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The long march

Stu Lloyd

The gentle thwack of croquet mallets. The ruffle of white canvas umbrellas as frangipani-scented breezes from the Sulu Sea soften the tropical night. Waitresses in black-and-white pinafores ferrying pots of tea. Behind us, is the somnolent stateliness of Agnes Keith's house, where the many-chinned, bounteously bosomed socialite author of Land Below the Wind held sway. Below, are the twinkling lights of Sandakan Bay.

At the English Tea House and Restaurant it's as though the 1930s - when Sandakan was the capital of British North Borneo - never ended. That was a time when timber created the world's highest concentration of millionaires in what was a languid pocket of lawned-and-louvred splendour. 'If the war hadn't wrecked Sandakan, it would have been one of the great towns of Southeast Asia,' says military historian Lynette Silver.

Today, downtown Sandakan is a hotchpotch of underwhelming medium-rise apartment and industrial buildings. What wasn't flattened by the Allies in June 1945 was razed by the retreating Japanese. Miraculously, four buildings survived: a mosque, two temples and St Michael's church. The granite church, built in 1893, stands as the only remaining connection with the second world war prisoners with whom Sandakan is most readily associated. It was here that many of the 2,700 Allied POWs camped when first transported from Singapore in 1942 and 1943 to construct, together with Indonesian civilian prisoners, a runway, before being marched inland. It is in their footsteps that Silver will lead us in the next six days on the inaugural Sandakan Death March Challenge Trek, covering a 120km section of the route recently reclaimed from the jungle.

The balmy air is filled with nervous anticipation. In the group are adventure seekers - many have done the Kokoda Track - and those on personal pilgrimages. Graham and Alan each had an uncle die here. Doug lost his father on the Thai-Burma Railway and is keen to walk in the shadow of other members of the Australian 2/29th Battalion. 'It's an odd process that brings me here, trying to get a clean sheet,' he says. 'I've had a lot of anger and resentment about the war, having grown up without a father.'

An original boiler, excavator and water tank litter the now-suburban 11-hectare Sandakan Memorial Park, which occupies the original camp site. Myths are debunked: 'Not everyone that was sent to Sandakan went on a death march and not all those who went on the death marches died,' explains Silver. Many of the 1,053 Allied starters reached the final camps, only to perish later. Only six Australians - assisted by local villagers - escaped to tell the tale.

While the POWs had six cucumbers to sustain 50 men for four days, we load up with energy-rich Sabahan staples - noodles, rice, eggs and chicken wings. Tham Yau Kong's team of cheery, sure-footed Dusan porters will lug water and food rations. 'How much extra is the sedan-chair option?' someone jokes.

The trek begins in a fashion with which we are to become overly familiar: a 45-degree climb. 'Jim would have been shot on that first hill,' remarks Silver, referring to one of our group who stopped to catch his breath. Once POWs stopped, they stopped for good.

'Big Bob', a moustached mountain of a man, plies a lively line of banter: 'If I was a diesel, I'd be blowing black smoke'; 'I went to put myself into overdrive and found I was already in it'; and 'I think I need a new ring valve.' But the jungle is friendly: never-ending thickets of kapok and suriya trees have a humbling beauty. There are no wild animals to contend with (despite guide Jimmy's orang-utan calls) - no boars, no cobras - but leeches hitch free rides on us and limbs are soon slashed to ribbons by leaves, thorns, roots, slips and tumbles in the boot-sucking clay. At least we have footwear: 90 per cent of the POWs marched barefoot.

The terrain and challenges constantly change. There are rickety suspension bridges and river crossings. On day two, we traverse relatively flat palm plantations: despite a temperature of 38.5 degrees Celsius in the shade and 100 per cent humility (sic), we cover about 28km. 'Harder than Mount Kinabalu,' says Jimmy, a veteran of more than 1,400 ascents of that peak. 'Longer, hotter.' Those who've walked Kokoda agree: the humidity is a killer. We rest in the shade of parap trees, eating fleshy breadfruit. Malladin, a jungle-survival expert, forages for wild ginger, bamboo shoots and strawberries. At day's end we collapse fully clothed into the soothing waters of the Taviu River. By night, we have the choice of camping out or staying in comfortable Forestry Department rest houses. Two nights are spent in Sabah tea plantation longhouses.

The ups and downs of rearing mountains and disappearing valleys echo the emotional roller-coaster we are on. Each of us have 'adopted' a POW. Jacquie, a school teacher, has come to pay respects to Gerald Cummerford, whose nephew is a family friend. He hopes she finds the place the 25-year-old died. She does, on a little track a couple of kilometres past Malio. She is too overcome to read the card, placing a gum leaf and little Australian flag on the ground for him.

I have adopted the Dorizzis. In shades of Saving Private Ryan, three brothers were shipped to Sandakan. Herb, 26, made it through 238km before collapsing of cardiac beriberi half-way up 'The Big Hill'. That same day Gordon, 28, who was too sick to march, died of malaria in Sandakan. Tom, 31, carried on but died one month later at Ranau, in March 1945.

Sweating buckets, I go into zombie mode, one foot plodding in front of the other. Suddenly, thankfully, the Ranau Plains stretch beneath us. Along Jalan Marakau, Muslim schoolgirls in pastel headscarves egg me on with their chanting of 'Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!' from a verandah. 'The legacy the POWs left is an enduring friendship with the people of Sabah,' explains Silver.

As I stumble up the long, dusty road to former Ranau POW Camp 1, tears well in my eyes. Why? Perhaps it's my failure to get any closer to understanding how any POW managed to finish this march. 'It's amazing how emotional you become about guys you didn't even know,' says Peter.

Under a sprawling pukul lima tree we hold a moving memorial service. Doug delivers an emotional first-hand account of 'the Shearer', a con artist from 2/29th Battalion who fleeced everyone in this camp. 'I came to wrap things up, which I've done,' he confides. His teary partner, Liz, adds: 'And they're still sending our young people off to fight silly wars.' As she speaks, a passing shower produces a magnificent rainbow over the walking track.

Alan locates the original burial site of 23-year-old Ray Wiseman of 2/4th Mechanical Regiment, at Ranau Jungle Camp 2. 'Uncle Ray,' he says, 'you were always just a photo on the wall. Now you're a hero to me.' Mount Kinabalu, with rainforest dating back 130 million years, overlooks us. Named after Aki Nabalu, 'home of the spirits of the dead', the locals believe its clouds protect the departed.

Getting there: Cathay Pacific (www.cathaypacific.com) flies from Hong Kong to Kota Kinabalu. For Sandakan Death March information contact TYK Adventure Tours, Kota Kinabalu, Sabah, Malaysia, tel: 60 88 720826; www.sandakan-deathmarch.com or e-mail [email protected].

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