Expatriates

by James Wesley, Rawles

  The sight of their large distinctive outrigger boat caused a bit of a stir. Tatang expertly maneuvered Tiburon to nose her into the pier, just beyond the prow of one of the yachts. Because of the projecting carags, the boat was limited to docking at either the fore or aft.

  As Joseph tossed up a mooring line, an aboriginal man on the pier shouted to them, “Where have you lot come from?”

  “Samar Island, in the Philippines,” Peter replied. “There’s a world of Muslim jihad hurt going on up there.”

  “Yeah, so we’ve heard. You must be a Yank.”

  Peter answered. “Yes, I’m from New Hampshire. My wife is originally from Western Canada. We’re missionaries.”

  Another man from the crowd asked, “Is it true the Indonesians are invading the Philippines?”

  “I haven’t seen that firsthand, but they are definitely using the ILF guerillas as their surrogates. One thing is for certain: The ILF guerillas are killing every Christian they can find in the Philippines.”

  The crowd was growing on the north end of the pier, gawking at Tiburon and listening attentively. About half of them were aboriginal dockworkers and fuel terminal workers.

  Peter announced to the crowd, “I’m here to warn you, folks. In less than a year, or perhaps less than that, you can expect to see the Indonesian Navy in these waters, planning an invasion.” This sparked a loud murmur in the crowd.

  Peter and Rhiannon felt nervous to have the crowd gazing at them, but their anxiety was overshadowed by immense relief to be in port and among English-speaking people. At last they were safe.

  27

  WYNDHAMITES

  “Never forget, even for an instant, that the one and only reason anybody has for taking your gun away is to make you weaker than he is, so he can do something to you that you wouldn’t let him do if you were equipped to prevent it. This goes for burglars, muggers, and rapists, and even more so for policemen, bureaucrats, and politicians.”

  —Aaron Zelman and L. Neil Smith, Hope, 2001

  Wyndham, Western Australia—Late November, the Second Year

  Peter and Joseph snugged up the mooring lines at the pier while Tatang shut down the engine. They began unloading the suitcases from Tiburon, carrying them up a ribbed aluminum gangway ramp, which had rollers at the end to adjust for the tide. A woman from the crowd stepped up to Rhiannon and said, “My name is Vivian and you’re all welcome to stay at our house in Wyndham East while you get things sorted out.”

  “God bless you, ma’am,” Rhiannon replied.

  They were told that the pier was primarily used for exports of live cattle, cattle hides, lead, and zinc. The barge nearby was laden with zinc ingots nominally bound for South Korea, but the shipment was delayed by the international financial turmoil. The pier operator offered them three nights of free anchorage at the pier or indefinite free anchorage amid the larger group of yachts farther out, where a skiff would be required to reach them. Tatang opted for the latter.

  After they had unloaded the baggage and their two GPS receivers, they borrowed a skiff from the harbormaster and anchored Tiburon using a permanent buoy at the fore end and a concrete anchor at the aft.

  With the engine still hot, Tatang gingerly removed the Mitsubishi engine’s fuel pump and wrapped it in rags and then a pair of bread bags. The pump went into his duffel bag. He told Jeffords, “Nobody is starting her motor without this.”

  Vivian soon had them and their bags loaded in her Toyota Estima minivan. Rhiannon was impressed with how quickly and with such wordless economy of motion the woman attached the baggage to the car’s roof rack with bungee cords. She looked like she had a lot of experience doing it. Her full name, she said, was Vivian Edwards. Her husband, Alvis Edwards, was a broker in both salt and exotic hardwoods.

  In just a few minutes, they were at Vivian’s home in Wyndham East. It was a large house and one of the few in town that had a swimming pool. The great room was lined with taxidermied trophy heads from three continents—mostly from Africa. A childless couple, the Edwards’ passion was big game hunting. Vivian told them that they had taken many hunting trips to Africa, Canada, the United States, and even Argentina. The floor was mostly covered with tanned hides of everything from bears to zebras. The backs of the couches were draped with gazelle hides. Joseph spent a long time examining the trophy mounts. Neither he nor the Jeffords had ever seen a private trophy mount collection of such magnitude before and they were fascinated. Tatang observed that it was like walking into a museum. To Rhiannon, it was reminiscent of the living room of the house near Bella Coola where she had grown up, though her old house had a much smaller number of deer, elk, and caribou mounts.

  Vivian phoned her husband to summon him home early from work. Alvis arrived a half hour later, eagerly looking forward to meeting his new house guests and hearing about their voyage.

  For dinner, Alvis barbequed some large kudu steaks. The steaks had been in their freezer since before the Crunch from their most recent safari in Botswana, sent by air freight to Australia packed in dry ice at considerable expense. After several years of big game hunting abroad, Alvis learned a way—through a friendly local veterinarian—to get around Australia’s labyrinthine quarantine laws. Hides and horns were not particularly difficult, but importing frozen meat required including some key phrases in the paperwork and one additional form.

  Over the steaks, Alvis commented, “I get a laugh when I hear tourists say they ‘went on safari’ but all they took were pictures. A camera safari is not a real safari.”

  They were all served water with dinner. Sarah asked for milk, but since the Edwards didn’t keep any in their refrigerator, she received a small glass of cream. “We do drink a little wine from time to time, but we are careful,” Vivian explained. “You know what the Good Book says. ‘Wine is a mocker.’ It often takes us three or even four dinners for the two of us to use up one bottle.”

  Both Alvis and Vivian had their speech peppered with foreign words and turns of phrase that they’d picked up on their many overseas hunting trips. For example, they used the Afrikaans word braai instead of “barbeque,” the Shona word chirairo for “dinner,” and the Swahili words karibu for “welcome” and samahani to say “excuse me.”

  Most of the afternoon and evening was spent with Peter Jeffords providing a detailed account of their journey. The Edwards listened with rapt attention. Their many questions kept Peter so occupied that he was last to finish eating his meal.

  After dinner, Sarah was invited to open up the old steamer trunk that served as a toy box. The Edwards kept the box on hand to entertain their nieces and nephews when they came to visit. The toys kept Sarah busy and quiet while Peter and Rhiannon carried on with their tales of adventure. They moved to the living room, where Vivian served coffee and lamingtons—a chocolate-covered cube of sponge cake rolled in dried coconut.

  When Peter got to the part of their tale where they had their first shooting encounter with the Indonesians, Alvis couldn’t help but interject.

  “What were you shooting with?” he asked.

  “Tatang’s rifle, an M1 Garand. It’s an American service rifle that shoots the big .30-06 cartridge,” Peter replied.

  “Oh, you don’t have to explain what an M1 is to me. I used to own one of them, made by International Harvester, it was. But I had to turn it in back in 1996, along with all of my other semiautomatics and pumps after the Port Arthur shootings. That was one of the most heartbreaking days of my life. I turned in five guns for the smelter. That ban is still a very sore point with me. I’ve switched to all bolt actions, double guns, and few single shots.”

  Alvis cleared his throat and continued, “I was already cheesed off by the ban, and now that I hear that the Indos may be coming to invade us, I’m even angrier. All of our citizenry’s really effective guns have been melted down and turned into jaff irons. Those do-gooder socialist Labor dimwits in Canberra
have set us up to take a shellacking.”

  After a pause, Alvis looked at Tatang. “Do you still have that rifle with you, or did you drop it into the drink before you came into port?”

  Tatang laughed and pointed to their pile of luggage in the front hall. “No, sir. That rifle, she is disassembled there in my duffel bag. Am I gonna get arrested for that?” he asked with a wry smile.

  Alvis shook his head. “Those were banned for many years, but that ban was just repealed. However, I don’t know precisely what the legalities are for someone who isn’t a citizen. You’d best keep very quiet about it.” Then he leaned forward and in an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper said, “Our lips are sealed.”

  “What about getting entry visas?” Rhiannon asked. “Tatang and Joseph don’t have passports. Can you make any recommendations?”

  “No worries at all,” Alvis answered. “My brother-in-law is with the post office—they handle passports around here and he knows all the Border Protection Service people. Rest assured that I’ll have him dummy up your Department of Foreign Affairs or BPS paperwork and also put in a good word for you with the Department of Immigration and Citizenship. After what you’ve been through, you certainly don’t deserve any bureaucratic aggro. You’ve got a strong case for claiming religious persecution.”

  “Yes, I suppose that those thousands of summary decapitations might qualify as a form of persecution,” Rhiannon said drily.

  When Peter mentioned that Tatang had been teaching them Pekiti-Tirsia Kali, Alvis interrupted Peter. “Can you show me a bit of that, here and now?”

  “Well, we barely have our land legs, but I’m willing. How about you, Paul Timbancaya?”

  Tatang half shouted, “Sure!”

  They quickly moved a coffee table out from between the couches, and the two men demonstrated strikes and parries. Then, using two rolled-up SAFARI magazines, they demonstrated knife fighting and disarming techniques. The last one ended with Tatang twisting Peter’s arm and driving him down to the floor with an elbow strike. Peter lay on a sable hide gasping, while Tatang simulated slitting his throat with three slashes of the coiled magazine. Everyone cheered and clapped.

  Alvis stood up and exclaimed, “That was a corker! Could we pay you to teach us lessons as well?”

  Tatang frowned and then gave a hesitant nod. “I suppose so.”

  Their conversation went on until ten P.M. An hour earlier, Sarah had already curled up on the couch with a stuffed wallaby from the toy trunk—a real taxidermied wallaby—and fallen asleep.

  28

  THE UTE

  “If a thing is old, it is a sign that it was fit to live. Old families, old customs, old styles survive because they are fit to survive. The guarantee of continuity is quality. Submerge the good in a flood of the new, and good will come back to join the good which the new brings with it. Old-fashioned hospitality, old-fashioned politeness, old-fashioned honor in business had qualities of survival. These will come back.”

  —Eddie Rickenbacker

  Wyndham, Western Australia—Late November, the Second Year

  Their stay at the Edwards home was comfortable. The two guest bedrooms and a cot in the den easily accommodated them. The next morning, Rhiannon was amazed to see colorful Gouldian finches flitting around in the shrubbery of the yard, followed by a pair of wild Sulphur Crested Cockatoos landing in the tree outside her window. As a birder, these sightings were thrilling for Rhiannon.

  “Do you know how much a cockatoo like that sells for in the States?” she asked Vivian.

  Mrs. Edwards shook her head. “Thousands, I suppose. They’re considered pests here. A big flock of them can do a farm a lot of damage, ricky tick.”

  When Rhiannon came back into the house, she found Peter and Tatang in a deep discussion. “Tatang has decided to sell his boat,” Peter announced.

  After Alvis drove to work, Vivian drove Peter, Tatang, and Joseph back to the Wyndham docks. They carried several empty boxes with them and a large For Sale sign that had the phone number for the Edwards’s home on it.

  They borrowed a skiff, and the three men paddled out to Tiburon. Meanwhile, Vivian waited in the minivan and practiced with one of her Let’s Learn Afrikaans audio CDs.

  Not knowing if it would be days, weeks, or months before the boat might sell, they took down the canvas awnings and stowed them below. Then they methodically removed the remaining tools, books, food, spices, memorabilia, and other personal effects from the boat and tidied it up. They left the solar trickle charging the batteries and the automatic bilge pump switched on. With the tiny leak at the propeller shaft seal, Tatang estimated that the bilge pump would cycle only once every nine or ten days.

  The cardboard For Sale sign was taped up on the rear awning mast. They left the cabin looking shipshape before closing the storm hatch and locking it. As they paddled away, the elder Navarro said, “Good-bye, Tiburon. You’ve been a good boat and you got us here safe.” He looked skyward, and added, “Thank you, Lord.” Joseph gave his grandfather a hug, and they both smiled. They were sad to give up the boat, but they knew they badly needed some Australian currency. And because Navarro was unfamiliar with fishing in Australia and lacked the money to buy fuel or new fishing nets, it was unrealistic to think they could go back to fishing to earn their living.

  After they were back at the house, Vivian helped Tatang write a bill of sale with the line for the purchaser’s name left blank. The boat had no formal registration papers.

  On faith, Paul Navarro gave Vivian the signed bill of sale, the cabin storm-hatch key, and the fuel pump.

  —

  In an exception to normal policy, the Department of Immigration and Citizenship representative flew from Darwin to Wyndham, rather than having the Jeffords and Navarros report to the local Immigration office. The manager of the local Wyndham office was miffed and started to complain, but he was told that the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO) had taken an interest in the case. The department wanted a more senior man to handle the investigation.

  The Immigration officer’s flight from Darwin was in a Pilatus bush plane that was owned and operated by his second cousin. He tried to give his cousin plenty of business since he always provided reliable, punctual service at the going rate. Plus, the Pilatus was an excellent plane that was capable of takeoffs and landings on very short airfields. He felt quite safe as a passenger in it, especially with his cousin at the controls.

  The Protection Assessment interview was conducted over a barramundi luncheon at the house. The Immigration officer, Ralph Simmonds, was a portly and jovial man in his fifties. As expected, the interview turned into a repeat of the Jeffords’ story of their escape from Samara, but conspicuously absent of any mention of their possession or use of firearms.

  “That is an exceptional story, and you are an exceptional case, indeed,” said Simmonds. “You surely deserve a fair go. In my estimation, all five of you are entitled to Class XA visas. It’s our special humanitarian Onshore Protection visa and it’s what we’ve been giving the Timorese who have arrived by boat. I have no doubt we’ll see some more refugees from the Philippines in the months to come, but being the first to arrive on the north coast this year by sea, you are getting capo d’astro treatment. I do want you to do me a favor, however. I’d like you to write a detailed report of what you heard from that Catholic priest and what you’ve seen with your own eyes for me to forward to some officials in the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation at Canberra. Don’t be surprised if ASIO sends some of their boys up here to debrief you as well. What you’ve said about the possible invasion of Australia is troubling, troubling to say the least.”

  After a pause, he said, “I’ll be providing a statement to Customs. Your baggage and boat have already been inspected.” He then added with a wink, “I inspected them myself.”

  Simmonds turned to Tatang and Joseph. “You will
both shortly be issued a Travel Document in Lieu of Passport, as well as visa labels. I’ll make sure that they are fully renewable. Welcome to Australia.”

  Once Simmonds had left, Alvis asked, “So, you are planning to go to Darwin?”

  Peter nodded. “Yes, we’ll probably just thumb rides. We travel by faith.”

  Alvis shook his head. “Hitchhiking in Australia is frowned upon. It isn’t nearly as easy as in the P.I. or in the United States, particularly for a large group. With five of you and all your bags, you might have trouble finding even a truckie that would have enough room to give you a ride. And there are no scheduled buses—only charters and those are costly.”

  Vivian gave Alvis a glance with a cocked head. He nodded in response. “I have a little ute in my garage that I could give you. It would be yours to keep.”

  Peter looked surprised. “A yoot?”

  “A utility truck. We call them utes.”

  “That is extremely generous of you, sir,” said Peter.

  Alvis laughed. “Don’t thank me until you’ve seen the ghastly thing. It is about ready to rust out, I’m afraid. That Datsun is already wearing its second ute bed. Utilities don’t last long in my line of work. The air at the salt yards is a real killer.”

  When Alvis opened the garage door, Peter could see what he meant. The truck was indeed quite rusty, with crescent-shaped rings of rust around the wheel wells. The rust was so bad that there were even holes in the worst parts of the rust patches. The hood was also deteriorating badly.

  Edwards started the pickup and backed it out into the driveway. There was a hole on the muffler, so it was noisy. “I’m afraid that she’ll whistle and rattle if you get it up over seventy klicks,” he shouted.