The Timor Man (42 page)

“Come with me Greg! Take it easy, they're not rioting against us. The chanting sounds like anti-Japanese slogans. ”

Hart paled. “Shit, Stephen, we could be killed! For Chrissakes, man, let's get the hell out of here before these bastards decide to widen their parameters!” yelled Hart above the rising crescendo of the swelling mob.

“Don't lose your head! If they see you run or panic they will turn on you as quickly as a savage dog so just bloody well stand here against the wall and shut up!” Coleman yelled, now concerned not just for his own safety and that of his associate, but also for his driver who had completely disappeared from view amongst the mass of rioters and spectators.

He could just see his Nissan. The flames consumed it with incredible speed. He stretched and still couldn't see Achmad. He hoped he hadn't attempted to protect the
tuan's
new sedan. The noise increased as the students moved into shops smashing more windows and throwing furniture onto the fires. Coleman could see that this was going to be worse than the rice riots of ‘Sixty-eight.'

He shuddered. The demonstrators were now completely out of control wrecking everything, not just Japanese products, but anything at all as they broke into shops, looting and burning. He had learned from his own experience and from some of the older members of the expatriate community that generally rioters left foreigners alone providing they did not display arrogance, fear, or attempt to offer any resistance to the crowd's destructive actions.

Hart was alarmed by the sudden turn in events. He had never witnessed mob violence before.

“Shit! Stephen! Let's make a dash for it!” he pleaded as the crowd swelled past them, moving dangerously close.

“God damn you! Stay where you bloody well are!” he was ordered.

Hart wanted to close his eyes and permit it all to pass, tensing his body in anticipation of the first blow.

“Take it easy, take it easy,” Coleman called loudly to the shaken man. “It'll be over in a few minutes. Keep your cool! The main body of the mob is moving away from us down towards Kota.”

Jakarta
's Chinatown represented the commercial hub of the capital. Historically, whenever there were signs of civil unrest the Chinese would react instinctively before any other ethnic group, protecting their shops and homes by throwing down the steel grated shutters to prevent looters from entering their premises. It was if their very actions were some form of riot indicator.

“Shit! They are going to burn Kota!” Coleman exclaimed.

“Couldn't give a rat's arse,” Hart screamed, engulfed in fear, his voice almost inaudible, “just as long as they get the fuck outta here!”

The main body of the rioters headed quickly down town. As the mob moved, the terrifying yelling and screaming followed. Both men remained where they were, watching the alarming mass move slowly away, continuing on their destructive path towards the Chinese Quarter. Soon there was not nearly as much noise as before. Coleman and Hart remained alert, waiting, as they could still see smaller groups, mainly thieves, smashing their way into the remaining shops which had escaped the first wave of pillaging. The looters remained at work, but these were not as threatening as the screaming mob that had passed by just minutes before.

Coleman watched the ongoing violence around him cautiously.

He waited a few more minutes and then decided it was safe to move away.

“Greg? Are you all right?”

Embarrassed, still shaking, his legs a little weak around the knees, Hart attempted a brave face. “Guess so. ”

“Stay on this side of the street,” Stephen instructed.“ Walk quickly, and we'll turn down one of the narrow side roads and head towards the market. Maybe we'll find a
becak
there. The taxis aren't stupid. They won't move out into this mess. ”

Hart followed. Moving back towards the junction where the first explosion had occurred, Coleman remained alert, his eyes searching for Achmad. He was very worried. There were people seriously injured everywhere. Some were probably dead.

They walked up to the smouldering wreck of the Nissan. Nothing could have been done for the faithful driver. His broken body lay on the roadside covered in blood and filth. His chest had been crushed by the weight of hundreds of rioters as they had swarmed through the street, carelessly trampling across the fallen driver smashing his ribs. Achmad had screamed out for Stephen as he went down but his cry had been lost in the tumult. In that instant, as a heavy booted-foot had kicked down, Achmad had died.

As the two foreigners passed the wreck it was impossible for them to see the dead driver's body, obscured amidst the burned and damaged vehicles.

“Down here!” Stephen called, indicating a small laneway too narrow for anything but
becak
and pedestrian traffic.

Hart moved quickly resisting the temptation to run. More explosions could be heard in the distance as petrol tanks ruptured throwing lumps of hot steel and other debris back into the crowd of unsuspecting onlookers.

Coleman pulled a thick wad of Rupiah from his pocket and waved furiously at the
becak
speeding past.

“
Where do you want to go?
” the becak driver asked braking dangerously.

“
Menteng!
” Stephen answered.

“
Enggak mau
,” the driver spat, refusing to take them to Menteng. As he pedalled away he called back to the foreigners. “
Lebih ramai disana dong!
”
- It's even worse over there!'

Stephen spun around, shocked.

Hart looked at him impatiently. “What is it?”

Coleman turned his head slightly, his face a white mask. “Let's go! Now!” he yelled and commenced to run.

“Stephen,” his companion called after him, also breaking into a

run as he realized that the other man was not about to stop. “Stephen,” he called again breathlessly, “wait up, damn it!” as he slowed to a walk, already fatigued. Coleman was at least twenty metres ahead when he stopped and yelled for Hart to hurry. “Stuff it! I can't run any fucking further!” he choked, his adrenaline reserves almost depleted. Coleman hesitated then stood impatiently waiting for Hart to catch up. Glaring at the other man Stephen hissed, “Run! Run now you bastard or I'll leave you here alone!”

“What the fuck for? The crowds have long passed and we're safe here. ” Hart screamed vehemently, disorientated and still terrified of the possibility that they'd bump headlong into another crowd of demonstrators.

“Yes. We are,” Stephen clenched his fists, controlling his anger, “but others may not be so lucky. That
becak
driver refused to take us back home to Menteng as he claimed it's burning! The riots have hit there as well, Wanti will be in danger!” he yelled.

Immediately they ran, at first together and as Hart tired he called out to Stephen, insisting that he continue on without him. Coleman refused and, also out of breath, rested for a brief moment. He managed to wave down another
becak
driver, his fist held high full of Rupiah notes. This time he didn't indicate their destination as being Menteng, insisting only that the driver take them to Cikini, not a kilometre from the office.

The driver agreed and twenty minutes later the pair approached Jalan Cik Ditiro on foot, having paid the nervous driver off just two hundred metres from the office. As they neared the premises it was obvious that there had been considerable damage to the building.

Earlier, the screaming mobs had turned off from Jalan Imam Bonjol and commenced their path of destruction along Cik Ditiro. Stephen's complex was on a corner, between the Governor's official residence and the home of a retired Admiral. The former Marine General's house was well protected by armed guards who quickly demonstrated their impatience with the forward line of the approaching crowd by shooting over their heads.

The mob had panicked and split into two groups, one pouring down the smaller side street towards the Governor's home where they were met yet again with a barrage of bullets from another team of marines delegated to guard the city's much admired leader.

Molotov cocktails were thrown. More rounds of ammunition were discharged until finally the rioting crowd could no longer contain their rage, several of their number falling under a barrage of bullets. The frenzied mass of humanity poured forward determined to distroy everything in their way.

The mob was no longer motivated just by anti-Japanese feeling. They were out of control, the participants determined to vent their pent-up hatred of the wealthy, the powerful and the military.

Both of Stephan's neighbour's homes survived due to the diligence of their Marine Guards. Stephen's building was spared as a result of its position between the two senior citizen's well-protected residences.

One Molotov Cocktail had successfully carried its dangerous contents through a side plate glass window bursting into flames in the private dining area only to be extinguished by Sukardi, who had bravely attacked the flames with his jacket. All around on both sides of the street, houses had been gutted by fire and most were still smouldering as the rioters had hit this district first, leaving the carnage behind as testimony to the ferocity of their destructive power.

Stephen viewed the scene before him as he started to run towards his home and office. And wife. Another sedan, this time one of their Datsuns, stood half on the footpath and partly on the road, windows smashed and the body damaged, but not burned. Stephen rushed inside where he found the staff were all standing together, confused as to what they should be doing. They know it would be madness to attempt to venture out and yet it was apparent from the look of helplessness on their faces that they were all very concerned for their loved ones.

“Everybody wait here,” he instructed, walking briskly through the office to his private quarters and opening the sliding door which accessed the inner guest area.

He sighed immediately. Wanti was sitting there as beautiful as ever, smiling as he entered.

“
Wanti
,” he commenced, washed by a wave of relief to see that she was unharmed, “
Are you . . . .
”

“
Kenapa, Mas?
” she interrupted, continuing to smile blankly at her husband.

Stephen approached her slowly, kneeling in front of the chair where she sat elegantly and whispered softly, taking her hands in his.

“
Wanti
?” he called, stroking the side of her face with one hand, the other clasped tightly together with hers. “
Wanti
?” he called softly again, searching her face for a sign of recognition.

“
Kenapa, Mas?
” she replied, then commenced humming, the soft tone driving a cold slither of fear straight through Stephen's stomach.

Immediately he knew that she was suffering from shock. All around he could see and smell the remains of what had been a small fire. She had been sitting in that room when the bottle of petrol had hurtled through the thick glassed window and exploded into flames. The thick drapes had been open permitting the dangerous explosive to shatter across the room barely missing Wanti as she sat at the table, already petrified with fear as she witnessed the screaming mass move towards her home. The houseboy had saved her life, acting quickly to put out the fire then covering the broken window with a blanket from the bedroom upstairs.

But now Wanti remained still, sitting silently, seemingly totally oblivious to all that had happened. At that moment, Sukardi returned with coffee and placed the silver tray next to his mistress.

Wanti merely smiled. Stephen spoke to her quietly, urging her to rest. He was devastated by the sight of her poised on the chair, unaware of his presence. He sat with her for hours until Wanti unexpectedly rose from her seat and, still humming, walked unaided upstairs and retired to their bedroom.

As she left the room Wanti had hesitated and, for just a fleeting moment, Stephen thought she was going to be all right.

His heart sank when she spoke, then turned and walked away as she asked, again, “
Kenapa, Mas?
” her mind still locked under the spell of her seizure.