The tropical sun in Penang doesn’t just shine; it leans on you like a heavy, damp blanket. But at No. 10 Tanjung Tokong Road, if you caught the sea breeze just right coming off the Straits, and you had a cold mug of draft in your hand, life was as my customers would say "bloody marvellous."
My name is Sam. Well, it’s Sam now. Back in the early 1980s, when I first started working at the RAAF Centre, my Tamil name was a bit of a mouthful for the boys from Down Under. To them, it sounded like a series of rhythmic clicks and rolls that their tongues just weren't built to navigate. After a few weeks of watching grown men in flight suits turn purple trying to introduce me, one of the Sergeants leaned over the bar, squinted through the cigarette smoke, and said, "Listen, mate, we’re gonna call you Sam. It’s shorter, and it won't give us a hernia trying to say it. Right, Sam?"
And so, Sam I became. It was a "Christianizing" of sorts, born out of Australian efficiency and a mutual desire to get to the beer faster.
Working at the Hideaway Bar was like being in a combat zone kitchen for a very specific breed of fighting men: the Australian Airman. They were a boisterous, sun-reddened lot who spoke a language that sounded like they were trying to talk through their noses while simultaneously twisting their tongues into knots. In those early days, I’d just nod and smile, hoping "No worries, mate" was the correct response to whatever nasal vibration they’d just directed at me.
The Hideaway was the crown jewel of the RAAF Centre. It had expensive decor, a piano that had seen better days, and an outdoor beer garden where the coconut palms swayed in time with the tall tales being told at the tables. But the real draw was the price. A mug of draft beer cost exactly 65 Malaysian cents.
You’d think at that price, every man in the Royal Australian Air Force would be flush with cash, but you’d be surprised.
"Sam, old son," a young corporal would say, leaning so far over the bar I could smell the salt on his skin. "I’m a bit skint. Just a few cents short of a coldie. Can you put it on the slate? I’ll square ya up on payday, fair dinkum."
I’d look at him, usually a kid a bit older than me, thousands of miles from home, sweating through his "shorts and sandals" uniform while his mates were out flying Sabres or Canberras over the jungle—and I’d sigh. "Sixty-five cents, Bluey. You’ve got sixty. Where’s the 5 cent?"
"Lost it in the darts game, Sam! Those blokes are sharks, I tell ya!"
The darts games. Strewth, those games never ended. The Hideaway had a dedicated area for darts, and it was treated with the same solemnity as a court-martial. You’d have these big, burly blokes standing there, squinting at a board, arguing over "double-tops" and "bull's-eyes" until the late hours of the night, and I mean real real late. If a game was particularly heated, you couldn't get a word in edgewise. They’d be "cracking the sads" if they missed a shot, or "hooting and hollering" if they hit the mark. I learned quickly that a bartender’s job wasn't just pouring drinks; it was being a referee, a psychologist, and occasionally, a human shield when a stray dart went flying.
Then there was the 1900-hour transition. The RAAF Centre had a strict dress code. Before seven in the evening, you could get away with shorts, a shirt, and sandals. It was casual, tropical, and sensible. But as soon as the clock struck 19:00, the "After Fives" rules kicked in. Suddenly, the bar looked like a convention of librarians. Every man had to be in long socks, shoes, and slacks.
I’d see them rushing in at 18:55, desperate for one last "swill" before they had to go change. Or worse, I’d have to be the one to tell a "digger" who’d had a few too many that his hairy legs were no longer welcome in the auditorium.
"Sam, mate, it’s only five past! Don't be a drongo!" they’d plead.
"Rules are rules, cobber," I’d say, pointing to the sign. "Long socks or no more bevvies."
The comedy of the Hideaway really peaked during the "Happy Hours." That’s when the "Islander’s Club" crowd the school staff and the officers would descend. The air would fill with the sound of "shouting." In Australia, a "shout" isn't a loud noise; it’s a sacred social contract where one person buys a round for the group. And the price of that mug of super cold draught would drop to Malaysian 35 cents, yeah you heard me right mate.
"It’s my shout, Sam! A round for the boys!"
I’d be pumping that tap like a man possessed, filling mugs as fast as the draft would flow. The foam would be flying, the laughter would be deafening, and the "nasal" accents would get even more pronounced as the beer took hold. By the third round, I wasn't Sam the bartender anymore; I was Sam the Legend, Sam the Lifesaver, Sam the Best Bloke in Penang.
Of course, with 35-cent beers, things occasionally got a bit "maggot" that’s Aussie for being very, very drunk. I’ve seen men try to play the piano with their elbows, men try to convince me that their transport aircraft could fly backwards if they "just gave it enough stick," and men who forgot which room in the hostel was theirs and ended up sleeping in the beer garden under the stars.
But through all the chaos, the "tongue-twisting" names, and the endless arguments over dart scores, there was a genuine bond. We were a little community at No. 10 Tanjung Tokong.
We local staff weren't just employees; we were part of the RAAF family. We watched their kids grow up at the RAAF School, we saw the families come and go as their postings ended, and we shared in their "Sunday Barbies" and their "film nights" in the auditorium. That blokes, fellas, mates, were there through the tension of the Malayan Emergency and the Konfrontasi, providing a slice of home for men who were often on the front lines of history.
When the permanent RAAF presence finally ended in 1988, it felt like the end of an era. The Hideaway Bar went quiet. The 65-cent mugs were put away, and the "nasal" voices faded into history. But sometimes, when I drive past where the old Centre used to be, I can almost hear the clatter of the pool balls and the whistle of a dart hitting the board.
I can almost hear a voice from the past calling out, "Hey, Sam! One more for the road, mate? I’ve got the full sixty-five cents this time, I swear on me mother!"
And I just smile, because for a few decades in Penang, life was "no worries" at all.
ENDS
By Sam Trailerman
Nganasegaran (tapessam@gmail.com) is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
The User Content (as defined on Newswav Terms of Use) above including the views expressed and media (pictures, videos, citations etc) were submitted & posted by the author. Newswav is solely an aggregation platform that hosts the User Content. If you have any questions about the content, copyright or other issues of the work, please contact creator@newswav.com.