The Road Back

by Di Morrissey

  ‘I’ve heard from a friend of mine in the Australian army that several Australian soldiers were killed, but it’s all been kept very quiet,’ said Evan in his understated way.

  All of us looked around in shock. Here was an undeclared war being fought on our doorstep by Australian soldiers and yet we knew next to nothing about it.

  ‘Governments can keep secrets very quiet if they don’t want their people to know what they are up to,’ said Mr Putra, softly. ‘It is quite usual.’

  ‘So was Konfrontasi what brought Sukarno down?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no. It was the domestic situation,’ replied Mr Putra. ‘As Sukarno became closer to the communist countries, relations with America deteriorated. Sukarno retaliated by becoming very anti-American. Hollywood movies were banned, as were rock and roll records, and he condoned communist-led attacks on American interests in Indonesia. Americans began to be fearful and most left the country and all American aid was withdrawn.’

  ‘So I’m guessing that Sukarno went to the communist bloc countries for more money to make up the shortfall,’ David said.

  Mr Putra nodded. ‘Yes, but as he became more and more dependent on aid from communist China, the power of the local communist party also grew, while the economy began to deteriorate.’

  ‘I know that there was terrible hyperinflation in Indonesia not so long ago,’ said Mark.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Putra. ‘That is true. Too much was spent trying to make Indonesia a major power, but there was not enough income to cover the cost. Sukarno thought this problem could be solved by printing money.’

  ‘At one stage inflation was running at a thousand per cent,’ said Mark. ‘As an economist, that’s hard to comprehend.’

  Evan frowned. ‘How can people live with such a huge rise in their cost of living? Where do they find money to cover their expenses if the price of goods is continually rising?’ he asked.

  ‘That was precisely the problem,’ said Mr Putra, inclining his head. ‘People found it very difficult to live from day to day and there was terrible poverty amongst ordinary people and great discontentment.’

  ‘So how did it all end?’ asked Norma.

  ‘Towards the end of 1965 there was an attempted coup and six senior generals were murdered. The plotters tried to take over the government radio station, but the coup was poorly organised and it failed.

  ‘General Suharto, now the most senior military officer, acted swiftly, and the next day it was obvious that the fragile alliance on which Sukarno had based his power had collapsed. Suharto was now in charge and military propaganda began to sweep the country. The communists were blamed for everything that had happened and there was terrible retribution. Communist leaders were rounded up and executed, especially in Java and Bali . . .’ Mr Putra paused, then continued slowly. ‘Many, many innocent people were killed. The Chinese in particular were targeted because people thought that they had connections with Red China. Sukarno was stripped of his presidential title and put under house arrest in Bogor Palace, and that is where he remains. I believe that he is in very poor health.’

  When Mr Putra finished, there was silence as we all thought about those momentous events. Eventually Norma spoke.

  ‘Mr Putra, that coup was only about eighteen months ago. Where were you when all this was happening?’ she asked.

  ‘At the time I was working in an isolated part of Sumatra, so I was not much affected.’ He smiled and changed the subject. ‘Now we have a new president, President Suharto, and western countries welcome his presence, including your Prime Minister, Mr Holt. This is why your government is eager to build closer ties with my country. So you are all here to be part of that. It will be a new beginning.’ Mr Putra beamed at us.

  We quickly realised that Mr Putra was not going to say anything more about the terrible events of 1965, but his talk had left us all rather stunned.

  ‘I hope you’re right, Mr Putra, and the country has settled down and wants a new beginning. I would not like to be involved in the sort of violence that you have described,’ said Mark.

  ‘No, of course. I can assure you that things in Indonesia are now very peaceful. You will all enjoy your stay here very much,’ said Mr Putra with polite smile. He moved on to introduce us to the language we would be studying intensely over the next few weeks. I tried to pay attention but my mind wandered back to his story. It had struck a deep chord with me. Although I hadn’t been ignorant about Indonesian politics, I hadn’t appreciated how politically volatile the country had been such a short time ago. I applied myself to the studies with a new understanding.

  *

  While we were staying in Jakarta, Norma and I shared a room in the small three-bedroom house of the Wijaya family. I became very fond of the mother and father, Pak and Ibu Wijawa, and felt very guilty that their five children were crammed into the second bedroom to make space for us. They didn’t appear to mind this, though, and we all got along famously.

  At first we found the living conditions rather primitive, but I adapted quickly. In the room I shared with Norma there was no window glass or screen, just a grate to keep thieves out, though it let insects in. Lying in bed, we could watch the little chuk-chuk geckoes, with their splayed feet and almost translucent skin, scurry across the ceiling. At night we slept inside a mosquito net, pushing it in tightly under our thin mattresses. We burned foul-smelling coils to deter the mozzies. The elderly maid who lived at the back of the house left a few candles burning at night to keep away bad spirits. She also did some of the cooking and cleaning, as even relatively poor families tended to have a servant to help in the house.

  I learned to take a mandi, or wash, by standing next to a cement tub of water and tipping a tin bucketful of water over myself. It was really refreshing in the humidity of Jakarta, even though the water never got really cold! The toilet was more challenging. It consisted of two bricks used as foot markers on either side of a drain hole. We were quickly told that the left hand was never used for eating or passing anything to anyone as it was the dirty toilet hand!

  Norma was horrified by this lack of hygiene. She had gone with Evan to one of the city’s hospitals and came away disillusioned by its lack of facilities. She was appalled to see families camped by the patient’s bed, sharing home-cooked food and helping care for their relative.

  ‘I cannot believe how primitive it all is. The nurses do try to keep things clean,’ she admitted. ‘But the wards are full of non-patients all the time. There is no privacy. Susan, I was so shocked. I thought that at least the city hospitals would be something like the ones at home, but they’re not. They only have basic facilities and I’m sure that at night the wards will be crawling with cockroaches, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there was even an occasional rat.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad, surely?’

  ‘Well, it is. I shudder to think what conditions will be like when we get out into the more remote areas.’

  *

  After our three weeks in Jakarta we were told we were being sent to the provincial town of Bogor, which was a sleepy place of about one hundred thousand people, approximately two hours away from the capital. It lay beneath the shadow of Mount Salak, an active volcano, and because its altitude was higher than Jakarta’s, its climate was cooler and a lot more pleasant. But before we went, we were invited to an informal reception in our honour in one of the rooms at the Australian Embassy.

  It was a modest function hosted by the Second Secretary, but Mr Robinson had flown in from Canberra for the occasion. Mr Putra hovered over us like a mother hen. It was wonderful to talk to other friendly Australians and meet some people from the international community. I was especially charmed by an American, Jimmy Anderson, who had been in Indonesia since 1961. Jimmy was very tall and lanky, handsome in a clean-cut way, wearing a button-down shirt, loafers and crisp cotton pants.

  ‘What brought you to Indonesia?’
I asked him, sipping a sweet cocktail.

  ‘I originally came out as part of the American Peace Corps movement. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘We’re all familiar with the Peace Corps. Actually the programme we’re implementing incorporates some of President Kennedy’s ideas,’ I said, very impressed that this American had been part of that famous organisation. I thought that was probably why he had been invited to meet us.

  ‘The Peace Corps was a wonderful idea. Kennedy was a remarkable man,’ Jimmy said. ‘I was swept up by his vision. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”’ He placed his hand over his heart. ‘So I decided that I wanted to be part of that, and I joined the Peace Corps right at its inception. I was lucky enough to meet the President in the Rose Garden at the White House before I left to come to Indonesia. I was in a village in Medan when I heard he’d been assassinated. I still can’t believe it happened. What a waste.’ He shook his head.

  I nodded in agreement. ‘What did you do in Medan?’

  ‘I was there as a sports coach, although I think a lot of Indonesians thought I was actually a spy for the US government,’ said Jimmy with a smile. ‘I’ve loved Indonesia since the moment I arrived, and so when the Peace Corps personnel were withdrawn after Sukarno started his anti-American campaign, I decided that I wanted to stay on. An Indonesian businessman thought I would be useful in his import/export business, so he hired me. My family has always been involved in that sort of thing. My brother has started his own business at home. At first it was difficult, but now that relations between the States and Indonesia have improved, my boss’s business has become very successful.’

  Jimmy and I talked for a while and I found him charming and witty. He seemed to be the textbook all-American guy. He gave me his business card and suggested we meet when I next came back to the city.

  *

  Provincial life was very different from life in crowded Jakarta. While the others in our team lived in Bogor itself, I was living just outside the town in a small village known as a kampong. I grew to enjoy living in the small community, where one could grow food to eat or sell, and savour the more leisurely pace of life. To enable me to study the dynamics of village politics, I lived with the family of one of the elders, Darma, and his wife, Utari. Darma was often called upon to help the paramount village chief settle disputes.

  The days there followed a similar pattern, although rituals and festivals were welcome diversions. Each morning began with the local mosque calling the faithful to prayer. My day started with a mandi behind the house, screened by a small section of thatch, with the tantalising smell of breakfast fried noodles for company.

  I spent my days asking questions. Sometimes I would be with the women as they worked in their gardens or carried home bundles of sticks for the cooking fire or as they helped their men in the rice paddies. It was such hard work bending over to plant the seedlings. Often a baby was tied onto a woman’s back in a batik sling, snuggling close. At other times the women would walk along the curving narrow dirt paths between the paddies carrying their husbands’ lunches to them, the food cleverly wrapped in a folded banana leaf.

  I sat with the women as they prepared food and I made notes as we talked. They showed me how to husk the rice by throwing the grains into the air from a large flat bamboo tray and allowing the wind to blow away the lighter husks. They talked about their courtship traditions, birth and childrearing customs. I was impressed by the great respect they had for the older members of the family.

  I went with them to market. I played with the children in the muddy lanes and watched the boys kick around the hard rattan balls with great skill in the game of sepak takraw. The girls, and some boys, preferred to fly paper kites. The older children were very good at it, making their kites soar and dive with great dexterity. I noticed that a lot of the boys liked to play football, a game that was becoming increasingly popular, at least around Bogor.

  Slowly, too, the men also came to accept my presence, and would answer my questions about farming, the care of the water buffalo they used to plough their fields, and how their system of payment for the use of the land operated, which, of course, favoured the land owners. But what I really wanted to know from them was how the political dynamics of the village worked. It was not always easy to get details about this, but this was essentially what I had been sent to find out, for unless there was understanding about the way the village operated, it would be hard to institute workable reforms and improvements.

  It wasn’t long before I saw that, although the village looked to be a harmonious place, there was a permanent power struggle going on.

  The village was run by two paramount chiefs, one of whom looked after civil affairs, while the another dealt with religious issues. These men were helped by village elders whose judgement was held in esteem, and one of these was Darma, with whom I lived. But I also learned that other men, who were assumed to have expertise in other areas, especially magic, might also be consulted by the villagers. This undermined the authority of the paramount leaders and often led to tensions.

  Situated where we were on the equator, Bogor, although not as warm as Jakarta, was still always hot, and late one afternoon when I took off my cotton slacks to wash them, I wrapped a length of batik around myself. Utari saw me, pulled me into the little room she shared with her husband and opened a box. She took out a sarong and kebaya top and insisted that I put it on. She wound a long sash around my midriff and then added the sheer top edged in cotton lace, fastening it with tiny press studs. She called to the other women, who crowded around and admired me. They pulled back my hair with pretty plastic combs, smoothing it with oil that smelled of vanilla and coconut. That evening we walked with the little children through the kampong to the water pump, giggling and singing.

  I felt very feminine and comfortable, and decided that when I went into Bogor I’d try to persuade Norma to come with me to the big market and buy a sarong kebaya to keep as a souvenir. My blouses and skirts were difficult to press because the irons were heavy charcoal-burning ones that were tricky to use, so I was very tempted to wear sarongs all the time.

  However, I pressed my clothes with more care than usual when I arranged to meet Jimmy Anderson in Jakarta. David, Mark and I had decided that we would travel to the capital for a weekend’s break and I would stay with the Wijayas again. Both David and Mark teased me when they knew I was having dinner with Jimmy.

  ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, contacting that Yank, aren’t you, Susan?’ said David.

  I blushed. ‘Communication is so difficult from the kampong that I just had to take the bull by the horns and I sent Jimmy a note. It’s something I probably wouldn’t do at home,’ I explained.

  ‘I think it’s a good idea and I hope you have a lovely night,’ said Mark kindly. ‘David and I shall just have to put up with each other for the evening.’

  Jimmy gave me the choice of eating a western meal in a hotel or venturing to a local restaurant. Of course I chose the latter. It turned out to be a rather romantic place with a small courtyard with candles on the table and lanterns overhead. Jimmy did most of the talking as I was keen to hear about his time in Indonesia, especially during the overthrow of Sukarno. I found some of his experiences unsettling and quite scary. I was saddened when he told me how the libraries set up by the US Information Service had been targeted and the books burned.

  ‘The libraries were established so that Indonesian students could borrow books for their studies. It was such a stupid anti-American gesture. So pointless.’

  ‘Mr Putra spoke to us about President Sukarno. There seemed to have been a lot of irrational actions under his rule, but Mr Putra seemed very reluctant to talk about the violence that occurred in the military coup,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ said Jimmy, sipping his drink. ‘After the army deposed Sukarno, it took the view that anyone who was
not on the side of the military was an enemy. So much anti-communist propaganda was put out there that just knowing someone who might be considered a communist sympathiser, or worse, being suspected of belonging to the communist party, could be signing your own death warrant. No one questioned the military. People were killed for a perceived association or merely a slip of the tongue. Even now most Indonesians are suspicious and fearful, even though they appear to be friendly and go about life as normal. So I can understand why Mr Putra does not want to say too much. It could cause him problems.’

  ‘So do you have any idea how many people were killed in this period?’

  ‘Not really. Possibly hundreds of thousands, maybe as many as a million people, but the government isn’t going to inquire too closely about what happened, since they were the beneficiaries of the purge.’

  I was shocked. ‘It all sounds so terrible. Did you get involved?’

  ‘No, I was very careful to stay out of things and my employer had enough influence to stay on the right side of the military, but some of my Indonesian friends disappeared and I can only think the worst.’

  Even after everything I’d learned, I still found it difficult to believe that such things could happen. ‘Jimmy, that’s awful. Do you think it’s still dangerous in Indonesia now?’

  ‘I suppose there is still some unrest about – I guess that is to be expected – but in the kampong where you are staying, you would be quite safe. The villagers would look on you as an honoured guest,’ Jimmy said gently, reassuring me.

  ‘It seems to be a big task, getting this country back on track.’

  ‘Suharto has made it clear that he is aligned with the west, so more help will come from countries like Australia and America. Just look at you and your friends. You are the start of this increased cooperation. And Indonesians will work hard to improve their country. There’s a group here, in Jakarta, nicknamed the Berkeley Mafia. They’re smart Indonesian students who were sent to study at the University of California at Berkeley. After they graduated they didn’t look for lucrative jobs overseas, but came back here to work in finance and economics and are now being given positions in the new Suharto government. These are the sort of people who will help this country prosper.’