by Di Morrissey
‘You’re right. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Dad, don’t interrupt,’ said Megan crossly. ‘Take no notice of him and go on with your story, please, Bunny.’
‘As I was saying, when I was approached, it was explained to me that a government agency was setting up a pilot scheme to trial a programme where young Australian graduates would live and work in Indonesia to assist with its growth and progress and to foster friendship between the two countries. It was similar to the American Peace Corps programme which was no longer operational in Indonesia. The idea was that we would fill the vacuum it had left. Anyway, that was the brief. In reality it was all, quite frankly, somewhat disorganised.
‘There were six of us. Evan was a medical doctor, Alan was a civil engineer, David was an agronomist, Mark had graduated with honours in economics and Norma, the only other woman in the group, was a qualified midwife. We were sent to Canberra for a week to be briefed on what was expected of us and then we were flown to Jakarta.’
‘Doesn’t sound as though there was a lot of training, Mum?’
‘Dad, you’re interrupting again! Bunny, please don’t stop. This is so, like, the best story. I want to know all about it,’ said Megan, settling closer to Susan. Her grandmother smiled at her and continued her story.
JAKARTA, 1968
As I stepped from the plane onto the tarmac at Jakarta airport, the first thing I noticed was the smell. It was sweet, almost sickly. I found out later that it was the local kretek – clove cigarettes – that everyone seemed to smoke. So right from the beginning I was on a sensory overload that never really went away. No matter where I went in Indonesia, there was something new and different to see, smell, hear and taste.
For the first few days the six of us were put up in the grand new Hotel Indonesia. That first night I looked from my high-rise hotel room window down at a huge traffic roundabout. In the middle, surrounded by a pool of water, was a monument: a tall column topped with the statue of a waving boy and girl. I stood watching old American cars, bicycles and the three-wheeled rickshaws the locals called betjaks drive around it. I almost pinched myself to make sure that I was actually there, in Indonesia. I felt optimistic, excited and rather privileged to be part of this small group tasked with bringing some positive change to this nation that was such a close neighbour of ours yet so unknown.
The hotel was filled with Indonesian paintings, murals, statues and mosaics. It had a huge pool, a supper club and a fancy restaurant where everyone dressed up and ate things like Beef Wellington and used masses of cutlery for each course and different wineglasses for the various wines that were available. All very proper and impressive, I thought. There was a fancy Asian-style restaurant in the hotel too, but that first evening we all decided to eat somewhere more adventurous. In any case we had very little money, as we were expected to live much as the locals did, so we had to be frugal.
I asked the others if they knew what the monument I had seen from my window was all about.
‘It’s called the Selamat Datang, the Welcome Monument. It was erected to welcome people to the Emerging Nations Games organised by President Sukarno, and the statue on the top is nicknamed Hansel and Gretel,’ said Mark with a grin.
‘Very appropriate welcome for us, too,’ I replied.
‘It’s just another example of conspicuous nationalism,’ said David. ‘I expect that we shall see a lot of these sorts of statues and monuments. They’re usually large and generally tasteless.’
David, our agronomist, was of medium height and quite gregarious. He’d told us that he came from a large family and that if he’d remained silent he would have been totally overlooked by his older brothers. But he was easy to get along with and had a great sense of humour.
‘Well, I for one am looking forward to seeing the more ancient examples of Indonesian monuments,’ I told the others. ‘If we get a chance to travel.’
‘There’s so much to see that’s really interesting,’ said Mark. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to explore the country a bit.’
Mark, an economist, was, to put it bluntly, drop dead gorgeous. His even features were complemented by a charming smile. He obviously came from a well-to-do family and had been given an expensive private school education. We found out later that his father was the managing director of a very large Australian company. Mark was assured and confident, and the rest of us could not help but wonder why he had become involved in this project in a third-world country when a much more glamorous future would certainly have beckoned.
We got our first chance to explore the city later the following day. In contrast to the grandiose government buildings and heroic statues, what we saw on our walk was a scrambled congestion of marketplaces, slums and dilapidated buildings. In the crowded lanes squatters lived under sheets of tin or plastic, and there were people everywhere, selling food, cooking, eating or begging. Lining the busy roads were stalls, small shops and sellers crouched beside their goods that were spread out on small mats in front of them. A smelly open canal served as a sewer but also as a bathing and washing stream for the poor and small children frolicked in its brown water.
‘Susan, it’s all so disgusting. How can they bathe in those dirty canals? It’s putrid. Disease must be rife in these slums,’ said Norma, pursing her lips.
Norma had spent some years as a midwife and was a bit older than the rest of us. She hadn’t been to university, but had trained in one of the best hospitals in Sydney. She was critical, judgemental and argumentative. Everything was black or white to Norma and it soon became apparent that she would not be easy to get on with. Yet I sensed that she was sincere in wanting to help the Indonesians, and she certainly had the skills to do so. Whether her inflexible nature would enable her to be successful remained to be seen.
Beside the canal, I could see an old, rather substantial house. It had certainly seen better days, but it still retained a rather faded grandeur.
‘That old place must have been gorgeous, once upon a time,’ I commented.
‘Probably belonged to a Dutch merchant,’ said Mark. ‘The Dutch ruled these islands for more than three hundred years and many Dutchmen made their fortunes from the spice trade.’
‘I’d love to have the money to be able to restore it,’ I said wistfully.
‘Can’t imagine why you would want to spend money on a place that overlooks a sewer like that house does,’ said Norma.
‘I suppose you’re right. But doing up an old place appeals to me.’
As afternoon melted into evening the locals all appeared to be out and about too; it seemed no one ate at home. People walked in groups, stopping to chat with friends or examining the merchandise on sale. There were lots of families eating together. Food of every description was being prepared over small charcoal fires, sold from baskets on bicycles, from small boxes on stands and carts, or from portable kitchens from which appetising spicy aromas wafted. So many seemed to have something to sell: small gifts, children’s toys, cigarettes, coconut and rice sweets, garishly coloured cakes and biscuits.
All around us there was noise. It came from the crowds, the jangle of bicycle bells and car and truck horns, the rumble of buses belching fumes, the click-clack of hawkers’ sticks vying for customers, the skittering and shrieking of small children, laughing, clinging, occasionally crying.
Every tiny thing I saw interested me. When I told Norma how fascinating I found all this nightlife to be, she looked at me in amazement and said, ‘I will never get used to this chaos.’
‘It’s not so bad, Norma. Local colour,’ said Mark.
‘I hope the hospital and clinics are not so crazy,’ said Norma.
‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ said Evan, our medico, who’d recently finished his residency at a large Melbourne hospital.
‘I love the women’s traditional dress. How pretty they are in their batik sarongs,’ I said.
‘Sarong kebaya. It’s quite an art form,’ said Evan, then he blushed and added sheepishly, ‘I read about it.’
Evan had grown up in a coastal Victorian town where his father had been the local GP for years, but we soon found out he was no country bumpkin. Evan read voraciously and appeared to know something about almost everything. At times he seemed embarrassed to display his breadth of knowledge.
‘Yes, I read about them, too. I’d like to ask if it’s acceptable for a western girl to wear an outfit like that. They look so graceful,’ I said. I’d noticed the beautiful and intricate batik patterns that most Indonesians wore and I was determined to buy some of the fabric. ‘Come on, let’s try one of those satay sticks. They smell heavenly.’
The boys bought the tasty skewers of barbecued chicken drenched in peanut sauce and I loved them. But Norma refused even to try one.
‘You’re going to get diarrhoea and a stomach-ache from that sort of germ-laden, unhealthy rubbish,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Worth it,’ said Evan. ‘Let’s sit at that place with the laminex tables and order something to drink. They’ve got Bintang beer, which I’m told is quite palatable.’
That night marked the beginning of my love affair with Indonesian food. Cereal and toast quickly seemed a dull breakfast after I discovered tasty nasi goreng; fried spicy rice with a small portion of shredded omelette on top. I quickly grew to love fried bananas, or rice steamed in a banana leaf and put into a bowl with coconut milk and all kinds of additions: nuts and bean sprouts and green onions. Eventually I even braved adding sambal, the chilli condiment that goes with every sort of food.
‘I’m never going to get used to the hot spices,’ David said, tears running down his cheeks after he’d tried it for the first time, but he was wrong. The boys and I all came to love the tang of lime and chilli and the spicy pastes used in many Indonesian dishes. But I don’t think Norma ever tried a single local dish. If she couldn’t get European food, she ate plain cooked rice, fruit she could peel, or boiled noodles topped with a fried egg.
We sampled several other foods that night and then, despite the calls from hawkers and roadside stallholders, we turned and headed back towards the hotel. It was dark and the dust from the street rose in a sort of mist, backlit by a few dim streetlights. We passed a night market set up under strings of coloured lights and oil lamps which looked very festive.
‘We must come back here sometime,’ I said, and the boys agreed while Norma sniffed.
‘Full of pickpockets, and we’d be the target.’
‘Damned right,’ agreed David cheerfully. ‘Put your money in your shoe. That place looks fun.’
The following day we went to the embassy, where we met Andrew Robinson, a former Australian diplomat who had been one of the driving forces behind the project and who would now oversee it. He introduced us to Mr Putra, who would be our Indonesian liaison officer. Over the coming weeks, Mr Putra was to give us a crash course in Bahasa Indonesia, the official language of Indonesia, as well as outlining the history and political situation of the country. We would no longer live in the luxurious hotel, but would stay with local families in Jakarta so that we could practise our Bahasa. After that, we would head out to where there were hardly any English speakers.
‘Mr Putra will be your contact in Indonesia, so if you have a problem or a query you can seek his advice. I travel in and out of Jakarta frequently, so I’ll arrange for us to have regular briefings so that we can gauge the progress you’re all making,’ explained Mr Robinson.
I nodded nervously at the thought of being out of my comfort zone. I wanted to be able to understand what people were telling me and for them to understand me. Suddenly the adventure was starting to look rather daunting.
So, for the next few weeks, we had an intensive course in all things Indonesian. We worked long hours in a small room in a building near the embassy, cooled only by ceiling fans. In that time we did manage to learn quite a lot, not only about Indonesia, but about each other.
Mr Putra explained that Indonesia was made up of thousands of islands. We would be living on the most populated island, Java, but I hoped that at some stage I would be able to visit other islands, such as Sumatra or even Bali, which seemed so romantic. Some of the islands were out of bounds to foreigners, and the Mentawai group off the west coast of Sumatra was apparently rife with Indian and Arab smugglers, so that was a no-go area, too.
Before the war, Mr Putra had explained, the Dutch had been severe rulers, but when the Japanese invaded the Indonesian islands in the Second World War, most of the Dutch left. After the war, when they attempted to return, they found themselves opposed by a strong independence movement led by the man who became the first president, Sukarno, often called Bung Karno. Big brother.
As soon as Mr Putra began to talk about Sukarno, the boys all began to ask him questions.
‘Please, let me explain first,’ he said. ‘And then if you wish to know anything else, please ask me.’ Mr Putra continued, ‘From the time he was a young man, Sukarno spoke out against the Dutch occupation. He was imprisoned as a subversive and then when he continued working against the Dutch, he and his family were exiled to a remote island. When the Japanese invaded Indonesia in 1942, he saw this as a great chance and he decided to work with them. So, in exchange for organising food and fuel for the Japanese war effort, the Japanese military allowed him to spread his anti-imperialist propaganda. He always said that he regretted collaborating with the Japanese, but argued that the end justified the means.
‘As soon as the Japanese surrendered, Sukarno immediately declared Indonesian independence and was appointed the country’s first president. He used his diplomatic skills to persuade other countries that Indonesia should be allowed to rule itself, and so pressure was put on the Dutch to give up their claims to our country, which they eventually did,’ finished Mr Putra.
‘Well that seemed easy enough,’ said Alan, somewhat smugly. Alan, an engineer, had come to help the locals construct roads and bridges. He seemed rather abrupt at times and was always ready to give us his opinion on everything, even when it was not sought. But I soon saw that he was enthusiastic about the projects he embarked on, and worked hard to make sure they succeeded.
‘Yes, Alan, that may seem so,’ replied Mr Putra darkly. ‘But creating a democracy in a country with many different regions, cultures, religions and languages and no experience in self-rule was to prove very difficult. Sukarno did very well in the early years, as his charisma helped him balance the competing interests, but this could not last.’
‘Mr Putra, did you ever see Sukarno?’ asked David.
Mr Putra’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh, yes, I heard him speak at the opening of the huge games he organised for so-called emerging countries. He spoke for so long that the rest of the ceremony had to be cut short. He could talk for hours. Audiences had to stay there; no one would have dared leave. But his passion was hypnotic, and there was such mystique about him. World leaders seemed to find him mesmerising. He always carried a short stick, and many people believed it had magic powers. But that is nonsense. It was his oratory that snared people.’
‘I’ve seen pictures of him. He was very good looking, always wearing his safari-style suit and that black brimless hat,’ I said.
‘It is called a peci,’ said Mr Putra.
‘What did Sukarno do about his competing problems?’ I asked.
Mr Putra resumed his story. ‘Sukarno decided that western-style democracy was unsuitable for Indonesia, so he started to become very authoritarian and he instituted what he called “guided democracy”. But this actually inflamed tensions and there was an attempt to assassinate him.’
‘A guided democracy is no democracy at all,’ snorted Alan.
‘Nevertheless, he became increasingly autocratic. To make himself more popular he nationalised all the Dutch companies, including Shell Petroleum
and confiscated all Dutch property. He also banned the commercial activities of all foreigners, not just the Dutch but also ethnic Chinese who dominated commercial life in the rural areas. Many of them returned to China.’
‘I bet they weren’t happy about that,’ said Mark.
Mr Putra acknowledged Mark’s comment and continued, ‘He also used the army to curb the Islamists, but in doing this he found that he had given the military too much power.’
‘Not an easy thing to do, playing one group off against another,’ agreed David. ‘Obviously something was going to go wrong.’
‘Is that when he became involved with other communist countries?’ asked Alan.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Putra. ‘He visited China and the Soviet Union and both gave him financial aid. The Americans became concerned by this and so they also gave him aid.’
David whistled softly. ‘Nice trick,’ he said. ‘Should have set Indonesia up. Money coming in from all directions.’
‘By now it had become clear that Sukarno wanted to be seen as a world player and so he began to raise Indonesian prestige by using aggressive tactics,’ said Mr Putra. ‘Firstly, he claimed Dutch New Guinea as part of Indonesia, and then he started the Konfrontasi movement.’
‘I think that Australia was somehow involved in that,’ said Evan.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I don’t think it was reported much,’ said Evan quietly.
‘You lot might know all about this,’ said Norma coolly. ‘But I don’t, so could you please let Mr Putra explain it to someone who didn’t go to university?’
Mark and Evan exchanged glances. Mr Putra took his cue. ‘When the Malay states became federated in 1963 and established themselves as the country of Malaysia, Sukarno wanted to destabilise the new state, so he sent raiding parties across its borders. These border raids were quite easily repelled, but when the skirmishes continued the British became concerned that they might escalate, so they asked for help from other members of the British Commonwealth to protect Malaysia from disintegration. Australia agreed to help and a small force was sent to the former British colony.’