PARTEMEN KEHUTANEN
KALIMANTAN SELATAN
‘Our office, Forestry Department,’ he said proudly.
He turned left at a roundabout, according to roughly painted signpost it was in the direction of Martarpura. After another ten kilometres, they turned again.
They approached what looked like a plantation of mature pine trees, planted in neat rows. A little further on was what appeared to be a group of derelict industrial buildings.
Sucipto parked the Landcruiser and they walked over to the abandoned plant. It was surrounded by a sagging wire fence. At the main entrance, a security guard, who recognised Sucipto, opened the gate and let them in.
They wandered aimlessly around, gaping at the rust covered tanks and destruction that had been wreaked by tropical vines and stranglers, entwining the steel and concrete structures.
Sucipto surprised them by announcing that a group of local Chinese promoters would be investing a large sum of money to renovate the plant and put it back into production.
A fat chance of that, thought Ennis, as he observed Axelmann struggling with a length of decaying steel pipe that had snagged his white trousers.
The plant was called Martarpura Paper Mill, a relic that had been constructed not long after World War II, in reparations by the Japanese.
The mill had been operated in that desolate backwater by the state, under the Ministry of Industry, slowly forgotten and neglected over the years by Jakarta, operating in an ever increasing spiral of losses caused by the high cost of raw materials and imported chemicals.
During the war, the Japanese had discovered the existence of large natural stands of a species of southern hemisphere pine trees, called dacrydium by botanists. Dacrydium was highly estimated by papermakers for its valuable long cellulose fibres, which constituted the essential raw material for paper making in the Martarpura mill.
Finally, the mill had been closed down for lack of new investment and forgotten. It was not until the rising cost of imported paper and domestic demand that longsighted promoters such as Brodzski had been attracted to the industry, where they had sensed the coming needs and opportunities. The same logic had prompted local promoters into thinking of restarting the mill as a viable operation.
To those who knew Brodzski well, it was not too clear, where exactly the opportunity lay, certain unkindly said that it was in the willingness of people like Philippe de Berne to finance his ambitions.
The knowledge that non-commercial species of tropical wood could be transformed into great profits as pulpwood, for papermaking, was not a generally known fact. Wood was abundant in the tropical forests of Borneo, but only valuable hardwood species were worth exploiting for furniture and veneer, the remainder did not excite the imagination of the timber companies. Ton for ton, the price of pulpwood was comparable to that of oil on the world market. With the right kind of investment it was green gold!
Axelmann half-seriously joked to Ennis, that if Brodzski succeeded in his venture, he would become a latter day Raja Brooks in that doubtful paradise.
Brodzski’s project appeared to have a good start in bringing together the partners they needed. The money necessary was available to carry out the technical and financial studies required to demonstrate the feasibility of the project. That was the key to open the way for the investors and industrialists needed to back the development.
Axelmann had calculated that in the initial phase, eight million dollars would be needed, for exploration of the forest, technical studies, marketing tests and the financial analysis necessary to confirm the viability of the project.
Brodzski had confided to Axelmann and Ennis, that they would share in the rewards, in return for the sacrifices and efforts that would be required of them over the following eighteen months, the time that he estimated would be necessary, to obtain the green light from all parties, including the government of Indonesia.
The origin of the project went back to the visit of an official French delegation, which had been invited to Jakarta by the Indonesian government, for the promotion of the country’s industrial development programme.
Philippe de Berne had been a member of that delegation. Even in those distant islands, the legend of his celebrated banking family’s name had preceded him. He was more than a legend; he was richer than Rothschild, he was a de Berne.
Times had changed, though he was rich, very rich, it was not on the scale of his nineteenth century predecessors. The bank was small, even compared to the lesser known of the French banks, and was a dwarf compared to Credit Lyonnais and its contemporaries.
The Foreign Minister of Indonesia, at that time, who had received the delegation was, Idris Hendra. His long experience in diplomacy as Ambassador to Washington and London had made him an internationally known figure. He had descended from an old Javanese noble family. His participation in the struggle against the Dutch, and then the Japanese, had provided him with immaculate credentials, as one of the founders of modern independent Indonesia that followed centuries of colonisation.
During the visit of the delegation Philippe de Berne had gravitated towards Idris Hendra, they sympathised in spite of the apparent differences between them. One being a Moslem and the other a Jew, but in that country, such differences were of a philosophical and fatalistic nature, in their almost mystical universe the origins of a man were part of his destiny.
It was natural, that Hendra invited de Berne to invest in the development of his country’s industrial future, where the potential could be described as fabulous for those who had the foresight. De Berne had been enchanted by the mysteries of Java, as had many others before him. He returned several times to visit his new friend and his newly discovered world; together they explored its vast possibilities for investment.
De Berne was a banker and a rich man, but he was not an industrialist, neither could his family’s merchant bank take great risks. They were not philanthropists and had not acquired their fortune by imprudent investments.
He sounded out his close business friends and his advisers, who told him, that outside of the volatile and risk laden petroleum industry, Indonesia had not much more readily exploitable resources than their immense forests.
It was then he recalled to mind Antoine Brodzski, who had successfully negotiated the contract for a new forest industry complex that included a complete paper mill in Cambodia, in which the Banque de Berne was the leader of the banking pool, financing the project, underwritten by the French government. It was an excellent contract, not too big, about one hundred million dollars, very nice profitable business and above all with guaranteed payment.
He called Brodzski, in the hope of interesting him in Indonesia. For de Berne, Brodzski was by reputation, what could only be described as an industrial adventurer of the old style in Asia. He combined intelligence with carefully calculated risk, opening new opportunities for profits where conventional investors were afraid to venture.
Brodzski was flattered by the compliment; he was too good a businessman and opportunist to refuse a proposal by de Berne. Within days, he was on a plane to Jakarta to meet Sigit Budiman, the personal assistant of Idris Hendra.
Axelmann was Brodzski’s financial director. His role in the Barito project was to put together the financial plan necessary for the feasibility study, liaising with bankers and financial institutions both in France and overseas.
The name of de Berne on a project, managed by Brodzski and his team, fresh from their success in Cambodia, would guaranty that there would be no shortage of potential partners.
Ennis represented Finntech’s hopes and their investment in the development of the industrial complex. Brodzski flattered his powerful partner by accepting their proposal, appointing John Ennis, Finntech’s man, as the project development director. He would manage public relations and promotional activities, coordinating the human and business resources needed to get the project to the signature of contracts, logically followed by its construction and production start-up.
/>
Ennis discovered a real understanding with Axelmann in the short time that had passed since they had met, they realised that they shared many ideas and ambitions in common and not the least was dimension of the opportunity that had opened before them. They soon recognised the fact that they wielded considerably more influence than they had initially imagined. There were two reasons, the project size, estimated to be in excess of one billion dollars, and the power of favour that could be bestowed on the candidates for partnership and future contracts.
Brodzski was sixty-four years old. They calculated that if he controlled his indulgence in alcohol and tobacco, not to mention his very active sex life; stimulated by several willing and demanding young women, and the ever-present stress he thrived on, he would have no difficulty in seeing the project into the construction phase, without undue concern over his health.
It could not have been said that neither Ennis nor Axelmann truly believed, deep down, in the certainty of the projects success at that precise point in time, it was too intangible. On the other hand, they did not disbelieve in the possibility of success - as promoters it was their task to sell the concept, find the partners and investors and transform Brodzski’s hopes and desires into reality.
By an unspoken understanding, they each determined their respective roles. Brodzski imposed only one explicit objective success! It was certain that if they achieved their objective, they would be richly rewarded.
Vast sums of money would flow through Papcon, and Indopap the shell company that had been created as the vehicle for the project development.
There would be fees, commissions and payments of every form made to Indopap. When the future mill owners took over the project, once all agreements had been concluded and the main construction contracts were ready to be placed, Indopap would be quietly put to sleep.
In all, Ennis calculated cynically, between the feasibility and the construction phases, there were five years work ahead for Indopap, and why not himself...if all went according to Brodzski’s plan.
BANDJARMASIN
Borneo Pulp Page 3