From My Notebooks In 1976: Leaving Penang for India on the MV Chidambaram

There was one passenger ship, the MV Chidambaram, that regularly crossed from Penang to Madras (now Chennai) and I was booked on it. Originally the ship had been named Pasteur and was a small luxury liner that crossed the Atlantic. It was known, I believe, to be a popular ship for wealthy gamblers. Some of that luxury was still visible in the upper decks, in the shape of a grand staircase sweeping down to a big saloon. At first the company insisted that “white people” had to travel First Class, which I found much too expensive. After some argument they changed the rules and sold me a Second Class ticket, which meant travelling with middle class Indians, mainly students. There was also a third class which I discovered on the second day. It consisted of wire cages stacked in the hold where poorer Indian families spent the four or five days of the voyage. They cooked their own food and, as far as I could tell, had no access to an open deck. The Chidambaram was eventually destroyed by fire. Here are my random notes on the voyage.

The MV Chidambaram (Née Pasteur) once highly luxurious.

Empty first class. Full dormitory. Packed bunks in cages.

Cockroaches, student ragging, measuring the gangways with half a matchstick. The filthy bar and the maniac barman with the huge, bruised face staring out of his hatch in neurotic hate and fear. The Indians are not graceful in their behaviour. They walk up and abruptly state their requirement in a harsh voice. Like Malaysians, they make a crowd where none need exist, crushing round counters with hands stretched out with money or documents or whatever. (In the post office the man sending a telegram with his nose through the bars watching every move of the clerk’s hand. In the hotel crowding round me simply to watch me write.)

The MV Chidambaram

Saturday morning – 6.30 – woken by unusual messages on speakers. Something about port and starboard. The engines have slowed right down. Are we at the first port? [The ship docked briefly at the Andaman Isles.]

I get out to find the port hatchway open and a man in long shorts and life jacket hanging out over a rope ladder. Someone is overboard. Did he jump? Or fall? Nobody’s sure. But when they threw lifebuoys, he swam like a champion. An old man, maybe 60. A lifeboat had been lowered and it seemed just a matter of bringing the ship round full circle to pick them all up. When the ship did come round it became clear that life wasn’t so simple. The boat was drifting, almost useless. It’s engine or propeller had been damaged in lowering it. There were oars, but with so few men aboard the oars hardly touched the water. The ship came past, beautifully navigated, to within 50 yards of the old man, now securely buoyed on two rings. But nothing happened and he drifted away again. Then the ship shuddered into reverse and slowed down.

“Number three lifeboat!”

This time I watched the boat go down. It was a sight of danger and violence I shan’t forget. The boat is lowered by two hefty steel hooks with pulleys through which the hawsers run. As the boat lowered it began to swing with the pitch and roll of the ship.

Halfway down the ropes were long enough to let it crash into the side of the ship. This happened several times, throwing the men about and bending the side of the boat, before they touched the water. There was a heavyish swell. One minute the boat was afloat, the next it was wrenched up by the tackle as the sea fell away beneath it. It seemed to be difficult to release the tackle. When one was free, the scene became far worse. As the sea dropped the boat bounced and swung, so that to grapple with the other tackle became extremely dangerous. And to make matters far worse, the other pulley, now dangling free, was swinging wildly back and forth across the boat hitting several men glancing blows. Heavy piece of metal. Surprised no-one was killed. Imagine it with a boatful of passengers. How was it possible?

At last the boat was free and away. Meanwhile a white-fin shark, of 7 or 8 feet, came close to the ship and, clearly visible, circled suspiciously. What, we all wondered, was circulating round the old man out there, rising and dipping in the ocean swell on his two rings of cork the colour of a Hindu cast mark? The shark made an exciting object – a brownish colour with all its fins and tail shading to white at the tips.

By now the man had been in the water for about an hour, although as he floated by he seemed all right. Was it sharks that prevented anyone from swimming out to him?

The new boat made its way slowly to him. When he was reached it seemed a long time before he was handed in. Then they went out collecting buoys and finally came back to the port side, but the swell prevented them from attaching to the side. Off again, to bring the other boat in on tow. Then, on starboard side where it was calm they strapped the old man into a mummy-shaped bundle and eventually man-handled him through a hatchway as he twisted and pitched face down and scraping over the metal of the hatch. Then the excruciating business of raising the boats again, just as lethal and bruising as before, with men hanging on to ropes for dear life as an officer shouts, again and again “Sit down! Sit down.”

An officer later said, smiling, that they practised putting boats into the water every two weeks. He said recently their radio operator had jumped in and they’d had him out in 11 minutes. There was a heavy swell today, he said. I suggested that perhaps the shackles couldn’t go down any further. “Yes,” he said. “they go down under their own weight.” But obviously they don’t. “Was anyone hurt?” I asked. “No,” he said, happily. Two minutes later, someone commented that several men were in hospital having injuries treated. “Yes,” he agreed, just as happily. He also added in explanation that if the boat had been full of passengers there would have been no trouble because of the boat’s extra weight and because, he said, “the passengers are asked to cooperate by moving to this side or that.” Since the men in the boat. when ordered to sit down, preferred to ignore the order, I can’t see how passengers could be expected to show more calm and discipline in a shipwreck. One swing of that massive iron shackle across the surface of a crowded lifeboat could be certain, I think, of meeting at least one skull. I’d like to be reassured that we do this kind of thing better. I’m glad this is my last ocean crossing. I think I shall cross the Channel by hovercraft.

Shipmates

The student girls. Easy chat. No shyness. Will sing, play piano, seem very close, but it means No.

The mini-bus party – theatrical Yorkshireman – craggy handsome face, grey windblown hair – self-consciously acting the part – but the world won’t fit his concept of himself, so he is harassed, nervous, and quarrelsome. Wife is a weathered trouper, son is dull and sullen, only (the) girl is open and equable.

Russ Powick – NZ via Aus, good sort if a bit noisy. Can’t help doing the “I say, jolly good show” bit with me. Nicest when he isn’t trying. Says the van party was like hell on earth. One endless squabble, with daughter as referee. Two young Englishmen returning from three years NZ. Two a bit older – one quiet bearded Aus, self-taught in life, from poor Sydney family; other a knowing, half-caste German from Hamburg (half Arabic I guess) Talks about the price of drugs and irritates me with “Rupes” for rupees.

Next week, India.