Shaman of Bali

by John Greet

  * * *

  With Mahmood at the helm, we began the process of bribing the prosecutors and judges. I was astonished at the protocol we had to follow and the formalities we had to observe for corruption and bribery at such a high level. Mahmood, being well-connected with the upper echelons of the military power base in Jakarta, was able to secure the services of a high-powered lawyer by the name of Farbat Dingali.

  ‘His name alone inspires fear in these lowly judges and prosecutors in Bali. Our job will not be difficult, but I must insist you accompany Dingali on all his excursions. That man may be the best lawyer in Indonesia, but I don’t trust him. You will probably be invited to dinner at each of the respective houses of the judges, and at the prosecutor’s too, and finally to the Governor’s mansion. You will visit them as guests and behave accordingly. Dingali will take care of the rest. The three of us will count the money together before you leave. It will be in American dollars and carried in offering baskets. I want you to keep your eyes firmly on Dingali as you travel, to make sure the money is not tampered with. Do you understand?’

  * * *

  Dingali arrived early the next day. Mahmoud had me meet him at the airport and booked him into the Bali Hyatt in Sanur. Mahmoud’s black Mercedes with its tinted windows offered us perfect cover. The famous lawyer slipped through the airport without being noticed and into the car.

  I picked up Mahmood later in the day for our first meeting at the Hyatt. We arrived undetected. Dingali had been on the phone all morning, setting prices. He insisted we pay more and have all the charges against Anak dropped before the arraignment. We were unlucky in one sense, he informed us. Both the prosecutor and the judges assigned to the case were hard-boiled nationalists, fiercely against drugs. But on the other hand, these guys were the most susceptible to bribes.

  Mahmood opened his briefcase and produced the American dollars, piles of them. As I looked at them, I couldn’t help thinking that my future could be sorted out with just one pile – one basket would cover Tula nicely.

  I’d had Wayan weave the offering baskets to the sizes Mahmood had given me. With the money counted, Dingali and I left the Hyatt by taxi to our first rendezvous. We would begin with the prosecutor. With the arraignment date set in two days, we had little time to waste.

  The prosecutor’s house, set behind high walls, stood in the most affluent suburb of Denpasar, not far from the Governor’s mansion. I carried a shoulder bag containing the preset amounts of money tucked into their respective baskets. The prosecutor’s servants were expecting us and led us up the stairs to the house. The main lobby, where we were met by the prosecutor and his wife, was decorated in a traditional Indonesian style with carved wooden furniture and overhead fans. It smelled of furniture polish and other pleasant odours. They led us to a table laid with a traditional lunch. A servant stood behind each chair, politely offering dishes and drinks. Dingali and the prosecutor talked in Indonesian about a previous case they’d worked on. It appeared that bribery and corruption in Indonesia was conducted in a civil manner, all in the course of a day’s business.

  The prosecutor’s wife spoke to me in perfect English with a British accent, ‘Tell me about New Zealand. I’ve heard you have some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. I would love to visit there some day.’ As I talked of the beaches and beauty of my home country, Dingali stood up, and I discreetly handed the prosecutor the basket. The two men left the room. I was so enthused by my conversation with his intelligent and charming wife that I almost forgot we were there to pay a large bribe to retrieve an innocent man from an Indonesian jail. I also realised that the prosecutor’s wife knew exactly what was going on. Dingali and the prosecutor appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to rush you, madam, but we must be on our way,’ said Dingali. ‘We have more meetings to attend, including one with the Governor.’

  ‘Please give the Governor’s wife my regards, and it’s been a pleasure meeting you both.’ The couple walked us to our taxi as if the purpose of our visit had been nothing more than a casual afternoon tea.

  The next house we visited, also in the same suburb, wasn’t as inviting. The issue in dispute, I gathered, seemed to be over the amount being offered. Both judges, who knew Anak, indicated clearly that they had little respect for him, and for the amount on offer they wanted to put him in the notorious Kerobokan Prison for at least a year. Dingali became red-faced at this turnaround but kept his cool. Negotiations continued on the balcony of the principal judge’s house. Finally, Dingali threw up his hands in defeat. While he stayed with the judges, I took the taxi to the Bali Haj. Mahmood baulked, paced, raved and ranted, but finally opened his safe and added the necessary amount to the judge’s basket. I returned to the house. The money was counted carefully. Dingali, impatient to get away from the judges, indicated we were late for a meeting with the Governor.

  ‘How do we know they’ll keep their word?’ I asked the lawyer once we were out of the house.

  ‘They will,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I’ll have their faces splashed over the front page of TheJakarta Post.’

  The Governor’s mansion, built by the Dutch, was a stately white house of classical colonial architecture, set in rolling green lawns with a sweeping driveway leading to a pillared entrance. We were ushered around the back to the servants’ quarters, where the Governor’s secretary rushed out and almost snatched the basket out of my hand.

  ‘Make the call,’ Dingali said, and the secretary waved us away as if we carried a contagious disease.

  ‘Disgusting behaviour. That man will one day get his,’ said Dingali as we drove away in the taxi. Our next stop: the cells at the Polda police barracks. This time no bribe money was needed to be paid. The guards, clearly in awe of the famous lawyer in their presence, ushered us into the cell block. As usual, Anak sat meditating, but he opened his eyes when he heard the key being turned in his cell door. Dingali informed him that the police and prosecutors had dropped all the charges and that a taxi waited outside to take him home. Anak shook the lawyer’s hand and looked at me suspiciously. He gathered his meditation mat and the few belongings I’d been able to bring to him and walked out.

  I slipped down to Geno’s cell to tell him that Anak was now free. The information had no effect on him. Slumped in a corner of his cell, he stared uncomprehendingly at me, his eyes blank and ravaged by pain. Untouched food sat rotting in its metal plate. Geno hadn’t washed. Bruises and grime covered his body. A large scab on his forehead festered. His clothes were dirty and blood-stained. I worried for his mental health. His arraignment would be in forty-eight hours.

  22

  That evening we hosted a dinner at the Sandika to celebrate Anak’s release. Wayan prepared his favourite dishes. The hotel was empty, and we had the coffee shop to ourselves.

  Anak arrived in his Mercedes chariot, accompanied by Dewi and his extended family. After greeting everyone, he took offerings and incense to the four corner temples. He then returned and prayed at the temple under the banyan tree. After chanting a lengthy mantra, Anak ordered Gusti to dismantle the shrine. The cock-handler carefully removed the images of the several deities that sat up on a large flat stone. With Ketut’s help they slid the stone aside. A cavity beneath the stone revealed an urn. I recognised it as a type of burial urn I’d seen in cremations. Anak picked up the urn and held it between his palms.

  ‘This is my father,’ he said. ‘I felt it appropriate he should be with us tonight.’ The urn containing his father’s ashes sat centre table in the coffee shop. Anak, in fine form, laughed and drank and raised toasts of arrack. We ate and celebrated until the families tired and drifted off. Dewi and her family went home in the chariot with Gusti at the wheel. Wayan and Ketut went to their room, and Anak and I sat at a sea-wall table. As I gazed at the fishing boats’ lights flickering on the horizon, I could feel Anak’s eyes on me.

  ‘Take me to him,’ he muttered. I knew from the look he’d given me at the police cells that he knew who had given t
he money to buy his freedom.

  Anak picked up his father’s urn. We walked down our pathway and crossed the site of the temporary cockpit, the flattened earth with its rounded borders still visible. We passed the swimming pool, its underwater lights glowing turquoise in the dark, and walked across a stretch of grass to the entrance of the Bali Haj Hotel. It was late. Mahmood Bas sat in a lounge chair, sipping Cognac in the company of several guests. He turned as Anak and I entered the lobby then politely excused himself and led us to his office. Anak placed the urn on the glass-topped table.

  ‘I have brought my father home,’ he said. Mahmood was about to speak when Anak cut him off with an extended hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Mahmood crossed the room and shook Anak’s hand. In place of the chilling hatred I’d seen at the cockfight in Singaraja, I saw willingness and relief on the faces of both men.

  ‘I would like to build my father’s shrine on the far side of the pool,’ I heard Anak say. ‘It was a favourite place of his, and where he taught me to meditate.’

  ‘That we will do, Anak. We will build a temple in your father’s honour. I’m sure Allah will approve.’

  That night as I collapsed exhausted onto my bed, it didn’t occur to me that I’d managed to bring Anak and Mahmood together and that as a consequence my prospects were back on track. No, my thoughts were with Geno. The brothers had bailed me out when I’d needed help. Regardless of the trouble Geno had caused us, I owed him.

  * * *

  The following morning, I bought a suit, shirt and tie at a Kuta menswear store. Geno’s arraignment would be at two o’clock that afternoon. I arrived at the police barracks, and a guard led me to his cell and opened the door. With a bucket of fresh water and soap, I scrubbed him down as best I could. He didn’t resist. Like a child being dressed, he let me help him put on the fresh clothes. He’d refused to speak with the court-appointed lawyer who’d come to his cell a few times, and even with me he remained sullen and silent. He pushed a comb away from my hand when I tried to put it through his matted and unruly beard. He hadn’t shaved since the day he’d been arrested. This made me feel that the old Geno still lurked in there somewhere beyond his grief. The suit and tie made him look presentable, but with his shaved head and scruffy beard, he looked like a mad monk. He’d lost a lot of weight. I sat with him until the police van arrived to transport him to the Denpasar court house. I followed them on my bike.

  The guards bundled the handcuffed Geno out of the vehicle and led him into the nondescript court complex in the centre of Denpasar. The old court rooms had no air conditioning, only a couple of rickety overhead fans that didn’t offer any relief from the stifling heat. The courthouse had none of the trappings normally associated with such serious places, no stenographer or uniformed officials. Westerners on trial generally attracted attention from foreign newspapers or the media in Bali, but Dingali, through his contacts, had made sure our case would not be publicised.

  The courthouse was a hall with back benches for the public, separated by a railing, beyond which stood a couple of chairs, one for the defendant on trial and the other for his lawyer. They faced a panel of three judges who sat behind a desk – the same judges that Dingali and I had bribed to secure Anak’s release.

  Geno’s case came up first. His lawyer, a prim and proper young girl who looked like she was fresh out of law school, had earlier asked me why Geno refused to speak. I’d told her I didn’t know. Geno looked up when he heard his name. He stood while the police guard undid his handcuffs and shuffled him forward. His lawyer took his arm and led him to the two seats beyond the railing. A long pause followed while the judges mumbled amongst themselves. They handed papers back and forth and asked the police guard, who’d been handcuffed to Geno, to come forward. A whispered conversation followed. The atmosphere seemed relaxed. Time didn’t seem to be an issue. Mobile phones rang. Warungs delivered coffee and drinks, which could be ordered by calling out through an open window.

  Then the courtroom silenced when the female judge spoke directly to Geno in English. ‘Mr. Roberto, do you know where you are?’

  Geno raised his head and looked around as if waking from a dream. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And are you aware that the drug cocaine is illegal in Indonesia?’ continued the judge.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you must be aware of the consequences of importing such a large amount of the drug?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet, you refuse legal representation. Do you intend to act on your own behalf?’

  ‘No,’ replied Geno. The short answers and Geno’s unconcerned manner aggravated the judge. Her face reddened. Geno didn’t wait for the next question. ‘With respect, your Honour, I have nothing to say because I am guilty, and it is up to you to decide my sentence.’

  ‘Mr. Roberto, please do not presume to tell me what I do or do not have to do!’ she snapped.

  On hearing this, my doubts about Geno’s sanity vanished. The judge confirmed this with the outcome of her deliberation, ‘Well, I can see you have all your wits about you, Mr. Roberto. We will remand you to Kerobokan Prison until a sentencing date can be determined.’

  Part Three

  23

  The Sandika’s rat monkeys had either left the roof or returned to the banyan tree; their chatter was no longer bothersome. The leopard cat had done its job. I wanted to return it to the wild, and I thought that Joko would be the best person to ask.

  At Putu’s place, before I could get a word in, she wanted to know everything about Geno. I told her what I knew. Was Putu also involved in some way? Did she ask the questions to determine if she was at any risk?

  Joko told me he knew about of a place in Banyuwangi National Park where animal hunters didn’t go and the cat could run free without fear of being recaptured. So, carrying the leopard cat’s cage, I met him at the Denpasar bus depot at the break of dawn. He was dressed in a black robe, his face hidden beneath a scarf. He carried his gunnysacks, knives and snake prongs fastened with twine. We loaded the cage onto the roof of a dusty relic of a bus and sat on wooden seats. The bus rattled its way up the western side of the island. When it stopped at townships, I climbed onto the roof to check on the cat. Its terrified demeanour worried me.

  ‘Not long, friend, not long. You will soon be free,’ I said softly.

  Four hours later, we arrived at Gilimanuk and the ferry terminal. We passed under an archway covered with carvings of serpents with their tails entwined. We got onto the ferry. It was a short distance to Java. As we disembarked, taxi drivers and porters hustled around us for business. We found a taxi driver who agreed to take us where we wanted to go, some hundred kilometres along the coast. We drove through the town of Banyuwangi without stopping and meandered down the coast road, passing rice paddies and thatched huts. An hour later, we entered teak and mahogany forests as the taxi swung inland towards the National Park and the mountainous region of Pengarang. The road became a shaking juddering ordeal, which didn’t bother the taxi driver or the snake man, but I could hear the cat hissing and snarling from the roof. We headed uphill to what seemed like the last outpost of civilisation: a coffee plantation on the edge of dense jungle. We untied the cage and asked our driver to wait.

  In the dwindling daylight, Joko and I carried the leopard cat’s cage between us. We followed a rocky uphill trail covered in dangling vines and tropical undergrowth. The trail led us out onto a grassy plateau. A group of monkeys scattered into the trees and a wild peacock watched us, its tail flared.

  We placed the cage in the centre of the plateau then removed the cloth covering it. We fed the leopard cat a little meat. It paced and sniffed the air, eyes searching. Its nostrils twitched furiously, its ears flicked and its eyes darted. The animal’s dulled instincts had come alive in the new surroundings. Joko limped to the cage. The cat froze. It hissed, eyes pinned on him. The ridge of fur down its back bristled. The snake man flicked the latch and swung the cage door open. The cat didn’t move. It stared at the open do
or. Then it bolted to the forest’s edge so fast that its yellow and black markings were no more than a blur against the green of the plateau. The peacock flew squawking to a high branch. Birds fluttered and rearranged themselves. The leopard cat stopped for a brief instant at the edge of the forest and looked back at us, as if unable to grasp its good fortune, then disappeared.

  * * *

  I continued to feed the orangutans. I’d managed to detox them over a very short period, and they had taken it well. They were off the arrack, and I had them down to two milligrams of Valium each. I gave them pure water in the arrack bottles with the tablets crushed and stirred in.

  Both beasts would make an incredible racket when I arrived. They were humorous and intelligent, and I’d come to like them. Their black coats shone, and their eyes were expressive and clear. I could tell that they were clearly starving for affection by the way they held their paws out through the grill, indicating that I should approach them. I wasn’t keen to do so. ‘She’ll be back soon,’ I mumbled as I pushed the copious amounts of fruit they now ate into their cage.

  * * *

  Thoughts of Geno invaded my mind like some kind of virus there was no cure for. I kept seeing an image of him standing on the dock, asking to be shot. The depth of his grief for Paolo had touched me. I was acutely aware that I owed him – but more than that the truth of it was, and I hated to admit it, that I cared about him. A few weeks after his arraignment, the court-appointed lawyer called and asked to meet. I drove to her office in Denpasar.

  She sat behind her desk, wearing a starched white blouse, her black hair pulled back into a bun. ‘The prosecutor is asking for the death penalty,’ she said as if reading from a script, ‘and because Mr. Roberto shows no remorse for his crime, my guess is he’ll probably get it. That means he will be shot by a firing squad once his mandatory appeals have run their course. A slow process that could take up to eight years, during which time Mr. Roberto will remain incarcerated. Is there any way we can find sufficient funds to pay off the prosecutor to reduce the sentence to life?’ she asked without looking at me.