AIF Training & Acclimatization in Malaya 1942

STRICTLY speaking, it was not our first night in Malaya, but the first night on which we were free to absorb the life and atmosphere of the native town called X--, a town which, for the curious, is situated so many miles from Singapore, up-country and in a certain direction.

We had read so much about the East, more or less, ,and were avid to learn something of the romantic colour and oriental mysticism peculiar to all Eastern countries; so after an unusual army meal of stew, and with a final spit and rub at our delicate army boots we were ready for the great adventure.

Once you leave Singapore and go bush the country grips you like a vine. Thick and sickly tropical vegetation seems to suffocate you. The jungle country is full of harsh silences, the air pregnant with things long dead and forgotten. But the sinister memory ,of unknown things is there. It breathes a vague history of a time when Malaya was teeming with life whilst Europe was wrapped in medieval ignorance.

Our first night was like that. It was hot. The sweat stayed un-evaporated in beads on our faces and bodies. A mile from barracks and we were in the first of the native streets. A vivid, exotic crowd swarmed curiously about the strange "Colonials".

A flat-chested, skinny coolie of about 60 pounds weight offered us a rickshaw. Perhaps my most vivid first impression, really, was the awful, hopeless, and dead look in the ,eyes of the rickshaw coolies.

Dead men walking! Hard to believe that those same beasts of burden are the descendants of the proud and glorious Tang dynasty, which, under Emperor Kao Chung, completely routed the Japanese at Chemulpo some hundreds of years ago. Joe Blossom, the dour cynic, next directed my attention to a nearby cafe. Outside was a sign reading: "Specializing in all kinds of Dinners, Marriage Tea Party Arranged."

"What about it?" said Joe.

"What about what?" I said.

"What about a marriage with a tea party to follow?"

Joe was ruled out of order.

Farther on, another cafe' signified proudly that "Our Chocolate is Milked". Which was very encouraging to say the least. In many respects the English-speaking native can teach us many simple and informative short cuts in our own language. But George, the other member of our trio, was not amused. George is a misanthrope who sees no good on earth and doesn't imagine that things will be any better until we get the "single tax league in power in Australia and make Darby Munro the Prime Minister. George is an inveterate reader of Freud and Rabindranath Tagore, the Hindu poet-philosopher. What affinity there is between these writers is more than I can explain - I just mention the matter in the hope that it will help you to understand George.

A leprous and blind Chinese beggar extracted 20 cents from me and blessed me fervently in Cantonese. Or did he bless me? George moodily suggested that he, threw an everlasting curse. Presently we came to a familiar sight - a combined pawn-shop and money-lender's. A nostalgia affected me and with a sudden jump I was, transported from an ancient Asiatic town to Sydney, civilization, and the Mont de Piet. The money-lenders were Hindus, and although, George quoted extracts from their favourite philosopher about it being a blessing to give, it appeared that they were not interested in doing business without security. Allee samee Mont de Piet.

Open-fronted shops along the pavement were filled with the kind superb satins and silks legendary throughout the East. Weak-eyed emaciated young boys and girls were patiently hand-working the most exquisite embroidery for the equivalent of ten pence per day, so that women's eternal vanity might be gratified.

Reaching the corner block our nostrils told us we were close to the native market.

We anticipated the glamour and ever-changing kaleidoscope of the East. Benevolent natives and attractive slant-eyed native girls. Noble foreheads and delicately shaped bodies.

That was the story book picture. Here was mine:

Stalls and stinks, fish and frowsy women, cut-throat shopkeepers and naked black and yellow babies. Dyspeptic lettuce side by side with overripe bananas. A wizened and motherly old Chinese woman sat patiently awaiting customers for her primitive peep-show at one cent the full performance. Much to the disgust of George I had a cent's worth and saw a picture of the Tsarist Grand Fleet, a scene of what looked like an English garden party, and several highly pornographic pictures. But Joe Blossom, being a man easily pleased, quite enjoyed the show and "shouted" a few precocious native youngsters a peep. Apparently they don't get that sort of show where Joe comes from.

At the kerb-side, a villainous Chinese dentist re-arranged his dirty instruments in the gutter and waited for business with a kind of sadistic expectancy. Despite an up-to date dental clinic in the town most natives prefer the old tried and true method. A coolie woman sat down and poked a finger in the
direction of the lower bicuspid. The Executioner waved a rusty pair of forceps and rattled off in Cantonese the awful lie known to dentists the world over to the effect that it wouldn't hurt. After seven gruesome attempts the offending tooth came out. A murmur of admiration went up from the onlookers.

"Australian Garland For A US Nurse". The Australian bush has many attractions for members of the United States forces. Australia's national bloom, was a favourite with this nurse. Photo by VX 46163

After seeing this barbaric operation and the stoicism of the Chinese woman, I no longer wondered at
China's heroic resistance against the Japanese. About this time we were joined by a dignified
Hindu, whom I mistook for the Lord Mayor. He was voluble, expansive and full of self-importance. He
smoked vile cheroots and, with a lordly air gave us each a small sample mirror with the words "- Boot
Polish" on the back, in the same manner as Livingstone might have done in darkest Africa. This coloured potentate turned out to be the town's Chief Deputy Assistant Sanitary Inspector. In passing I might mention that almost every small native town has at least a half-dozen C.D.A.S.Is. Our verbose friend confided shyly that he had produced 10 children and cherished fond hopes of another.

After absorbing the smells and glamour of the Persian market, our sanitation expert led us down a back street. Around an open-fronted shop an excited crowd of natives was gathered. The attraction was a Chinese wake. Inside the room hooded mourners kneeled face down to the floor. A High Priest moved about thumping a drum. He looked bored. An acolyte was playing an oratorio within a range of four notes on a wooden flute. Many greasy dripping candles gave an unreal, garish light. There was a pile of cakes and sweetmeats in one corner to keep the deceased fat and contented on his long and lonely journey. Now and again the High Priest gave speculative glances at the foodstuffs. An Asiatic League of Nations peered through the open shop-front in Joyous anticipation of this Roman holiday. The stage is set! The curtain is ready!

In the corner, shroud-covered, is the leading man - the corpse!

Outside, a wedding procession drove past headed by a car-load of native musicians playing the Beer Barrel Polka. Modern China playing a saxophone. Ancient China dying in the manner of Tsao Li Pui. The pretty bride craned her neck out of the car and essayed a glimpse at the corpse. Life and death. Happiness and sorrow. It is the essence of the East....

The Sanitary Official had by this time headed for home.

I said to George and Joe: "A strange evening. I don't drink, but I feel like getting drunk."

"I think we are," said Joe.

"Dick J"