapped his finger on said table for emphasis.

  “I had no idea. I will enjoy my stay here infinitely more now that I know,” I say in all seriousness, and Mr. White smiles, quite pleased with himself for adding to the conversation.

  And while he has the floor, he continues: “If you ladies want to tour the city, I recommend chartering ‘rickshas. They will only charge you seventy-five cents for the whole day. When the day is done, they will not be winded at all and will be just as charming as they were at the start. Remarkable.” Having done his duty at conversation, Mr. White digs into his food and keeps silent for the remainder of the meal.

  After dinner, Madge and I escape to the veranda to drink in the last of the sights on our first day in Japan. The darkness closes down swiftly, but charming things are still to be seen. The air is crisp and keen; happy cries and clinking pattens tinkle in melodious confusion from the street.

  Crimped pink and white paper-lanterns swing from the shafts of the ‘rickshas, and they flit by in the dark like fireflies. A broad yellow moon rises up from the other side of the water and turns the bay to wrinkled gold, against which the ships and junks show delicately black, as if drawn with a pen; and a few clear black lines of cloud are etched across the moon's path.

  Madge nudges my shoulder, and I see a man dressed in the uniform of the American Navy. He is staring out across the water until Madge’s nudging draws his eyes toward us, and he smiles.

  “Good evening,” he says, his voice a deep baritone.

  I blush in response, thinking of my sister’s advice to me to succumb to a bit of romance while I am gone, and am glad the night is dark.

  “Hello,” says Madge. “We are newly arrived today. Are there any sights you recommend to us?”

  “Several,” he says and joins us at the rail. “Lieutenant McDonald.” He tips his hat at us. “I’ve been stationed here for two years. I think I know my way around the place.”

  “Places more Japanese than this?” I ask waving my hand back to the Grand Hotel.

  “You are in the European side of town. Commander Perry may have broken their isolationist policies and let the outside in, but in practice, they like to keep us separate. I could escort you to the native side of town. Shall we meet up again tomorrow morning?”

  Madge frowns. “Is there nothing we could see tonight? Miss Bisland is only staying for two days. I want her to get an eyeful of Japan.”

  And before I can stop her, she gives the reason why.

  “She’s in a race with Nellie Bly around the world!”

  “Is she now?” He turns his full attention on me, but this time I do not blush. I have judged him too old for me.

  “Hmm,” I confirm, reticent for people to know what I am doing. Perhaps I’m tired of answering the same questions and expect I’ll be answering them all the way around the world. I’d rather people see me as a simple traveler, not knowing from whence I came or where I am going.

  “Then I suppose I can find some place to take you tonight.” He motions for us to step off the veranda.

  When the rest of our party sees us getting ready to leave, they come scurrying along after us, eager for any excitement Lieutenant McDonald can offer. He leads us into the flowery hotel court, where we find our ‘rickshas standing in a row in the moonlight, each with one of the pretty lanterns swinging. Once settled, we flit away behind our sandaled steeds, only the whir of our wheels and our calls and laughter sound through the city's quiet, moon-washed ways.

  Here in the European town the houses of two stories of stone stand flush with the narrow asphalt-paved street. A tiny footpath runs under the shadow of their tiled caves; but as these are paved with little cobblestones, and the roadway is smooth and clean as a table, no one by any chance ever walks in the footpaths.

  Occasionally we meet a figure enveloped in dark, shapeless drapery, or a grave, bland Chinese merchant goes by on his soundless cork soles, but this is the business quarter, and people have gone to their homes on the Bund, or upon the Bluff, where consuls and foreigners of importance reside.

  We skim around corners with a shrill ki-yi! of warning; debouch into a great square upon which churches and public buildings face; cross a broad canal where acres of sampans are huddled for the night, and find on the other side Shichiu, the native town.

  I give a hearty wave to Madge as we cross over from the land we are familiar with to the one we’ve been pining to see. Hancho-dori lies before us, the wide main thoroughfare from which spring hundreds of narrow branches, all swarming with a frolicsome, chattering crowd tinkling about in pattens, their multitudinous tapping making a vibrant musical undertone to the sound of the many voices. I don’t know where to look first; I don’t want to miss a thing.

  The houses, delicate little match-boxes of thin, unpainted wood, fifteen or twenty feet high and divided into two stories, crowd close together and lean upon the street. The fronts of these houses – indeed, the greater part of the walls all around, are sashes of many tiny panes glazed with white, semi-transparent paper, through which the inner light shines as from a lantern. The shop fronts are mere curtains of bamboo, rolled up during business hours, and let down when the shop is closed for the night.

  Business is not nearly over yet. The Japanese are as little inclined to early bed as the Chinese in San Francisco, it seems, and the tide of trade runs strong. From all the eaves swing soft bubbles of tinted light – lanterns of many shapes and sizes. The shops are lit and busy, and contain every need, from crabs to curios.

  Here and there cluster flocks of light, portable booths, each also with a swaying lantern, where steaming tea is sold in thimble-cups; where sake may be drunk hot and hot, poured from long-necked porcelain bottles, or trays of queer, toothsome-looking sweetmeats are to be had for coins of infinitesimal value.

  Along the street lie heaps of fresh vegetables – making pretty bouquets of color, all clean and ready for the pot – or fruits of many sorts massed with skill and beauty; little red oranges in bamboo nets, set about with their own green leaves; plums, pomaloes, and fruits whose names we do not know. Everything, everywhere, is radiantly clean, dainty, and inviting.

  “Where are we going, Lieutenant?” asks Madge.

  “The theatre – a humbler sort. It won’t be what you are used to. The stage and auditorium are on a level, and both merely platforms. The acrobats do their feats for a few cents.” He ends his sentence as we arrive.

  The theatre is just as he has said. A group
of tumblers on the stage are going through some supple contortions to the sound of a shrill little pipe and a blattering wooden drum, playing out of time with one another.

  A little gallery to one side is reserved for the moon-eyed babies with whimsically shaved heads; but they come down occasionally and rollick about as they wish, quite unreproved.

  “They are never harsh with children,” the Lieutenant explains, “and in return the children display a courteous tolerance of the foibles of their elders.”

  The whole front of the theatre, a curtain of matting, is rolled up at intervals and, when the feat in progress is at its most thrilling climax, is let fall. This artful proceeding stimulates the interest of the passers-by to such poignancy that they succumb in platoons to the pangs of curiosity, and so crowd the little platform that we depart hastily.

  Madge and I are eager to move on to the next wonder, but we have to pull Mr. Mayer, whom we have dubbed the German Gentleman, along.

  More moon and lanterns, more laughter and flutter, more clacking of sandals, and then a Japanese Madame Tussaud's, with pleasing little horrors in wax at the entrance as earnest of more of the same cheerful entertainment within.

  Here is better music that, during a naïve pantomime of Japanese ghosts, plays a “lonesome tune” in a soft minor key. This does not hold us long either, for Lieutenant McDonald calls us. “Let’s keep going. Farther up the street is a larger and more fashionable playhouse. I want to show you the best talent of Nippon.”

  At the box-office are piles of flat sticks, six inches long and two wide, painted with numbers in Japanese characters.

  “What are these for?” asks the amateur photographer who has joined us, but left her camera behind.