nto the mysterious heart of Borneo. Above Samarinda the
great river flows between solid walls of vegetation. The density of the
Bornean jungle is indeed almost unbelievable. It is a savage tangle of
bamboos, palms, banyans, mangroves, and countless varieties of shrubs
and giant ferns, the whole laced together by trailers and creepers.
Contrary to popular belief, there is little color to relieve the somber
monotony of dark brown trunks and dark green foliage. It is as gloomy
as the nave of a cathedral at twilight. Here and there may be seen some
vine with scarlet berries and many orchids swing from the higher
branches like incandescent globes of colored glass. But it is usually
impossible for one on the ground to see the finest blooms, which turn
their faces to the sunlight above the canopy of green. Gray apes
chatter in the tree-tops; strange tropic birds of gorgeous plumage flit
from bough to bough, monstrous reptiles slip silently through the
undergrowth; insects buzz in swarms above the putrid swamps;
occasionally the jungle crashes beneath the tread of some heavy
animal--a rhinoceros, perhaps, or a wild bull, or an orang-utan. (I
might mention, parenthetically, that _orang-utan_ means, in the Malay
language, "man of the forest," while _orang-outang_, the name which we
incorrectly apply to the great red-haired anthropoid, means "man in
debt.") The Bornean jungle is a place of indescribable dismalness and
dread, its gloom seldom dissipated by the sun, its awesome silence
broken only by the stirrings of the unseen creatures which lurk
underfoot and overhead and all around.

The palace of the Sultan of Koetei stands in the edge of the jungle at
a horseshoe bend in the river. You come on it with startling
abruptness--miles and miles of primeval wilderness and then, quite
unexpectedly, a bit of civilization. In no respect does its exterior
come up to what you would expect the palace of an Oriental ruler to be.
It is a great barn of a place, two stories in height, painted a bright
pink, with the arms of Koetei emblazoned above the entrance. It
reminded me of a Coney Island dance hall or one of the tabernacles
built for Billy Sunday.

A broad flight of white marble steps leads to a wide, covered terrace
of the same incongruous material. This terrace opens directly into the
great throne-hall, a lofty apartment of impressive proportions, though
its furnishings are a bizarre mixture of Oriental taste and Occidental
tawdrines