Our life on Sulu Island — a personal account by Mrs Gertrude Schuck-Scharlau (sister of Herman Leopold Schuck
“Unser Leben auf Sulu – Selbsterlebtes von Frau G. Scharlau”
translated from the original German by Peter Schidlowsky (03. 2012)
Sulu is the largest island in the Sulu group of islands in the south of the Philippines. This is where life had once taken me, and although there were difficult times, still they are a treasured, pleasant memory to me, a lifelong nourishment.
My brother, a sea captain, had earlier come here with his ship and started a plantation with coffee and cacao. The land had been a gift from the Sultan of Sulu who was very fond of him. Now, he had his family come to join him from their home in Holstein and, at the plea from my sister-in-law, I went along.
After a stormy passage on a steamship from Hamburg, during which we experienced all the horrors of seasickness, we anchored in Singapore. We stayed there a week, until the coastal steamer was ready to take us to our new homeland. After a 14-day journey, during which we called at several ports on North Borneo, we finally put into the port of Sulu. And finally the new homeland was before us and we looked longingly at the scene, sharp and clear despite the lateness of the evening. Before us, on a bay, lay the town of Jolo, with its white-painted houses and gleaming tin roofs, the mountains in the background, around us the calm sea quietly lapping at the hull of the ship, and above us the most gloriously starlit sky, as it can only be in the tropics—each star shone extra brightly for our arrival and even the man in the moon smiled a friendly welcome. Who would blame us for allowing the old homeland to fade into the background, given the story-book aspect of the new.
All too soon we would be called back to reality. The signal pipe announcing the arrival of the ship was heard on land and soon the harbour-master came alongside in his boat. The ship’s ladder was let down and he came on board to collect the required papers and to inquire as to our health. All went smoothly, nothing stood in the way of the landing of the passengers and the cargo the following morning. The harbour-master was already on the way back to his boat when I asked him a small question: did he know if Captain Schück was in town or at his plantation? But alas, he was a Spaniard (at that time the Spanish ruled the island) and understood only his own language, which was as Greek to me as my address in French was to him. But he had understood the name and stammered that Captain Schück had left early this morning on a German warship for Maimbun on the other side of the island, where the Sultan of Sulu resided. We were completely dumbfounded, but soon the riddle would be solved. Again we heard paddles in the water, a second boat came alongside and a voice asked in German, if Mrs Schück’s family was on board. We were electrified and delighted to hear a familiar tongue, and a jubilant “Yes, we’re here” resounded from us all. It was a German who had been living on the island but now wished to return home. He bid us welcome and sais that my brother had indeed gone to Maimbun on the German warship Iltis I, to see the Sultan, partly as pilot but mostly as interpreter between the Sultan and the ship’s lieutenant-commander. It would probably take 2-3 days until the ship returned but he’d try to find a man to ride across the mountains to inform my brother; perhaps he would then return sooner. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be easy to find a messenger, as there was great unrest in the land and yesterday there had been a significant battle between the Sulu people and the Spanish. The Sulus had wanted to storm the town but had been driven back—150 Sulu men and a number of their women had perished in the skirmish. Well, that was nerve-racking news, to say the least. But he assured us that we needn’t fear—we Germans were quite safe. For the moment we should stay on board until news arrived. Tomorrow he’d come again, to chat and while away the time; for now it was goodnight. It was time to get some rest and we went to our berths with very mixed feelings. We let ourselves be lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the ship until we were wakened in the early morning by gunshots and yells. A few more bold Sulus had climbed over the town walls, had attacked the sentries and on both sides there were dead and wounded.
Early morning found us again on deck and the bright illumination of the sun was in sharp contrast to the scene the previous night. We could now distinguish everything clearly and saw that all the houses were on stilts. We found out through our countryman that the inhabitants were Spanish military personnel, also “deportados”, i.e. criminals brought from the Philippines, who had to earn their keep under military supervision, but most of the people were the Chinese, living from trade. In the harbour there were always 1 or 2 Spanish warships. A mail-ship came down from Manila every 14 days; also 2 or 3 trading ships during the month, from Singapore. A few small British warships put into port as well, but above all we enjoyed the mighty German protection, as each year His Majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm I, sent one of our German warships to enquire as to the welfare and problems of his distant subjects. Where for us those were red-letter days, for the Sulu people it was hugely impressive. During my stay there, we were visited by SMS Iltis I, Wolf, Stosch, Leipzig and Nautilus. So, despite being in a distant, foreign land, we were not completely forgotten and cut off from everything, as we had feared, neither were we in want of work.
We remained on board for another 2 days, watching the traffic on land and with the boats, saw also how the fallen Sulu warriors were carried out to the open water, to be buried at sea: a cool grave, counted on by each combatant, because for them it is an honour to die in battle against the Spaniards—according to their beliefs, it honours Tuan Allah greatly, and before they leave for the fight, they have their priests bless them and often get their jacket embroidered with verses from the Koran. Finally, on this 2nd day of our involuntary quarantine, two dark points appeared on the horizon, gradually developing into masts, and after a number of hours SMS Iltis I dropped anchor. Obviously the messenger had crossed the mountain unscathed and the business could be concluded quickly, thus ensuring a speedy return. Soon, we were invited on board the Iltis and we spent a very happy day there. But, already before sundown we had to part and were swiftly rowed ashore.
We went to my brother’s house built on stilts and directly on the water. It was almost empty and we camped there for the night. We had hardly been in the house when the Iltis’ officers made their return visit, bringing baskets full of “forage”—neither before or since did the house ring so merrily with laughter as on that evening. The next morning my brother announced his family’s arrival to the governor of Sulu. At the same time, he asked him for a horse—so he could ride out to his plantation to fetch mounts and escorts for them—as well as permission to enter the town. However, he received permission only on condition that he take over responsibility for the safety of the people and that they were to leave their weapons at the watchtower, a quarter hour outside the town. Since the raid, entry points to the town were closed at all times; the natives were never allowed in with their weapons, kris, and rifles, or without special permission. The requested promise was given, my brother rode off, so as to be back by 4 p.m., when the heat was no longer so great. We used the day to organize our now-landed baggage, with a view to facilitating delivery, as there were no buffalo carts or moving wagons here. We had to fetch the items often and soon, as each day the monsoons (mid-April to October) could set in—and here, one can sure learn what rain can be! One can imagine how excited we were, feverishly so, about all the new things yet to come; we could hardly wait.
Finally, my brother returned with mounts and escorts: 7 horses, each with 2 escorts. The Sulu people, quite handsome, yellowish-brown faces with dark eyes, very short-cropped hair, a turban-like cloth wrapped around the head, clad in a tight jacket and pants, the latter held up around the hips by a 2-3 meter long sash (candit) into which the kris is inserted. Lips dyed red, teeth filed down, and the inside of their mouths black as Hades. At first, one is startled by such a sight, but then one gets used to it. Now we mounted the horses, each led by one man and flanked on each side by another man for protection. The younger children each rode together with a rider. At the rear, my brother walked with his wife (she had broken her arm during their trip and was afraid to ride) and two buffalo carts brought some of our belongings. We passed the governor’s house, a Spaniard, who was expecting us and accompanied us to the town gate which was shut again behind us, and we were left to “our Lord and good luck”. A surprise awaited us: when we arrived at the watchtower, there must have been around 80 men from the plantation and vicinity who had come, on their own initiative, to greet us. The oldest man of the island, in his sixties, led them—he wanted to be the first to meet the wife and family of the German who lived without fear amongst them. The people now got all their weapons back and formed a circle around us. Thus protected and led by the natives, we made our way in. We had to cross woodlands, a presently-dry riverbed, over little hills, and finally the house, that was to be our home, appeared before us in a large meadow. And, just as the men had come to meet us at the tower, so now the women and children had gathered in front of the house to greet us. Finally we could dismount and enter the house, whose much-touted beauty we were so curious to see.
But our faces showed increasing disappointment. It was a farmhouse made of boards, coconut trunks and bamboo. Coconut palm leaves covered the roof. There were no windows, i.e. there were no glass panes, only large window openings— in the evening, a screen, made of palm branches held in a frame, was simply placed in front. A veranda ran all around the house, protected by the roof from wind, sun and rain. The house stood on posts, so high that underneath was the stable for horses, buffalo and a few scrawny cows. The 5 rooms were large, but lacked all comfort and order—it was evident that only men, under leadership of natives, lived here. Sideways on the veranda sat the kitchen, usually the pride of every housewife, but here was very primitive. One learned to limit one’s wishes and dreams to the most modest level. It was good that we didn’t have much time to think; one had immediately in the first hour to get to work, unpack, put away, make room and organize as much as possible and then satisfy all the hungry faces—there were 12 persons. Yet we took enough time to bathe in the river which flowed at the foot of the hill on which stood the house; it was a refreshment that we enjoyed daily, early in the morning and in the evening.
Now began a busy time for us and we couldn’t complain about a lack of variety in our tasks. First, the house had to be made livable, which we achieved gradually through our combined efforts and the things we had brought from our former home. More difficult was communication with the native people-- our ears and brains could not so quickly assimilate the new (Sulu) language what with the multitude of new impressions coming at us. In the beginning we used mostly sign language. It was time to adapt to a completely different way of life, to learn to make use of the local products, to dispense with a number of old habits, and to do without many things. Potatoes, like the ones we knew at home, were non-existent; there were only local fruits and the tapioca root which tastes like the German potato and can be used for many things. We were told that, if we wanted fresh bread, we’d have to bake it ourselves—there was flour and an oven (a very nice one, too). Oh boy! We city-dwellers, who were used to getting everything from the baker, would have to do it ourselves. But what could we do—we had to try, and after a few failed attempts, we succeeded. One of our plantation workers, a Spanish “deportado”, showed us how—he turned out to be a cook, offered his services as such and was eventually taken on. For a while though, I still wanted to do everything myself, but eventually this idea took care of itself, the tropical heat and glowing fire being too much for a European woman.
At first, it was difficult to get fresh meat on a regular basis. The messenger had to leave for the town soon after 6 in the morning, so as to return before the heat, otherwise the meat arrived already spoiled. If necessary, actually often, chickens were slaughtered—unlike back home, in Sulu they were not a delicacy. Eggs were a daily staple. Once we had a well-stocked chicken coop, there were fewer supply problems, but in the beginning there were many headaches. And butter! A precious item, when it was available. How often was I at a complete loss as to what to use for cooking, then I was told “here is coconut oil, that’s what you use for cooking”. I was dismayed over this unreasonable idea, but what could I do, I had to adopt it. One of the Sulu women taught me how to make use of it in a tasty way and then it went quite well. One of our people, a passionate hunter, brought us wild pig; he also shot parrots, which were prepared like doves. We got fish in town, also rice. This main food staple was always available in big bags, as the workers also got some. Fruit was wonderful and abundant—coming partly from our own land, but also brought from the mountains. Vegetables were very inexpensive and always delicious. With few exceptions, the fruit is more juicy than meaty: the meatiest fruits are banana and pineapple, the banana available year-round. Gradually I learned to use the fruit as a compote and, when I served the first filled pancake, there was great joy. In the beginning we also had to do without fresh milk and get used to canned milk. Then we found several buffalo cows, which were fed a special diet of corn and fresh grass. Our cook knew how to milk them and so we got 2-3 liters of fresh milk, richer than from European cows, with a slightly salty flavour and thus more digestible. In this way we gradually became accustomed to everything and a great step was made once we were familiar with the food and other comforts.To be sure, it had cost a fair number of deep, sorrowful sighs and secret tears.
Now the rainy season had begun, which lasts from April to October, admittedly not continuously, but daily, hours at a time, often also non-stop for days on end. Oh yes, the rain pours from the sky, and how!—here (in Europe) we have no idea. We often had to shut doors and windows and have the lights on all day. Fortunately, the house was built on stilts and stood on a mountain, so that the water drained more easily; otherwise, we would have been in danger. Our normally so placid river became a raging torrent, bringing uprooted trees and bushes down from the mountains, which then created dams over which the waters came crashing. Of course, the sun shone again and dried the soil faster than here (in Europe), so that we could once more get out in the fresh air.
During the monsoons, work on the plantation was reduced. The people’s rice fields were planted, weeding was done during the nice days or hours, a field was freshly-plowed, or the fields were planted with coffee, cacao, banana, pineapple and manila hemp. That was the produce of the plantation and, when the the coffee-bushes stood covered in blossoms, it looked enchantingly beautiful. Later, when the umbellate fruits clustered round the branches, the berries smelling like our cherries: two flat beans, close together, or just one round one, surrounded by juicy flesh. The coffee tasted doubly good when it was oneself in charge of its production, right into the aromatic, strong brew in the cup—it was with great joy and enthusiasm that I devoted myself to the task.
The island also offered many natural attractions: mountains, forests, valleys, rivers and the sea. A ride into the interior or to the ocean was a pleasure that unfortunately became infrequent. The Sulu people (the Moros) remained faithful to us: they were generally good-natured and except for the Spanish, greatly admired all Europeans, especially Germans. The Moros work hard (in their way), lead simple lives as they have few needs, live in the huts they build themselves, using coconut trunks and bamboo. Should the dwelling disintegrate, they simply build another. There’s enough room for that, as the population had shrunk due to disease, war and hunger; also, there are no immigrants. Only in the two port towns were there Chinese settlers, who worked in the business of trade: Jolo on one side of the island, and Maimbun, where the Sultan lived.
The entire population is Muslim; they strictly follow their religious laws, going every Friday evening to the Langal (church/mosque), where a sub-priest/imam, who also works on the plantation, read from the Koran. True to their faith, many have several wives, with whom they live more or less happily, which likely depends greatly on how the women get along with each other. Jealousy is not an option. A sad marriage law exists there: if the husband is tired of one of his wiwes, or if she bears him no children, he is permitted to return her to her family, but as soon as he calls her back, she must join him again. He can send her away three times, and each time she must come; only on the fourth time can she refuse him and no one can force her. After 100 days, she is free to marry again. There are no old maids there. Sadder still, I found, was the slavery that existed there, which tore apart whole families. This is mostly a result of a unique, profiteering law there. For example, should a man not have enough rice to plant his field and he borrows an additional 1 Gantan (2 litres), he will then owe 1 Kavann (50 litres) at harvest. If the harvest was poor, a buffalo (if he owns one) is taken from him, or his wife, his child or he himself will be taken as a slave. The lender often pays his own debt with these slaves and so people end up going from one hand to another; most often, parents and children no longer know each other once they can be reunited. No outsider would be surprised then, that these arrangements are not willingly entered into and often result in persistent fights, even secret abductions.
Shortly before our arrival, the Sultan of Sulu died and his oldest son, a man of 18, took his place. Despite the small size of the country—the whole island was slightly more than 5 miles across—there were people in one settlement who would not recognize the new ruler. So he went there, accompanied by his advisors and many of his slaves, and by force of arms was able to quickly assert his rule. We had no inkling of this fight, but suddenly we were told that the Sultan would visit us. In no time at all, the room was prepared for his reception. We quickly changed clothes and, with pounding hearts and great anticipation, we looked forward to his arrival. We had assumed an impressive procession, but dear me, we were bitterly disappointed. Coming toward our house was a disorderly group, armed with kris, lance and rifle, not exactly a pretty sight, more akin to a wild medieval raping party. They were soaked to the skin—it had rained all that day. We looked for the Sultan in vain; then, from the middle of the crowd, which had stepped to the side at the stairs, a youthful figure emerged, not much different in dress than his countrymen. My brother greeted him as Sultan and led him into the room. All our beautiful illusions of a magnificent state, splendid horses, and magnificent retinue were destroyed: no Sultan could have looked more prosaic. He apologized for his appearance, blaming the recent battle, but for us the disappointment was bitter. To be sure, during later visits, I had seen him in full splendour and rich surroundings, but I could not forget my first impression. He ruled only three years, then died very suddenly. His younger brother, under tutelage of his mother, took his place.
As beautiful and different as it was from what we had been used to before, life there was marred by sickness, even death. All of us, more or less often or hard, had to fight the fevers brought on by the climate. In the second year of our stay, cholera ravaged the island. I lived three years there, another two in Singapore, then it was time to pull up anchor for the journey home, time to remember what I had seen and experienced, and to exclaim in my mind: “O world, how very beautiful you are!”.
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