Ports of Call.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 7, 18 August 1909, Page 36

Ports of Call.

(By ELAINE MACDONALD in "The Australasian.”) Almost every Australian, when he finds the means and opportunity, goes England. He travels half-wav across the world, touches at three continents, and sees Ceylon. Arabia. Egypt. France, and Spain; anil yet when he returns, his impressions, with the exception of those made by the people and amusements on board ship, can almost invariably be summed up in one word—■ London, modern London. commercial London. historical London, Dickens’ London, musical and artistic London. London of the shops, restaurants, hotels, and theatres —but always London. Even with the centres of history and tradition it is strange how the great, smoky city, with its roaring traffic and endless grey streets, can efface the impression of the life and colour of the East, the glimpses of new continents and nations,

the individual character and charm of every port. Immediately after leaving West Australia, the first sign of the tropics is the exquisite colour of the Indian ocean—an incredibly pure blue. Even in the foaming wake there is no tint of green. Colombo is usually readied early in the morning. One is awakened by the slowing down of the boat, and sees through the port a line of Hat beach fringed with cocoanut palms.. which might be a Pacific atoll. The boat lies out in the harbour in a crowd of warships, transports, liners, tramps, launches, fishing boats, and catamarans. Lithe, copper-coloured natives piddle about, kneeling in slightly hollowed logs. On the jetty, money-changers sit cross-legged before little tables of coins. Everything in Colombo is bright and vivid. There are no indefinite greys, or drabs, or browns. The buildings are yellow, and pink, and terracotta, the roads red. the grass emerald green. The natives dress in gay pink and scarlet; the shops show bright silks and embroideries. Flowering trees fill the gardens and line the streets; the sky and sea are vividly blue. There is a good lake fringed with palms, and surrounded by a carved stone balustrade. Nlatives stand washing clothes on steps leading down to the water. They throng the streets, they gather in every patch of shade, and squat on their liauuehes gossiping: or stare impassively or lie asleep. Old women sit under bushes, selling flat cakes, and sweets rolled up in green leaves. In the main streets rows of rickshaws are drawn up to the kerb. The boys sleep beside them. Carts, with hoods woven of dry palm loaves, are drawn by pairs of tiny, humped oxen, with curlv designs branded all over their flanks. An Australian once described them as “the kind of cattle they scribble on." Along some of the roads there are banyans and tall jack-fruit trees, with the big yellow-green fruit growing out from the trunks instead of the |l»,ranches. Natives gather round stand-pipes, the men luxuriously pouring the water over themselves.. the women filling jars. The place teems with life. One almost fancies that the red road is alive and pulsing beneath one’s feet. Yet there is no noise or bustle; rather a feeling of peace. The sun shines strongly with an orange light, but the air is cool and fresh. Aden is the next port. On shore it is hot and dirty, but seen from the ship the absolute dryness and sterility are impressive: and one realises for the first time what the countries are like where it never rains. Rocky crags, with jagged crests, rise abruptly. They look brown and purple in the afternoon light. There is hardly any earth, and not a vestige of vegetation. At the foot there is

just room for the little town. On a rocky pinnacle is a ling-stuff, with the Union Jack Hying. Its real meaning impresses one for, perhaps, the first time. The white and yellow buildings are square and flat-roofed, with rows of arched openings. The little town is very still. From the steamer deck one can hear the town clock, perched on another little crag, chiming the quarters. A few Arabs lead their camels along the main street. Two negroes, clothed in brown and orange, tie their boat to the steamer's buoy. One stretches out and goes to sleep, the other sings a plaintive song — a few notes repeated over and over. Crowds of l uge soot-coloured sea-birds circle so close, that one can stretch out a hand and touch them as they pass. An Italian warship lies at anchor, the sun glinting on her polished brass, 'not a sign of life on her decks. The heat shimmers on the rocks; the grass-green water is without a ripple. Everything is still. Next day the boat is in the Red Sea. In the south are little islands of red sandstone rising abruptly from the water, each with a lighthouse. On the east is the eoast of Africa—a wall of jagged black rock, and a long stretch of white sand, the heat dancing and quivering over it. Through the glass one can see a few Arab huts and stunted bushes scattered in the dreary waste. It curves away out of sight. The second day' there is no sign of land, but on the third morning slightly hill.v shores of warm brown and red appear on each side, and close in at Suez. The boat lies some distance out, in clear turquoise-blue water. To the left are the steep rocky shores of Africa veiled in a rose-purple mist; then the square white buildings of Suez. Between it and the coast of Arabia is a disenchanting ditch—the Suez Canal. Along its left bank are straggling bushes and a line of little signal stations, and, on the right, the desert of orange sand stretches from the water’s edge into the dim distance —bare, featureless, but wonderfully impressive. Wandering Arabs tether their camels and pitch their primitive tents within a stone’s-throw of the great mail boat, which creeps along, hardly seeming to move; yet. even at that dead-slow pace, the wash tears away’ great masses of sand from the banks. In several places the canal opens into wide shallow lakes, but the ship’s course always lies close to the right bank. As the sun goes down over Egypt, a cold wind springs up in the desert, and whirls the sand about. Red and green lights mark the signal stations. An intensely powerful searchlight casts a white glare on the canal and a section of the banks ahead, and intensifies the surrounding darkness. It is an anxious time for the captain. He allows no music or entertainments on board, and everything is silent. Sometimes the keel

touches bottom ever so lightly, and a grinding shudder runs right through the boat. At Port Said the canal ends in a breakwater. At the head of it the waves break round the base of a stone pedestal, where stands a bronze statue of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the builder of the canal, pointing proudly to his great work. The only buildings that catch the eye on the water frontage are the big, white lighthouse and the Messageries Maritimes’ office—a handsome building of grey stone, its cupolas roofed with green tiles. All the others are dingy and tumble-down, and the streets are narrow and dirty. In March and April, when Australians are going to England, it is out of season at Port Said. The main streets are silent and empty, the hotels shut up, the cafes deserted. A negro waiter shuffles about amongst the chairs and tables on the footpath; but no one comes to occupy them. Plants droop and wither in green tubs, and a cold wind whirls paper and dust into corners. A few Turkish soldiers slink furtively about. Beyond the town lies Lake Menzaleh. The wind blows the sand along the shore and whips the water into yellow waves. It is desolate, and yet the very desolation gives the place more character and interest than it has in the season. It is Africa. In the native quarters there is always plenty of busy life. The narrow streets are crowded with men, women, donkeys, dogs, cats, and swarms of children. The men work at their trades seated in the doorways. The Arab women are shrouded in black burnouses, and veiled to the eyes with thick black nets, held in place by a brass ornament, fastened to the hair, and hanging over the nose. They push handcarls, piled with sugarcane, and stand gossiping outside the shops. The mailboats usually pass through the Straits of .Messina and Bonifacio in the dark, so the next stage of the journey is an abrupt change from Egypt to France. A dull glow in the night to starboard is Stromboli. At Marseilles the boat lies alongside the shore for the first time since leaving West Australia. There is a wilderness of wharves and shipping. A crowd of beggars assembles, and plays violins, barrel organs and guitars, while puny children dance on the cobblestones, shaking tambourines, and singing in high nasal voices. They all shriek and gesticulate, keeping anxious eyes on the deck. A piece of money thrown down causes a wild scramble and fight. The better part of Marseilles lies away from the wharves. The people call their city “The Paris of the South.” In some respects there is a resemblance. The women are as pretty and chic as Parisiennes, and the shops and the cafes, with their marble-topped tables and clipped bay trees, in little green tubs, placed out on the shady footpaths, reminds one of Paris; and in the Cours St. Louis, one of the principal streets, a row of flowerstalls along the kerb recalls the kiosks on the boulevards; but away from the business quarter the town has a charmingly quiet, old-fashioned air. The hilly streets are wide and well paved, and shaded with tall trees. The' house are of white stone. Down the middle of some

streets there is a space planted with grass and trees, with seats and a handstand. The principal sights are the Palais de Longchamps and the Church of Notre Dame de la Garde. The palace was built by Napoleon the Third. He thought it would be good policy to spend purt of the year amongst his people in the south; but was deposed before he could carry out the idea, and the palace is now a museum. It is on a hill, and beautifully designed in the shape of a crescent. The middle portion is a pillared gallery, open at the sides. In the centre a towering arch and a tine group of statuary surmount a torrent of water that rushes down a slope of rough unchiselled rocks into a great round pool below. Sloping paths, and broad flights of steps, lead up to the gallery on each side. Th? grounds are beautifully laid out, and one comes unexpectedly on cages of wild animals and birds amongst the trees. Notre Dame de la Garde overlooks tins harbour from the highest point of Marseilles. It is crowned with a colossal gilded figure of the Virgin and child, which shows far out to sea. It is the sailors’ church, and covered from floor to roof with tablets and pictures given as thank-offerings for successful voyages and dangers escaped at sea. There are eases full of little silver hearts; and silver lamps and models of ships hang from the rafters. The ground falls steeply away on every side. Two hydraulic lifts run down the cliffs to the level of the streets. From the parapet round the church is a fine view of the town, encircled by bare, rugged hills of white limestone. The trees make bright patches of green against the white houses and red roofs, 'fhe sea and sky are vividly blue. Just below is the little rocky island of Chateau D’lfs, with battlemented walls and towers, where Dreyfus was imprisoned for a time. One associates it. too, with the story of Monte Christo. The east side of Gibraltar looks to be uninhabited, but as the boat rounds the point the little town is seen at the foot of the rock. Just across the semi-circular bay is the Spanish town of Algeciras. Gibraltar is spoken of as a bare rock; but grass and bushes grow in the crevices, and after Aden it looks quite green. The boat lies some distance out, and one lands in a launch and walks along a covered jetty through a stone archway, into the barrack-square — Casematessquare, it is called. The main street opens off this. It is narrow and winding, and crowded with soldiers, Spaniards in broad black hats, and stately Moors with bright draperies and yellow slippers. The slope of the rock begins here, so that all the little streets running up the innei - side are composed of stone steps. Donkeys pick their way up and down, with panniers of vegetables. Between the tall, narrow houses one sees the great rock frowning above. At the end of the street is a little sunken garden, very weedy and forlorn. A few tropical plants droop sadly in it, and there are actually a gum tree and a wattle, very sickly looking, but nevertheless a little bit of home to an Australian; and a pepper-tree hanging over a yellow wall has a familiar look, too. Stone steps lead into the Alameda, a little publie garden with trees and

seats, separated from the parade ground by a low stone wall. Some soldiers are flag-signalling, and goods are bring sent up to the station on top of the rock in baskets run on wire ropes. Near the landing-pl act* is the meat ami fruit market—a low, square building, with the paths between the stalls open to the sunlight. Fine oranges, melons, grapes and green and purple figs are sold in flexible green baskets. Overlook ing Case mates-square are the ruins of an ancient Moorish castle. Going through an archway to get a nearer view, one se*s

a strong door, half open, and a lamp inside shows the beginning of one of the tunnels that honeycomb the rock. There is not a gun visible anywhere; and such a chance glimpse is the only outward sign of the great fortifications. This is almost the end of the voyage. Plymouth, Southampton, Tilbury—no one notices them in the excitement of landing, and the nearness of London—London that we know years before we see it; that sometimes produces the same feeling of disappointment, as a play deserilied by someone who has already witnessed it.