En Route to British Borneo — Labuan — Sandahkan — Singapore — Banca

OF the voyage to North Borneo there is little to tell, beyond saying that it occupied in all fourteen days, and was attended by no disastrous risks to either body or mind. Fortunately we experienced glorious weather throughout, otherwise, I fear, in spite of the profusion of gold lace on the captain’s uniform and the affability of the chief engineer, our vessel would not have proved herself a good sailor. She was a loblollopy old tub, as full of cussedness as a six-year-old Solomon Boy, and I believe she would have liked nothing better than to have gone to the bottom in a smooth sea, just to prove her utter contempt for things in general. Save the skipper, no one on board seemed to have any good opinion of her, but to him her grunting and groaning through the water like a broken-winded camel was as the sweetest music. He had a pecuniary interest in her, and for that reason, I suppose, was blind to her little peculiarities.

On the third day we sighted the Sarhassen Islands, lying all lonely out on a bright blue sea; then the Natunas, dim and distant on our port bow; picked up our first view of Borneo’s coast with Brunei Cliffs on the fourth, and at daybreak the following morning came to an anchor in Victoria . Harbour, Labuan Island.

Never in my life do I remember anything more exquisite than that morning. The sea was as smooth as the inside of an oyster shell; the subdued green of the foliage ashore contrasted soothingly with the water in the Bay; while, across the straits, upon the mainland of Borneo, glimpses could be obtained of mountain peaks towering dimly heavenward. Before we were properly at anchor, canoes of all shapes and sizes surrounded us, piled with bananas and kadjangs (young palm leaves dried), which their occupants clamorously offered for sale. Accustomed though I was, by this time, to such things, some of the men in these canoes positively made me blush, and if I possessed the effrontery of two of our lady passengers who bargained with them, oblivious of all else, I’d stake that effrontery out, and sell it as town lots. There’d be enough for a village anyway, possibly a city.

Labuan is the most charming little toy kingdom imaginable, and though only six miles from Borneo, it has been a separate British colony for upwards of fifty years. Greatest boast of all, it is entitled to and possesses its own postage stamp, though I doubt, if the whole island were hunted through, as many as two dozen people capable of writing their own names (to say nothing of anybody else’s) could be found. As an unsophisticated young English resident put it, ‘Bless you, that don’t matter; it’s the bally look of the thing, you know. I reckon a man wants some bally privilege, if it’s only a bally postage stamp, for living in this bally place without cutting his bally throat. If they took that stamp away I’m hanged if we wouldn’t mutiny and strike out as a bally nation on our own bally hook,’ etc. He was a sweet bally youth! After a stay of eight hours, and when we had nearly lifted the Island out of the water with our steam whistle, we once more proceeded on our way, bound for Gaya, another small island, six hours

Steam from Labuan. Observed from the sea (for, by reason of our responsible positions on board, we were afforded no opportunity of landing) Gaya is picturesquely precipitous. It is neither a big place, nor is it particularly interesting. The inhabitants are mostly Chinese and Malays, with a sprinkling of other nationalities. The Malay quarter is built on piles and perfume, at the end of a roughly constructed wooden jetty, in order, I suppose, that the inhabitants may get the benefit of the decayed fish and sea breezes. Only a Malay would like that sort of mixture.

Leaving Gaya, we steamed along the Borneo coast (keeping an eye on Kina Balu, towering his 13,000 odd feet into the clouds) as far as Sampanmangio Point (steamers have been known to get wrecked on the mere name) which, in order to make Kudat, another quaint and evil-smelling little coastal village, we were compelled to round. Leaving Kudat a difficult bit of navigation lay before us, among flat islands, coral reefs, and horrors of a similar description, just the very place for such a tub as ours to give an exhibition of her worst qualities. During the day it rained: not showered, rained! Forty million gallons to a square inch per minute, washed the anchor down the fo’c’s’le ventilator, and cut holes the size of pigeon eggs in the brass starboard lighthouse I Well, if it didn’t quite do these things, I’ll take them back; but I assure you it came very near it. Personally I had never experienced such a deluge before.

Old Bull’s-eye, the bo’sun, a cheery old sea dog, took refuge with us under the forrard awning, and casually remarked that it reminded him of a shower he had been in, early in the seventies, a degree south of the Azores.

‘I was aboard a loitering old Geordie,’ he said, ‘from Newcastle, heavily loaded for the Cape. Her average speed was six knots in a fair sea, but sometimes we managed to knock seven out of her, and then the chief engineer ‘ud part his hair and talk about ocean steaming. One dog watch it began to look precious black all round, clouds gathered, and the wind sighed as if it was awful lonesome out there on that great big sea. The skipper prowled up and down the bridge sniffing the air, and ended by telling the officer of the watch to have everything made snug. It was that heavy and quiet, you could hear the fishes breathin’ miles away. Then suddenly a flash of lightning came so close to us, that it singed the old man’s beard, and the clap of thunder that followed it knocked him bang up against the binnacle. After that it began to rain, not drizzle like this, but Teal rain, sounding for all the world like millions of marlin spikes being dashed upon the deck. The skipper guessed he was getting wet, so down he dived to the chart room for his oilskins. While he was below there came the biggest crash you ever heard, and then, for no reason that we could see, the blooming old tub began to heel over just as if she was never going to right herself again. “ God a’mighty,” says the skipper to himself, clinging to the chart locker, “she’s struck somethin’, and we’re sinkin’.” Getting on to his feet he fumbled up on to the bridge and there, sure enough, he saw she was going down into the sea, foot by foot and inch by inch. “Stand by the boats! “ he yells, but, bless you, nobody took no notice, thinkin’ they might just as well be drowned in the fo’c’sle as come out to be drowned in the rain. After that there was a kind of lull, and Chips, the carpenter, crawls on to the bridge, and bellows in the skipper’s ear, “ She ain’t sinkin’; she’s as tight as a drum, there’s not a tot of water in her! ”

‘“Then what’s the meaning of that?” yells the skipper, pointing to the water. “ If we’re not sinkin’ the sea must be risin’.” And by the jumping Moses he was right! The rain was coming down that strong just about where we were, that it had rose the ocean ten feet, before the heavily loaded old — tub could come up on it. It’s my belief, if it hadn’t stopped then, it would have brought the water over the decks, and we’d have been swamped afore we could have saved ourselves. Call this’ere rain? Young man, don’t you parade your ignorance! You don’t know what real rain is!

When he had finished, we all maintained a solemn silence. Of course we felt that, in the interests of science, somebody ought to have hinted at the fate of Ananias, but for the moment no one had sufficient presence of mind to think of it. Nevertheless it was a beautiful lie. But I’m wandering again.

Sandahkan, our destination, and the capital of British North Borneo, is admirably situated on high land at the mouth of a large natural harbour, a mile and a half across at the entrance, and running inland about fifteen miles. On the town side the view is almost imposing, but across the Bay, where the Keenabatanga River flows into the sea, nothing meets the eye save uninteresting mangrove swamps running across the flats up to the thick jungle behind.

Sandahkan is still but a very tiny place, built and existing on lines peculiarly its own. Everything connected with it is primitive in the extreme. There is nothing stuck up about it; the narrow conventionalities of western civilisation have not found their way there yet.

As we came to an anchor, one of the male European residents put off to welcome back his partner, who was returning to North Borneo after a holiday in England. Both were charming youths, and their conversation over the side, while the gangway was being rigged, gave us a better insight into

Sandahkan life, than we could have got in any other way. It was something like this:

Youth (standing up in boat alongside, nodding and smiling to passenger). ‘Hullo, Bill, so you’e got back again! ’

Bill (whose heart yearns towards him, though Englishman like, he dreads showing it). ‘Yes, got back again! How are things?’

Youth (alongside, laconically). ‘Beastly! Bally roofs fallen in, an’ Jim’s missus has got twins. The deacon’s lame, and all the fowls have got the croup! I’ve had boils, but they’re better now! ‘How’s London!’

Bill. ‘So, so! Who’s built the new bungalow?’

Youth (alongside). ‘Paddy Dowle — he’s going to get spliced — girl from London too. Rum thing ain’t it — girl wanting to come out here — specially to Paddy? Reckon she’ll sigh for home comforts when she sees the kennel he’s prepared for her. Paddy’s fowls roost in the drawingroom y’know.’

By this time the gangway is lowered, and he climbs aboard to greet his friend with something very like tears in his eyes. ‘God bless you, old pal, I’ve been awful lonely without you,’ etc. etc. and then they descend to the saloon for the inevitable drink.

On account of the importation of coolies into Sandahkan, the Chinese element predominates, and is likely to go on doing so. The European population have their residences among the hills at the back of the town, and peculiar little places some of them are. They seem to possess everything but what their owners most desire — an air of home.

If you want to understand something of life and death in British North Borneo, you should get a resident, between midnight and morning, to narrate to you a few of his choice fever stories; they are worth hearing. But don’t do it if you’re nervous, for they’re ghastly enough to raise the scalp of a tarantula. The death rate among the Chinese coolies is, or used to be, something appalling. From information received, it would appear that they die off at the rate of about 20 per cent, per week. But, saving the fact that everyone is sorry for the poor planter, who has been put to no end of trouble and expense in importing them, nothing is thought of this. The general opinion is that it’s just like a Chinaman to die when he’s most wanted; it would appear as if his very existence is sheer cussedness.

That reminds me of a story I once heard of two young Englishmen who purchased a station somewhere in Western Queensland. They were unsophisticated youths, with big bank balances and English ways of looking at things. Among other peculiarities, they developed an intense dislike to Chinese labour in any shape or form. This led them to discharge their Chinese cook, Ah Chow, and to engage, in his place, an Englishman of by no means satisfactory character. Ah Chow they told to pack up and git He explained that he didn’t know his way to the nearest township — some 150 miles distant — but that didn’t matter to them, all they wanted was that he should git. He did git, only to return four or five days later in an emaciated condition, with the explanation that he had been bushed (lost) within twenty miles of the head station. Again they said ‘Git!’ and again he got. This time he returned in a week, still thinner, after another series of extraordinary adventures in the Unknown. Then they began to get annoyed, and sent him off for the last time, threatening all sorts of dire penalties should he return again. Next day they had a slight disagreement, embodying a charge of petty larceny, with their immaculate white man cook, who thereupon collected his goods and chattels and decamped.

Thenceforward, their affairs became extremely disorganised. They had no idea themselves how to cook, nor had they a man upon the place who could help them; at least not according to their notions of cookery. At the end of two days they began to regret their behaviour towards the heathen Chinee, and even went so far as to contemplate his return with equanimity. In fact, the worse their meals grew, the more and more anxious they became to gaze upon his sallow countenance again.

One night they heard a scrambling in the verandahs. On going out they discovered Ah Chow, very, very thin, and on the borderland of death. He was too weak to stand, and a sad look came into his eyes as he explained: ‘You sackee me a’longee bush, me wellee bad findee — no eatee, no drinkee — allee same die!’ And without further ado he did die!

Then those two Christian young men, their eyes hovering between the dead body of Ah Chow in the doorway and a badly burnt sago pudding on the table, were annoyed! ‘Ungrateful beggar!’ they said, ‘goes and dies out of pure contrariness, just as. we were going to give him employment. It’s too bad, too bad!’ The fault was of course all with Ah Chow. But there, I’m wandering again!

We remained in Sandalikan two days, and .on the evening of the second, hove anchor, and steamed back on our track for Singapore, arriving there after an uneventful voyage.

Our good fortune was once more in the ascendant, insomuch that we were not compelled to remain in the Lion City. As we brought up against the wharf, a vessel was getting up steam, preparatory to leaving for Batavia via Sumatra and Banca. Reflecting that if we could not, as proved to be the case, work our way down, deck passages would certainly not cost more than awaiting events at a Singapore hotel, we decided to travel by her.

Of all the clumsy old tubs upon the ocean, I am prepared to assert that she was the worst. She was as short and squab in front as a Thames hay barge, her internal arrangements were five years behind the times, and her obsolete engines had been patched up out of all recognition. On an average, once every day they were compelled to heave her to for repairs. And yet her officers carried more dignity and natural conceit than one would have any right to expect in all Her Majesty’s Admirals and Naval Aides-de-camp put together. Our quarters as deck passengers were situated under the forrard awning, among the sheep and poultry, and our companions, once again (human beings, I mean, not the sheep and poultry) embraced almost every Eastern nationality,, including a troupe of Japanese actors and actresses.

We said ‘goodbye’ to Singapore in a tropical downpour, which outside the harbour gave place to a fog of pea-soup thickness. Now, a fog anywhere around Singapore is no laughing matter, crowded with shipping as is the highway thereabouts. So thick did the weather eventually become, that, after half an hour’s steaming we were forced to heave to, keeping our steam whistle going every minute like souls in torment. In the semblance of a gigantic pall, the fog enveloped us, until it became impossible even to see half a length ahead. The silence in the intervals of whistling was most weird; not a sound could be heard save an occasional order from the bridge, and the steady drip drip of the moisture on the deck.

Now and again, intense excitement would be caused by the appearance of some vessel gliding slowly out of the surrounding obscurity, almost to within a cable’s length of us, only to shift her helm, and disappear as mysteriously as she had come. The knowledge of the presence of such danger was by no means pleasant, and right glad were we when the fog lifted, and we were able to proceed upon our way once more.

The voyage from Singapore to Batavia is surpassingly beautiful. We seemed to be picking our way continually between islands each lovelier than the last. In fact, anything more perfect could not be imagined than the blue sky, the smooth sea, and these jungle-clad heavens peering up out of it. Sand-drops in the infinite though they are, the feelings they produce are very curious. There is a wondrous sense of rest about their beauty. Gazing at them, one feels almost inclined to forsake this great garish world and to retire to one of them, there to live a life of perfect peace and happiness, devoid of ambition and money-making cares, and relieved of all worries and miserable anxieties. And yet I suppose it wouldn’t do; it is that struggling and battling to keep one’s head above water which is the very salt of our existence.

After bucketing along with an immense assumption of dignity, our first place of call was Muntuk, capital of the small island of Banca (off the coast of Sumatra), after which the straits are named. Banca is chiefly famous for its tin mines and malarial fever, and, I believe, is charming as far as scenery is concerned.

Speaking of fever reminds me that among our passengers, whom I should have mentioned earlier, was a general of the Dutch army. In the list of his possessions he numbered a small presence, a gorgeous uniform, and a title that fairly took one’s breath away. He had with him about fifty of his rank and file; poor fever-ridden wretches, returning invalided to Java from Achin. Now Achin is the northern portion of the island of Sumatra, and belongs to a race of people rejoicing in the catarrhish name of Achinese. In an unfortunate moment, about twenty years ago, the Dutch nation, who had appropriated the southern half of Sumatra, decided to try and obtain the north, but the misguided inhabitants, — having probably heard of Dutch enterprise before, settled it in their own minds to keep them out.

Pot-valiant Holland sailed in to find a wasps’ nest. For the Achinese have proved stubborn fighters, and take considerable delight in terminating the existence of those unfortunates whom their trusty ally the malaria leaves alive. Out of every hundred Dutchmen landed, fully thirty go under before they have been a couple of months in the country, and in the meantime they run the risk of being blow-piped, toma-hawked, or otherwise put an end to by their determined foes. This sort of guerilla warfare has now lasted twenty odd years, cost many millions of guilders, and it would be extremely difficult to say whether the invaders are any forrarder than they were at the beginning. The natural conceit of the Dutchman forbids his giving in, and in the meantime he is, I suppose, content to pay heavily for his amusement. There are pleasanter occupations than being a Dutch soldier in Achin.