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National Geographic : 1920 Jan
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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE WOMEN OF CEI'RT \I> SUMATRAN TRIBES ARE NOTED THROUGHOUT TIlE DUTCH INDIES FOR THEIR BEAUTY On "Passar," or market days, wonderful arrays of strange fruits and vegetables are displayed for sale, and on special occasions children's toys, ornaments for head-dresses, cooking utensils, and cloth of gay colors may be purchased. Among the tempting edibles are peanut cheese and pineapple sauces. The palm wine of Sumatra is most refreshing on a hot day-and all days are hot in the lowlands. Through the dusk I could see a little bamboo lookout, such as is erected in every grain field, and, squatting on its platform, two blue-clad figures, who stopped their shouting as I approached. But to my weak efforts in Malay they merely stared in silence and continued to jerk on the strings which, tied with flut tering bits of cloth, intersected the field to frighten away feathered marauders. From the hill, however, I discovered in the twilight two solitary little white houses about a mile away and struck off to investigate. Soon a tiny light sprang out of the darkness, and when I arrived in its cheery glow I found the Dutch Controleur just returning from inspect ing a jail which was in course of con struction, and I accosted him with my tale of disaster and appeal for help. "Certainly," he promptly said, as if foreign motorists mired in the interior of Sumatra came to him every day with requests to be dug out, "I will lend you my prisoners." Although his jail was not yet built, he had a fine collection-thirty-eight Bataks and Achinese in whom respect for Dutch control had not been sufficiently evident. This was my wrecking crew, and joined by a Dutch planter, who was recuperat ing in the higher altitude of the Batak lands from an assault made on him by two coolies, we marched as if on a night attack back to the buried motor, with two armed native soldiers as a guard. A "SIIIVERY" EXPERIENCE FOR A WOMAN I had been absent several hours before the lanterns picked out ahead of us the dark outline of the sunken car blocking the road. As we approached I saw the figure of my mother apparently seated in the clay mire of the roadside, with a dozen motionless forms standing in a shadowy row on the bank behind her. She struggled stiffly to her feet, reveal ing one of the mud-soaked seat cushions that she had succeeded in dragging from the car, and the silent row melted back into the darkness. "Who are your friends ?" I asked,
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