The Cruise of the Kawa | Page 6

feet. The general effect was that of a
pastry masterpiece on a gigantic scale. [Footnote: Oddly enough the
scene struck me as strangely familiar but it was not until weeks
afterward that I recalled its prototype in the memory of a decoration
worn by General Grosdenovitch, Minister very-extraordinary to
America from Montenegro just before the little mountain kingdom
blew up with a faint pop and became absorbed by Jugo-Slovakia (sic).]
We could only stare in open-mouthed amazement, thrilled with the
thought that we were actually discoverers. A gorgeous feature of our
find, in addition to its satisfactory shape, was its color. Sand and
vegetation were of the conventional hues, but where the flanks of the

rock rose from the enclosed pool we observed that they were of the
pure elementary colors, red, blue and yellow, fresh and untarnished as
in the latest masterpiece from the brush of the Master of All Painters.
Here before our eyes was an unspoiled sample of what the world must
have looked like on varnishing day.
Swank, who is ultra-modern in his tendencies, was in ecstasies over the
naive simplicity of the color scheme. "Look at that red!" he shouted.
"Look at that blue!! Look at that yaller!!!" He dove below and I heard
rattling of tubes and brushes that told me he was about to commit
landscape. This time I knew he couldn't possibly make the colors too
violent.
Fringing the exquisitely tinted coral strand were outlying reefs,
alternately concave and convex, which gave the shore edge a scalloped,
almost rococo finish, which I have heard decorators call the
Chinese-Chippendale "effect." Borne to our nostrils by an occasional
reflex of the zooming trades came, ever and anon, entrancing whiffs of
a brand new odor.
It is always embarrassing to attempt to describe a new smell, for, such
is our inexperience in the nasal field, that a new smell must invariably
be described in terms of other smells, and by reason of a curious,
inherited prudery this province has been left severely alone by English
writers. I know of but one man, M. Sentant, the governor of
Battambang, Cambodia, who frankly makes a specialty of odors.
[Footnote: See Journal des Debats, '09, "Le nez triomphant" de Lucien
Sentant.]
"J'aime les odeurs!" he said to me one day as we sat sipping a siem-bok
on the piazza, of the residency.
"Mais il y en a des mauvaises," I deprecated.
"Meme les mauvaises," he insisted, "Oui, surtout les mauvaises!"
But Sentant is unique. I can only say that as I sat sniffing on the deck of
the Kawa there was about us a soupcon of the je-ne-sais-quoi tropicale,

half nostalgie, half diablerie. It was ... but what's the use? You will
have to go out there some time and smell it for yourself.
[Illustration: The W.E. Traprock Expedition]
[Illustration Note: THE W.E. TRAPROCK EXPEDITION It is
doubtful if a camera's eye ever recorded the presence of a more
remarkable group than that presented on the opposite page. Here we see
the ship's company of the yawl Kawa, assembled under the shade of the
broad panjandrus leaves which fringe the Filbert Islands. They are,
reading from left to right, William Henry Thomas, the crew; Herman
Swank, Walter E. Traprock, Reginald Whinney. At their feet lies
Kippiputuona (Daughter of Pearl and Coral). The black and white of
photography can give no idea of the magnificent tropical coloring, nor
of the exquisite sounds and odors which permeate every inch of the
island paradise. At the moment of taking this picture, which was
obligingly snapped by Captain Triplett, the entire party was listening to
the thrilling cry of the fatu-liva bird. Captain Triplett had just requested
the group to "listen to the little birdie" when the distant wood-notes
were heard, the coincidence falling in most happily with the
photographer's attempts to secure the absolute attention of his subjects.]
I have mentioned the contour, color and fragrance of our island. I now
come to the strangest feature of all. I refer to its sound. I had for some
time noticed a queer, dripping noise which I had foreborne to mention
fearing it might be inside my own head--a devilish legacy of our recent
buffeting. You can imagine my relief when Whinney asked
apologetically, "Do you fellows hear anything?"
"I do!" was my rejoinder, seconded by Swank who had come up for air.
We all listened intently.
Though the sky was cloudless, a distinct pattering sound as of a light
rain reached us.
"Nuts..." said Captain Triplett suddenly, spitting on the nose of a fish
that had made a face at him. A glance through our mercifully preserved

field-glasses corroborated the Captain's vision.
"For the love of Pete!" I gasped. "Take a squint at those trees." They
were literally crawling with nuts and tropical fruits of