# Ports of the world - Canton/Sunrise in Canton

* SUNRISE IN CANTON
The sun is still hesitating below the rim of the earth when the steamer from Hongkong breasts the muddy waters of that part of the river which flows through the fringes of Canton.
Most of the buildings in Canton crouch low, as if apprehensive of an angry, sweeping blow from the typhoons brewed occasionally in the atmospheric kettle of the China Sea. They are more humble, these buildings, than the skyscrapers of the American continent. One of the lords among them is the five-storied Pagoda which looks calmly down on other structures from its superior height.
Seasoned travelers prefer to arrive in Canton early in the morning, for then the life of the city may be observed under more favorable conditions. The maxim "early to bed and early to rise" is observed in Canton as well as in the service, for, as the steamer approaches the wharf, the river seems to be alive with scores of craft, ranging from unwieldy junks to small sampans, which dart in and out among the slower moving, more sedate
boats, as children play tag around a crowd of their elders.
Every boat paddler appears to be trying his best to throw his or her voice across the river, and the range varies ​astonishingly—from the bass of the deep-chested mountaineer on the rail of a near-by junk, to the screechy, nerve-rending falsetto of the angry Chinese woman in the fuel-laden sampan, as she beats her son. The sampan, it appears, has just escaped being rammed by a junk under full canvas, and the unfortunate son is blamed for the near collision.
The monotonous singsong of Chinese voices is silenced for the moment by a sudden outburst from the native sailors on a funeral boat anchored near the shore. The crew evidently believes the only way to mourn the dead is by constant, persistent, never-ending lamentations. Very shortly the uproar is augmented by the dashing together of great cymbals. The inquisitive passengers on the steamer are informed that the crew is frightening away evil spirits, who thrive on quiet, and who, if left in peace, might bring harm to the bodies of the dead on board the funeral boats.
A questionable whiff from another funeral boat, hard by the bank farther up the stream, is responsible for a question. The traveler hears, by way of reply, that some of the dead have been on the boat for five or six months. They will remain there until the time is auspicious for burial.
Each of the funeral boats seems to be trying to outdo the others in making the welkin ring. The din soon grows so deafening that the traveler half expects to see the dead arise and poke their heads above the lacquered sides of their coffins on the deck of the funeral boat.
Across the river from Canton the traveler sees the cities of Wati and Honan, where he will view many sights almost as strange as those in Canton if he chooses to spare the time necessary for a visit in the two suburban districts: but, as a rule, the majority of strangers find Canton so indescribably fascinating that they hesitate to roam through the neighboring sections in search of attractions, which must indubitably prove less interesting than those of Canton.
The ship passes more funeral boats, more junks and sampans, and now and then the passengers see small fishing boats rowed by native women, who dip nets into the muddy waters of the river and cry out ​angrily when the fish evade the trap thus set for them. And, since the dripping nets come out of the water empty more often than not, the reader can imagine the crescendo of feminine screams which assails the ears just as easily as if he himself were there to see and to hear the fisher women call down the wrath of Heaven on both the fish and any humans who may happen to be within screaming distance.
The crews on the fishing boats seem to fear the wrath of these Chinese Amazons as much as the people of medieval times feared the wrath of bedraggled, hook-nosed witches, who were supposed to spend most of their time concocting strange brews in three-legged kettles and riding in the clouds astride brooms all hung with cobwebs.
There is something weird and uncanny about it all—funeral boats, screaming fisher women, brass cymbals, junks, sampans, river pirates, lacquered coffins, half-naked men, howling mourners, cockroaches in honey, and snakes in broth. It is almost unbelievable, almost impossible of conception to us Americans who usually live a sane, well-ordered sort of existence. The people of an American city, were they to live their lives in such a fashion as do those in Canton, would be considered eccentric, if not actually mad; but the Cantonese take their mode of living and their customs as calmly as you please and find nothing unusual or strange about them. And it is this feeling which makes Canton so enchanting to trousered, shirted, shoe-wearing, soap-using Americans. In Canton we find once more the eternal truth of that trite, shrewd observation: "One-half of the world knows not how the other half lives." The least that can be said for Canton is that it is different. Exceedingly, strikingly, abruptly different. Canton is Canton, just as New York is New York, and Paris is Paris, and Mexico is Mexico. It couldn't be otherwise.
A breeze has sprung up by this time, and the surface of the river is broken into numberless ripples which dance a sort of listless, rhythmic, measured dance, and cause the smaller boats to move up and down as the bobber on a fishing line rocks in the watery bed upon which it is ​resting—always on the alert and ready to flash the signal which tells of a tentative nibble at the hook below.
After a period of maneuvering along the water front, the steamer—as if afraid of crushing the smaller boats which clutter up its path—moves slowly into its berth; the gangplank is thrown out, the passengers walk from the steamer and almost immediately become engaged in what is apparently a desperate fight for life and security of limb.