The Road Back: A Novel

by Di Morrissey

  ‘You know, Susan, most Indonesians are law-abiding, and have had a long system of dealing with miscreants through village headmen and religious tribunals, as well as the courts. But this is still a very poor country and you can’t really blame most people for turning a blind eye to the recent upheavals. Their first duty is towards their families and being able to survive the chaos. I’m sure that you’ll be safe in the markets. These youth gangs have no quarrel with us. They will only prey on the weak and helpless,’ said Mark kindly.

  I thought what a good man Mark was. He came from a privileged background, yet he was here roughing it in Indonesia with the rest of us because he thought it was worthwhile helping our closest neighbour rather than pursuing a more materialistic career at this time. He was so very idealistic.

  *

  But I particularly loved being able to share what I was experiencing with Jimmy. In my letters home I tried to explain my life in Indonesia, but I knew my family would have a hard time imagining it. I realised what a pretty cloud they lived on in Australia. They had a home that was comfortable. They were economically secure in a politically stable country, with no concerns about where their next meal was coming from. Yet Indonesia, while exotic and beautiful, and with its warm and friendly people, fascinating culture and dramatic history, had an uncertain future full of political threats and fears and was far removed from anything I’d known. But talking to Jimmy about it had made me realise that for all its faults Indonesia had cast its spell over me; it had opened my eyes and made me see things from a new perspective. And this was another link in the sweet ties which bound us together.

  So I was pleased when Mr Robinson sent us all an invitation to a reception at the residence of the Australian ambassador with an attached note suggesting that I could bring Jimmy along if I liked. The function was to be formal, and since neither Norma nor I had anything appropriate to wear for the occasion, we had dresses made for us.

  At the markets I found a lovely piece of black Chinese silk, embroidered with golden chrysanthemums, which I had made into a cocktail dress. Norma chose some yellow silk with a fine silver thread, woven in Solo, in central Java. Luckily we had been told that, because of the climate, we didn’t have to wear gloves.

  I arranged to meet Jimmy in Jakarta a couple of hours before the evening started, and he looked at me in my new outfit and simply said, ‘Wow.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I said, linking my arm through his. ‘I’m looking forward to tonight.’

  ‘Me, too. The guest of honour is a British woman who lived in Indonesia before the war. She’s quite well known,’ said Jimmy with a smile. ‘And she’s had quite a chequered career. When the Japanese invaded Indonesia, she stayed on and while it was thought that she was working for them, she was in fact working for the resistance. It was very dangerous for her.’

  ‘How intriguing. Why do you think she’s here?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I expect it will be fascinating to meet her.’

  While we had been to the small welcome function at the Australian Embassy when we arrived, this was by far the most important event I attended in Indonesia. The ambassador’s residence was a lovely colonial home and as we were waiting in the vestibule before being ushered into the function room, I spied Mr Robinson.

  ‘Is it all right if I pop over to speak to my boss?’ I asked Jimmy.

  ‘Of course. I can see a couple of people I’d like to have a talk with, so I’ll catch you on the way in.’

  ‘The cultural attaché must be hard up for events,’ surmised David, who, along with Alan, was already talking to Mr Robinson when I joined them.

  ‘I suspect that this is really an intelligence-gathering exercise. A reception like this is a good way to get a lot of people that Australia is interested in together in the one place,’ confided Mr Robinson.

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Mark. ‘Australia is the eyes and ears of the world in reporting about this new regime, and a big reception gives us the chance to bring a lot of useful people together, not only political leaders, but business ones as well. There are a lot of untapped riches in these islands.’

  ‘You’re well informed,’ commented Mr Robinson.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ replied Mark. ‘But I am beginning to learn how things work in this country.’

  ‘How is Mr Putra?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s very well.’

  ‘He worked very hard to teach us Bahasa and we learned a lot about Indonesia from him as well,’ said Alan.

  ‘Yes, but I was sorry that he didn’t tell us more about the events of 1965. I would have liked to talk to him about it, since it affected nearly everyone’s lives. We’ve had to fill in a lot of details for ourselves,’ I said.

  Mr Robinson lowered his voice. ‘Susan, there is a very good reason why Mr Putra avoided discussion of those events.’ He hesitated before he continued. ‘His family is from Bali, and they were amongst the thousands who were killed on that island. They were all murdered, including his pregnant sister.’

  I was taken aback. ‘But Mr Putra is such a nice and friendly person. You would never know that such a terrible tragedy had happened to him.’

  The others were equally surprised. ‘I guess many Indonesians can’t express their sorrow or outrage because it’s just too dangerous for them,’ said David.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mr Robinson, looking over his shoulder. ‘There are still militias out there who look for any excuse to take action against so-called communists and Sukarno sympathisers.’

  ‘That’s Indonesia. Perfect on the surface, but rotten at the core,’ said Alan, shrugging. ‘Anyway, I intend to enjoy myself tonight. How about you, Susan?’

  As I saw Jimmy walking over towards me to escort me inside, I was sure I would.

  We were greeted by an official reception line, starting with the Australian ambassador and his wife and then the rest of the Australian embassy staff who were present.

  When we were introduced to other guests after going down the reception line, I was surprised to find there was a very large Indonesian contingent, comprising high-ranking generals and politicians as well as members of the cultural community. Jimmy pointed out some of the more famous people present, including artists, an elderly and respected filmmaker, and the most famous dalang in Java.

  ‘The dalang is the man behind all the shadow puppet plays. The puppet master. He does all the voices and conducts the orchestra, manipulates the wayang, that’s the puppets, narrates the performance and sets the scene. This man is famous and highly respected,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’d love to take you to a performance, but I have to warn you that they are very long. It might start at nine in the evening but could go on until six in the morning. Do you think you’d enjoy it?’

  ‘Good heavens, but I suppose we don’t have to stay for the whole performance. Are these the plays that tell the stories of the Indian Mahabharata and the Ramayana, good versus evil?’

  ‘Yes, but over the centuries the great deeds of Indonesian princes have been woven into them. More recently they’ve become quite political and poke a bit of fun at politicians and famous people,’ said Jimmy.

  It was easy to spot the guest of honour, who was seated on a lounge chair at one end of the long reception room. Guests had queued in front of her and were slowly being ushered forward to meet her. She was such a tiny woman that she was swamped by her armchair. She was wearing an elaborate sarong kebaya and had short, dyed bright red hair. Her large round glasses gave her an owlish look, but her eyes seemed to miss nothing. She was speaking perfect Bahasa to an Indonesian official and as we were introduced she gave a smile and held out her hand. Her accent was clipped English with a faint burr that I couldn’t place. When the six of us, along with Jimmy, moved to the top of the line, the ambassador’s wife introduced us.

  ‘May I present Miss K’tut Tantri. These are the young people on the Neighbourhood Aid programme I mentioned,’ she said.

  Miss Tantri smiled warmly at us.
‘Wonderful. It is good of Australia to help this country. I live in Australia now, although I lived here, in Indonesia, for many years, you know.’

  An official-looking Indonesian standing behind the armchair spoke in reverent tones. ‘K’tut Tantri is our Joan of Arc, the White Rose of Java. She stayed to fight for us when everyone else fled.’

  Miss Tantri accepted this flowery sentiment as her due then gave Jimmy a smile which was quite flirty. So I introduced him, saying, ‘This is Jimmy Anderson, Miss Tantri. He came here with the American Peace Corps and has stayed on to work with an Indonesian company.’

  ‘That’s smart. This country has a tremendous future. I have great hopes for its progress. I foresaw its potential many years ago, but unfortunately the arrival of the Japanese interrupted my plans.’

  ‘And you are settled in Australia now?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, indeed, for many years. This is my first visit back here since I escaped the Dutch.’

  ‘This must be very nostalgic for you,’ commented Jimmy.

  ‘I am an adopted Balinese. My home was Bali. I built the first hotel there in 1930, though few tourists came. But some very important people visited Surara Segara – The Sound of Sea, as I called my hotel. It was a mystical rajah’s palace, a dream as though from the Arabian Nights, hidden amongst jungle and at the edge of the world’s most beautiful beach.’

  ‘How romantic. I would love to see it,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘It is all gone. The Japanese destroyed it. But they could not destroy the beauty of Bali. One day it will be the most famous island in the world and people will flock to Kuta Beach. But I cannot go back, it is too sad.’

  ‘Can I ask why you are back here in Indonesia?’ Mark ventured.

  ‘This is a business trip,’ she said importantly. ‘There is a proposal to make a motion picture of my life story. I wrote my autobiography several years ago and General – now President – Suharto is giving it his support.’

  We all looked suitably impressed.

  ‘What is the book called?’ I asked to be polite.

  ‘It’s a wonderful book,’ said the ambassador’s wife. ‘It’s called Revolt in Paradise and I found it an absolutely riveting read. Now if you’ll excuse me, K’tut Tantri, it’s speech time.’

  We gathered in the centre of the reception room to listen to the glowing speeches that were made about K’tut Tantri and how she had come from the Isle of Man to make Bali her home and had refused to leave when the Japanese invaded, working against them in the resistance movement. They had captured her and tortured her, but her inner strength had enabled her to survive. Then, after the war she had joined the independence movement and worked to free Indonesia from the Dutch. But before independence was declared, she had decided to leave Indonesia for reasons that were ‘complicated’.

  ‘Can all this be true? It sounds like a rip-roaring story to me!’ said Evan. ‘I must see if I can find a copy of her book.’

  ‘Well, if her story is as interesting as we are led to believe, I hope she gets the film made. It would be good to show the world how beautiful and fascinating Indonesia is,’ said Mark. We had to agree with him.

  For the rest of the evening we mingled with the other guests. After our Indonesian diet it was lovely to enjoy some great Australian wines and delicious canapés which were constantly offered to us by smiling waiters.

  ‘This is a pretty privileged sort of affair,’ said Norma to Alan and me quietly. ‘I’m not sure that as volunteers we should be at this sort of do.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Alan. ‘We work very hard for practically nothing, so when a chance like this comes along, I say we should enjoy it.’

  ‘Well, since this is being paid for by the Australian taxpayer, the least we can do is to mingle with the guests,’ I told them.

  Later in the evening the ambassador’s wife came and talked to us and asked how we were enjoying Indonesia. We were all enthusiastic.

  ‘It’s an intriguing country and we have been through interesting times here,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘You were here through the riots?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Several of them. First were the Konfrontasi riots. There was a lot of anti-British feeling and we were caught up in that. We had to be evacuated to Singapore for three weeks. Then we were here for the ’65 coup. It was awful. There were continual demonstrations, so we really couldn’t go out much. Our life was significantly curtailed. Qantas stopped flying into Jakarta and we couldn’t leave the city except to get away for short periods in the hills, where things weren’t quite so volatile. Food was drastically short, so we all lost masses of weight. In our street, we had four private armies and our children used to play with the young men and their guns. Through it all, however, many Indonesian students still came to apply for study visas. They had an eye to the future.’

  ‘How frightening,’ said Norma.

  ‘It’s been a very interesting experience, but also a time for making great friendships, as you too will also discover,’ she said.

  That evening I met some very interesting people; an Indonesian general, a couple of politicians, including the governor of our province, who had no idea about our existence, and the master puppeteer Jimmy had told me about. They were all very keen to tell us what a wonderful and rich country Indonesia would be to invest in. I think they were disappointed when they found that we were only poor volunteers, but they were very polite and said they were grateful for our efforts. Overall, I found the whole high-powered evening a very heady experience. Indonesia had presented me with some exotic experiences I would never have encountered at home.

  But in spite of my growing acceptance of the Indonesian way of life, I found that it still had the capacity to surprise and upset me.

  Jimmy and I loved to wander through Bogor’s magnificent Botanic Gardens which the Dutch had created centuries before. The gardens contained fabulous banyan trees, enormous palms and serene ponds filled with fish. We could stroll close to the presidential summer palace, built by the Dutch and now housing the deposed president, Sukarno. Walking hand in hand past the magnificent old building, I couldn’t help but wonder about the former president sequestered so close by.

  ‘Do you think he still harbours dreams of returning to power? Is he bitter? What does he think of how the country is now being run?’ I asked Jimmy.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever know. He isn’t in good health, so I doubt he’s writing his memoirs. Maybe his wives will tell stories about him one day.’

  ‘Hmm. Now that could be interesting.’

  We were alone, walking through a grove of giant bamboo, when Jimmy leaned over to kiss me. We paused, holding each other, and I was feeling a little overwhelmed by a rush of emotion, when there was a horrible screech and something flung itself towards us from behind the bamboo.

  I screamed and clutched Jimmy. Both of us leaped back. I initially had no idea what had launched itself at us, but as Jimmy held me, I saw that it was a woman. Her skin was very dark and her long tangled black hair streamed over her scrawny shoulders. Her clothes were tattered, but it was her wild eyes, flailing arms and her shrieking mouth that unnerved me.

  She advanced, stabbing a finger towards Jimmy and jabbering at him. He took a step forward, trying to speak calmly in the face of this tirade as I shrank back. I couldn’t understand what she was saying. It made no sense, but it seemed almost evil. Then the woman fell down, writhing and twitching on the ground.

  ‘Jimmy, don’t touch her!’ I shouted as Jimmy bent over her. I felt gripped by some unfathomable fear.

  Just then a gardener holding a bamboo rake came running along the pathway, followed by several curious locals. He began shaking the rake at the woman as if to protect himself from a rabid dog.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked, and started to cry.

  The woman lifted her head and for a moment her eyes focused on Jimmy and she howled at him again before collapsing, her eyes rolling back in her head. By now there were mor
e people and a security guard had arrived. He gathered up the woman as though she was weightless and carried her away.

  The gardener looked at us and tapped his head. ‘Bad spirits. You need to see the dukun.’

  I was shocked. The dukun were the traditional medicine men, the men whose authority came from their ability to use magic. The villagers had told me about witchcraft and they all accepted without question the power of those who had this special knowledge.

  The gardener was telling us that the poor woman had said something to us that was so potent that it could only be removed by a dukun. Here in the beautiful Botanic Gardens of Bogor, on a bright sunny day, I was being confronted by witchcraft. It seemed completely bizarre.

  ‘What was she saying?’ I asked Jimmy, bewildered.

  ‘It was nonsense. I couldn’t understand it.’

  The gardener, however, reiterated his opinion that we should see a dukun.

  ‘That was so scary. Why would she attack us like that?’ I asked, still shaking.

  ‘Forget it, Susan. Don’t let it trouble you. These things happen.’ He thanked the gardener and gave him some money and we walked away, but I could tell Jimmy was unnerved.

  That night, we were all able to meet for dinner at a small restaurant down the road from the comfortable hostel where Evan and Norma lived and where I would be bunking in with Norma for the night. The accommodation was clean and spacious, if bare, but I was beginning to like the simplicity of the furniture in Indonesia and I didn’t at all mind sitting on mats on the floor, or even sharing the big wooden platform that served as a bed. Outside the door, an elderly lady, bent over her short-handled whisk broom, always wished us ‘Selamat jalan’ as we set out.

  At the restaurant, smiling, barefoot boys in crisp white drill suits and black caps served us an array of local dishes with a cheerful chorus of ‘Selamat makan’. We had a view of the river and somewhere behind the rain clouds Mount Salak towered over the town.