by Barry Heard
Wally was entranced. He had a desire, a wish, a belief, or however one labels it. One day, he would see that plant flower. In Indonesia.
Chapter 3
At last …
Time had moved on for Wally Flannagan. His Tompop was gone, having lived to a ripe old age of eighty. Tompop’s wife, Wally’s beautiful grandma, Muriel, had died the year before. Wally’s mum now lived in the comfortable house his grandparents had shared down near the dairy. Wally ran the farm with the help of his family. He was married, had adult children and young grandchildren, and he would retire on his next birthday.
On reaching that milestone, he had only one birthday present or wish in mind. After all these years, he still hadn’t fulfilled that promise to himself — to watch that special Indonesian flower unfold. Now, all that was about to change. He had hired a reputable local to help on the farm, and his trip to Indonesia was only two weeks away. By good fortune, the family had a connection in Jakarta: a relation, a cousin by marriage, Steven.
The plan was that, after a week spent with Steven, Wally would travel across Java on a tourist train and tourist bus to finally witness the rare event. To see one of those huge plants flower. Yes, locals had kept diaries on past flowerings — and over the years, it had become a tourist attraction, the dates well-advertised, if you knew where to look.
These last twelve months for Wally had involved endless planning and familiarising himself with Indonesia. Of an evening, after tea on the farm, it became an obsession. The computer was his aid in researching air tickets, accommodation, tourist attractions, and dates. But the family connection in Jakarta would help, too. There, he would gather tips on local habits, manners, and greetings in Bahasa. (Further, he believed he needed at least a week to adjust to the humid climate. It had been fifty years since he had experienced the tropics.)
Typically, Wally studied the island of Java thoroughly. The more he researched, the more he thrilled in anticipation. He shared this potential adventure with his family and mates, whether they were interested or not. To be honest, his close mates were delighted for him, even envious — let’s clarify that statement: they envied Wally behind his back. To his face, these same mates would yawn, telling him to change the subject. The sooner he left for bloody Jack Arthur (Jakarta), the better, they told him.
Yet including these mates in his updates on his travels had unexpected results. The first — Wally had stared, totally flabbergasted, arms in the air, when a mate suggested he set up a Facebook page to keep in touch during his travels. ‘You are kidding me,’ was his verbal response. However, between his mates and his children, Wally was given little choice. Begrudgingly, he signed up for an account.
Checking in via Facebook tested his opinions of modern socialising on ‘media’, though his computer literacy was excellent. When he’d purchased his first iPad, his grandson Fraser had complained bitterly that it was the only iPad in the world without games. Generally, Wally’s time on a computer was not spent playing games, gambling, viewing smut, or even reading the news (he preferred a physical newspaper). He used the internet to research science and similar topics. He enrolled in online courses and joined special-interest groups, where his knowledge and opinions became valued by many.
His son John organised private groups for Wally’s Facebook account. He believed it would suit his dad best. One for family, the other for mates. Both totally private. After accepting a few mates as members of his Wally’s Bucket group on his Facebook page, to his own great surprise, Wally suddenly became interested. There were old photos from mates he hadn’t seen for years, and updates on just what they were up to — such a great idea, this page. Wally copped a lot of crap from those same mates about his original canning of Facebook. After two weeks, he had fourteen mates on his page. He posted at least twice a week.
Most importantly, he realised he could keep everyone up to date with his grand adventure to Indonesia via Facebook. He’d be able to post photos, report on day-to-day activities, and share his experiences.
Almost time …
Wally relaxed. He’d arranged vaccinations, a full medical report, a passport, rupiah, and a bank card. To the smallest detail, Wally and his travel agent had planned this trip. Transport, accommodation — all supported by local phone numbers. What not to eat or drink — the list was very long, very thorough.
For Wally to do this trip on his own would be a remarkable feat. It took what seemed like forever just to convince his wife and mates that it was all organised. Yet when he showed his plan to his doubters, it eliminated all concerns and was hard to fault. He’d ticked every box.
He had a full itinerary. Travelling by train from Stratford to Melbourne, then by plane to Jakarta. Visiting Steven, his wife, and their two children. Seeing so many significant buildings and magnificent mountains, jungle walks and waterways, dancing ceremonies and traditional-costume displays, rituals put on for tourists and many small diversions. Then the true adventure would begin. To travel across the rugged countryside of Java …
He’d thought carefully about what he was going to pack.
Apart from the occasional three-hour trip from Stratford to Melbourne to catch up with his mates, Wally spent most of his time locally. Working on the farm, every morning, every afternoon. When he wasn’t working, he liked attending cattle sales, agricultural shows, the library, the computer club at U3A, birdwatching and wildlife clubs, footy games, and the shire swimming pool. Which was a very demanding agenda for this busy dairy farmer.
When going to see those mates in Melbourne, he caught the train. He checked his old wristwatch was correct, carried his phone and wallet in his coat pocket, and took a book to read.
He was going to take a little more with him to Indonesia.
One week to go …
Monday morning, milking finished, a cuppa. Same old routine? No, Wally would never forget this morning. For Meredith, his wife, while chatting about Wally’s upcoming holiday, simply stunned him when she said, ‘We should drive down to town, check out the shops, and get you a decent handbag, Wally.’
That word (a secret women’s word) pierced Wally’s eardrums like a well-aimed arrow.
‘What did you just say?’
Meredith, half reading the local paper, hadn’t noticed the shocked look on Wally’s face. ‘A handbag. You know, travel-bag thing. You’ve got a lot of stuff to carry that needs to be handy. I’m told you can get ones that people can’t pickpocket, apparently.’
Wally stared at Meredith. ‘Did you just say handbag? Should I get some stockings as well?’
Meredith laughed.
Wally didn’t; he frowned, rubbed his nose, and scratched his thinning hair. Choosing his words carefully, he said, ‘You’re serious? Me carry a bloody handbag? For God’s sake, Meredith, my mates will wet their pants laughing. I’ll just shove it all in a small suitcase or something like the bag I carry all my farm fencing tools in, yes, something like that’ll be perfect. Leave it to me, mate.’
Two hours later, he and Meredith returned from their impromptu shopping spree, Wally carrying a shopping bag from a men’s accessory shop so carefully that one would assume it held a tiger snake inside. No. Wally now owned a medium-sized grey man bag. It was impressive, or so the shopkeeper had said:
‘The strap that goes around your neck contains an inserted steel wire, making it almost impossible to cut or slash apart by some would-be thief. Every zip has a tamper-proof fastener. The bag is made of a special super-tough material that no razor-sharp knife or similar tool could cut open. A brilliant design and a very safe place for money, passport, tickets, phone, umbrella, camera, and much more.’
Meredith was pleased. Wally looked as if his manhood had been removed in one fell swoop by an efficient cattleman in the nearby cattle yard. Possibly with a ‘razor-sharp knife or similar tool’. His biggest problem — how could he face his mates, those fair-dinkum Aussie blokes, with a bloody ha
ndbag hanging around his neck?
Had Meredith not been coming to the airport the day of his departure, he would have stuffed it in the rubbish bin on the train on the way down. Yep, then he could have bought a cheap footy bag or canvas tool bag, and met his mates bragging about his wise choice.
Sorry, Wally, you’re stuck with your man bag, mate!
The trip of a lifetime
Have you ever considered travelling overseas? Like Wally, you know it takes a lot of planning. As an Australian, or, for that matter, as any person with a healthy bank account, you are aware that travelling overseas has many exciting moments — and risks. You will nod and say, ‘Yep, get your passport and injections up to date, check for any currency issues.’ Regardless, further advice will come from family, friends, and others who offer comments. The first negative advice is usually about pickpockets and dodgy RFID-scanning of your credit card. A good travel agent will pass on such information. These warnings apply to most travellers. Maybe not the Queen, the President of the USA, or multibillionaires.
But are you going on a holiday that has three- or four-star accommodation or tourist-class train travel? Are you travelling alone? Then add to the risks listed above: becoming innocently involved in drug smuggling, having your drinks spiked at a bar, and kidnapping. Yes, you read that correctly. In several countries, kidnapping is a routine criminal enterprise, often very successful, and the victims involved in these terrifying schemes rarely speak out after the ordeal is concluded via a sizeable financial transaction.
Wally Flannagan wasn’t a retired surgeon, a gold-medal winner, famous, or rich. Just your average older Australian. This trip to Indonesia was eating up a quarter of his savings.
He had planned this adventure for two years. There was no way anything would go wrong.
Sure, Wally …
Chapter 4
Wally had been in Indonesia for three days. He’d spent most of this time walking the streets of Jakarta, seeking out tourist sites and gardens.
The city offered so much variety. He appreciated the local cuisine, awesome wonders of religious significance, and the most diverse living he had ever witnessed. He visited several parks featuring beautiful orchids, other stunning flowers, and the odd exotic bird. Only a few more days, he thought, and he would be seeing so much more, so many birds, and that plant, that amazing, wonderful plant — he could hardly wait.
The streets were a mixture of wealth and slums, often in close proximity. Yet the people of those slums were happy, sociable, and convivial, though some were so welcoming they were a nuisance. He understood the need for them to pester him, to plead for money, a sale, or something similar. For most, it was their only means of survival. However, he soon tired of rejecting their requests, and began to keep his distance from the stalls and stay in the crowd.
Once, near a busy market, a thief tried to slash the shoulder strap of his man bag with a knife. He jumped sideways and shouted at the man, who was already vanishing into the throng. That night, he almost emailed Meredith telling her about the incident, but ultimately deleted the message. The story might frighten her.
Steve lived far from the bustle, in a wealthy area where tight security alienated the occupants. They lived in their own world of expensive restaurants, elite clubs, and huge homes run by servants, to mention just a few of their excesses. Most evenings, Steve arrived home late. His work, at the highest level of a major mining business, was very demanding. Through his son John’s work with robotic rock crushers, Wally had a good grasp of modern mining, so Wally and Steve often chatted into the night about the industry, its directions and challenges.
Come the weekend, Steve and his family drove Wally out to the countryside, where they all enjoyed watching smiling vendors plying their knick-knacks in the local market. Bartering, arguing, and pleas of desperation were a feature of most deals. Wally had experienced this kind of negotiating culture decades before — nothing had changed. Beggars, disabled street vagrants, and young women offering a ‘good time’ added to the milieu; not an uncommon scene in parts of Indonesia, but rare in Australia.
This first week of the trip passed quickly for Wally. At its end, Wally found himself alone in Steve’s Jakarta house — apart from the ever-present staff, of course. The family had all got up early and rushed off to work or school; Wally had enjoyed their last breakfast together, said his goodbyes, and got changed for a swim. Their large pool was joined to the back verandah. The water was warm, the air muggy. The smog, a constant in Jakarta, reminded Wally of those dangerous days of bushfire back home in Gippsland. On those days, the sun was nothing but a reddish-yellow blur in the thick milky-grey of smoke and ashes. But there were powerful winds, then, bending trees to the point of breaking; here, the air was still.
Wally loved the pool. Back home, he swam regularly, around three times a week, of an evening after milking. Though it certainly kept him fit, if you asked him what he enjoyed most about the pool, he would answer, ‘My age. It goes backwards some thirty years.’
This was an inevitably confusing comment that required further explanation.
‘My back aches continually. Not overwhelming, but annoying. I wear a pain-relief patch — that helps. But when I walk into the pool, and all my weight comes off my spine, I love the joy of the pain just going away, disappearing, and I feel my youth returning. I enjoy that brief walk more than the laps I’m about to swim.’
Steve’s pool was big enough to allow Wally to do his laps, but, after five, the humidity drained him of all energy. He grunted as he ascended the steps, rubbed his back, and headed for the shower.
Refreshed, he put on clean clothes: shorts, an open shirt, and sandals. The compulsory addition was insect spray, a liberal dose. Insects of every kind, particularly mosquitoes, thrived in the heat.
For an old man, Wally looked fit, no excess weight apart from that little pot gut few men his age could avoid. He had a large bald patch on the back of his head that he denied existed. Well, that’s what he told his wife. Other than his back problems, in physical terms, he was healthy.
He stepped into Steve’s study and turned on the fans, then the computer. He enjoyed this contact with home every day. He wrote Meredith a long email, and forwarded a slightly edited version of the same email to his wider family. Then it was onto Facebook. He loved it. On day one of his trip, he had posted photos of the clouds outside the 737 aircraft’s small window during the flight across Australia and into Jakarta. Every day since, he’d uploaded further snaps of his walks around the city. He also added short videos to the Dropbox created by his son.
Half an hour a day on Facebook was now the norm. He could get up to ten ‘Likes’ and five comments a day, and he responded to every comment, but best of all was the ribbing, bagging, and fun from the select members of Wally’s Bucket. Those special friends were an unusual group, a handful of old mates he had made fifty years back. He used Wally’s Bucket to keep them informed of his trip — and for a few laughs and cheeky remarks.
A soft knock on the study door distracted him. It was Swama, one of the servants, holding the long glass of cold tea he always had after a swim. He thanked her, walked outside, and sat under the shade of the fully grown palm. When he’d finished the drink, Swama asked him if he’d like anything else, and they chatted briefly before he strolled back to his room.
Almost packed, he unplugged his camera from its charger and placed it in his man bag. It was a Nikon, a compact, and, according to Wally, the best when travelling. Photography had been a hobby for his entire adult life. In Jakarta alone, Wally had taken 450 photographs, of flowers, gardens, and parks, of the people and their culture, of countless cute animals on the streets. So often, he beamed at a beautiful snap after he had pushed that tiny button. A favourite image: a group of children happily playing with a handmade paper ball held together with string. Another: an old man with a beard that almost reached his knees. And: that thin man riding a p
ushbike with bundles of clothes somehow tied on the bike, the load as big as a small car; Wally remembered thinking at the time, No one will believe this unless I get a snap. They’ll love it on Facebook.
It was time to leave. Opening his man bag, he yet again studied the train timetable, then for the third time checked the room. He left an envelope with a handsome tip under the pillow of the unmade bed; Swama deserved that. Wally had managed secretly to reward all the workers, except the security guard. Somehow, he was … well, different. Even sullen. This seemed odd, as Wally liked the other workers. There may have been begging on the streets, but here most showed a smile, perfect manners, and genuine charm.
He closed the door to his luxurious room and wheeled his suitcase to the main room. He told Swama he was ready. Leaving a household with servants for the last time was a drawn-out process in Jakarta — after much bowing and smiling, Wally generously complimented all the workers, until they clapped their hands, letting him know it was time to depart. The gardener picked up Wally’s suitcase.
After a long walk, they approached the large steel gate. The security guard met them, dismissed the gardener coldly, told the other servants to get back to work, and then spoke to Wally.
‘I understand sir would like a taxi to the train station. Mr Steven sir told me, so I booked one for you two days ago.’
Wally gritted his teeth — he hated that title ‘sir’. He nodded, and the man then went into the tiny guardroom near the gate and made the phone call.
He came out and said, ‘A taxi will be here in no time. There will be no cost for you. I hope you enjoy the trip, sir.’
Wally had been waiting twenty minutes when up the short, narrow private road came this classy black Audi. No taxi sign on the door, no sign on the roof. It flashed its lights briefly. The steel gate rolled open, the car entered and parked, and out stepped the driver. He was tall for an Indonesian and imposing. He wore a dark-grey suit, a silk cravat, and very large sunglasses. The driver took the guard by the arm and led him into the guardroom. After a brief chat, they both returned; the security guard lowered his head and quickly stepped back.