BY MOTOR THROUGH THE EAST COAST OF SUMATRA 



95 



after ascertaining that she had suffered 

 nothing more than an unpleasant wait. 



"I don't know," she replied, "but I'm 

 very glad to have you back. I've felt 

 rather 'shivery' ; first watching them ap- 

 pear out of the dark, one or two at a 

 time; then hearing them talk in low 

 voices. I didn't know whether they were 

 planning to eat me or simply discussing 

 why I chose this particular place to sit 

 in. But for the last half hour they have 

 stood like a row of vultures and haven't 

 made a sound, and that was the worst 

 of all!" 



"These are not bad people around 

 here," said Mr. von der Weide, the Dutch 

 planter ; "but they are not always to be 

 trusted. I do not think it well to be alone 

 in the highlands at night." 



Armed with native spades, shaped 

 somewhat like a wide-bladed adze, and a 

 small forest of strong cut poles which 

 we had fortunately discovered piled by 

 the roadside, the crew attacked the motor. 



The prisoners were strong and willing ; 

 my training in the recovery of automo- 

 biles from strange places had been varied 

 and thorough, and, aided by the untiring 

 efforts of Mr. von der Weide, we soon 

 had a wide excavation made around the 

 car, supporting it meanwhile with shores 

 to prevent further sinking. 



Then with the poles as huge levers we 

 pried up each end of the machine a little 

 at a time, filling the chasm underneath 

 with a cob-house of other poles cut into 

 various lengths, until the car, resting on 

 a wooden pier, rose to the road level 

 and was dragged to comparatively firm 

 ground. I scraped off the worst of the 

 clinging mud from those parts that were 

 completely choked with it, and coaxed 

 the motor into starting. 



There seemed to be no damage except 

 for twisted mudguards, and we ran back 

 to Kebon Djahe accompanied by Mr. von 

 der Weide, who insisted on our spending 

 the night there — we did not require 

 much urging — while our army was 

 marched ceremoniously back to jail. 



The night was extremely cold, at least 

 for within three degrees of the equator, 

 but we had been spared the usual evening 

 storm and although plastered from head 

 to foot with clay mud when we came in, 

 we were very comfortable. 



In the morning, after a very early 

 breakfast of Dutch cheese, brown bread, 

 and delicious cocoa, and another hour or 

 more spent in wandering about the fasci- 

 nating buildings of the native compound, 

 we ran back to Sariboe Dolok. The 

 road, although still in a wretched con- 

 dition, had dried considerably, as there 

 had been no rain the previous day, and 

 we reached Sariboe Dolok without diffi- 

 culty, picked up Joseph, and kept on to- 

 ward Toba Lake. 



HOW THE NATIVE MOTHERS WEAVE 



Not far beyond the Assistant Resi- 

 dency was the small compound of Kina- 

 lang where we made another long stop. 

 It was concealed by the customary 

 thicket of bamboo, and although the 

 houses were smaller, poorer, and not 

 nearly so elaborate in design as those of 

 Kebon Djahe, the native life was even 

 more interesting. 



Scattered about the inclosure were 

 crude bamboo frames, attached to the 

 piles of the houses or to poles driven 

 into the ground and fastened at the cor- 

 ners with straw rope. At these the 

 women of the village were seated — their 

 legs stretched out on the ground before 

 them and one end of the frame in their 

 laps — and with the most primitive kind 

 of equipment were producing the sarongs 

 for which Kinalang is noted throughout 

 the highlands (see illustration, page 84). 



Their movements seemed in nowise 

 hampered by the babies tied on their 

 backs, nor were the babies themselves in 

 the least disconcerted at having their 

 small heads almost snapped off as their 

 mothers worked. 



Large bamboo reels held the yarn to 

 be transferred to the spindles, and in lit- 

 tle bamboo pails beside each frame were 

 the strong vegetable dyes which the 

 weavers applied on their work, spreading 

 the color with bunches of chicken feath- 

 ers, while they kept shooting the spindles 

 from side to side between the separated 

 strands of the warp. 



In spite of its thriving industry in 

 sarongs, the houses of Kinalang showed 

 none of the neatness and decorative fea- 

 tures of those of Kebon Djahe. All, ex- 

 cept the huge, oddly shaped communal 

 building, were loosely thrown together, 



