The Timor Man (14 page)

Jakarta
— 1966

 

Somewhere in the back of his head Stephen Coleman could hear the noises. They sounded like people moaning but amplified as if sent to torment him. He believed he was dreaming but on carefully rolling over, knew he wasn't. The waves of nausea struck, making him instantly aware that he was in danger of throwing up. The wailing continued and he slowly came to the realization that it would not go away, even if he phoned downstairs to the reception and asked them politely to turn whatever it was, off.

The nausea prevailed.

He rolled back hoping to compensate for the bilious effect of whatever he'd done the evening before. This obnoxious feeling in his head, stomach and somewhere in the lower reaches of his body, was all too familiar. The bile made an attempt to rise but he fought it back. He had been poisoned, he thought wildly but knew, in reality, that he had overindulged the night before, and was now paying the penalty for his indiscretions. Ill as he now felt, recollections of the previous night's activities flashed through his thoughts.

He could remember being met at the Kemayoran Airport. It was a relatively cool reception which developed into a one night indoctrination attempt by the man who would soon be referred to as his predecessor. Alan someone or another. Alex, that was it! Alex Crockwell. What a nice piece of work he turned out to be.

As dead memory cells were replaced by more active and not so alcoholically influenced ones, pieces of the previous evening's activities began to filter through to his brain and then, with a rush, everything flooded back to him.

He turned around quickly looking for the girl, and seeing no apparent sign of her, attempted to recall his last movements before returning to the Hotel Indonesia. He tried but could not remember.

Sitting on the double bed with its hand-woven embroidered bedcover still not turned down he leaned forward and placed his hands so that they would support his head. He really felt terribly sick.

The basket of welcome fruit, still wrapped in a cellophane cover, sat on the coffee table directly in front of the bed. The card stated something to the effect that the management welcomed him to the hotel and trusted that his stay would be memorable.

The phone rang shrilly, the sharp tones piercing his throbbing head.

“
Selamat pagi, sir, this is your wake up call
,” the tinny voice announced.

He raised his arm and peering through one bloodshot eye checked his watch. It read six-thirty. He dimly recollected booking the call for an hour earlier! Again he checked his watch, thanked the operator and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

He got up and the room swam before him. He knew he must get to the bathroom quickly, not through commitment to attend the office on time, on his first day, but more to avoid the inevitable disaster that would occur if he didn't, as he felt that the queasiness surging through his stomach could no longer be ignored.

Coleman headed for the bathroom knowing what was to follow.

He retched.

The heaving convulsions forcing him to his knees as he clung to the chrome grip alongside the bathtub, his head cradled by one arm over the toilet bowl. Minutes passed slowly and Stephen dragged himself upright and stepped into the bathtub, turning the cold faucet on to maximum. Leaning with one arm against the ceramic wall he steadied himself.

He remained in this position, the tropical cold water stinging his body, assisting with the slow recovery process. He then altered the water flow and filled the huge American Standard bath to its brim. He lay still in the bathtub contemplating what would lie ahead on his first full working day in the capital.

He had arrived over the weekend, much to the disgust of the staff delegated to meet and escort him to his hotel. He had completed his customs and immigration checks and identified the embassy official. He was obvious. Alex Crockwell stood alone with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently oblivious to the surrounds.

“Coleman?” he called out, raising one hand, finger pointed in the air as if he was about to hail a taxi.

“Stephen,” Coleman answered, lowering both cases and extending his hand.

“Leave those there, the boy will carry them for you,” he said and turned, leaving Stephen with no other choice but to follow.

“You couldn't have picked a more difficult time to arrive.”

“Sorry?” Coleman called to the disappearing figure, not entirely certain that he was following the right person. The young and pretentious man had not even bothered to introduce himself. Moments later he caught up as the embassy officer had stopped and turned, almost impatiently.

“Put those in the back,” Crockwell ordered the driver who had jumped from the Holden and raced around to open the door for the embassy official. Coleman watched without saying anything.

“Thanks for the reception,” Stephen offered as they drove away from the dilapidated terminal.

“My turn on duty roster, I'm afraid,” Crockwell replied. He then went on to explain that he had missed a wonderful opportunity to spend the weekend away in the mountains but, as Coleman's arrival coincided with these plans, he had to cancel. Stephen was surprised that the embassy officer actually raised the point that personnel movements always seemed to take place on weekends, apparently spoiling some event or other; Canberra really should be more considerate and realize that Indonesia was a difficult post, and should not expect the limited resources of the Embassy staff to sacrifice their own time to meet and escort others, when they should be recharging their batteries.

“I suppose you will want to have a look around later after you've freshened up?” Crockwell asked. The tone of his voice implied that Coleman should refuse the halfhearted invitation and, having enjoyed a few drinks during the eight hour flight, he was tempted to tell the escort officer to get lost and leave him to his own devices. But he didn't.

“Yes,” Coleman replied, “it's still early and I would appreciate a quick tour. How about I check in, dump my gear and you show me around for a bit?”

Crockwell was visibly disappointed and sat silently for the rest of the ride to the hotel. Coleman decided he really didn't need the other man's company but would insist just out of bloody-mindedness. Crockwell waited impatiently in the lobby while Coleman slowly showered and changed. Visibly annoyed with having to wait, Crockwell displayed a show of childish temper by snapping at the driver as they left the hotel.

Coleman managed to restrain himself until later in the evening. He remembered enjoying himself in the bar with the women hanging around his neck, when Crockwell again made some comment as to the lateness of the hour.

“Hey!” Coleman had snapped. “Why don't you just piss off then and leave me here?” There had been an argument and, although the temptation was there, Coleman had resisted smacking the other man around the head as he rightfully deserved.

Stephen groaned. Damn! He hadn't even set foot in the office and already there would be at least one person gunning for him!

Slowly he towelled and waited for his body to adjust to the room temperature after the bath. He selected the pin-striped suit with a maroon tie. Conservative enough, he decided.

Venturing down to the expansive lobby Stephen immediately remembered the lingering smell he had identified when first alighting from the aircraft. It hung heavily in the air like the aroma of ageing fruit which was about to turn, and yet there was something about its scent, something exotic, which made one feel that it was a permanent part of the general ambiance.

Coleman viewed the traffic confusion from the hotel foyer. No briefing could have prepared him for the awesome spectacle of Jakarta's traffic crawling around the
Selamat Datang
column located directly outside the Intercontinental Hotel Indonesia. Bedlam would be an appropriate description, Coleman mused.

Thousands of
becaks
, the Indonesian trishaw, congregated at the entrance. He knew that the drivers often lived in these contraptions, earning barely enough each day to purchase a meal of
nasi putih
before collapsing exhausted. They would curl up in the passenger seat, breathing the foul diesel fumes as they slept. Undernourished and prematurely aged, these men would be lucky to live longer than thirty-five years. When they departed, a hundred others would scramble for the opportunity to pump their legs, strain their hearts and finally die, maybe even to die harnessed to their iron monsters, as had so many before them.

Competition was fierce. The city boasted one hundred thousand of these car-scraping, traffic-congesting, back-to-front pedicabs. He would take a ride in one of these
becak
at the weekend, Stephen Coleman decided. Until then, the Embassy had provided him with a light blue air-conditioned Holden, complete with driver.

Driving! Coleman shuddered at the thought. Part of his briefing had been an information sheet describing action to be taken in the event of an incident when driving oneself. The instructions were basic. In the event of involvement in an accident, regardless of the condition of any third parties, the foreign driver was to return immediately to the embassy grounds and report directly to the Consul. To stop and render assistance could result in the driver's immediate departure to a more heavenly highway at the hands of the violent crowds which, within moments, inevitably appeared at the scene of any altercation in the Far East.

Facing him across the roundabout lay the freshly gutted remains of the British Embassy. To his left, the Press Club stood as a reminder of the Asian Games held a few years earlier. The large vacant block adjacent was the site for the new Australian Embassy. A few tanks were still positioned nearby to the new city centre. Troops in battle-dress paraded around stopping vehicles, demanding cigarettes, and generally terrorizing the pedestrian traffic. Billboards once displaying socialistic slogans now featured garish artists' impressions of cowboy and James Bond movies. The government's Police Command had the territorial zones renumbered so that the Jakarta area could be allocated zero zero seven. Jakarta's finest now sported belt buckles, Texas size, with the three numbers blazoned across the front.

Coleman found this desire for Western identification totally in conflict with the paranoia towards imported customs which, he had read, still persisted at senior government levels. Indonesia had severed all diplomatic ties with mainland China, accusing them of precipitating the abortive
coup d'etat
. Hundreds of thousands of Chinese fled the country taking with them the very funds the economy so desperately needed to continue to operate.

The Post Report and other economic data made available prior to his departure were all very negative. Inflation was out of control. The rupiah was devaluing on the black market at a rate of twenty percent each week. American dollars were in great demand. Communications were practically non-existent. The country was on the verge of economic collapse.

Coleman pondered these things. In his capacity as a Second Secretary, Australian News and Information Bureau, his effectiveness would be reduced considerably due to the absence of modern communication facilities. Urgent messages were dispatched by telegram through the PTT which often required several days before delivery could be effected. These difficulties were further exacerbated by the government's inability to provide a constant supply of electricity. The PLN,
Perusahaan Listrik Negara
, often had major power failures for days on end severing communications domestically and internationally. The Embassy provided each of its staff with diesel generator backup systems -essential to the preservation of meat and occasional dairy supplies which managed to survive shipment via the harbour of Tanjung Priok.

Living under these conditions was a demanding task for foreigners. To operate effectively one required patience, cunning and stamina supported by almost unlimited financial reserves to survive the corruption, disease and frustration of day-to-day existence. The older expatriates would caution newcomers with regards to their health.

Disease was rife, ranging from the plague, cholera and all forms of hepatitis, to the more common ‘revenge'series of disorders such as the bug, Soekarno's revenge; the bug had successfully permeated Jakarta's drinking supplies. The
Koki
, or cooks' revenge, was a similar bug caused by the unsanitary habits of the domestic staff and it was often the more devastating of the two. And then, of course, there was the frightening venereal wart which expatriate wives claimed was their revenge on unfaithful husbands. These excrescences grew to a huge size and were common amongst Jakarta's one hundred and twenty thousand prostitutes or
kupu-kupu malam
, the night butterflies, as they called themselves.

Coleman had suffered the discomforting after effects from the mandatory series of injections prior to his departure. The gamma-globulin was painful and, disappointingly, had proven ineffective to many who had suffered the long needles. His cholera and typhoid cocktail shots had caused light fevers and swelling during his final weeks in Melbourne.