“Before, everything was easy. Sometimes bad people are trying to fill barges with oil and send them to Singapore privately. Or they are trying to sell a little land to Indopet for so much money… These are easy things, but now the world is changing. The terrorist people are becoming very strong and they want money. They want money to do bad things; to make bombs and to buy guns. Very, very bad people. These terrorist people make too much trouble for me.”
“Why don’t you tell the Army?”
Captain Rais did not meet his eye. Tim had lived long enough in Indonesia to recognise his embarrassment. “It is not so easy, Mr. Armstrong. The Army is different. I cannot speak with the Army. Not even my manager in Balikpapan can speak with the Army. Only in Jakarta will my department sit down with the Army.” He sipped his tea and looked out over the pond.
“Foreigners never hear about these things,” said Tim. That was true. An outsider could work in the oilfields for a lifetime and still not see past the surface. The people were polite and reserved. The whole country was polite and reserved. Tim knew how to live in Indonesia, how to shop, visit restaurants, negotiate with girls, but those things a foreign worker could learn easily. What actually happened in the society around him remained hidden.
“Bad people, Mr. Armstrong, very bad people. They are taking my religion. Yes, they say that only they are Muslim and the rest of the people are not good Muslims. They are stupid people, not educated. Stupid but also dangerous. Do you know them?”
“Me? Only what I read in the newspapers. About Syria, Afghanistan and Iran and so on. And Saudi Arabia, of course.”
“That’s it! Arab people, but only the stupidest ones. All shouting and lying about the Koran. Always blood and killing. The Prophet never wanted that. He was a man of peace, not blood, and these people, you know when they come to Indonesia, always it is alcohol and women. Always women, and after their night with the women, the next day they are in the
masjid
and saying that Indonesian men are bad Muslims and shouting again about killing and blood.
“These are very bad men. You know, the people from Afghanistan and Iran, where they get their money? Drugs! Yes, holy Muslims selling drugs. Opium, heroin. Very, very bad men.” Captain Rais sounded almost rude in his denunciations, uncharacteristic for Indonesians talking to foreigners.
“You don’t have people like that here, do you?” asked Tim.
“We have stupid Indonesian people who listen to them! Yes, that’s true. There are
madrasah
everywhere, good schools with good teachers. But also there are bad
madrasah
with bad teachers. Always kill, kill, and
jihad
everywhere. Even in Balikpapan where are the foreigners and the Army. And to make a bomb it is only necessary one stupid bad man.
“Now it is coming worse. I think my department in Jakarta has some of these men. I listen, I hear some things, Darti hears some things, and I write reports to Jakarta, but nothing is happening! They tell me to make the Security for the Mahakam delta only and not to think of the terrorists. So now you must help me.”
“Me?” said Tim in surprise. “What can I do to help you?” Becoming involved with Islamic terrorists in Kalimantan was the last thing he wanted.
“I will write a letter without my name,” said the Captain, “and you must take it to the police in Singapore.”
Captain Rais left soon after he had made his demand. He had taken out his walkie-talkie to call for his boat, and set off into the swamp with a smile and a wave. Tim remained on the verandah, shocked and silent.
Darti came to sit beside him. “Is a problem for you?”
“No, I guess not,” he said. “As long as he just wants me to deliver a letter, I suppose nothing will happen to me. I hope.”
“He is correct, Timmee. These people are very bad and big problem for Indonesia. The President does not know what he is doing, and some politicians are like snakes. They do not like the crazy men, but they talk with them, and they take their money. The money goes from the people to the
masjid,
from the
masjid
to the terrorists and then from the terrorists to the politicians. Always too much money.”
“What will he write in the letter? Did he tell you?”
“One man is carrying money to Singapore. Not next week but after next week. Captain Rais says this money is for guns and bombs. He is not permitted to stop the man here, but maybe the Singapore police will stop him. The letter will say his name and the day he is coming to Singapore.”
Chapter 6
Tim arrived back in Singapore with the dusk. Efficient and predictable, Immigration and Customs ushered the passengers through, past the baggage carousels loaded with the passengers’ tattered hold-alls, and straight to the line for taxis. Within fifteen minutes of touchdown, he was riding the crowded evening streets south into town. The tropical night closed in quickly and lights shone on in the old shop-houses. The taxi wound its way through the rush hour to Holland Road and modern Singapore.
Sherry seemed happy to see him and, despite feeling as tired as a wet rag, he took her out to dinner.
Next day, he needed to go into the Krumbein office in Orchard Road and, without telling Sherry, he took a taxi from there to New Bridge Road and the police CID building at Eu Tong Sen.
The old colonial building looked permanently official, cold, tiled, inhuman. He gave his name and asked for a detective. He took a seat expecting a long wait, but they called him after only a few minutes. His detective was Hing, an unsmiling young man with spots and a military haircut. He wore plain clothes, uniformly wearing the same as everyone else Tim saw in the building, black trousers and a white, open-necked shirt. He led Tim to a sparse interview room and gestured him to a chair on one side of the small table. He laid a writing pad on the table, sat down and started to interrogate.
“Name?” he demanded, as his first question. Then address, in Singapore and overseas. Nationality. Date of birth. Passport number, visa number, driving licence. He wrote quickly, in English, ignoring Tim’s frustration until finally he laid his pen on the table and asked, “Now, why are you here?”
“I have a letter for you. It’s from Indonesia and it’s about terrorists.” He handed the letter over and Hing put it next to the writing pad unopened. He started to write again.
“And who is the letter from?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Hing’s manner sharpened. “Why not?”
“Perhaps when you read the letter, it will be clear,” said Tim.
“Have you read the letter?”
“No.”
“Do you know who sent it?”
“Look, I’m not going to discuss it. Just read the letter. I’m only the delivery boy.”
“Mr. Armstrong, you must cooperate with me and answer my questions. You are a guest in Singapore and if you do not cooperate with me, I shall expel you.” Hing looked agitated.
“Oh, for goodness sake. Read the letter. It should tell you all you need to know.”
“Where is the letter from, Mr. Armstrong?” demanded Hing again.
Suddenly Tim boiled over. “Look, I’ve had enough of this. I came to deliver a letter and you’ve been extremely rude to me. I’ve given all the answers you’re going to get. I’m going!”
He stood up, took two steps and opened the door. Behind him he heard Hing jump up and knock his chair onto the concrete floor with a clatter. “Mr. Armstrong—” he called but he was too late. Tim walked down the corridor and out of the building. Damn the little creep! He half expected Hing to chase him out onto the street but no one followed. Good, he could get on with life. He wanted to spend his break on Pulau Kelapa so he stopped at a payphone to call and persuade Sherry, and to make a booking with the car rental company.
Early next morning, the car arrived at their door, and they drove out to Woodlands and the causeway. The Singapore checkpoint moved quickly, the Malaysian one only a little slower, and soon they could pick their way through the traffic of Johor Baru. This city ran to a different rhythm. Only a causeway away, Singapore had grown into a modern Chinese city-state. In contrast, Johor Baru was a Malaysian city with a wide country hinterland, and a thriving mix of old fashioned Malay and Chinese businesses crammed into a corner of the jungle peninsula.
Out of the city, Tim took the road to Kota Tinggi and the east coast. Soon the scenery changed to plantations, the heart of Malaysia. The road jinked and turned along plantation boundaries laid out before the motorcar had arrived. The rich soil here supported spreading rubber plantations, the kings of the last era. The spindly trees stretched in arrow straight lines away from the road, their small leaves filtering strong sunlight to a dappled luminous green. They could see occasional figures, Malay and Indian, moving amongst the trees. They were emptying the collecting cups that they had placed at dawn, and returning the cups inverted to the trees. Here and there the road widened into loading areas where the tappers could bring their buckets of raw latex for collection by daily trucks.
Nowadays, rubber had become out-dated. Wherever the soil would support it, rubber plantations were being torn out and replaced with oil palm. Oil palms plantations looked much less welcoming. The palms stood in shaded lines leading into the distance. The gothic curve of the palm branches met in low cathedral aisles, and beneath them dark and silence reigned. Black, oppressive, mosquito-ridden, they swallowed tractors and trailers that penetrated the tunnels to crop the heavy red fruit bunches.
The road narrowed to a single strip of asphalt, just wide enough to accommodate two oil palm trucks. Kota Tinggi behind them, the countryside became more hilly and jungle-covered, and the plantations less frequent. Huge logging trucks, piled with massive tree trunks, replaced the oil palm and rubber collectors. Tall creeper-draped trees towered above them, often touching across the road. Tim drove through pools of jungle light and darkness, and wound up and down steep hills.
The countryside opened out as they approached Mersing. They began to pass villages and dirt roads that led down to the coast. Colourful plantation workers sat on rickety bush platforms and sheltered from the sun while they waited for transport, either back down to their villages or along the main road into town. Houses and gardens began to line the road, first wooden huts and then more substantial buildings with schools and mosques. They pulled into Mersing and went straight to the jetty. It looked busy in the laid-back East Coast way, people everywhere, nobody hurrying, and boats to spare. Tim dumped Sherry and their bags, and went to park the car.
A leisurely negotiation with a fisherman and his mate, and they clambered down from the concrete jetty to a small blue fishing boat. The trip to Pulau Kelapa would take over an hour. Tim pulled his old straw hat firmly over his brow and settled on the deck in front of the wheelhouse. Sherry stood beside him, rubbing sun cream onto her arms and legs. She did not seem to notice her short cotton dress riding high as she smoothed the cream into her thighs. The captain did, and the short, leathery sailor glanced at Tim and exchanged a grin. If only you knew, thought Tim, how disappointed you would be. Finally Sherry put on a cap and sunglasses, pulled a book from her bag and settled her elegant self beside him.
The boat chugged clear of the jetty, weaved between moored boats and settled down to a steady throb as it headed out to sea. The sea wind picked up and gave them some relief from the sun, and slowly the brown water of the estuary gave way to deep blue sea. Tim dozed.
He woke to a dig in the ribs from Sherry’s elbow. “Look!” she whispered. Beside them, riding the bow wave, was a dolphin. So near, two or three metres away and almost at deck level, seeming to watch them with its knowing eye. They crawled to the low rail and rested there, their chins on their hands. The dolphin played, still smiling.
Pulau Kelapa was Tim’s kind of place. Not a large island, only three kilometers from end to end and less than one across, it turned its rocky back to the South China Sea. On the western side facing the mainland, lay a strip of flat ground, covered in jungle and the remains of an informal coconut plantation. Here, under the trees and with the beach only metres away, a clever businessman had built the first resort of the Mersing area. Perhaps built was too grand a word. A collection of small shacks spread along the beach and clustered around the restaurant, and that was no more than a large roof covering a raised floor. A kitchen, a small office and a bar crowded together under one edge of the roof, and the rest had tables around a dancing area. Comfortable armchairs sat off to one side, with a bookshelf of dog-eared leftovers.
They checked in with a smiling girl at the office and carried their bags and key off to their hut. It was no more than a verandah and single room on low stilts, twin beds, ceiling fan, shower and toilet at ground level at the back. Simplicity and sufficiency, what more could you need? Tim stripped off his clothes and put on his swimming shorts. He waited on the verandah for Sherry. She emerged wearing a shy smile and a tiny black bikini, held together with strings tied in bows at each hip. The sexy creation shocked Tim. “Wow, Sherry! That’s fantastic! Where did you find that?”
“You like it?” she asked twirling round for him. She found herself enjoying his simple admiration. She would certainly not tell him that it had come from the boutique in the Shangri La Hotel. Or that it originally came from Brazil at a totally extravagant price. Or who had paid for it when he wanted to show her off at the hotel swimming pool after a successful flute-playing lesson. She wrapped a batik sarong around her lower half and followed him to the restaurant.
They sat looking over the beach, savouring their chilli prawns and Tiger beer. Sherry knew what Tim was thinking – that this simple place lay close to paradise. He went crazy for tropical beaches and coconut palms. It had taken Sherry a little longer to learn to love them. At first she had been put off by the untidiness of it all, the driftwood and debris that lay thick on remote beaches, the rivers and beaches that looked steamy and muddy brown instead of cool and clear. Even coconut palms themselves had shaggy and disreputable crowns and she had disliked their untidiness. Still, the combination of jungle and beach grew on her. Now she too loved coconut palms, along with the smells, and the intense colours. Europe could offer nothing like this.