The Fifth Season (47 page)

With each tide, another wave of smaller fishing-boats would ferry their precious cargoes from the beach to the waiting flotilla, then return to the camp where the brokers negotiated on the individual captains' behalf.

Theirs was a most lucrative arrangement, for the brokers not only relieved the desperate refugees of most of their gold but also dictated who could go, and in what order. Armed soldiers, many of them army deserters from General Praboyo's forces, patrolled the beach to maintain order. They too demanded protection money for their services, extracting whatever they could from the easily intimidated refugees, including sexual favors.

With each new day thousands more arrived, streaming into the port  town from across the mountains, placing incredible pressure on local infrastructure. There were no latrines. The mass of humanity had no choice but to complete their ablutions in public, and along the long stretch of shoreline not meters from where they cooked and slept.

As Hamish McLoughlin and the others commenced moving through the camp, many of those destined to leave rose to their feet, hopeful that the foreigners' presence might somehow facilitate their departure or at least offer safety from the growing threat of attack.

‘
Give me money, mister,'
a snotty-nosed, ragged child begged, grabbing one of the men's trousers and holding on tightly with one hand. A filthy length of material had been slung around her neck, in which she cradled a toddler not much younger than herself. Peter, the team leader, turned and shook his head.

‘Don't give them anything,' he ordered, sharply. ‘You'll start a stampede if you do.' Within moments the small child was joined by others, who took up the cry.

‘Give us money, give us money,'
they chanted in unison, their mischievous faces enough to break one's heart. Several of their number moved closer, also taking hold of the man's trouser leg. He looked at the others helplessly, unable to proceed, a prisoner to the motley group of six year olds. At that moment their interpreter stepped forward and whacked one of the children hard enough to send them scampering for safety.

‘How many did you say were camped here?' Hamish asked.

‘Impossible to say,' his associate replied, ‘but certainly enough to fill a small city.'

‘Surely they don't all expect to get out of here?' he asked, understanding for the first time the enormity of the task the UNHCR teams faced. During this visit, he had spent most of three weeks accompanying representatives to remote camps situated thousands of kilometers to the east, and had returned filled with despair. Hamish's brief involved the preparation of an urgent submission for the High Commissioner in Geneva, in which he was required to provide definitive answers to financial needs in relation to the Indonesian camps. The United Nations resources had already been stretched beyond capacity and the High Commissioner intended seeking further, and more substantial funding from donor nations.

His journeys not only produced the information required, but also provided Hamish McLoughlin with a much greater insight into what was really taking place inside the barb-wire enclosures built by the Indonesian military to the east of Bali. These had been established to contain Timorese and Irianese refugees more than a year before. He had been horrified to discover that, in many instances, Special Forces soldiers had turned these camps into their own exclusive brothels, forcing children of twelve and thirteen into becoming comfort women, some even before they had reached puberty.

In one such camp, Hamish had listened as his associates documented the distressing evidence given by sex slaves, victims of the brutal Javanese soldiers. In Dili, where many of the young victims had then become pros-titutes operating in brothels near the Comoro Airport and in resorts and hotels such as Areia Branca, Mahkota and the New Resende Inn, the story had been the same. Once forced to serve as sex slaves to the Indonesian occupation forces, these children invariably found it impossible to escape their tragic fortunes.

‘The real tragedy here is not so much the number of refugees,' Peter said, ‘but what they represent.'

‘I don't follow,' Hamish turned in time to discourage someone's hand from grabbing at his clothing.

‘Look around. The majority of the people fleeing the country represents what remains of the entire Chinese community. Two years ago, they numbered something like eight or nine million. You were here towards the end of Suhapto's reign weren't you Hamish?' Peter asked, knowing this to be true. ‘The really wealthy didn't hesitate, bailing out the moment sentiments changed, taking their wealth with them. What they left behind was a strata of Chinese who were not really wealthy but who suffered the brunt of the indigenous wrath. Those who didn't lose their lives certainly lost almost everything else.'

‘What's your point, Peter?'

‘Simply this. When you remove those responsible for ensuring the wheels of commerce keep turning, the country grinds to a halt. It would be fair to say that industry here survived only because of the Chinese presence. Without their commercial skills and money, this place will never get back onto its feet. You see Abdul Muis and his butchers are driving away the very people who could help rebuild the economy.'

‘You don't think they'll come back once stability has been restored?'

‘No way, not this time,' Peter retorted, sarcasm creeping into his voice.

‘Who in their right mind would want to live here under a Muis-led Islamic regime?' He shook his head. ‘No, I really think that the wound is too severe to heal. If I was in their shoes, I would be doing precisely this,'

he said, waving his hand across the scene before them, ‘and would never return here again, unless forced to.'

‘But not all will escape. Surely the extremists will not see them all slaughtered just because they're Chinese?' Hamish postulated.

‘I wouldn't want to find out, would you?'

‘How many do you think remain?' he asked, not entirely convinced.

‘We don't know. Again, my guess is that more than half of the ethnic Chinese population have already left over the past two years.'

‘That still leaves some millions. How many of those would you say are in Java?' Hamish asked.

‘Not that many. Probably less than half a million by now. Most have already fled to other islands, such as Bali. Many jumped ship in the year following Suhapto's resignation. Others have managed to slip into Australia, Malaysia, Singapore, even the Philippines. The refugee population still housed in camps in Australia is rapidly approaching a million. I know for a fact that the majority of these are Chinese.'

‘Yes, and most will probably end up staying there as well. They won't be as much of a burden as mainstream Australia fears. These refugees have talent and the will to work. What little money they have will see them through. Besides, under Australian law they would be classified as political refugees, unlike the majority of Vietnamese who basically fled their country out of economic considerations.' Hamish recalled reading about the problems of multiculturalism which continued to haunt the Australian people, and wondered how they would cope with the massive influx of Asians.

‘Let's get back to the hotel and document what we have here,' Peter suggested, cutting through the centre of the camp and heading towards the main road. They made their way to the narrow bitumen highway which led from Pelabuhan Ratu, back to their hotel, then along the coast to Cikotok where gold-fever had once driven workers hundreds of meters underground, mining the precious metal. The interpreter called their jeep on the mobile radio and they returned to Samudera Beach Hotel where Hamish now stood, observing the small fishing boats out to sea.

Something caught his eye and it was then he observed the plane approaching from the east, almost on the horizon, low over the ocean, as it flew over the refugee flotilla and camp before disappearing behind a copse of coconut trees blocking his view. He listened, half-expecting the twin-engine Cessna to reappear, concerned when the aircraft's engines faded into the distance, that the military might attempt drastic measures as they had done in the past to prevent the refugees from departing.

‘Here, I'll take that,' Budi's father removed Hani's airline bag from her shoulder, enabling her to climb into the small fishing boat unaided.

‘Move forward!'
the crewman ordered testily, pointing ahead as the last of his passengers boarded the overcrowded vessel. The tide was running out quickly and he had hoped to have made at least one more run before the sandbar blocked further access to the beach. As it was, this last group had to wade out more than fifty meters through the swirling, shallow water in order to board. Hani had slipped several times and, although the sea was not very deep, she was still terrified of being washed away.

Hani was no less superstitious because of her religious beliefs. If anything, her fears had become more exaggerated faced with the proposition of crossing this ocean, notorious for its violent storms and devastating seas. Then, of course, there was Nyai Loro Kidul to contend with. Budi had reminded her not to wear anything resembling the color green. She was surprised when he even checked the contents of her small bag, just to be sure. In a society bred on mysticism and fear, any symbolic gesture would be assumed to carry significant import. Along with thousands of others, they had prayed to their god prior to boarding, then cast flower petals as a token of their respect for the Sea Goddess into the treacherous and unpredictable ocean.

The crewman lowered the long-shank Johnson outboard engine into the water and they moved slowly forward. Hani looked at the small, incoming waves and was immediately gripped with fear. As their boat smashed through the first line of one meter breakers, Hani's fingernails dug deeply into Budi's arm, half-expecting to be spilled from the rocking boat at any moment. Their boat dipped and rose, then plunged forward  into another wave, spray covering those closest to the bow, stinging their eyes with salt water. Clear of the breakers, the boat gained speed and within fifteen minutes Hani, Budi and his father were all safely aboard their designated vessel.

They went about familiarizing themselves with their temporary accommodations, Hani concerned with the number of passengers their ship carried and the condition of the wooden fishing-boat. She discovered that all the ships were devoid of any form of plumbing and was devastated when Budi explained the strange structure at the rear of the boat, the humiliation of attempting to balance on the stern platform during rough conditions, an experience she had yet to confront.

Budi could see that Hani was distressed and moved to allay her fears.

He placed his arm around her waist, holding her comfortingly.

‘It's going to be all right, Hani. Just wait and see,'
he promised, but she was not so sure. The ship jerked in every direction under her unsteady legs, the long ocean swells passing through the fleet creating a Mexican wave effect added to her discomfort.

‘When will we sail?'
she asked again, still doubting her decision to leave.

‘The brokers said that we should be leaving tomorrow. At latest, the day
after,'
Budi assured her. They had paid dearly to jump the queue ahead of others. Hani had learned during her short stay on the beach that many of those camped there had been waiting weeks for a berth.

Their journey from Sukabumi had not been without incident. What would normally have been a two hour jaunt turned into a nightmarish expedition, ending after an entire day had been spent making their way through the congested traffic. Buses, trucks, cars, motorbikes and even farm-wagons blocked the flow in both directions, not that there were many returning from the coast. They were forced to turn back twice and, had it not been for their local knowledge of the surrounding mountain roads, Hani had little doubt that they would have failed to reach their destination. Heavily armed soldiers, many of whom having deserted their posts, blockaded the major roads and systematically stripped the refugees of their wealth.

Budi had spotted the checkpoint ahead and, with some difficulty, managed to turn their Honda around as Hani struggled for balance. Positioned uncomfortably between Budi and his father, who somehow managed to balance two of their three airline bags with the straps crisscrossed over his shoulders, Hani held on tightly as they maneuvered through the confused traffic, returning some distance to where Budi chose an alternate route.

Each time they encountered roadblocks they doubled back, selecting alternative paths around the mercenaries, twice becoming lost amongst the thickly-forested mountain terrain. As night fell, traveling became increasingly difficult and, out of consideration for Hani, they rested for several hours in a small village, not fifty kilometers from the last pass which led down to the narrow coastal plain.

When they arrived in Pelabuhan Ratu, the harbor town which serviced Samudera Beach, Hani was astounded at the scene which greeted them.

Teeming masses of refugees had inundated the coastal town, spilling over onto the beaches and surrounding fields, their numbers so great Hani's party were obliged to stop more than a kilometer from the port and continue on foot, pushing the motorbike before them. She could not help but stare as the incredible sight unfolded before them, the displaced people congregating hopefully together, arranging passage to leave before the
Mufti Muharam
arrived. When she realized that the main body of people were, in fact, ethnic Chinese, she was livid with rage and might not have continued had Budi not remained at her side.

They made their way slowly towards the fish markets where they knew the brokers congregated each morning, auctioning berths on those fishing-boats which had arrived overnight to join the massive fleet. There, amongst the cacophonous setting, they negotiated their passage directly with one of the brokers, Budi's plan to offer the Honda motorbike as a sweetener placing them at the front of the queue.