Shaman of Bali

by John Greet

  ‘Apes can’t swim,’ I said.

  He moaned and stammered something unintelligible.

  ‘Apes can’t swim,’ I repeated, moving the knife in the direction of the beach. Janna could no longer hold back the animals. They were aroused and hell bent on getting at Geno. His face fell into a grimace as a paw swiped at him.

  I pushed the animal away and said again, louder, ‘Apes can’t swim.’

  Then he got it. In an instant, he was up on his feet and running, out through the door. Both the animals broke out of Janna’s grip and charged after him, leaping and clucking. Janna moved to follow them but I held her back. I dug out my mobile and dialled Eddi’s number.

  ‘Geno’s here. He’s standing in the surf just beyond Janna’s compound. The apes have him bailed up.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Eddi.

  I turned to Janna. She was watching me. Her face showed both shock and pleasure. Then she was walking towards me.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘I thought the animals would be in their cage, I can explain … He had a knife at my throat. I thought you’d be asleep.’

  ‘Shhh …’ she said, raising her hand to cover my mouth. ‘Enough. But if he hurts my boys, I’m going to hold you responsible.’ Janna’s eyes danced with delight. She was soft with sleep, her hair a radiant tangle. Then we heard Eddi’s Land Rover pushing its way along the track. When I opened the door, he came in with a rifle held over his shoulder.

  ‘So where is he?’ Eddi demanded. He was all business.

  ‘Standing in the sea is my guess. He won’t be coming out unless you escort him out with that gun. He’s unarmed.’

  We walked towards the beach, and Eddi kept his rifle trained and ready just in case.

  The gun wasn’t necessary. Geno never made it to the sea. We found him lying on the sand halfway down the beach. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Janna chained her apes and led them back to the compound. Geno didn’t move when Eddi cable-tied his wrists and feet, or even when I stood guard over him when Eddi went to get the Land Rover. When we lifted him into the vehicle, he opened his eyes briefly. They were green and unfocused; he’d lost his coloured contacts.

  ‘You look like you need to be away from here. Go, Adam. I’ll handle this.’

  I watched Eddi drive away with Geno.

  Janna had caged her animals and changed her clothes. When I returned, she was sitting on the steps. Her eyes followed me as I entered. Oil lamps cast flickering shadows around us. The smell of dawn was in the air.

  ‘So, are you here to stay this time?’ she asked as I sat beside her.

  ‘Yes, I believe I am.’

  * * *

  We drove up hill towards Mt. Agung until we came to the ridge road. The first rays of sunlight cast the island in a soft glow. The vegetation dripped with dew. To the south, through swirls of mist, past the sculptured rice paddies and the towers of village temples, we could see the teardrop peninsula of southern Bali. We could make out Kuta Reef, a thin white line on an azure pallet, and beyond, just visible through the haze, stood the temples of Uluwatu. A bird’s song rang out like a chime, and moments later came the return call. Behind us, nestled within its dark cone, lay the crater-lake, where puffs of steam arose and dissipated, casting moving images like shadow plays on the lake’s mirror surface. The majestic summit of Mt. Agung towered above us. I took a deep breath of the mountain air.

  ‘Janna …’ I said, and I tried to think of something deep and meaningful to say, but no words came. So I handed her the diamond ring I’d had made in Auckland. She looked at it, her eyes alight with pleasure, and then she slipped it on her finger.

  33

  Six Months Later

  As Janna and I came out of the domestic terminal at Medan airport, we spotted Aafaaq holding up a handwritten sign for us. He wore a grey uniform with ‘Indonesian Department of Conservation’ written in English on its lapels. It was mid-morning, and the heat was stifling. A colourful group of backpackers were boarding a minivan with a sign that read ‘Lake Toba’. Porters huddled around a freshly opened durian, stuffing the fruit’s pungent white flesh into their mouths. Women wearing burqas haggled with taxis drivers over fares. Janna was anxious. Her orangutans had been sedated and were in two large packing cases in the cargo section of the plane. Aafaaq hardly had time to introduce himself when Janna insisted that we supervise the unloading ourselves. By the time we reached the tarmac in his van, the cargo staff were only too happy to let us take care of the two crates with their dubious cargo. The apes were calm and awake. The sedative had worn off, and they responded to Janna’s soothing tones as the men loaded the crates into the van.

  Two hours later we were weaving our way along a dense jungle track, the sunlight filtering through gaps in the rainforest canopy. Janna rode in the back, talking to her animals, slipping them food through the gaps in the crates, then casting worried glances at me. Earlier that month, we had spent several long telephone conversations with Aafaaq and considered ourselves fortunate that he had agreed to take our orangutans. For ever since we had made the decision to set free the orangutans, we had run into every obstacle possible. No rehabilitation centre in Indonesia was willing take Janna’s apes due to their age and the length of time they had spent in captivity. Moreover, owing to the recent deforestation, most rehabilitation centres had more animals than they could cope with but not enough volunteers. I was referred to a centre in northern Sumatra that had closed its doors to new arrivals yet had immense tracts of uninhabited virgin rainforest. After we offered a substantial donation to the centre, Aafaaq took a personal interest in our case. It was agreed that we would bypass the centre’s headquarters and travel upriver to an isolated part of the rain forest, where he was sure that food would be plentiful for the beasts. Janna and I would camp out with the apes until we were satisfied that they would be able to survive. Furthermore, Aafaaq would deliver fruit twice a week to the site and communicate with us by telephone with weekly updates.

  Two of Aafaaq’s men were waiting for us by the river with brightly painted long-tailed skiffs. These boats had outboards, with a unique propeller system that allowed the shaft to be levered out of the water to avoid rocks and rapids. Soon each vessel carried one crated animal and an abundance of fruit. Janna and I had brought along our camping gear and supplies. The journey up-river was spectacular. At times the rain forest almost covered the waterway as we manoeuvred through dangling vines and jungle flora. The sound of bird song was almost deafening.

  ‘Adam, look,’ said Janna, pointing to a spot high in the canopy. Above us, a large orangutan crashed through the forest, swinging from vine to tree. During our telephone conversations, Aafaaq had insisted that we ensure our orangutans would be able to climb trees. If not, they would not be able to forage for food. So, with the help of a few local boys in Bali, we had spent an interesting couple of weeks placing fruit high in the coconut trees and arranging a series of ropes to simulate vines. Janna’s apes became competent climbers in a short time.

  * * *

  An hour later, we arrived at our destination. The crates were unloaded on a grassy riverbank, our camping gear dumped next to them, and the men were back in their boats before Janna could open the crates. Aafaaq called out to us, ‘See you in three days,’ as he revved up his outboard.

  The orangutans stumbled out of their cages, dazed and confused. Janna huddled with them while I set up camp. As evening fell, the jungle noises intensified with all kinds of screeching, thumping and wailing. As I watched Janna and the apes, I was reminded of the night in the Blue Ocean surf, when I’d given them the vodka and then the three of them had held each other in a similarly bizarre communion.

  The following morning the orangutans were alert and immensely interested in their new surroundings. They would venture out into the bush only to come scuttling back in fear of some noise they’d heard, but then their curiosity would prevail, and they would be off again exploring and rummaging. A triumphant moment came when on
e ape climbed into the canopy to grab a mangosteen fruit, and Janna turned to me with an expression of pride. On the second day we had a visit from an enormous male orangutan, fearless, with battle scars on his cheek flaps and face and with flame-orange eyes that watched us intently. He walked on all fours to our stash of fruit, selected a bunch of bananas, cast his intent glance at both humans and apes and meandered off. On the third day, our apes separated. At dusk, when the tropical noises had reached their peak, one returned. In his paw he clutched a bunch of wild berries, which he shared with his mate. That night, in our tent, Janna and I held each other close, listening to the night noises and the clucking of our apes.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked, stroking her hair.

  ‘Disturbed, worried,’ she said, as she lay her head on my chest. ‘They are going to be okay, I know that. They will make it.’ Her words were a question.

  ‘They will, darling, they will.’

  * * *

  In the morning Aafaaq arrived. Janna had made her way further down the river. She had decided to slip away without goodbye so as not to stress the apes. As I boarded the long-tail boat for our journey home, I looked back at the two animals that I had grown very fond of. We had been through a lot together. However, my nostalgia and sadness were quickly overcome when I realised that they would be free to roam the jungles soon, to live the remainder of their lives in the manner that they were born to live. We picked up Janna and rode back to the van in silence. On the return flight to Bali, Janna’s mood picked up a little. I suggested we call Aafaaq as soon as we arrived home and check on our apes.

  * * *

  Wayan, Ketut and Grace were waiting for us at the airport. My grandson, Tai, was strapped to a sling on Grace’s belly. Wayan had insisted that Grace follow the Balinese custom of not letting the baby touch the ground until he was six months old. I was surprised that Grace had agreed to it.

  ‘How’s the kitchen going?’ Grace had been in charge in my absence.

  ‘Honest answer?’ she asked with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Better without you.’

  I nodded. I had no answer. I suspected she was right; the kitchen staff loved her. She managed better than I could.

  Janna prised Tai away from Grace as the two woman embraced. On the ride back to the Sandika Hotel, I looked out at the reef. There were a few hardened surfers catching the last waves as the evening light cast them in silhouette. Wayan and Janna were speaking to each other in Indonesian. I knew that they were discussing the plans for our wedding: a proper Balinese ceremony to be held at the Sandika. I was a little nervous about it, but Anak and Mahmood would settle for nothing less.

  * * *

  I entered the Bali Haj kitchen from the staff entrance. The evening service was in full swing. Grace stood at the stove, managing four flaming skillets at once, with Tai strapped to her back. She turned briefly to inspect some plates about to go out to our diners, nodded her approval to the waiter then returned to her stove. The skilful elegance with which she tossed a pan of flaming prawns reminded me of my father. The gravel tones of his voice came back to me. Hadn’t I spent the first years of my life in a bassinet next to the stove? As if he could hear my thoughts, Tai opened his sleepy eyes and for an instant they settled on me. Then, with jerky movements, an arm came out of the sling and his face tightened into a blue ball, and he let out a howl that cut through the din of the kitchen. In the most natural manner, Grace manoeuvred the sling in front of her, put Tai on her breast, and continued cooking.

  I left quietly and passed beneath the banyan tree to the beach. At the water’s edge, I looked out beyond the reef to a turquoise sky streaked with magenta, the remnants of the sun an orange orb. Glassy waves peeled away effortlessly and broke like distant drumbeat as the sun’s embers slipped beneath the shimmering horizon.

  About the Author

  New Zealander John Greet lived in Southeast Asia from 1985 to 1997, during which time he was sentenced to 37 years in prison on a drug charge, but was pardoned and freed after five years. While behind bars, Greet was charged with assaulting a prison guard and spent two years in solitary confinement in leg irons. Following his release from prison, Greet studied for and was awarded a degree in creative writing. Shaman of Bali is Greet’s first novel and is followed by the sequel, Blood Money.

  Blood Money

  In the sequel to Shaman of Bali, Adam Milano, surrounded by family and friends, lives a prosperous and peaceful life in the sun-drenched Kuta strip. However, his conscience begins to torment him. His new life was made possible by the drug money he had hijacked from the Brazilian drug smuggler Geno Roberto, who is in Bali’s Hotel K, waiting to be sentenced to death. Adam knows that his adversary is hell bent on revenge, and, through corrupt prison guards, Geno is able to set in motion a series of events that devastates Adam and his family. Adam exhausts every means to resolve the situation, but after a horrific incident, initiated by Geno, Adam realises that he has no alternative – he must find a way to kill the Brazilian.

  If you enjoyed Shaman of Bali then this gripping sequel, inspired by true events, will keep you riveted as Adam digs deep to find a darkness within.