Coolies, Opium, and Insurrection

The story today starts with the bloody fate of a gold mining town in Kuching called Bau (in Malay, it means “smelly”). But how does one link a glittering metal such as gold to something so unpleasant—a noxious stench?

A somber explanation connects the name to its smell, which lingered after a brutal massacre. I did some research, trying to thread the needle of Bau’s past. So if you ever find yourself visiting this town in Kuching, don’t think of it as just another obscure place. Walk through it with a new perspective. The unlisted graves and nameless dead deserve more than oblivion.

The story begins in the days when Chinese coolies (labourers) arrived in Sarawak in search of a better future. I visited the Chinese History Museum in Kuching to learn more about this part of immigration history. Apparently, there were three waves of Chinese immigrants, and we’re now unfolding the stories of the first wave. Most of them were Hakkas who had previously mined gold and antimony in Kalimantan, Indonesia. They moved to Sarawak and continued their mining activities in Bau.

As a Chinese descendant myself, I remember my grandparents telling me how our ancestors came from poorer regions of China to Southeast Asia to take on harsh manual labor. The term “coolie”—now considered derogatory—was used to describe these laborers. It carries strong colonial connotations, referring to those who worked in exploitative conditions. In Chinese, 苦力 literally means “bitter strength.”

Working in the goldfields was grueling—especially in an age without machinery. Chinese labourers toiled from dawn to dusk for mere cents a day, hoping to find a few specks of gold from each ton of earth. It's not hard to imagine that many turned to opium to ease their aching bodies. In a time before modern medicine, opium was one of the few available forms of pain relief.

Seeing its popularity, the first White Rajah of Sarawak, Sir James Brooke, saw opium as a source of state revenue and imposed heavy taxes on it.

Now, narrating history is never easy—because all storytelling is shaped by bias, whether cognitive, cultural, or political. I am no historian, but I try to seek references to avoid misrepresentation….

If you care to applying common sense: the Chinese immigrants had already established their own mining and trade operations before the Rajah arrived. It’s unlikely they were interested in political power, but when heavy taxes and restrictions were imposed on the export of gold and antimony—their only livelihood—tensions boiled over almost a no brainer.

In 1857, the Chinese miners rebelled against the Rajah. Some historical accounts claim they tried to seize control of the government. But I believe that’s misleading. After storming the Rajah’s residence, the miners even invited another European to become the new Rajah—suggesting they didn’t seek power for themselves. If you’re familiar with Chinese uprisings, you may recognize a familiar sentiment. I once joked to a friend:

“只反贪官，不反中央。”
(We oppose the local regime, not the central authority.)

It was certainly a bloody insurrection. Here are a few chilling notes that provide more perspective:

“Alas, the library was burnt by the rebels. It was a treasure indeed in the jungle, with books covering all sorts of subjects with enticing covers… It took two days to burn.”
— Mrs. McDougall, wife of Bishop McDougall

“Poor Nicholetts, only 17 years of age, was killed after being mistaken for the Rajah. His head was cut off and paraded through town on the end of a long pole…”
— W.J. Chater, “Sarawak Long Ago”

The Rajah survived and his forces retaliated swiftly. A few days after the miners retreated, the Rajah’s troops launched a counterattack. They entered the village and massacred an estimated 3,000 people—including women, children, and the elderly. The bodies were left unburied, leading to a pervasive and sickening stench that lingered over the area. And so the town came to be known as Bau….

Perhaps the value of reading history lies in this: you often encounter things that are confusing and horror, difficult to fathom from your own perspective. It’s hard to draw a clean line between right and wrong, but history serves as a mirror, a reflection of the present—and its cruelty warns us not to romanticize the past too easily.

As I continue my journey through Kuching, I keep asking myself:
To what extent does history define who we are today?