The Timor Man (9 page)

“
You are up early Koesman
.” Seda observed, using the student's allocated Indonesian name.

“
Yes. I needed the fresh air. Too many of these
,” he replied, indicating the cigarette dangling between his nicotine-stained fingers, his sentences still stiff as one would expect of a new student.

“
Would you like a kretek
?” the teacher offered. Aroma from these cigarettes mixed with clove would permeate every corner of the staff building when Seda smoked. The uninitiated would stand close to a
kretek
smoker only once before discovering that apart from the marijuana grass-like smell, the weed would often explode burning holes in nylon shirts, trousers, or even worse, as had happened one day, to the Director of Studies'sports coat. Seda had almost changed to more orthodox brands after the embarrassing incident.

Coleman flicked his cigarette away before accepting the
Dji Sam Soe
. As he lit it, the taste touched his tongue followed by a cooling sensation of scented smoke flowing into his lungs.

Seda observed the student expecting a response he had often witnessed from inexperienced Indonesian cigarette smokers. When none was evident Seda was pleased and proffered the rest of the packet.

Embarrassed, Coleman refused. “
No, Pak
,
terima kasih
,” breaking into English, “Thank you, but no. I cannot take your cigarettes as they must be very difficult to obtain here in Australia.”

“
Tidak apa apa
. It's all right.
I buy them from friends who work for Radio Australia. They have plenty. Please. I would be offended if you don't take them
”

Coleman knew that this was not the case. Asians would not show offence over something so trivial; instantly he felt a warmth for this lonely man who tried so hard to be inconspicuous amongst his peers. Stephen accepted the packet and walked along the beach road, his tiredness forgotten, pleased to be in the company of the Timorese.

“
As a child I used to walk along the beach near my village. I would dream of crossing the ocean to make my fortune and return as wealthy as a king.
”

Seda paused to ensure that he selected words simple enough for the student to understand.

“
In my kampung the people were so poor there was not even one motorbike. We were the neglected island: the forgotten people in Soekarno's dream.
” He turned his head to ensure that his student had understood. “
Do you understand, Mas?
”

Coleman had understood but was unsure how he was expected to respond. “
I understand what you are saying but do not understand the ...
” he paused, searching his memory for the correct word. Unable to remember, he resorted to the English substitute, “situation.” he added.

“
Ah. Yes, for Australians life is relatively simple. What will you do when you have completed the course?
”

Coleman felt the thrill of the assumption. He had been reasonably confident of completing the training but this was the first indication, almost confirmation of the possibility from a staff member.

“
No doubt I will be sent to Jakarta to assist the Information Bureau there. After two years in the Embassy the government usually sends us back to Canberra where we sit and wait for another opportunity to travel
,” he explained, struggling to find the correct words in his limited vocabulary.

“
Perhaps you will have the opportunity to visit my kampung halaman
,” suggested the guru.

“
Insja Allah
,” Allah permitting, Coleman responded flushing immediately he realised his mistake. He corrected his error with a suitable Christian equivalent and apologised to Albert for his error.

“
Tidak apa apa,
” Albert declared, not wishing that Coleman suffer for his mistake.

The two men walked together each contemplating his own future until the intrusion of the putrid seaweed smell forced their retreat to prepare for the school day.

 

That evening Coleman decided to visit Albert briefly, away from the school, to establish whether or not the teacher would be prepared to offer additional tuition. He believed that, with the assistance of one of the indigenous speakers, colloquial and idiomatic dialogue would be less difficult to deal with once he had completed the course and commenced his tour in Indonesia. The basic syllabus provided only a general introduction to idiomatic terminology as most graduates would, in fact, have little opportunity to actually visit or work in Indonesia. Consequently, those who were fortunate to receive overseas postings would discover to their chagrin, upon arrival in the target language countries, that they would have considerable difficulty with the day-to-day communication.

As he approached the well-kept married quarters, Stephen noticed Albert sitting outside his terraced accommodations. Mary remained inside, apparently preparing the evening meal.

“
Selamat sore, Pak Seda
,” Coleman called, pleased with the opportunity to approach the instructor outdoors.

Albert had not seen the young man coming. In fact, he had not been conscious of anything much for the past hour. Startled, he jumped up and prepared to escape from the intruder before recognizing the student on his way up the path. He quickly buried the letter deep into his baggy trousers pocket, then waved, beckoning for Coleman to approach, composing himself as best he could considering the weight of the communique hidden in his trousers.

“
Selamat datang, Mas Koesman. Silahkan masuk
.”

Coleman hesitated, surprised at the initial reaction he had witnessed, then proceeded to address his teacher. “
Maaf mengganggu, Pak
,” he apologised.

“
Come in, come in
,” Seda repeated opening the front door to his bungalow. They entered together. Coleman waited in the guest room while Seda disappeared momentarily, returning with his wife.

“
Selamat sore Njonja Seda,
” Coleman extended his hand to the short homely-faced woman. Her hair was dull red and her skin showed signs of a harsh childhood, perhaps on a farm, the guest concluded.

“Sorry, I do not speak much Indonesian. I leave that to Albert,” she explained.

Coleman was amused that Mary showed another of the country's characteristics. Foreign languages were something never spoken and rude if used by others in front of real Aussies!

They sat, talked, and drank strong black coffee. Coleman politely refused the offer to stay for dinner, returning to his room to study. The brief discussion had been rewarding. Seda had agreed to provide the additional instruction Coleman had solicited. Payment had been offered and brushed aside. A schedule was established and both had parted feeling pleased with the arrangements. Seda was particularly pleased that he had been asked. Coleman was delighted that the senior
guru
was personally committed to assisting with the extra-curriculum instruction. Later, as he lay awake, his mind recounted the two meetings with the Timorese that day. Albert's earlier over reaction to being startled now caused Coleman to smile as he recalled the scene as the instructor's behaviour had been almost comical.

Albert Seda also lay awake anxiously contemplating the letter from his brother Nathan. Sleep was impossible. The disguised threats unsettled his stomach. Should some source inform the Australian authorities of Albert's relationship to Nathan, dire consequences would follow for their remaining family in Timor. Tired and agitated the following morning, Albert decided not to attend classes for the day. He had to have time to think, to convince Nathan that it would be impossible for him to do those things that he asked. No, not asked, demanded.

 

In the following weeks a further and even more threatening communication arrived and Albert assumed the Asian philosophical approach to Nathan's letters. He decided that he was, after all, of Indonesian heritage and that bore certain responsibilities even though he had not found peace in his country of birth. He had also considered his remaining family in Kupang and the additional hardships they may have to suffer if he refused assistance.

He really had no choice but to submit. He agreed to cooperate and, in so doing, commenced down a parallel path to that of Stephen Coleman, unaware that their respective journeys would eventually twist and turn in opposing directions as each moved forward in search of their own dreams and, perhaps too, their
ajal
.

Their final destiny.

Kampung Semawi, Java - October 1965

 

The line extended for kilometres. In some places, the bicycles were four and five abreast as the children free-wheeled down the gentle incline enjoying the lower temperatures and light humidity of the early morning. As they rode, they talked, laughed and flirted, occasionally pedalling, as they coasted down the hill. They were happy, innocent, and eager to get to school.

The girls wore dark skirts, white cotton blouses and thin red scarves knotted loosely below the neckline. The boys wore similar colours, dressed in shorts or trousers, depending on their age, and white short-sleeved shirts without the distinguishing loose tie. The girls held themselves erect, poised like Parisian models, their backs straight, both hands elegantly touching but not gripping the handlebars as they maintained their positions in the column.

Many of the young ladies sported waist length deep black hair. Occasionally, as the bicycles passed under the trees and then out of the thin shadows into the light, the sun's rays would touch the fine long strands causing their well-kept crowns to shine with the care, the brushing and the natural aloe vera applied each evening by their doting mothers before they retired.

Even though their appearance could cause one to think otherwise, these were not wealthy children and they wore sturdy sandals. Some wore white socks but only as an option as these were not a mandatory part of the school uniform. The boys wore an assortment of footwear. Most preferred a sandal not dissimilar to those worn by the girls, but more robust to withstand the perpetual pounding they suffered from the mid-morning and late afternoon breaks when the nearby field became a soccer battlefield.

Occasionally a scooter would pass, and then slow, to permit the driver or passenger to converse with the slower moving twowheelers. To be privileged with a scooter did not, surprisingly, create peer group animosity as young Indonesians generally applauded others' successes.

Sharing was already a cultural trait well before the Marxist-Leninist philosophies crept into their lives. Thousands of years of cultural development had produced a people who had achieved a special ability to understand the import of preserving their way of life, to appreciate their history and respect their families and, at all costs, to coexist with their neighbours in their restrictive, suffocating dwellings. This same cultural force was also responsible for the occasional but sudden explosions of temper and violence which sometimes caused normally calm souls to run out of control, or run
amok
, often killing at random on a scale not understood in the West. Or at least that was so before militant religious sects eventually gained a foothold in the developed nations.

The road to the school travelled directly through the rich rice fields, the black tar macadam raised several metres above the millions of individually owned
sawah
under cultivation, permitting traffic to pass unhindered. Each plot, some almost unworkably small, would have been farmed by the same family over and over for many generations. Ownership would have passed from father to son throughout the centuries, the unwritten titles rarely questioned or disputed. Often these fields remained as the only real security that these betel nut chewing peasants could really rely upon.