Borneo Pulp

by John Francis Kinsella

Night was falling as a dilapidated Toyota taxis turned into the floodlights of the luxuriant flower skirted drive of the Borobudur hotel, large winged insects flickered in the headlights of the taxi.

  At the brilliantly lit main door, the smart evening crowd waiting for their chauffeur driven cars looked on with curious amusement as Axelmann, cursing the uncomprehending driver, fought with the battered door of the taxi which could no longer be opened from the inside.

  The tall turbaned Indian doorman, in his resplendent scarlet uniform, stepped forward and opened the door disdainfully as Axelmann and Ennis contorted themselves, struggling to get out of the small taxi. Leaving their baggage to the porters, they took the escalator up to the hotel reception on first floor. In their dirty sweat stained cloths, unshaven and sunburnt, they surveyed the lobby as they check-in.

  ‘Thank Christ for that!’ Axelmann declared with bewildered relief, and then looking around exclaimed, ‘What have they bloody well done with our bags now?’

  At that moment, a short Frenchman, elegantly dressed in a white polo shirt and white slacks, stood up and stepped forward. From his seat in a lobby armchair he had been observing them for some moments.

  ‘You look like you have been travelling!’ he said with a playful smile and holding out his hand.

  It was Paul Branet, a life long friend of Brodzski, who had spent the best part of forty years in South East Asia. He had commenced in French Indo-China, until the war forced him out together with the other so called planters, after the defeat of the French at Dien Bien Phu. They had realised that it was the end of an era. Branet as many others had headed down to Malaya and Indonesia, to rebuild their lives and to seek fortune under the then promising Soekarno regime, in the early years of the sixties.

  ‘Well we’ve just returned from Kalimantan,’ replied Ennis. ‘A real hell of a place, we’re glad to be back to civilisation, right now were looking forward to a real shower and a good cold beer.’

  ‘Listen, I know you would like to relax now,’ said Branet, he paused and then added with a serious air, ‘but I think we should get together to talk about your project. Tell me, are you free at lunch time tomorrow?’

  Ennis half nodded.

  ‘Okay, well let’s meet here in the lobby at about twelve.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Branet bid them good evening and took off in the manner of short Frenchmen of his class, his head held high, strutting like a bantam cock.

  ‘What does he want?’ asked Axelmann.

  ‘No idea, I just want to have a real shower and get to the bar,’ replied Ennis.

  The Borobudur was the watering hole for the French in Jakarta, a luxury hotel and was possibly amongst the finest in Asia, named after the monumental twelfth century Hindu temple of Borobudur, on the south of the island of Java, near the ancient city of Jogjakarta.

  Ennis surveyed the exotic gardens from his seventeenth floor room, the floodlight tennis courts, the pale blue shimmer of the brightly light Olympic sized swimming pool, and the soft lights of the Indonesian Garden restaurant. They were all surrounded by several acres of greenery, umbrella palms, huge tropical trees with epiphytes and other plants hanging in the dark folds of their limbs. The branches swayed in a brisk evening breeze, the lighting throwing long shadows that wavered on the well-trimmed lawns of thick grass.

  Ten minutes later as Ennis emerged from the shower, wrapping himself in the hotel bathrobe, the telephone rang, he was surprised that anybody knew they were back, he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello! Oh, Sigit, nice to hear from you, how are you?’

  Sigit Budiman was the personal assistant of the Vice President. He represented Idris Hendra’s personal interests in the pulp mill project.

  ‘Did you have a good trip?’

  Sigit could not have remembered when he himself had last visited Kalimantan or any of the other distant and underdeveloped provinces of his vast country. In fact he could no longer remember what anything was like outside capital or outside of the heady entourage of the Vice President, and his largely ceremonial functions.

  ‘Listen John, something important has come up. Tomorrow is Sunday, I’ve already an engagement, but we could meet early on Monday morning, I’ll be in the hotel sauna at six thirty, you know at the fitness centre, could you meet me there with Axelmann?’

  ‘Sure, no problem Sigit, fine, see you Monday morning, bye.’

  Shit! Thought Ennis, who detested early morning starts, but if Sigit said it was important then it could not be avoided.

  An hour later seated at the Pendopo bar, Ennis shivered, under a stream of cold air, almost freezing he thought. It was unbelievable how low they could set the air-conditioning. His face prickled under the sunburn, he looked like a grilled tomato. He felt good, in clean freshly pressed clothes and thought to himself lifting the cold beer to his lips, this is more like my style.

  He turned and saw Axelmann stride in, he was wearing a white silk shirt, the top buttons opened showing a hirsute chest and a gold medallion suspended on a thick gold chain. It appeared out of character, but he was inclined towards a rather flashy style when out of his business uniform. He took the stool next to Ennis and ordered an orange juice, he only rarely drank alcohol.

  The two of them could have been almost mistaken for brothers. They were only separated by about five years in age, both were of a similar build, perhaps Axelmann weighed a few kilos more, and whilst Axelmann was fair haired, Ennis was prematurely grey almost white, it gave him surprisingly younger appearance, especially when set off against his sunburned skin.

  Over a light dinner in the coffee shop, they decided that Axelmann would visit the Commercial Section at the French Embassy on the Monday morning to check out Branet’s background in Jakarta, whilst Ennis visited Bogor, taking advantage of the early start they would get after the meeting with Budiman. Ennis would take up the invitation of Wolfgang Kubler, to visit the Forestry Centre at Bogor with the French forestry specialist Henri Marcillac, then calling on Dr Philippe Touzan, one of the resident foreign specialists at the Research Centre for Tropical Forests.

  In the meantime they would make the best of Saturday night in Jakarta, where the nightlife if not entirely sophisticated was at least original. There were the Tanamor and the Hotman, where certain Europeans expatriates and oilmen on the loose gathered to drink and mix with the less virtuous local girls. Whatever the style it would be a considerable change for the better from Bandjarmasin.

  The next day Branet appeared promptly at midday in the hotel lobby and invited them directly to the Entre Deux Mers, the hotel’s French restaurant, where after their tribulations in Kalimantan he proposed that they eat something civilised, though the only resemblance with French cuisine lay in the language of its menu. They agreed and proceeded to the first floor where the restaurant had a splendid view overlooking the hotel gardens.

  They all ordered fresh tropical fruit juice as an aperitif, avoiding too much alcohol so as not to spoil the rest of the day, and then chose their meal from the menu à la carte.

  ‘So my friends, here’s to your continued good health and success!’ he said with a mischievous chuckle, lifting his glass, alluding to the possible sequels that could result from their visit to Kalimantan and their encounter with mosquitoes and the rainforest.

  ‘I wanted to meet you to discuss your project,’ Branet announced, he paused, hesitating, lifting his hand into the air, as if he were anticipating their objections.

  ‘Antoine Brodzski and I are old friends...so old I would prefer to forget it,’ he smiled. ‘I think it is wise, if you will permit me, to provide you with some background information on Indonesia, to be more precise, on its forestry industry.

  Branet wore a serious expression, as if he were about to divulge some vital information. They both listened politely and patiently, but they did not expect a surprise. It was not unusual of expatriate middlemen of the ilk of Branet to boost their own personal standing by giving warnings, then proposing
their services and knowledge to guide the ignorant unsuspecting newcomers through the political swamps, which they were warned were infested crocodiles and traps.

  ‘There are two major money earners in the country, oil and forestry!’

  Surprise, surprise, thought Ennis. Even the hotel parking attendant knew that.

  ‘Oil and gas revenues go directly into the state coffers and to those at the top, via Pertamina, that’s not new to you I imagine!’ said Branet with a condescending smile.

  ‘Forestry is another panier de crabes. The reasons are quite simple, oil is pumped from the ground from a few wells in a concentrated number of locations, directly into the tankers owned by the state petroleum monopoly.’

  He paused for effect looking into the faces of his guests, detecting signs of awakening curiosity.

  ‘On the other hand the forest covers practically seventy percent of the territory. The trees are cut by a multitude of companies operating in a vast number of timber concessions across the country. Those concessions are attributed to diverse groups, such as the military, political and powerful business interests. Logging is subcontracted to private companies, in the majority of cases they’re fronts to hide the identities of the real owners and their interests.

  The revenues are channelled through an elaborate network of domestic and offshore accounts for redistribution, as you know, there are no foreign exchange controls in the country, so money can move in and out without any difficulties.’

  Axelmann nodded and inquired with polite interest, ‘How does this affect us?’

  ‘It’s clear that anybody entering the industry should know and respect the unwritten rules, if not, they will soon be in very serious trouble!’

  ‘What do you recommend?’ asked Ennis.

  ‘A local partner is the best solution, somebody who is already part of the system,’ he hesitated, and then continued lowering his voice. ‘Remember, Sigit Budiman, and who he represents is just one part of the system, you cannot rely on him to cover all of the parties needed to successfully conclude your business...there are many more and you ignore them at your peril!’

  ‘How does this system function?’ asked Axelmann.

  ‘The Timber Producers & Converters Association and the military, they are the two visible organisations. The military are a law unto themselves; they control quite legitimately a large number of concessions. The Association is different, it’s a kind of Mafia and anybody can make a deal with one of its clans, at a price.’

  The both nodded silently. Branet had interested them, giving them considerable information for reflection.

  ‘The message that I’m trying to convey is, be very, very careful, if you want your project to succeed. Its no game, it’s not a western business structure with nice laws to ensure fair play. The concession holders and loggers will protect their vested interests from unwelcome newcomers and they will use all means at their disposal to fight off uncooperative outsiders...and believe me, all means!

  Branet made a sign to the Maitre d’hôtel for the bill. He thanked them for having accepted his invitation and excused himself, leaving them both perplexed by his explanations. Was it a warning or was he simple trying to insinuate himself into their business, posing as the experienced old hand that they had at first suspected?

  A bell rang in the distance, it was far off, the sound increased and it seemed to get nearer. Ennis opened his eyes slowly from a deep sleep, the kind of hypnotic sleep that the sultry tropical night induces, he reached for the telephone, it was his wake up call.

  He liked to sleep with the air-conditioning switched off. The combination of the fatigue from the previous week, the beer at the Tanamor, as well as the cocoon-like feeling brought about by the temperature of the room, had totally knocked him out.

  He looked at his watch in the semi-darkness and saw that it was six. He struggled out of his bed and slipped on a sweatshirt and swimming shorts, leaving the laces of his trainers untied and felt his way to the lift.

  The sun was rising and the water of the pool was still like glass. He dropped his towel onto one of the chairs, then his sweatshirt shirt, kicked off his trainers and lazily dived into the water sending wavelets slapping against the overflow grates. A couple of lengths to wake himself up before Budiman arrived. The water was at 28 degrees, like a warm bath.

  Monday morning was great in the pool, it was empty. At weekends even at that early hour there were already swimmers, later it would have been filled with hotel guests, expatriates and their families, as well as a sprinkling of Indonesian yuppies who had developed a taste for the ephemeral western life style they observed in the international hotels.

  He made his way to the fitness centre, not really expecting to find anyone there. He was surprised when he saw Sigit standing outside on the grass, a towel around his waist and his glasses in hand. He was wiggling and gyrating his hips in a curious exercise, to Ennis it looked like some kind of screwing practice, and perhaps it was.

  ‘Hey, you’re early,’ Ennis chuckled.

  ‘I woke up early, so I came right over.’

  Sigit looked in good shape.

  ‘How’s the form?’

  ‘Great.’

  Axelmann wandered up, looking cheerful for that early hour. He was happy; he had woken up to find that he was not in Kalimantan; a wonderful start to his day.

  ‘What’s pressing then Sigit? Have you had your sauna?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m just about ready now, let’s get something to eat, I’m beginning to feel hungry, we can talk about it over breakfast, but basically I spoke with the VP, he has decided that the project should have top priority.’

  They were a little surprised. They had not really expected anything else but top priority. Nevertheless, it was comforting to know that the system was functioning. Sigit always enjoyed a hearty American breakfast after his morning exercise, especially if he was not paying. They strolled down the path towards the coffee shop whilst Sigit got slowly to the point.

  ‘Mr Hendra has instructed Bak Wihartjo to give you all the assistance necessary. You should contact his Director General Rudini to go over the details of the programme. If you like, I’ll fix up a meeting with him for you this week, he’s a good friend of mine!’

  Sigit had many good friends; it was perfectly normal for a man who was the personal assistant to Idris Hendra, the Vice President of a nation of one hundred and seventy million people in the throes of development.

  His principal function was to organise the VP’s busy schedule and not the least his golf programme. Sigit too was an enthusiastic golfer. He also spent a considerable time on the diplomatic cocktail circuit, keeping the VP well informed of all the latest news and gossip. Axelmann frequently cracked that Sigit was incapable of anything else but golfing and socialising, which was in a sense true; after all it was his job.

  His large home in the smart district of Kebayoran Baru, his weekend house at Puncak in the mountains where the air was cool, his house on one of the beautiful and exclusive coral islands in the Java sea one hundred kilometres out from Jakarta, his BMW, Peugeot, Cherokee pickup, and his wife Milas fine collection of antique Chinese porcelain, were all proof that he was successful and really at the top. As an Indonesian civil servant in the Vice Presidents service, his official salary was not more than the equivalent of one thousand American dollars a month, which hardly served as pocket money. His real income came in the traditional Indonesian manner of commissions and favours in payment for services rendered.

  He had started his career, after leaving university thirty years previously, as a young journalist, and had been present with the main actors of the movement that overthrew Soekarno, after the aborted communist coup. Budiman, more by chance than by design, had been sequestered together with Idris Hendra by the putschists during those desperate days. In the events which followed, Hendra had adroitly navigated the political changes, playing the anti-communist card, and had risen under Suharto through successive government appoi
ntments to Vice President, bringing Sigit with him.

  ON TROPICAL FORESTS