As I look back, seventy-two years later, on our glimpse of that then vibrant city, Saigon, I realize that none of us gave a thought to how its Vietnamese natives felt about being second class citizens of French Indo-China, as their country was then known. Under the smooth, sunny surface that we saw, there must have been a volcano of smoldering resentment against their foreign rulers. We weren't heartless but we were certainly unthinking, intent on our own pleasure. My children's generation was different--aware of and concerned about social evils.
To get back to the ship after our last day in Saigon, we hired rickshaws. We had treated ourselves to an inexpensive but good dinner, had a couple of drinks and were feeling undeniably cheerful. Dorothy suggested that we try pulling the rickshaws so we told the men to stop. They obviously thought we were lunatics but they obeyed, climbed in
when we told them to and let us pull them perhaps a hundred feet which was quite enough for us. Communication was mostly by gestures. I'm glad to say we parted friends with nods and smiles on both sides.
Next morning early we went down the river, through the jungles to the
South China Sea. We were going southwest to Singapore, two and a half days away. We used some of the time to catch up on laundry. There was a clothesline strung across a corner of the deck for the passengers' convenience. (One of the joys of freighter travel is its informality and home-away-from-home feeling.) In the afternoon as we were taking, down dry things, we saw Mr. Fairweather [his Norwegian name Anglicized], the very handsome first mate, go into Amelia's cabin. Whether she needed help with something or had invited him in for a drink, we didn't know and we paid no more attention. Next day we were talking to him on the upper deck, when Amelia stuck her hear out of her door and trilled in what could be called a dulcet tone, "Oh, Mr. Fairweather!". He turned absolutely scarlet, muttered something about "Duty" and vanished into the pilothouse, leaving us with raised eyebrows and giggles.
It was everyone off when we arrived in Singapore. The Corneville was to be in drydock for a week. After a regretful farewell to Peter who was going to try to locate Harold, we proceeded to the famous old Raffles Hotel. Here we were put into the Victorian bridal suite which consisted of two bedrooms, an enormous bathroom and a pleasant parlor. Although our finances were low and we had to be careful, we went boldly into the Raffles bar and each had a Singapore Gin Sling for which the hotel was famous. Next morning, we found a large basket of tropical fruits--mangoes, papayas, and bananas among them, outside our door which opened into a garden courtyard. Every day we had the same grand treat.
Singapore was full of refugees from China. People who could afford it had escaped from the invading Japanese. The city was also full of interesting streets and mysterious alleys to prowl through but somehow it seemed drab. It lacked the the sparkle and general pizazz that we had sensed in Saigon. That didn't spoil it for us though. We were on the other side of the world from home, seeing a city we had only dreamed of. The captain left a message for us at the hotel. He was going to visit his friend, the sultan of Johore and asked if we wanted to go along for the ride. (As I recall, Johore was across a bay from Singapore but memory fails me here.) Of course we wanted to go and while the captain paid his call at the palace, we wandered about rice paddies and took pictures of smiling, friendly Malayans. It didn't occur to me at the time but from what I have since learned of Far Eastern hospitality, the captain possibly visited not only the sultan but also the sultan's harem.
At the end of the week we went back to our ship. She had been freshly painted and looked elegant. Our next port was Belawan Deli in Sumatra and we were excited at the prospect. Once on board the Corneville, I went to the dining room for some long-forgotten reason. I opened the door and was shocked and horrified by what I saw.
The captain and Amelia were facing each other across the table. Amelia had a gun. She wasn't aiming it but it was a real gun and she was waving it around in a crazy sort of way. Captain Carlson didn't seem at all frightened. He was furious. He pounded the table with his fist and thundered "YOU GET OFF OF MY SHIP!" I had a vague impression that there was someone standing behind Amelia--maybe a member of the crew. I backed out fast. We never saw Amelia again. And we never knew what had happened although we were wildly curious. Later that evening we sailed for Sumatra.
You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here.