The Timor Man. Kerry B Collison
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Rain brought floods. Flooded streets caused the tuan ’s car to stop. Tuan would be late for work, or even worse, late for a cocktail function. The ‘mister’ would then be angry and would surely blame his woes for the day on the driver. It seemed that no one appreciated the rain.
The traffic police disappeared. What could they do? The locals were clever enough to stay indoors and the foreigners, the orang asing , were always a problem demanding assistance waving their diplomatic passports whenever their vehicles came to an abrupt halt in the flooded streets. Just four or five stranded vehicles around the Hotel Indonesia circle could create hours of chaos.
Traffic congestion was further exacerbated by the 100,000 becak drivers who pedalled their iron three-wheelers everywhere, demanding equal access through the bedlam of traffic. These wiry-legged men were definitely a force to be reckoned with, should one be so unfortunate as to become involved in an accident or any other altercation with them. Theirs was, in fact, the most sensible form of transportation during heavy rain periods as the passenger was reasonably protected from the elements. There were, however, exceptions.
This year’s Idulfitri contributed to Jakarta’s unpleasant appearance. The remnants of that week’s festivities floated along the inundated roads. Many who had returned to their villages for the Ramadhan feast would soon drift listlessly back to their offices satisfied that their religious and social obligations had been acquitted in accordance with tradition and the Moslem faith.
Idulfitri followed the Moslem month of fasting. Each morning, prior to daybreak, those participating would consume their last food and water until sunset. Initially, most Moslems would follow the dictates of the fast. Many would not have the strength to continue for the entire month and those who felt despondent for not being resilient enough to meet the rigid demands as determined by the holy Koran were not, in general, castigated for their weakness or inability to adhere to the religious rites.
Ramadhan was a time of restraint and abstinence.
Idulfitri was a time of celebration.
It was just unfortunate that this year, the holidays following the breaking of the final fasting period had to coincide with the rain. Most accepted the situation philosophically; the festival advanced by two weeks each year and eventually the holidays would fall during the dry season.
Not far from the central business district stood the splendid obelisk representing Indonesia’s freedom from Dutch rule. Positioned in the centre of a large square, Lapangan Merdeka, the column could be seen from most points within the city proper. Surrounding the Merdeka square were government offices and the Indonesian Department of Defence, HANKAM. The United States Embassy, adjacent to the Republic’s military headquarters, enjoyed the benefits of the prominent address, but not the excessive attention it often attracted.
The HANKAM building in itself was a relatively insignificant structure considering its importance. Built by the Dutch, it was a white walled terra-cotta roofed building which reached only to the customary three levels. The Dutch did not enjoy the benefits of lifts and air-conditioning, so consequently they designed their structures so that, having struggled up the stairs to the third floor, they could enjoy the occasional breeze which compensated for the climb.
Louvred windows allowed soft breezes to whisper through the buildings, cooling the self-appointed colonial masters. Security was, at best, cursory. Military police stood as sentries at the main gate checking visitors as they entered in their stately limousines.
The main structure housed two hundred staff, most of whom had very little to do but wander through the deteriorating corridors. Mildew was evident everywhere and leaking water pipes left patterns of moist blotches identifying the piping’s irregular path through the maze of brick and cement walls. Cables hung precariously in the air held only by rusting supports. Wires bared to the copper hung threateningly from their two-holed sockets, the inadequate power rarely surging to more than half of its determined voltage. Power variation damaged equipment even more quickly than the tropical heat with its soaking humidity.
Not that power was such a problem, as it rarely worked anyway since the Soviets ceased their financial support three years before. The entire building boasted only three direct dial telephone numbers and the switchboard had virtually no capacity for improvement.
In the rear courtyard, more than twenty Soviet-style Jeeps, Armed Personnel Carriers and trucks stood abandoned and overgrown by grass. Generally speaking, the armed forces were in financial disarray.
A Banyan tree dwarfed the left wing of the complex. Children played in the branches, oblivious to the significance of their surroundings. Not fifty metres from the corner, a long row of two-storey shops and dwellings housed an array of squatters.
A group of Germans had recently acquired a lease to open their own club and construction was under way. This in itself attracted a number of curious spectators, as only occasional building or renovation had taken place during the past years and to see foreigners who were not Soviets actually doing something was quite unusual.
A group of workers waited for their pay, squatting on their haunches beside the remnants of what had been several cubic metres of river sand before the days work had begun.
Another day of drudgery was coming to a close.
A solitary figure sat motionless, staring moodily across the square through a rain-blurred window from the third level of the HANKAM building.
His office was the typical bleak high-ceilinged room. The walls, stained by the smoke of belching buses and powerful aromatic kretek cigarettes, showed evidence of years of neglect. The discoloured ceilings were now a combination of moss-green and moist brown. Surplus ships paint sloshed over earlier leakage stains did little to camouflage the decay. Overhead fans struggled to cut a leading edge through the polluted air, their blades blackened by the endless movement through the heavy, sticky atmosphere.
Photographs hung untidily on the wall adjacent to the military green painted door. General Sarwo Eddie, the hero of the liberation of Irian Barat , stood in his typical arrogant style. His picture was placed to the right of the President while Dr Soebandrio sat knowingly in an armchair, holding a pipe, on the left of the Great Leader of the Revolution, placed there obviously by some clerk with a sense of humour considering the good doctor’s role in delivering his country to Communism. The office was furnished simply with a desk and two chairs.
The man at the window wore an army uniform. The insignia on his shoulder identified him as an intelligence colonel. His dark, almost aquiline features indicated his ethic origins as being somewhere within the Eastern Nusantara group of islands. He was tall for an Indonesian and his face was completely unlined by the worries of his profession.
To the casual observer, the colonel may have appeared to be mesmerised by the activity in the foreign legation’s grounds, the apparent object of his scrutiny. The United States Embassy was not, however, what was distracting him from the unread folders of military documents spread casually across his desk in this third level office.
A roll of thunder interrupted his thoughts, obliging him to acknowledge the unattended, indeed relatively mundane, matters before him.
He sighed. He was bored. Bored with the weather and the overcrowded city that lay sprawled out before him.
Colonel Seda pondered the problems associated with the rain, turned in his chair and returned to his partial view of the outside world. He ran his hand slowly through the curly hair which would soon require attention, his fingers finding a small crusty patch on the hairline to scratch. He examined the small white specks of dry skin under the nicotine stained fingernail. Disgusted with the find, he wiped his hand quickly against his thigh. It was always the little things that caused the most annoyance, he thought.
His driver had not, as yet, returned from Bandung. There was a very real possibility his transport would break down, should the incompetent idiot assigned to him from the motor pool attempt to bring the antiquated vehicle through the flooded streets. Again he sighed. His quarters would be leaking. Every