by John Greet
In the days leading up to the fight, I would ride to Janna’s compound and feed the apes, then spend the rest of the evening with her. We talked, and our rambling conversations about our lives helped calm my nerves. I saw Anak on the night before the fight, and he was calm. When I asked him how he felt, he said, ‘It is now out of my hands. It is up to the gods … I will accept the outcome whatever it is.’
* * *
At last, the night arrived. The weather was calm with no wind. The setting sun was hidden by rain clouds. The Sandika crew, Anak, Gusti, Wayan and Ketut arrived at the pit, as did Bas’s crew from across the Bali Haj grounds. The judges decided to forgo the traditional gong in case the sound attracted attention. Gusti and Bas’s handlers removed the wicker baskets from their respective birds.
Both birds were equally matched in weight and other than Anak’s bird being black with blue iridescent hackles and Bas’s bird a speckled red there was no indication that these two fighting cocks, upon which so much was at stake, were anything more than two common roosters. The atmosphere was as sombre as an execution ground.
The judges took their place. Both birds had their spurs tied and inspected. The fighting cocks had been roused to a fury by the plucking of hackles and flicking of beaks. Anak and Bas looked at each other from across the pit, each man standing on his own land. Anak stood with folded arms, dressed in a blue sarong and sash, his kris at his side. Mahmood Bas was wearing his usual white robes, his hands behind his back.
As a judge read out the central bet, he stated that there would be one match and one match only, with no rematch. The three-retreat rule was cancelled, and the fight would continue until one bird lay dead. Anak and Bas nodded, and the judge clapped his hands. The fight began.
The birds flew at each other with intense ferocity. They bounced back and circled, both looking for an opening. Anak’s bird was bleeding; Bas’s cock had drawn first blood. Wayan gasped. Ketut turned pale and looked away. The birds stood motionless, hackles flared and panting, beaks open.
There came a loud popping sound suddenly, like a small explosion, and Bas’s bird was disintegrating in front of us in a bloody mess of feathers and entrails. Another pop, and Anak’s bird fell dead, severed in two, a wing and a foot torn from its body, blood seeping into the earth. We all stood totally confused by what I’d just seen.
We didn’t notice the uniformed policeman until he had walked into the middle of the pit and raised his pistol. He pointed it squarely at Anak. He wore a peaked cap, tight-fitting uniform and a row of commander’s colours above his shirt pocket.
‘You are Anak, the owner of Sandika Hotel?’ Anak nodded. Suddenly we were surrounded by police. They appeared out of nowhere; clearly this was a planned operation. Some men were in uniform, some plain-clothed, and all were training guns on us. They came from the cover of the garden and from behind the hotel block and quickly circled the pit. There were twenty or thirty of them, all armed, some cradling their guns, others pointing them.
‘You are under arrest for the possession of cocaine,’ the commander said, as two policemen handcuffed Anak from behind. Then he spoke to our small gathering, ‘I could have you all arrested for cockfighting, but that is not why we are here. Return to your homes.’ The commander waved his pistol at us in a sign of dismissal. With a barrage of weapons pointed at him, Anak was led away, and the remainder of the police followed, leaving the rest of us standing around the pit in a state of shock.
Bas strode over to us quickly. ‘Cocaine possession? I’ve known Anak to do some crazy things but he’s never had anything to do with drugs, has he?’
‘He is against drugs.’ My eyes were still on the dead roosters.
‘I think you should all follow me until we know more. Our lawyers are waiting in my lobby.’
Wayan, Ketut, Gusti and I followed Bas across the grounds of the Bali Haj, along with the handlers and the two confused cockfighting judges. Seated in the lobby, we began discussing the situation with the lawyers. We agreed that Anak’s lawyer would go to the Sandika to find out what was going on.
My suspicions were confirmed when he returned an hour later. ‘The drug squad has left the Sandika and taken along Anak. So you’re free to return. I don’t think there is any suspicion with regards to the staff, so I suggest you go back to your jobs. The guests will need settling down because the drug police searched all twelve rooms. It seems a Brazilian man named Geno Roberto was arrested at the airport with ten kilos of cocaine strapped to his waist, and the drug police found a connection to him and the Sandika. In Geno’s room, they found another kilo stashed under the tiles in the bathroom. They believe Anak has something to do with it. There is nothing we can do to help until tomorrow. I will go to the holding cells at the Polda police barracks and do what I can. I will keep you informed.’ Then Anak’s lawyer, a dapper little man with an identical moustache to Mahmood’s, picked up his briefcase and left.
The rest of us filed out of the lobby. As I reached the door, Bas caught up with me. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘Please keep me informed of what happens.’
We saw a stray dog chewing on the bodies of the dead cockerels as we passed the pit on our way back to the Sandika. Wayan, Ketut and I looked at each other. We knew that our problems had only just begun.
In our absence, Satchimoto had thankfully herded all the guests into the coffee shop and reassured them that there had been a terrible mistake. Such was Satchimoto’s indignation and anger at the treatment meted out to his friend Anak by the drug police that several Japanese tourists offered to contribute to Anak’s defence fund. Wayan arranged for our staff to have the rooms reinstated while we offered the guests free drinks. Once everyone was settled, we sat together and speculated on what would be the outcome of this mess.
I lay in bed that night, wide awake and cursing Geno. He’d broken our agreement by keeping drugs at the hotel and putting Anak in a life-threatening position. The maximum sentence for drug trafficking in Indonesia was death by firing squad. Ten kilos of cocaine was a serious amount of drugs.
* * *
The following morning, at the restaurant, Wayan handed me a copy of the local English newspaper. There was a photograph of Geno on the front page. His shock of blond curls almost covered a bad bruise on one cheek. His face was almost unrecognisable due to a fat lip and a black eye. On either side of him stood a uniformed policeman, their hands on Geno’s shoulder, their faces grinning with pride. They looked like a couple of big game hunters standing over their trophy. I recognised one of the cops as the commander who had shot the cockerels.
Before Geno, spread out on a table, lay the evidence: three large cellophane packets of a white substance.
I heard the sound of a motorbike and looked up to see Eddi Medan dismounting. ‘Trouble in paradise?’ he said, as he pulled up a chair and sat beside me.
‘Eddi, Anak has nothing to do with this. Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘Not much. The drug squad here in Bali are a force of their own. For them, having their photographs in the newspaper seems to be more important than accepting bribes.’
‘Anak’s innocent!’
‘We both know that doesn’t really matter. Look, the best I can do is pull in some favours and arrange for you to visit him.’
Later that day Eddi called and gave me an address in Denpasar. He informed me that my name was with the guard at the gate, and for fifty dollars cash I would be permitted to visit Anak.
I rode to Denpasar and found the Polda police barracks. The gate guard checked my packages and took the money, along with an apple. I followed him down a corridor to a line of cells while he took noisy bites of the fruit. Each cell contained a traditional toilet and a bucket of water. Prisoners slept on mats on the floor. The cell walls were covered in graffiti, and the only light was a bare bulb in the corridor.
Anak sat meditating. I waited. Soon he opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Not quite the outcome we would have hoped for, was it? Both birds were shot so w
e’d have to consider it a draw, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Anak, what should I do?’
‘Nothing. I told you the outcome of the fight was up to the gods, and if that means the firing squad, then I accept it, and I’ll face it with dignity.’
I handed Anak the food Wayan had sent for him; there was enough to last him a week. ‘Thank you for this,’ he said as he selected a rambutan and began to peel it. I couldn’t understand his casual attitude. It was as if he had no interest in his predicament.
‘We’ll need a lawyer, the best we can find.’
‘Ah, those scoundrels. I refuse to pay them one single rupiah.’ He finished another piece of fruit and said, ‘Why don’t you go and see Geno? He must be further down the corridor. They’ve been beating him, but in between the beatings, I’ve heard him singing. Take him some of this food. He must be hungry.’
‘Have they beaten you?’ I asked.
‘They wouldn’t dare. They’d be too scared that I’d put a curse on them or their families. Now go and see Geno.’
I took a few parcels of food and walked further down the corridor. On seeing me, Geno rushed at the bars and snatched the food from my hand. He ripped off the wrappings and stuffed the food into his mouth. He spoke between mouthfuls. ‘Man, Adam, man, they keep beating the shit out of me. They want me to confess that Anak was in it.’ He was halfway through a banana. ‘Hey, man, this my shit, and my shit alone, and I tell those motherfuckers that. Hey, what else can I do? But they beat me, man, all day. I never say Anak involved in my shit because he wasn’t. You tell him that, man.’
‘But why at the hotel! If you hadn’t done that, Anak wouldn’t be here!’
‘Whoa! Stop right there, man. I had no fucking idea the cocaine was in my room, I swear, man. But I gonna confess anyway … I know who put it there though, and when I get outta this shit, I gonna kill that motherfucker.’ Geno was into his second packet of food.
‘Where’s Paolo?’ I asked.
‘He’s okay. He in Japan, man. Make sure you talk to Satchimoto and tell him to keep Paolo there.’
‘Why, Geno?’ I cried. ‘We had a deal, and you had a deal with Anak, but look at us now. We’re fucked and …’
Geno’s hand shot out between the bars and around my neck like a striking snake. ‘I fucking told you, man. I know nothing about that shit, so you better listen up and believe me. Because you owe me big time … You owe me twenty grand, and now it’s payback time.’
‘Hey, I …’ His thumb and forefinger pressed hard, cutting off my words, then he took his hand away. He looked at me curiously, a smile playing on his bruised face. ‘Maybe you put that cocaine in my room, maybe it was you, man. How do I know it wasn’t you? How do they know?’ He pointed towards the door. I felt a chill run through me. My heart was beating harder. Geno’s eyes were as steely as the prison bars. I didn’t doubt for a minute that he would carry out his threat.
As if he were reading my thoughts, Geno stopped eating. He raised a finger and said, ‘Hey, man, no need to go that far, eh. You a clever guy, and we friends right? You look like you fucked … I tell you man, I more fucked.’ He gathered up the last of the food and stuffed the small parcels in his pockets.
When I returned to Anak, I found him sitting on his mat, legs pulled into the lotus position, eyes closed.
As I rode back to the hotel, I was caught in Kuta’s one-way traffic, inching along with a pack of motorbikes in the rush hour. I found myself bothered by what Geno had said: ‘Tell Satchimoto to keep him there.’ Wasn’t that what he’d said? Then Satchimoto must be in touch with Paolo in Tokyo. What was the connection? And the cocaine in Geno’s room … If Paolo was in Japan, then who could have put it there? Who else was involved? A disturbing picture began to form in my mind. How well did I really know Satchimoto? He’d always played his cards close to his chest. I’d always thought there was something he was hiding …
A pack of motorbikes held me back when I reached Bemo corner, so I cut down a narrow lane, a short cut known only to locals, and rode quickly to the hotel. I found him in the coffee shop. After assuring Wayan and Ketut that Anak was doing okay, I went up to Satchimoto and asked if he would come for a walk with me. I saw his jovial face turn serious suddenly. He hoisted up his board shorts, buttoned his Hawaiian shirt and we set off along the beach.
‘Satchimoto, I’ve seen Geno, and he’s told me everything.’ I said, calling his bluff. ‘I know what’s going on, but I would like to hear it from you.’
Satchimoto’s face went through a spectrum of colour changes before turning pale. ‘Has Geno confessed anything to the police?’ he asked, avoiding eye contact.
‘No, not yet, and if you tell me everything, I might be able to convince him not to.’
‘How can I be sure of that?’ he said, and in that instant I knew my suspicions were true. Satchimoto’s selfish concern for no one but himself made my blood boil. He hadn’t asked me how Geno or Anak were doing or what he could do to help them. Anak was innocent, and Geno, Satchimoto’s business partner, sat in prison facing a death sentence, but Satchimoto was least bothered about them. Anger overwhelmed me. I grabbed him by the neck and dragged him into the water. I forced his head under and held it there to a count of ten. When I pulled him out again, he came up gagging and gasping for air. I allowed him one inhale then pushed his head underwater again. He managed to pull me down with him this time, but I forced my head to stay above water. Then he bit my wrist; he sunk his teeth into it and held on like a viper. I hauled him up and punched him in the mouth.
‘Tell me what’s going on, you sack of shit!’ I yelled. A group of tourists had gathered around us. I pulled him out of the water, and we staggered along the beach, away from the onlookers, dripping wet. Satchimoto was coughing and wheezing. I took off my shirt, wrung out the water then wrapped it around my bleeding wrist.
‘Talk!’ I hollered. He made a few desperate noises and spat out some sea water. His voice was shot, so I walked him to a warung beneath some shade trees, ordered tea and waited until he calmed down.
‘Okay, here it is,’ I said calmly as we sat on a bench, sipping tea. ‘I want to know everything that happened between you, Geno and Paolo. Take your time, but don’t leave anything out. If I have all the information then I might be able to help. I’m the best chance you have of getting out of this mess right now.’
Through hooded eyes he cast me a suspicious look then followed it with an odd smile. He coughed, testing his voice, and began. He told me about the abuse of amphetamine in Japan and that many Japanese men took shabu, a type of the stimulant known as ‘ice’. ‘We considered smoking marijuana a bad thing, but smoking shabu was socially acceptable, amongst men anyway.’ Satchimoto’s tense tone and the fear in his eyes made me think he was avoiding my question.
‘Hey, I don’t want a lecture on drug use in Japan. I just want to know what happened here.’
‘Of course, but in order for you to understand, I need to put it in context.’
‘Okay, tell me,’ I said, observing how bad his teeth were and making a mental note to put some papaya onto my bitten wrist.
‘Some time ago, one of our divers asked Geno if he could get some shabu. Not understanding what he meant, Geno pulled out his freebase pipe and offered us smokable cocaine. The effect was similar to ice, only much better, with less side effects and no bad come-down like amphetamine. The freebase rocks even looked like ice … For us, it was like a bit of innocent fun, you know, something we were used to.’ Satchimoto laughed nervously, and his upper lip bled. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
‘Our clients couldn’t get enough of it though. They hounded Geno until his supplies ran out. He went back to Brazil and brought two couriers into Bali, loaded with cocaine. Within a short time that was gone as well. Geno doubled the price but that didn’t slow consumption. When we discovered some of the divers were buying it to take back to Japan, Geno came up with a plan. As cocaine powder is soluble in alcohol, Geno dissolved
half kilos in whisky bottles. He had the labels, seals and screw caps replaced perfectly when he was done. Then he paid a duty-free delivery guy who worked inside the departure lounge at the airport to replace his normal whisky order with our bottles, which looked identical – only ours were filled with liquid cocaine.’
‘So that’s what all those girls from Brazil were doing here? They were the couriers, the drug mules?’ I thought of Geno pushing the girl into the pool.
‘Exactly,’ he said, almost boasting.
‘You know what’s bothering me right now?’ I said coldly. ‘I saw all this … The girls, you guys hanging out, Geno and Paolo’s trips back and forth, and I didn’t suspect a thing. Am I that fucking naive?’
‘No, you are not, Adam. This is just not your thing, that’s all.’ His patronising answer only aggravated me. I let him continue. ‘The switch was made once our men had passed through Customs. They picked up what looked like the exact same bottles of whisky they had purchased on the other side. Our Japanese tourists returned to Narita Airport carrying their bottles freely, complete with a duty-free bag and receipt. It worked very well. Often, bags were randomly searched but Customs officers never gave the duty-free whisky a second look. Once in Tokyo, Geno took back the whisky bottles and gave the men new bottles he’d purchased in Tokyo. We gave them two for one, so our clients made on the deal.’
