The Voyage of the Rose City

by John Moynihan

  We traveled down three of the five main streets and came to a halt in front of a neo–Frank Lloyd Wright hotel of standard Asian dimensions and entered. I stopped for a moment and purchased three precious packs of clove cigarettes from an old man squatting before a tray of cigarettes. My friends no doubt thought me crazy: Why would I smoke these things when I could smoke American cigarettes?

  In the rear of the hotel was a lovely beer garden, surrounded by white stucco walls and shaded from the sun by the broad, flat leaves of an Indonesian palm. We seated ourselves at a table near the fountain. A slender young Indonesian girl wearing a single batik ahoti swayed up to the table. I ordered three beers for me and my friends. She returned with the drinks. My friends eyed me. “You like Indonesian girl, no?” Yes, but this afternoon we were here to drink in the cool shade and smoke savory cloves. I raised my glass and they voiced the traditional toast: “Maramino.” To your health.

  The area around the Straits and the South Asian coast is by far the most dangerous in the world. Hundreds of ships disappeared there every year, not because of the weather or coral reefs—but because of pirates.

  While we were upriver, the Old Man had us stand not only gangway; he also insisted that a man be on the bow to stand pirate watch. This was an exercise in futility—if armed bandits ever climbed up the anchor chain we’d either be dead or running like hell. Probably both. We had no way of communicating with the bridge, as they wouldn’t give us a radio, and we had no way of defending ourselves. The Captain had a revolver, but probably never even learned how to load the damn thing. Thus Billy and some of the others broke out axes and large wrenches for our protection. We had every intention of running, but if worse came to worst it was nice to have an equalizer.

  That first night was interminably long. We were all desperate to go ashore. When at last Joe showed up to relieve me I raced down to the gangway and joined Ned, Charlie, and Billy. We had this night coming to us.

  The launch was run by nine- and ten-year-olds. They had mischief in their eyes and deft fingers in our pockets. The leader, who was all of eleven (I guess the owner was letting the kids do all the work), wore a cowboy hat and loved to point his finger at me like a gun and say, “Mafia!” They got us to the dock in no time, and the four of us were off and running.

  As had been the case earlier that afternoon, there were hundreds of hustlers waiting for us. Charlie couldn’t handle it and started screaming and throwing punches in the air as a sign for them to back off. I tried to cool him down; we definitely did not want to end up in an Indonesian jail. Billy and Ned, while not liking the crowd, either, didn’t really notice it. They were running around like a couple of chickens without their heads, so psyched were they to get into a regular seedy port.

  One of the dockworkers who came on the ship and changed our money into Indonesian rupiahs told us the place to go was Happy Gardens. It was the best whorehouse around, clean, and only a ten-minute drive away. Keeping this in mind, we set about trying to find a taxi or its equivalent. We walked to the central crossroads, still followed by a crowd of screaming rickshawmen. Charlie was going crazy, trying to outrun them, but there were just too many. We had to get on the road fast.

  I saw my friend Ali and was discussing riding out with him when Ned and Billy called me over. They had hired an English-model ’62 Chevy for the ride out to Happy Gardens. I said good-bye to my local friends, and away we went.

  In addition to the driver there were two “assistant” guides who climbed into the front seat with him. The car revved up and took off down the Dumai Highway. Surf music played over the beat-up old tape deck in the front seat. Outside, the flat expanse of impenetrable swamp and jungle flew by in an eerie blur of silvery blue. The moon hung low and heavy in the hot night.

  And true to the man’s word, the drive took only ten minutes. We pulled into a walled compound through a crumbling iron gate that read HEPPI GARDENS and parked. This was the place. My stomach churned with nervousness.

  “A whore is a seaman’s best friend.” For those who spend life within the unyielding and regimented confines of a ship at sea, the crumbling iron gate that read HEPPI GARDENS spelled out an all-too-infrequent chance for release and escape. This was the place. With sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and twenty years’ sea time to go before an ineffective union gave you a pittance of a pension, this was definitely the place. And as the rusted wreck of a car jerked to a stop and the Americans piled out onto the dusty street, the managers, women, and families who lived in the fifty-three brothels that comprised Happy Gardens were each hoping theirs would be the place.

  The three guides jumped into action. So far things were rolling right along. Of the dozens of desperate rickshawmen back at the dock, they had scored the Americans. The next step was to guide these rich sailors to one of their contact whorehouses. If they could manage that, they’d be set: The Americans would spend their money, and they’d receive a healthy commission. Then there was always the additional chance of persuading the sailors to give them “lunch money” and a tip.

  The Americans swaggered down the center of the street and hooted lustily. From the small two-story concrete houses on either side, the madams and their girls called out. Each house was the same: In the front room there were a bar, some tables, and a dance floor illuminated by a bare red light in the center of the ceiling, plus a few Christmas lights that blinked over the bar; in the back the girls lived in twelve tiny rooms to which the customers were ushered through a veil of nylon and plastic beads.

  The guides were hesitant to force the issue of which house to go to, and the Americans marched triumphantly on through the compound. One aggressive madam sent out three of her girls to coax the sailors into her house. The friendly embraces of the girls were heartily returned by the Americans, one of them grabbing a girl under each arm and throwing his head back in laughter. But the victory march was not slowed, and eventually the disappointed girls let go of the sailors’ bodies and, standing silently in the street, watched them disappear into the night to spend their dollars elsewhere.

  Before long the Americans had run out of street and found themselves at a tollgate that sectioned off the far corner of the compound. The guides were agitated by the Americans’ desire to keep going. Breaking their polite and nervous silence, they tried to convince the sailors that number 11 was the best house in Dumai. But the Americans were not to be thwarted by a roadblock as trivial as this, and in one great sweep of their arms they tossed the gate aside and pushed on.

  The buildings and arrangements were no different at this end of town, but the people were. The angular, dark faces of the Indonesians gave way to the round, olive profiles of the Chinese. What Mexicans and Puerto Ricans were to America, the Chinese were to Southeast Asia. They had spread out from the mainland to every country and island, bringing their money, their businesses, and their influence with them. But most of all, they brought racial tension.

  The guides shifted nervously in the shadows as the sailors chose a house at random and entered. The Indian proprietor jumped up at the sight of three Westerners eager to spend their wages in his establishment. Ushering them to a table, the Indian signaled to the girl behind the bar, and immediately the room was filled with deafening generic hipster music of the sort heard only on TV cop shows.

  The sailors set about the business at hand. From behind the veil a number of girls swayed out and, on request, brought a beer to each of the Americans. It was an arbitrary process so far as the Americans were concerned. They were far too excited to look over the entire inventory and accepted the specific girls presented to them without question. The Indian retired behind the bar. So far, so good; his patrons seemed pleased. Pity there weren’t more of them, but at least his top girls would take in some money tonight.

  The Americans responded to the girls in different ways. One grabbed his right away and slipped out back. The second giggled and necked with his, forgetting his wife and child, so far away. The third toasted his friend an
d turned his attention to the girl sitting in his lap. Having absolutely nothing to say to her, he nodded his head toward the veil. Acknowledging his desires, she led him by the hand to her tiny closet room. Closing the door, she went over to the tape deck and put on The Hits of 1974!! Turning around, she smiled at her customer and initiated her seductress act: Each eyelid became a long, flowing curtain behind which her opal eyes burned with a practiced fire; her hips swayed gently, erotically to the beat; her lips became full and pursed. She slinked up to the sailor and methodically undressed him, meticulously folding each article of clothing as it was peeled off and carefully putting it away. The sailor, once fully unclothed, lay on the foam rubber and plywood that were her bed and watched her strip. When not enfolded in her cheap silk dress, her figure lost its appeal. She had a tired body. Extra flesh hung around her waist and buttocks. Her thighs were worn from wear. Her trained hands showed the signs of someone who has worked too hard for too much of her life.

  When the Americans had finished with their girls, they bargained as to the price. They said four hundred rupiahs, and the girls said a thousand. Six hundred became the settlement, and a round of drinks was bought for the house. It was time to strike out again, and, leaving a tip, the Americans bade farewell to the girls and the Indian and rejoined the one waiting guide.

  He was pleased to see his charges and pressed the point that number 11 was the happening spot. The sailors were amenable to this, and so the four of them recrossed the frontier and marched through the Indonesian sector once again. The other two guides were leaning against the car and leaped at the sight of the Americans. They laughed and joked, getting a vicarious kick out of watching these sailors go to town, and keeping track of their locations, as the sailors tended to splinter off separately for horseplay during the walk up the street.

  The mama-san of number 11 was Susie, a sensuous, lithe, dark-haired woman in her early thirties who carried herself with a Parisian sophistication. She welcomed the Americans and had one of her girls bring a round of Anchor beer. Seeing that they had successfully landed the Americans at their contact’s house, the guides asked for some lunch money and left the sailors in Susie’s knowledgeable hands.

  The young ladies of number 11 were especially friendly that evening. It was clear that the sailors were here for the rest of the night, and the tension of the hunt was relieved. All collected at the table joked and sang, none of the run-down “business is business” attitude of the Chinese house tempering the fun. The sullen moroseness the sailors carried around on the ship was likewise dispensed with. Even the grimmest of the group behaved with good-natured abandon. He grabbed the girls and fondled them merrily. He laughed. He drank. In a slow, systematic stupor he became the king, and number 11 was his castle. Susie sat by his side, responding avidly to his attentions and setting an example the other girls could only hope to emulate.

  Then one of the guides burst triumphantly in and stood to one side of the door. Gaining the company’s rapt attention, he gestured flamboyantly and heralded in three newly arrived fellow crewmen. It became a house party. The stereo speakers blasted the new Japanese disco hit “Samurai,” the liquor flowed in waves, and number 11 went wild.

  One of the newcomers jumped up on the table and, ripping his shirt open, announced that he was awesomely well-endowed and that he was going to get it on continuously for the next six hours. Throwing his money away in a drunken euphoria, he found a girl to his liking and skipped off into the back. The others roared with laughter and applauded his conquistadorial spirit.

  Before long most of the sailors had gone to the back. In the once animated barroom, two of the Americans and a few of the girls sat quietly, too woozy to go through the motions of festival. The music continued to blare just loud enough to kill any conversation between the sailors, and the English of the girls was just bad enough to kill any conversation with the two of them. They sat sipping beer, the dark red of the bar light pierced only by the steady, regular glow of Djarums and Marlboros being sucked on.

  Susie noticed the dangerous lag in the volume of partying and from out back brought in some new girls to brighten up the situation. One was a small, petite beauty in her late teens. The other was a smiling half-Indian with a flipped Angie Dickinson hairdo and a sleeveless paisley dress. Apparently one of Susie’s trademarks was her uncanny ability to choose the right girl for a customer, for moments later the two sailors and the girls were off to the back rooms.

  Meanwhile, the other sailors were finishing up with their girls. One of them stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. The Bosun, who had never caught a dose in forty years of whoring, had advised all those going ashore to wash down afterward with alcohol and urine. Not wishing to pick up some strange tropical venereal disease, the sailor entered the five-foot-square bathroom and sanitized himself as instructed. In doing so he got a chance to look around. He was in what was basically a concrete box. In the far corner there was a small hole for a toilet. But the complete lack of plumbing meant the wet floor he was standing on barefoot was …

  In another room, one of the sailors and his girl were disturbed by a loud banging on the door. It was “the king,” demanding a cigarette. A minute later the American in the next room banged on the wall. The sailor tossed a pack of matches over the plasterboard partition that separated the two rooms. Then the king returned and kicked open the door. He wanted to know where the sixth member of the crew was. The sailor told him to piss off.

  Before long there was more banging on the door. It was Susie, shouting and laughing hysterically. The king had carried her upstairs and gone wild with her. She screamed that he was a crazy man, before breaking into more laughter. The sailor sat on one end of the bed while his girl and Susie sat on the other, discussing the king’s exploits. Then, from down the hall the king came running. He burst into the room and leaped on Susie. The mate in the next room, hearing all the racket, showed up in the doorway with his girl. They stared in silent awe before breaking into laughter themselves. They weren’t sure what the hell was going on, but they did know there were four scantily clad people rolling around in the same bed in hysterics. This was number 11: Susie’s place. Tomorrow it would be a vague hangover, and next week maybe a painful disease. Tonight it was heaven.

  In the course of the evening’s merriment the whores and I turned the boys on to Djarums. They liked them, and I was vindicated.

  Charlie decided to stay on. He had found the woman of his dreams and was in no mood to go back to work. Our guides collected us at three and took us back to the launch in time to return for our morning watch. It was not easy staying awake on the bow after an all-night party. If any pirates were in the area we’d just as soon let them take the bloody ship; we wanted to go back to Susie’s place.

  Once watch was over, I crashed immediately. I woke up in the afternoon and joined the crew in the lounge. Pete had gone to a whorehouse in town and caught a dose. In his four-summer career as a seaman he’d never done it before, but now that he was going to graduate he was not going to need to work for the extra money and felt he’d better get it under his belt, to say he had done it. He should have listened to the locals: Houses in town are bad news.

  After the evening watch, I went into town by myself. I wanted to look around and see the sights without worrying about whores and drinking. On the dock I ran into my local friends. Ali was ready to show me around, but I said I wanted to take it easy. He could dig it, and with his trusty sidekick Tom-John he led me down the gilded streets of Dumai.

  All the shops were open, bright lights and tinny music vying for attention. This was a black-market town—anything I wanted could be found, or at least a reasonable facsimile. I wanted some tapes for my box, and Ali showed me to a tiny shop that specialized in bootleg Western music. I found, among other things, Creedence Clearwater Revival’s greatest hits and bought a copy for myself and Tony.

  We sauntered around some more, Ali trying to copy my every mood and attitude. We went into a bar and I bought s
ome drinks. I gave them some Marlboros and they told me how they, like everyone else in this town, had come from the mountains to work for the oil companies. Some found work, most didn’t.

  Leaving the bar, we wandered some more. I was definitely into this, a nice quiet evening in a strange Asian port. Ali bargained for me at another tape store, and I bought some more beers. He turned to me and said, “We may get you Americans pretty bad, but you should see what we do to the Germans and Japanese.”

  I asked him about pot but he said it was no good—a seaman had been picked up by the cops a month ago, and there was a general crackdown. I left well enough alone.

  Eventually I had had my fill and headed back to the dock. They followed and had me try some of the local food from a smoky stand on the street. Just as I was getting to the docks they said there was a great whorehouse I had to check out. I said I wasn’t interested, but they insisted. All right, I agreed. I’ll check it out, for the crew.

  I was fairly buzzed, and they led me by the shoulder down a side street. It was empty, and at the end there was only total darkness. I didn’t really think about what they were up to; I just decided that I was in no mood to go to a whorehouse and abruptly turned around and headed back to the main street. They stood there for a minute and did a double take, then hurried after me. Are you sure? It’s a good place, lots of beautiful girls, yes.

  No dice; I wanted to head home to the ship. They followed me to the dock. As I passed the squatters at the main gate, Ali asked for a thousand rupiah, for “lunch.” Having just treated them to a night on the town, I was miffed. This begging business could go too far. I’d seen it in Delhi: Some unwitting American starts doling it out, and soon he’s swamped. I refused.

  Ali started to become more forceful in his demands. I continued to refuse. By now he was being followed by a dozen or so squatters and was picking up more as we walked. He asked me again in an angry tone. I pointed out that I had treated him and Tonto all night long. He didn’t care, and his price went up.