THE SMUGGLER
by
Randy Ford
It was one of the most isolated places on earth, one of the least known, so isolated that the symbols of the modern and the primitive worlds in a practical sense merged in the sound of a single mechanical device: an unreliable six-horse-power generator. The loud, weird voices of cicadas, the sound of macaque monkeys crashing through trees, and the soaring whoops of gibbons were some of the expected sounds of this upland region, but not a generator. For the vast majority of the people here, the put-put of the one-cylinder engine implied civilization and falsely in this cases the existence of a medical doctor.
Generally only Europeans had generators, and most natives expected white people to have medicine. Out-stations also would have other amenities, a list that included western comforts and luxuries, with the larger of these little colonies boasting tennis courts and water systems designed to raise the level of hygiene. As a matter of fact, one might even expect to find white women.
By 1944, the Greater Co-prosperity regime of the Japanese had clearly gone back on its promises. That year, after hiding for three years among the Kelabit of Borneo, the Flints gave birth to their only son and hoped, if it became necessary, they could get even further away.
When they heard and saw the first wave of Zeros, and knew what it meant, they fled their home and the luxury of a bathroom, a study, and a sitting room. Thus the life they had known was stolen from them. Depressed, Crockett’s mother became an emotional wreck. To add to her misery, she kept aborting pregnancies. Even her vanity gave way under the stress. On the other hand, courage, pluck, and a Scottish sense of resourcefulness sustained her husband.
Besides the few things she could carry, she brought with her dreams, which only took her so far. Even with cards, dancing, and reading, she never liked living on Borneo. She felt more isolated than her husband did. Few Western women of rank and fashion stayed on the island. Those with an adventurous heart sided with Crockett’s dad. He enjoyed hearing the Kelabit sing “you have his head! I am so happy,” while Mrs. Flint hated it.
This Russian lady took special delight in her anger. She survived by becoming as combative and loudmouth as she could. She couldn’t control herself. She might’ve had the situation not been so extreme. Why couldn’t she have seen the wild splendor of the Tamabo range and relied on a heroic notion to relieve her depression? Maybe, though stuck in the middle of a jungle, with the right attitude, she still could’ve climbed to the mountaintop.
Her original ideas about Borneo came from old pictures of the old days, when English officials dressed in white uniforms and spiked helmets. From diaries of the period, she read about music and dancing and bungalows the English built with true shingles, true gables, and true blinds. With the rustle of silk and silken draperies, bright rooms brought inside some of the color of the flowers of the garden. In that world, white women, except for servants, only associated with datus’ wives, other whites, and hosted garden parties.
She saw herself retaining a butler, dressed in a white jacket and yellow-and-black sarong and a maid brought from England, who the same as her mistress disliked living so far away from home. Their parties were large and given in a proper manner, with meals and table arrangements that were much prettier than those in England. The right remark given at the right moment lightened the heart or thawed the ice. “Makan! la….Minum! la….Janga malu! (Eat. Drink. Don’t be ashamed!) ” Never mind the correct pronunciation. Etiquette was required. Knowing when to leave the room and husbands and friends to their claret and cigars was essential.
But what she found, or the life she led on Borneo, even when she had her own home with a cook-house and a boy to do the cooking, was, after all, nothing like she’d imagined. Irritations, such as the lack of privacy (since natives saw nothing wrong with peeping into their windows) got to her. This led to them keeping their shutter shut tight and to her seeming unfriendly. She wasn’t into hunting or walking and never joined her husband on hunting trips. She never learned how to shoot green pigeon or snipe.
A land with no proper seasons was unfairly compared with the neatness and order of England. Natasha always felt insecure in houses with nipa roofs and that swayed in high wind. She complained about the backwardness of Borneo. She recast her feelings in a mold created by her prejudices and felt that way from when she first stepped off the boat. Bathing in a river made her feel violated. The futility of modesty made her angry.
Where her husband served, there was always considerable discomfort. Because of heavy rain, the rivers were always flooding, and the trails were nearly impassable. Without sympathy from her mate, she had to endure air much the same as steam from a hot bath and water that made her sick. They were always tortured by bitters and greeted by mangy dogs. Getting from place to place seemed to Natasha an exercise of futility. But the greatest discouragement came from the isolation, magnified by her woe, which overshadowed the beauty of the place. Even subtle contrasts made her feel bad.
The natives of the interior thought Natasha came from a mouse deer, a very stupid animal; and the silly little things she did amused them. Mimicry was a favorite pastime. That drove her crazy. The men would laugh and cry, while the women often laughed so hard that they fell, beating the floor with their feet, while Natasha was expected to mask her revulsion. The famous female mouse deer had badly infected feet and had to ask for help.
“And at last the male mouse deer came with his wife on his back,
A sad man with a heavy burden, a burden which he wished he had thrown off.”
Crockett’s father continued to mask his own feelings. He’d give a measured response or retire behind a curtain of silence. Rather than fight, he’d flee. Natasha’s discontentment grew daily. Eventually she realized that she never really loved her husband. I t all came from his coldness. His correctness irritated her. His duties, as related to her, were clearly spelled out by a code of conduct. Concerning most issues, the Church of England taught one thing and the Russian Orthodox another. The couple never agreed on basic principles and never communicated with each other.
Sitting, as she approached her due date, in a Kelabit long house with no privacy, her depression grew more acute. All around her were people who thought they lived in Shangri-La. And her poor husband, in the midst of constant chatter, never heard her say she wanted to kill herself. Wouldn’t that have baffled him? Then having the conceit of a government officer, he couldn’t have taken much more. In any event, out of necessity, he didn’t show his true feelings and improvised when he didn’t know what else to do or say.
Randy Ford
