Previously, the young missionary had thrown himself into life at St Michael’s, teaching English to lively boys who preferred chatting in Hokkien or Malay and learning to ride his little Honda through the tropical heat. Between football matches, endless essays, and evening rides along the coast, he slowly found his place—until the day a boy dashed in front of his bike and the accident left him shaken and hurried to the police station for his own safety. Yet even after the fright, he rode home each evening with the quiet feeling that, challenges and all, he was exactly where he was meant to be.
In the Chinese calendar, the biggest event of the year is their own Lunar New Year. In China, the celebrations last over two weeks but in the more industrialised countries like Singapore and Hong Kong and in places like Borneo where the Chinese population is big but not in a majority, the holidays would be two or three days. The family gathers on the first evening for a splendid meal, with joss-sticks lit before the photos of the parents or grandparents. Usually this is for the family only but of course the fathers were part of every family. Great care had to be observed not to favour one family over another, so that certainly in my early days I did not go out at all. The next two weeks were open days, to visit other families; again, as many visits as possible had to be crowded into the first days because, as time went on, the celebration was diminishing in importance. Having eaten to repletion on the first night, the family had to show their gratitude to the gods for their gifts by next day abstaining from food. The visitor was offered all the delicacies: bird’s nest, shark’s fin, suckling pig, boiled duck, bamboo shoots, bean sprouts, sweet and sour pork, prawns, chicken wings, with any local dishes in the range of the housewife’s skill, such as curry beef and chicken satay. ( I remember it all ! ). The hosts were unstinting.
Starting off in the morning, I looked forward to this delightful day that lay ahead but by afternoon, the desire had faded. We still had to soldier on. Most people like their visitors to come on the first day, so that they too could visit their own friends and relatives. It was a big day for the children who were presented with red packets containing money, known as “Ang Pow”. A special feature of the day was the Lion Dance. A dancer would don the mask of a lion’s head and would be led through the town swaying, leaping, running, bowing, advancing and retreating what time the bystanders would stuff the open mouth with these red packets. Drums and gongs were beaten to intensify an atmosphere of dread at the arrival of the lion. The Dragon Dance involved more dancers; two, one on the shoulder of the other, occupied the dragon head and this gave great mobility; the long tail, beautifully embroidered, was operated by two or three other dancers. Because of the height of the dragon’s head, it could reach up to the windows on the second floor where the householders put red packets into its mouth. The money thus collected was for a good cause, such as Chinese schools or providing small sums of money for poor students. The fortnight ended with the feast of Chap Goh Meh and then it was down to work with a vengeance.
From the beginning of the year, the common response to any request for something to be done was, “After Chinese New Year”; words suited action. There was hollowness about everything. But now all the seeming apathy had gone; procrastination was succeeded by immediate action. Everyone in and outside the school assumed a new urgency. The great days had come and gone and were now folded up and put away for another year.
Not long after this came another great event- the Moslem fasting month, known by us as “Puasa” or fast, nowadays Rhamahdan. It begins with the sighting of the moon by the religious authorities, who thereupon proclaim the beginning of the fast. During the hours of daylight, food, drink, smoking, swallowing of saliva are forbidden. In school, the Moslem children could be seen rushing to the door to spit. After sunset, the people gathered together in a house to break the fast with little cakes and water and then rice and hot sauces. Prayers and reading of the holy Koran would follow. Malay houses usually had a large sitting room especially for this purpose.Then they would all disperse to their own homes and eat again before retiring; another day and another fast would begin for them an hour before sunrise.
During this month, the police would swoop on coffee shops to catch the fast-breakers. They say that in Kuala Lumpur, the police were often confused by the difficulty of distinguishing between Malays and, say, Kadazans students, both dark-skinned. The Kadazans from North Borneo were usually Christian and wore a cross to save them from any harassment by the police. To break the fast was, however, considered a grave offence by the authorities who punished the sinners both by a fine and by having their name read out on radio and TV.
The end of the fasting month was naturally eagerly awaited. In the villages, bamboos filled with carbide would be exploded heavenwards as though to hasten the clearing of the clouds for the new moon to be more quickly seen. The religious authorities with all the time-honoured ritual deliberated and prayed before making any announcement and then they would order the firing of a cannon to make it official. Brunei till today observes the old traditions, whereas in neighbouring countries, in the so-called Tiger Economies, the laws of astronomy are invoked; the banks and Stock Exchange always want to know now. Next morning the men and boys head for the cemetery, in rich blouses, trousers, apron and velvet songkok (cap) of vivid colours. The Malay women in their ankle-length dress and head covering come nowhere near their menfolk in the fashion parade. Like the Chinese, they hold open house for a day or two.The Moslem religion does not permit the variety of food favoured by the Chinese; there is saffron rice, satay beef and an abundance of cakes, jellies and soft drinks in the most fantastic colours. Later on, alcohol disappeared from the table. Once in Limbang, I went with the parish council to pay our respects to the Moslem Resident. The chief kathi or priest was already there. We were offered sweetmeats and soft drinks. When the kathi left, the Resident opened his cupboard and produced the Black Label. Another time in Seria, Peter Chiang, the PP, and I decided to pay our respects to a very kind and helpful Customs Officer. Petty officials can make life miserable. Guessing, though not sure, that he was a convivial person, we brought along the traditional cake and a bottle of whiskey as a present. We had difficulty finding his house but at last we zero-ed in on him. The lady of the house invited us in and explained that her husband was at his prayers! Well, this was the last thing we had expected of our good and genial friend. The bedroom door opened and there emerged in full religious dress this complete stranger and we with this potential time-bomb in a parcel. The Malays are forever polite, unflappable. He accepted our gifts graciously and engaged us in conversation. We were not too long before we found our exit. I suppose to this day the poor man must tell this story to his grandchildren-about these foreigners who came to his house one Hari Raya ” see-the Chinaman sat just there; the white man sat over there; both gave me gifts and went away so quickly and I never saw them again.”
Alcohol is a very delicate matter; one would never presume to offer it to a Malay, not unless one was very close to him. This was rarely the case, although we had teachers, pupils, parents, government officials in our circle of acquaintances. We tried to visit them at the end of the fast. This was a simple gesture of politeness which, although expected, was yet appreciated. Again, in the years ahead, fundamentalism was sufficiently strong to discourage inter-racial visiting, to ban alcohol from shops and create an adverse public opinion, so that even the hardened topers realised that drinking would not do their career prospects any good. Of course the higher social classes in Brunei are beyond the law.
The Sultan and the royal family also kept open house in the palace. Many people, even Chinese, would take the opportunity to shake hands with a whole line of royals and gape. It was not my idea of a day out; it was a long trip, a long queue and a wait for a limp handshake with a royal who looked as though he wished to be elsewhere and then the long drive back into the strong setting sun. But for many people, it was a welcome break in the monotony of life in Brunei.
Seria was created by Shell for its oil. It had no history. It had been carved out of the thick jungle which stretched for miles and miles behind the town. To the west was the Belait River which cut the road to Miri. To the east lay the long 90 mile-road to the capital, with the South China Sea on one side and on the other the jungle. A featureless coastal strip fringed with casuarina and palm was its front door and beyond lay mainland south east Asia. There was little to attract in Brunei Town; little to do, see or buy. Seria offered more but even that was little.
The Shell clubs had sporting facilities and bars. There were two cinemas in Seria and one in Kuala Belait and these mostly screened Indonesian ghostly tales of the penanggalan or vampires with beards who snatched up newly born babes from their mothers. Later on when TV came to Brunei, this was the staple diet of a late Saturday night with sometimes real tear-jerkers and Cantonese Kung-fu, which had a limited appeal. When Leo Barry built a parish hall the next year, it was a welcome addition to our parish life; the schools put on concerts, Passion and Nativity Plays, prize-giving. Then the popular tombola began and ran for years; the prizes were not big but plentiful and everyone was happy. Leo earned great praise for putting into place the final item in a beautiful mission compound.
An oil-field attracts all and sundry. When Bishop John Vos first visited Seria ( then still in his vicariate ), he was fearful at its possible physical and moral dangers. The gas flares reaching up into the night sky were certainly apocalyptic, whatever about the moral peril. It was this that inspired him to dedicate the school to St Michael ( “be our safeguard against the snares of the enemy” ). When the Sisters opened the school for girls, it was named St Angela’s. The former pupil association of both schools called themselves “The Michael-Angelo Association”. At least, if nothing else, it told me that my classes in European history had touched them where it mattered.
In the next episode, the missionary’s quiet relief after weeks of schoolwork and parish duties gives way to a far greater adventure, as a sudden letter from the bishop pulls him deep into the wild heart of the Baram River. With a longboat waiting, unfamiliar faces beside him, and the jungle closing in on every bend, he soon discovers that this journey will test more than his stamina—it will challenge his courage, his curiosity, and everything he thinks he knows about life in the mission. Readers are left wondering just what awaits him in the remote longhouses upriver.
