by Peter May
As the launch drew in at the jetty, they were met by the stink of human excrement and the smell of woodsmoke. A large crowd of several hundred refugees was gathered on the beach among rotting piles of refuse to watch the new arrivals. At the other end, near the jetty, an incinerator was nearing completion, paid for no doubt by meagre sums of money provided to salve the collective Western conscience. Beyond it, on an outcrop of rocks, figures crouched in silhouette, defecating into the sea near the wreck of a twenty-metre boat lying in the shallows.
They were met on the jetty by members of the camp’s administration committee, refugees like themselves, overseen by a group of armed militiamen who stood around smoking. There was a headcount and an arbitrary division of the newcomers into groups of six or eight. A cadaverous young Vietnamese in shorts, a singlet and Ho Chi Minh sandals approached Elliot carrying a clipboard. ‘You with relief agency?’ he asked.
Elliot shook his head. ‘No. I’m with them.’
‘Refugee?’ the Vietnamese asked with incredulity.
‘That’s right. This woman, her daughter and her son are Cambodian. We’re together.’
He looked at them, each in turn, then gave a tiny shrug. On Bidong Island nothing came as much of a surprise any more. ‘I am Duong Van Minh, interpreter for the camp committee. I have been here five months. There are worse places. I need your names, then tomorrow you come to administration centre and register. Tonight I fix you up, temporary accommodation. You follow me, please.’
As darkness fell, he led them through the crowded administrative heart of the camp, just beyond the beach. Here, the buildings were of a superior quality. Yellow-lit faces peered at them from windows illuminated by electric bulbs powered by car batteries. The narrow street opened out into a sort of market square, where all manner of goods were sold from stalls lit by oil lamps and candles: everything from nails and wire and fishing tackle, to curry powder, cigarettes and sewing machines. Craftsmen squatted by campfires peddling their wares or services – watch repairers, woodcutters, artists, acupuncturists. They passed a tailor’s shop, a barber’s, even a pawnbroker’s.
‘We have thriving black market,’ Minh said. ‘Illegal, but necessary. Police look other way. We have restaurant, too, and coffee house. Even library. We are well organized.’ They passed a crowd gathered round a noticeboard. ‘Most important noticeboard on island,’ he said. ‘List arriving mail and departing refugee. Find out if you stay or go.’
‘Do many go?’ Elliot asked.
‘Not many.’ Minh was philosophical. ‘Depend on who you are, if you got money or education, or relative in West. Then maybe some country take you.’
‘What about you?’
‘Oh, I am alright. I leave soon. I have uncle in United States. And I am trained computer programmer.’ He shrugged. ‘But I am lucky, Mistah Elliot. Nearly fifty thousand people come to Bidong since first people arrive a year ago. Only ten thousand leave in that time. Even for lucky ones like me, it take time. Some people maybe never leave.’ Despite the heat and humidity, Elliot felt a chill run through him.
At an intersection of mean ill-lit alleyways, Minh turned up the hill, leading them into the packed suburban heart of Bidong, shanties ranked above them like so many coffins stacked around a graveyard. They climbed for more than ten minutes, up through a maze of crudely terraced streets, until Minh finally stopped by a dilapidated three-storey shanty house on a promontory near the top of the hill. From here they had a clear view across the slope, and down to the jetty and bay below. Elliot gasped for breath, his strength rapidly ebbing. Ny and Hau had had to support their mother for most of the second half of the climb.
Minh pointed to a ladder leading up to a wooden terrace above. ‘You share middle house till we find something else. You get water at beach in morning. Need to queue, though. Water rationed. Only two litre per person per day. You come to centre for UNHCR (he pronounced it ungkah) ration pack every three day. You got money, then is possible to buy more on black market.’ He made a little bow. ‘Goodnight. See you tomorrow.’ And he headed off down the hill.
Elliot looked up at the wooden terrace and smiled wryly. ‘This must be home.’
A curtain of bamboo beads hung across the door to the second level of the shanty house. The interior was dark and thick with the smell of sweat. Eyes peered out of the gloom, and they saw that there were already nine other people, men, women and children, squeezed into a room barely three metres by two. There was no sign of resentment at their intrusion. With the patient resignation of the practised refugee, the existing occupants simply shuffled closer together, to create more space. No one spoke. Elliot, Serey, Ny and the boy settled themselves against a wall and stared back at the incurious faces.
The floor was made of wooden slats, and through them, both above and below, they could see the shadows of the other occupants. Smoke drifted up from the lower level, between the slats, making the already thick air almost unbreathable. A child on the level above them had a fit of coughing. Ny and Hau curled up together, like small animals, and were quickly asleep. Elliot leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He did not expect to sleep.
A hand on his arm delivered him, abruptly, from a drifting world of jumbled images: vast stretches of sea; McCue’s body sliding into the water, a hand waving through the broken foam; a long stretch of deserted beach broken by a solitary figure that he had realized, suddenly, was himself. He opened his eyes but could see nothing in the dark.
‘Are you asleep?’ It was Serey’s voice, very close, barely a whisper.
‘No.’
She seemed to hesitate. ‘I wanted to apologize.’
‘For what?’
‘I misjudged you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
She took his hand and squeezed it gently. He was almost shocked by the warmth of her touch. ‘I am grateful, anyway.’
‘Don’t be. I’m the one who should be grateful.’
‘For leading you here?’
‘For teaching me something. About myself.’ Confessions, he thought, were easier in the dark. He remembered McCue telling him of his fear.
‘You had no reason to come here with us.’
‘More reason than not to. We all have to live with ourselves.’
He heard her sigh. ‘I wish my husband had felt as you do.’
‘That was a long time ago. He made a mistake. He regrets it.’
‘It was no mistake!’ Her voice was sour and rose in anger at the remembered hurt. ‘And time changes nothing. He showed that he loved himself more than his family. He betrayed us. My children do not fully understand this. But I do. If he regrets anything, it is his conscience.’ She lapsed into an uneasy silence. ‘I do not wish ever to see him again.’
‘Then why come all this way?’
‘I never expected to live,’ she said simply. ‘I always thought, if there is a chance to survive, then I must take it for my children’s sake. Life is an unexpected bonus, but I could never live with betrayal.’
Elliot took a deep, weary breath. ‘Your husband is on his way to Malaysia.’ He felt her tense at his side.
‘It’s not possible!’
‘I asked an American at the hotel to contact him in Bangkok. He has papers, passports. If I can get us off the island, you could be reunited within forty-eight hours and on your way to a new life in America.’
She withdrew her hand abruptly from his. ‘No.’
‘You would prefer to stay here?’ She did not reply. ‘You must go, for your children’s sake. There is no future for them on Bidong.’
Still she made no reply, and then he heard a sob catch her throat in the dark. ‘If he had stayed, Mistah Elliot, then we might have survived, as a family. Others did. We might all have had a future.’
‘You still do.’
‘My children, perhaps,’ she said. He felt a warm tear splash
on his arm, and drew the fragile, trembling body to his side.
*
Two hours queuing in the stifling heat of the administration centre the next morning, to register and collect their UNHCR rations, did little for the morale of the new arrivals. Anger replaced impatience among the refugees at the contents of the ungkah ration pack: nine hundred grams of rice; a tin of condensed milk; three tins of canned meat, fish and vegetables; two packets of noodles; sugar; salt; and two small teabags. There would be no more for three days. ‘Official fresh vegetable only available every two month,’ Minh told them. ‘Can buy on black market, though.’
Elliot drew Minh aside. ‘Who supplies the black market?’
‘Unofficial,’ he said. ‘Not legal.’
‘But a fact. Where does the stuff come from?’
Minh shrugged. ‘Not my business. You speak Fat Bao. He ve-ery rich man. Find him at Vien Du coffee house.’
The Vien Du, or Venture, overlooked the sea at one end of the bay. Little more than a wooden shack, it was crammed with crude tables and chairs, a rudimentary bar and a small stage where live vocalists entertained patrons at night. Elliot left Serey, Ny and Hau to queue for water on the beach, and made his way up to the coffee house.
Fat Bao sat at a table by a window which looked out over the sea. A pantomime Chinaman, like an extra from Aladdin, a long pigtail hung down his back and a brightly coloured silk robe fell in folds across his belly. A wispy black moustache curled down at the corners of his mouth, accentuating the droop of his fat jowls. Piggy eyes peered shrewdly out from slits in the folds of his face. The coffee house was quiet at this hour, and Elliot drew only a few curious glances as he approached the table. ‘Mr Bao?’
Fat Bao looked up from a week-old copy of the Straits Times and his lips parted in a broad smile. He waved a hand expansively at the chair opposite. ‘Sit down Mistah Elliot. You like coffee?’
Elliot sat. ‘Yes.’
Fat Bao snapped his fingers and the barman slipped off his stool to prepare some fresh. ‘You wondering how I know you name?’
‘From what I hear I doubt if there’s much that escapes your attention.’
He grinned. ‘Quite right, Mistah Elliot, quite right. Information is power. Power is money. But whole island know already of Englishman who arrive with refugee from Cambodia. I am expecting you. You want escape from Bidong, yes?’
‘That’s right.’
He leaned confidentially across the table. ‘Cost big money, Mistah Elliot, big money. You got big money?’
The coffee arrived. Elliot took a sip. Real coffee, fresh and strong. It tasted good. He shook his head. ‘I have no money, Mr Bao. We spent it all getting this far.’
Fat Bao sat back, his jowls wobbling as he spread his hands in apology. ‘I am business man, Mistah Elliot. I trade goods from mainland. I buy and sell real estate on island, change currency, lend money. Maybe we can do deal on loan? Very reasonable rate.’
‘I don’t think so. Do you have a cigarette?’
The Chinaman delved among the folds of his robe and produced an unopened pack of Camels. He pushed it across the table. ‘My compliment.’ He watched as Elliot unpeeled the wrapper, then he produced an engraved gold lighter and held out the flame.
Elliot took a deep draw. ‘It is possible, though, to get off the island?’
‘Everything is possible.’
‘How come you’re still here, then?’
He spread his arms. ‘As you see, Mistah Elliot, I have everything I need. Why go?’
Why indeed, Elliot thought, when there was such profit in human suffering. He said, ‘I have a friend on the mainland who will pay whatever it takes to get the four of us off.’
Fat Bao nodded seriously. ‘Of course,’ he said, as if he had known all along.
‘You have contacts on the mainland?’
‘Mistah Elliot . . .’ His tone reproached the naivety of the question. Then he pulled thoughtfully at the corners of his moustache. ‘Four people? Big risk, Mistah Elliot, very dangerous.’ A precursor, Elliot thought, to hiking up the price. ‘Cost very big money,’ Bao said. ‘How much you willing to pay?’
Elliot watched his cigarette smoke disperse in the hot breeze from the sea, and flicked his ash from the window. ‘You got a pen and paper?’
Fat Bao nodded and leaned over to retrieve a leather-bound writing folder and pen from a bag on the floor. He slid it across the table and Elliot wrote Yuon Ang’s name on a fresh sheet. He pushed it back at Bao. ‘He should be at the Batu Beach Hotel near Tumpat by tonight. You can negotiate a price with him. How will you get us off?’
Bao gazed thoughtfully at the name for some moments. Eventually, he said, ‘Malay fishermen come from mainland with goods for black market. My people have half-dozen small boat. They swim out pushing boat to meet fishermen, ’bout five kilometre offshore. Fill boat with goods then come back. You swim out with boat, but no come back. Go to mainland with fishermen.’ He grinned. ‘Escape.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow night, maybe. I let you know.’
Elliot scraped back his chair and stood up to drain the last of his coffee. He put the cup back on the table. ‘I’ll be hearing from you, then.’
‘You come tonight, to Vien Du. Pretty girl sing. Big movie star in south Vietnam before communist come. I fix you up good.’
‘Some other time,’ Elliot said.
The midday sun beat down in the street outside. There was no shade anywhere, and the air was thick with flies. Across the way, on a rocky promontory, stood the remains of a refugee boat converted, by the former moderator of the Presbyterian Church of Vietnam, into a makeshift church and library. From the boat’s cabin, the breeze carried the sounds of a refugee class learning English: ‘Take me to Times Square.’ ‘Where is Buckingham Palace?’
*
On the long climb back up the hill with the ration packs and water, Elliot told Serey and Ny of his meeting with Fat Bao. They had to stop frequently to rest. Serey squatted, listening in solemn silence, as Ny translated for Hau. The boy greeted the news with the same reserve as his mother. Only Ny seemed cheered at the prospect of seeing her father again. Elliot held her back as they embarked on the last leg of the climb. ‘What’s wrong with Hau? I thought he’d be pleased to get out of here.’
‘We will all be pleased,’ she said, ‘to leave Bidong. But he is little frightened of going America. Khmer Rouge, you know, they tell us many bad things ’bout the West. They say colour people hated there, treated real bad.’
Elliot wondered if it was possible to suffer any more than they had done at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. But he understood the power of indoctrination. He supposed that the God of his childhood still existed in him somewhere, in spite of the rejected belief of his adult intellect. ‘He wants to see his father, surely?’
‘Is long time. He remember very little of our father. Scared, maybe, he a stranger now.’ She stared down at the dusty ground as they walked.
‘And what about you?’
She smiled a little, without lifting her eyes. ‘I scared, too, Mistah Elliot. He leave us before. Maybe he do it again.’
‘I doubt it.’
She looked up at him. ‘I hope not. Mother–daughter love very strong. But girl need father, too.’
He thought of his own daughter who had never known him, and wondered with a stab of guilt if she had suffered for it. Almost as though she had read his thoughts, Ny touched his arm and said, ‘Pity ’bout your daughter, Mistah Elliot. I wish I had father like you.’
Minh was waiting for them when they got back to the shanty house. ‘I got new house for you,’ he said. ‘Nearer beach. Move tomorrow.’ He and Elliot sat out on the shade of the terrace looking down on the island.
‘We’ll stay where we are,’ Elliot said.
The young Chinese scratched his head. ‘I do
n’t understand. Very desirable property near beach. I pull plenty string to get you new house.’
‘Why? Because I’m white?’
‘You should not be here, Mistah Elliot, with refugee. Make no sense. Plenty sickness here. Hepatitis, typhoid, tuberculosis. Could be on Bidong long time. Not healthy for white man. No resistance. Take house near beach, is better.’
Elliot shook his head. ‘We’re leaving. Tomorrow night, with a bit of luck.’
Minh nodded, understanding. ‘You make deal with Fat Bao.’
‘Yes, I make deal, Minh.’
Minh lowered his voice. ‘You be very careful, Mistah Elliot. Fat Bao dangerous man. He has no honour. You cannot trust.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
Minh looked at him sadly. ‘You don’t take serious. I tell you, Mistah Elliot, Fat Bao he cut your throat and take your money. Thirty-five people from camp go missing since I arrive. All involve with Fat Bao and black market. They food for fishes now, I think.’
When Minh had gone, Elliot went inside and searched through the bag of their belongings. Masking what he was doing from the other occupants of the room, he lifted out a bundle of rags and unwrapped his Colt .45 automatic pistol. He checked the recoil action and the contents of the seven-round box magazine, in case of water damage. He did not want to be caught short if things went wrong.
*
The following day came and went under a blistering tropical sun. They went early to queue for water on the beach, but by the time they were climbing the hill again, with their eight litres, the fierce heat of the day was reflecting at them from every surface. As constant as the heat was the babble of voices, raised sometimes in laughter, sometimes in argument. All around them people worked and ate and slept and made love. There was no privacy among the washing lines strung out across the narrow alleys, but many secrets. This was a society fraught with mistrust and petty jealousies. Yet there was, too, a great comradeship. A sense of hunger and hardship shared. It was a microcosm of any slum, anywhere in the world, where optimism prevails over hopelessness. A ticket to freedom, resettlement in the West, was the equivalent of a win on the lottery.