Malayan Spymaster

by Boris Hembry

  One of the planters I got to know was ‘Fergie’ Ferguson, later to be a divisional manager on Ulu Remis Estate when I arrived there in 1951. On Christmas Eve he had a party at his bungalow, during which he produced his Johore Volunteer Force rifle, and, even worse, some ammunition. It seems that the JVF kept their personal weapons at home rather than in the battalion armoury. Along one wall of the dining room was a row of rugby team photographs, with the team captain, as usual, sitting in the middle of the front row with the dated rugger ball clamped between his knees. Very tempting targets. Too tempting. Especially after quite a lot of drink had flowed. We took it in turns to take potshots at the rugger balls, although after a little while, when the shooting became wildly erratic, I joined Pete and Easter under the dining room table in fear for our lives. Mercifully the ammunition ran out fairly quickly.

  A few days later everyone was phoned and invited around again to Fergie’s bungalow, as he wished to show us something. He took us into his bedroom and opened the door of the cupboard that backed on to the wall with the now very tattered photographs. Not only was the cupboard ripped to pieces, but not a single piece of clothing had survived the fusillade. All his suits, trousers, jackets, shirts and ties were ruined. Worse still, having gone through his clothes, the bullets had ploughed on out through his bedroom wall, through the rubber, through the coolie lines and most were embedded in the wall of a conductor’s house. We were all horrified at our stupidity and criminal folly. Perry, the manager, was quite rightly furious and threatened to report us to the police. Luckily for us he did not, as our companies could well have been looking for just such an excuse in the slump to send us home.

  We all chipped in $20 to help Fergie buy new clothes.

  The months passed very quickly after I had settled down, and with the friends I had made both on and off the games field, I began to feel less lonely. I was also gaining experience as a planter and earning my salary. Barton was due back from leave in January 1931, and I learned that I was to be transferred to Gajah Muntah Estate in Atjeh, Sumatra.

  When the day came for me to leave Sungei Plentong, I said my goodbyes to Pete and Easter with real sorrow, for they had both been very kind to me. And it was entirely due to Peters that I was no longer a creeper but a fully fledged junior assistant and about to take over my own division aged 21 with only occasional supervisory visits from the manager.

  Sojourn in Sumatra (January – December 1931)

  The company had reserved a cabin for me on the Dutch liner Patria. In a fit of generous mental aberration they had booked me first class. A far cry from the old Achilles.

  My friend Fielding had driven me down to Singapore in his MG, and after a curry tiffin at the Raffles, had joined me on board for a farewell drink or two. We sailed in the late afternoon for Belawan Deli, the port for Medan which was the main town in Sumatra. The crossing was smooth. The tropical moon was full. I was travelling first class at the company’s expense. This was the life!

  For some reason I had always thought all Dutch women were stout mevrouws. I realised I was totally wrong because in the cabin next to mine was the loveliest creature I had ever seen. She dressed by day in what were, in the Thirties, called pyjama trousers, and by night in a long close-fitting shimmering gown. I could not keep my eyes off her. But, to my disgust, she seemed entirely satisfied with her small, fat, but obviously very rich, gentleman escort.

  The country around Belawan is flat and uninteresting, almost a swamp, and, on that day in January 1931, particularly hot and sticky. On disembarking I took a taxi to Medan and reported to McAuliffe’s agent. It was early afternoon when I arrived and Medan was enjoying the customary siesta. However, the chief clerk, a benevolent Chinese, was in the office and he told me that a room had been booked for me at the De Boer Hotel, and that I was to catch the Atjeh tram for Timbang Langsa, Atjeh, the next morning. He gave me my ticket and sufficient money to cover the hotel bill and other expenses, and sent me round to the hotel in the firm’s car.

  The De Boer Hotel was first class with large, airy bedrooms, kept moderately cool by the shades over the windows and the ever-revolving fans. That evening the local inhabitants were having a dinner dance, and I was interested to see how many Dutch men had native wives. The British seldom married local girls, sticking rigidly to protocol and marrying women of their own race and colour. There were, of course, exceptions. Jean and I were to know several mixed marriages, all of which were very successful, and accepted, at least by the European community. Such marriages were a lot less acceptable to the other races in Malaya, who considered it very infra dig to marry an orang puteh (white man). But I was always curious to understand why the Dutch, from the same social and religious background, who happened to settle in South Africa rather than to have continued on across the Indian Ocean to Sumatra and Java, should have had a totally different attitude towards the native populations of their adopted countries.

  Despite its name, the Atjeh tram was in fact a proper train, but narrow gauged. The carriages were fairly primitive, and we stopped at every station on the 150-mile journey between Medan and Langsa. This took eight very tedious hours, as we rarely went faster than 15 mph. At Langsa I was met by my new manager, Rollo Gyllenskold, who was a Swede, and his German wife. It took about an hour and a half by car to reach the estate, firstly through padi fields and cultivated areas, but this gave way to secondary, and very soon to virgin jungle. The road was just loose shingle for most of the way. We seemed to be driving deeper and deeper into the jungle, and further and further away from civilisation. I had thought that Sungei Plentong was isolated! But eventually we got clear of the jungle and came to the plantation. I could see that the rubber trees were of very high quality and well husbanded.

  Both Gyllenskold and his wife were very kind and I immediately got on well with them both. Our friendship deepened over the 12 months I was on Gajah Muntah, and continued after their retirement from the East in 1933 until I lost contact in the War. They settled in Zurich. Between them they spoke eight European languages and used to discuss which they should teach their children.

  Gajah Muntah (‘vomiting elephant’ in Malay) was a first-class estate in every way. Gyllenskold told me about the division that I was to manage. It was even more isolated than the main division. He also told me that he had engaged a Chinese cook/boy named Ah Fong, who had already moved in.

  The following day Gyllenskold drove me out to my bungalow. It was much smaller than the manager’s bungalow on Sungei Plentong that had been my home for the last six months. Built in the usual style on wooden piers, it consisted of an open verandah with one end mosquito-proofed for use as the sitting room. There was a small dining room and a small bedroom, with a mosquito net around the bed. The bathroom had a large Shanghai jar and a lavatory on a dais, like a throne. There was no running water, so both flushing the lavatory and showering was carried out by scooping water out of the Shanghai jar. At least it was better than the thunderbox which was the most common form of sanitation in the Far East. There were seldom any long baths as we know them today. If a hot bath was required the tukang ayer (water carrier) heated up the water in four-gallon kerosene tins in the kitchen at the back of the bungalow, carried them upstairs to the bathroom, and poured it into a galvanised bath. But more often than not one required a cold shower, and the cool water from the Shanghai jar was breathtakingly refreshing after a hot sweaty day.

  There was, however, one drawback to these old-fashioned bathrooms. They provided a cool haven for snakes, scorpions and centipedes, and although the tukang ayer was supposed to check before calling you, it was always best to double check for oneself.

  I immediately took to Ah Fong, an elderly Chinese who had worked for some time at the Hotel Europe in Singapore. I never found out why he should wish to bury himself away so far from civilisation. When I was transferred to Kedah in December 1931 he came with me. He was probably the best cook I had throughout my time in the East.

  There was no view from the
front of the bungalow as the rubber trees came right up to the compound boundary. But from the back one could see over the rubber to the jungle-covered mountains beyond. Although much of the jungle in Malaya has since been felled, I understand that this part of northern Sumatra remains substantially the same to this day, and continues to be the habitat of all manner of wild animals, including tiger, elephant, orangutan (literally ‘jungle man’ in Malay), panther, bear, wild boar and many kinds of deer and monkey. The almost human shrieks of the monkeys provided a continuous background noise throughout the day, and half the night.

  As we left the manager’s bungalow I had noticed that the compound was enclosed within a high barbed wire fence. Gyllenskold explained that the Dutch were still considered enemies by the Atjehnese, so most bungalows required this protection. In addition, the Dutch army regularly patrolled the area.

  Atjeh has a long and interesting history. During the 16th and 17th centuries it had been closely associated with Turkey, and was the centre of Islamic religion in Sumatra. The sultans had become extremely powerful, attacking the Portuguese colony of Malacca, and conquering as far as Pahang on the eastern side of the Malay peninsula.

  When he was resident at Bengkoolen in Sumatra in 1819, Stamford Raffles, the founder of Singapore (and of the London Zoo), had signed a mutual defence pact with Atjeh and although this had not been subsequently renewed the Atjehnese had always considered themselves as allied to Great Britain. Holland had attacked Atjeh in the 1870s, so beginning a war that was still in progress, even if only in a desultory way, when I arrived in 1931. Atjehnese guerrillas were still active in the hills behind my bungalow, ambushing the odd military patrol, and attacking estates and other Dutch-owned property. But because of the pact signed by Stamford Raffles we British were safe, and it was unnecessary for us to live behind defences. As it was for Gyllenskold, who never closed his gates.

  Gyllenskold warned me that it had been rumoured that a honey bear, taking advantage of the empty bungalow, was in the habit of entering the garden and robbing the oil palms which grew behind the house. The fruit is very juicy, and much favoured by many animals, particularly snakes and rats. The honey bear, in spite of its pleasant-sounding name, is far from sweet-tempered. In fact, it was a dangerous animal. As heavy as a tiger, one blow from its paw has been known to split a man almost in half.

  I was not unduly worried, as I was not intending to dispute the ownership of the palm oil trees. Unfortunately, I had not been told the whole story. One night, shortly after having moved in, I had not been in bed for more than half an hour when I heard soft thudding up the back stairs, more thudding and a lot of disagreeable grunting outside my door, and this continued along the verandah and down the front stairs. The bear had obviously become accustomed to taking a short cut through the bungalow. I was a little worried in case it decided to explore the house further, as the only weapon I had was my hairbrush. The next day I had a bolt put on the bedroom door.

  Having stuck this intrusion for about a week I decided on a cunning plan. On its next visit I waited until it was exactly outside my bedroom door then shouted at the top of my voice. The bear bolted. Ah Fong and the tukang ayer came running, thinking that I was being murdered. But I achieved the result I wanted. The bear still visited, but it never again took the direct route to its supper.

  I quickly settled down to my new environment and, despite the loneliness, enjoyed life. Other than the divisional coolie lines about half a mile away, the next point of habitation was the manager’s bungalow, the factory and main lines about three miles away. The nearest town, Medan, was 150 miles to the south. The nearest neighbour, other than Gyllenskold, was a German, some three hours walk away through the rubber and jungle. I had no transport. No telephone. No wireless. The only shop was the general kedai in the village, near the estate entrance, run by a Chinese.

  I was sustained by the mail from home which arrived every week. The letters and newspapers were at least a month old when I received them, but as the flow was constant it did not seem to matter. Not being able to read Dutch there was no point in taking the local paper; even that took a week to reach us from Batavia (now Jakarta). So major events, like Britain going off the Gold Standard, and the formation of the National Government, had been faits accomplis for at least a month before I became aware of them.

  I had a portable HMV wind-up gramophone, and Jean and my father kept me supplied with the latest Jack Smith, Layton and Johnstone, and Ronald Frankau records. I was not to know the classical repertoire until Jean arrived in Malaya in 1935, since when it has given us untold hours of joy. I also got my Father to send me a punch ball. With this, and a 16-pound weight I had found in the stores and used to put the weight, and some reasonably long distance runs through the rubber, I kept very fit. But I missed my games-playing very much.

  Mental stimulus came from the library in Medan, where I could borrow up to 14 books at a time. These were sent up in a box by the railway and returned the same way. I read mostly biography and history, and the occasional thriller.

  Once a month I bought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from the local kedai. Quite why he should stock Champagne I never knew, unless one of my predecessors had a penchant for it and the Chinese shopkeeper, thinking it essential drinking for all Europeans, continued to get it in.

  I still look back with nostalgia to those far off days in Sumatra. The utter peace. The only noise, nature. The only daily human contact, my labour force of charming Javanese or Atjehnese, who, incidentally, spoke what was known then as ‘rajah’ Malay, different to the language spoken generally in Malaya and less easily understood by most Europeans.

  The estate was first class, unlike most of the other estates owned by Ridsdells in Malaya and Sumatra, and obviously owed a lot to Gyllenskold’s management. In addition to the fine mature rubber, there were jungle clearings, all beautifully terraced, nurseries where the seedlings were propagated, and numerous other things of professional interest, all of which were lacking on Sungei Plentong.

  My days were full of interest, but the nights were long and lonely. I wrote letters, read, played the gramophone, and went to bed soon after 9 pm.

  Twice a month I went over to the main division to supervise the cash payments to the labour force. Having no transport, I would walk the three miles. On those days I invariably had tea, and quite often dinner, with Gyllenskold and his wife, after which the Bols gin would flow, often to such an extent I would have to stay the night before staggering back to my hilly division early the next morning in time for muster.

  One Sunday I was surprised to see a European march smartly into my compound, followed by his bearer. He introduced himself as de Jong, the assistant on the next estate. He had very kindly walked through the five miles of rubber and jungle to see me. Like all Dutch whom I have ever met he spoke excellent English. He departed after tea, after much unaccustomed talking by both of us, with my promise to visit him a fortnight later. This I did, taking an Atjehnese from my labour force as a guide. The walk took about three hours each way, so it could only be done on a Sunday, which was an enforced day of rest by law.

  I made quite a few visits to de Jong. There was, however, one thing about him that did not appeal to me. He kept two orangutan, and they used to ride around his verandah on tricycles. Although young, they were fully grown. They had a habit of making a beeline for me and climbing all over me, much to my disgust. Eventually I had to tell de Jong that unless they were made to stop this caper I would not be coming over to see him. Thereafter they were kept under restraint. My next visit was when de Jong gave a party in celebration of something or other, and he had invited his manager and his wife, both of whom were Germans, and some neighbouring planters. I had taken Ah Fong with me to carry my gramophone and records, so we were able to dance to Viennese waltzes and polkas, much to the enjoyment of the Germans present. Ah Fong and I staggered home through the jungle in the pitch darkness of the small hours, I leading the way with a torch which, as I swept the beam from
side to side, lit up eyes everywhere. It was most eerie and I was very glad to get home.

  I was having breakfast one morning when a coolie came rushing up to the bungalow shouting, ‘Tuan, Tuan, mari lekas, ada ular banyak besar’ – Tuan, Tuan, come quickly, there is a very large snake. I took my rifle – as a weapon, next to useless against a snake – and ran with him the quarter of a mile to where one of my weeding gangs was working. They had come across a giant python fast asleep, having just had a meal – we were to find out later that it was a young pig. The coolies had hit the snake on the head with their cangkul (hoes) and it seemed unconscious. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Its head was a good 12 inches across, and when we eventually straightened it out it measured 33 feet 6 inches.

  I sent a messenger post haste with a chit to Gyllenskold telling him about this enormous reptile and asked him to come to the lines as we proposed to carry the still unconscious snake over there. It took 10 coolies all their strength to lift it. It was still unconscious when we got there but as Gyllenskold arrived and we were examining it gave a swish of its tail and started to wriggle. We gave it a couple of clouts to the head to put it to sleep again.

  It really was a quite remarkable specimen, and, except for the abrasions to its head, quite undamaged. Gyllenskold was equally amazed. Luckily, on receiving my note, he had telephoned a German professional hunter who lived at Langsa who promised to leave straight away, bringing a drug (probably opium) to keep the snake alive but unconscious until he could get it back to Langsa to kill and skin it.

  The hunter arrived in due course and was most impressed with the snake and confirmed that it was undoubtedly the largest snake ever caught in the Far East, if not the world. We took photographs of it, both on the ground and being carried by the coolies. I certainly appeared in at least one of these. But unfortunately they have all disappeared. Mine was, of course, left in Malaya when Jean left Kamuning in a hurry in December 1941. Copies which I sent home to my and Jean’s parents have been lost over the years. I would be interested to find out whether 33 feet 6 inches is still a record for a snake.