Assignation opium den

Venture into a forbidden past

Opium den somewhere in China, 1902 (Source: Archibald Little, The Land of the Blue Gown, London)

The intense pain in my guts doubled me up. I lay on the bed staring at the blank wall. Smoking opium had been a bad idea. The agony did not let up. Until it did. After about 40 minutes, I rolled off the bed, drenched in sweat but feeling good.

Penang, 1964: Clive and I arrived at the island’s military leave centre early afternoon from our army camp near Malacca. The centre offered everything an off-duty soldier needed: cheap accommodation, swimming pool, cheap beer, sports facilities, cameraderie. “Perfect“ said the promotional material.

I said, “Stuff this place, Clive.“ It was in Penang but was not Penang. We repacked our bags, checked out, and hailed a taxi. That’s how we found the Modern Hotel, set in the busy middle of the capital, Georgetown, amid traditional shop-houses and colonial architecture. It was nothing flash but it was clean, the rooms were fine — cooled by ceiling fans — and my room had a balcony overlooking the street.

The taxi driver I’ll call Harry. He was a wiry, affable fellow and easy to talk to. We used him over the next days for longer trips. For shorter trips we used the ubiquitous trishaws.

Harry was warming to us. One day he brought along his two young daughters aged about nine or ten. We all went to a park where one girl, Shariffah, displayed her drawings for us. I am no art expert, but she seemed talented. Harry was proud of her.

Harry (in white shirt), his daughters and Clive (Photo: author)

Then we all went to the snake temple and saw the pythons and pit vipers coiled around branches, passive and motionless. The sign warned visitors not to touch them. We did not need telling. Despite this, photographers waiting for tourists assured us that some snakes could be held in the hand or round the neck and did we want our photos taken? Against my better judgement, I said “yes“.

On about the fourth day Harry told us that he had once worked as a customs officer. He let it be known that he knew where opium dens were and could take us along if we wanted.

At the Snake Temple. Clive and Harry’s daughters (Photo: author)

Opium, once the stuff of a flourishing trade, was now banned. The thought of visiting an illicit den excited us. Echoes of the Opium Wars, of Old Shanghai, of dark wooden walls with murals of dragons spitting fire went through my mind.

Clive, a cheery Canadian, said he had visited an opium den in San Francisco while passing through on his way to New Zealand, where he had joined the army.

The author gingerly holds one of the Snake Temple inmates. (Photo: author)

Of course we wanted to go. The next day Harry arrived at the hotel without his daughters and drove us to a nondescript building in a small side street. He led us down an alley to an inconspicuous door set into a shadowy recess.

He pressed a button. The door opened a little, Harry said something and a small, elderly man let us in. He ushered us along a dark corridor lit by a single light bulb and into a badly-lit windowless room where several men, naked to the waist, lay on the floor. Some were on their backs apparently sleeping; others lay on their side, holding long pipes to their mouths.

A proud little girl, Shariffa, shows her drawings (Photo: author)

The silence was heavy. The smell resembled a mixture of stale tobacco and perfume. The man said something to Harry, who asked us: “Do you want to try?“

Clive and I looked at each other. He shook his head, grinned and said, “You, if you want to. Afterwards I can carry you back.“

Why not? I emptied my pockets of cash and valuables and gave them to him. I was instructed how to lie on a blanket on the floor and rest my head on a rectangular block of wood.

My recollections of the pipe are vague. It came attached to a tiny bowl containing opium resin; someone knelt by me and held a flame to it. I was told to inhale the vapour steadily without stopping and hold the smoke in my lungs before exhaling.

This I managed two or three times before deciding that was enough.

On the way back in the taxi, my stomach began to hurt and the pain worsened. Back at the hotel, I made it to the bedroom and crashed onto the bed and lay there looking at the blank wall and listening to the swishing of the ceiling fan.*

Less than an hour later, the pain suddenly vanished. I felt normal once more. Clive and I strode to the bar across the road for a cold Tiger beer. It had been a worthwhile day.

• I discovered later that severe stomach pains are a common effect of opium smoking, especially if the opium is contaminated.