The Last Ancestor by John Francis Kinsella - HTML preview

 

VIOLENCE IN KALIMANTAN

 

The crisis awakened all the underlying ethnic, religious and social tensions of Indonesian Borneo. Hundreds were killed in an orgy of ethnic violence in Kalimantan, adding to those killed in religious confrontations on other islands.

Aris had warned that the violence was expected to increase in the run up to the parliamentary elections and it would be necessary to wind up the fieldwork for the season, in the hope that a new campaign could be set up once the situation improved.

In the capital, Jakarta, the trouble was essentially political, but as time wore on ethnic violence surfaced as the economic crisis forced prices to rocket with widespread unemployment and resentment. The wealthy ethnic Chinese minority in the north and other districts of the city were once again victims targeted my roving mobs.

Though the core of the most serious violence lay further to the east in the Moluccas, with its mixed population of Christians, Moslems and animists, rioting and looting had intensified in Kalimantan.

Pontianak had long been the centre of reoccurring ethnic violence with its mixed population Dayaks, ethnic Chinese and immigrants from Madura. During Fitznornan’s absence, underlying tension had erupted into pitched battles between local tribespeople and the recently arrived transmigrants.

It was after dark when they were driven to their hotel, just after seven, when the city should have been bustling with the evening markets, it was silent, too silent, and the tension was palpable.

They agreed to meet in the dining room at eight after they had cleaned up. Fitznorman stuffed his wet dirty clothes into a plastic laundry bag and after taking out a clean set of clothes relaxed under a hot shower. As he dried off was drying off he heard an urgent knocking on the room door. It was Aris, his face was pale with fear.

‘What’s happening?’

‘There’s a mob in the main street. They’re screaming, Kill the Chinese! Eat the pigs! Let’s have a party!’ He was trembling. ‘They’ve forced their way into the hotel, everybody’s running upstairs.’

They locked the door of the room, it was impossible to escape. They could hear banging at the room doors along the corridors and women screaming.

They waited and after what seemed like an eternity the noise receded, then decided to get out, taking Pierre, who was in the next room, with them. They took the emergency staircase to the car park where they found the driver cowering in the Toyota. Aris pushed him out and grabbed the wheel as the others piled in.

He accelerated into the street where the mob had caught a young Chinese girl. They waved their machetes menacingly when Fitznorman shouted at them, there were too many of them, there was choice but to flee.

Further along the street they were burning and looting shops and houses owned by Chinese. Aris ducked down so he would not be seen, putting his foot down on the accelerator, the Toyota zigzagging as it skidded through the mob who lashed out at them with whatever they had in their hands.

In the hotel Fitznorman had seen Singapore television reports that announced two thousand had died in Jakarta, most of them Muslims, not ethnic Chinese, though swathes of central Jakarta’s Chinatown district were destroyed, stores and banks belonging to Chinese were looted and burned. Muslim shop owners had painted with the word ‘pribumi’ on their doors to show there were ethnic Indonesian and Muslim.

Aris knowing only the centre of Pontianak was soon lost in the dark streets and seemed to be turning in circles. He then recognised one of the roads that led to the military barracks not far from the city centre. They passed still-smouldering buildings, where they saw charred corpses that lay twisted on the pavement amongst piles of burning debris, all that remained of certain was a blackened ribcage and a skull in a pile of black ashes.

 

More than half of Indonesia’s population of more than two hundred and sixty million lived on the islands of Java, Madura, Bali and Lombok. Under the government’s transmigration program, originally started in 1905 under the Dutch, which had been introduced to ease the population pressure on those islands, entire villages had been moved to isolated areas in Sumatra, Kalimantan and Irian Jaya.

The Dayaks of Borneo were traditionally animists or Christians, who ate pork and owned dogs, which the transmigrants objected to, especially those from the Island of Madura who were strict Muslims. The Madurese, who had arrived in the sixties and seventies, were known for violence and strong family bonds in their closely knit communities.

The violence had commenced when Dayaks had attacked the Madurese immigrants in isolated areas slaughtering hundreds of people in a surge of bloody violence. Thousands have been evacuated to the larger towns, but the military and police were powerless to protect them with the result that new violence erupted as the sought to flee by boat from Pontianak.

They were hunted down and many killed, beheaded by the Dayaks who resorting to their ancient traditions of headhunting proudly displaying their trophies mounted on spikes that they carried through the streets on motorbikes.

‘It’s extraordinary to see headhunting alive one hundred years after it was outlawed by their chiefs,’ said Pierre with amused disdain for the horror.

The barracks were guarded by hard looking soldiers their arms ready to fire at the least provocation. A heated conversation ensued and when General Hartarto’s name was invoked by Aris they were pointed in the direction of the airport.

They sped through the outskirts of the city where homes and buildings in the poorer districts had been transformed into piles of ash and twisted pieces of blackened corrugated iron, and the roadside scattered with smashed household goods and broken glass.

Access to the airport terminal was protected by a barrier and an army unit accompanied by several armoured vehicles. After a summary inspection of their papers, during which Aris produced a Singaporean passport from nowhere, they were waved past.

‘Just in case,’ he giggled to his friend’s surprise.

There were a great number of ethnic Chinese and a few Europeans present, amongst whom they spotted Collin Williams, cheerfully puffing at a cigarette studying the scene, at his side was and Zybnek Jaros.

‘We took a taxis, two hundred dollars!’ Collin said pleased with his exploit.

Most of the crowd had camped down on the floor for a long night, children cried softly as vendors made they way around selling food and drink.

Aris disappeared and after half an hour returned with an army officer. ‘We’ve got a ride on an Army C5 to Jakarta get your things together,’ he informed them

Silently they followed the officer out onto the tarmac where he paused to exchange a few words with a high ranking officer, Aris pointed to Pierre and the officer inspected him strangely. They then walked to the huge plane and up the ramp where they joined the other passengers who sat patiently on the floor of the cavernous transporter. After some time the ramp was finally closed and the plane taxied to the runway ready for take off to Jakarta, a two hour flight.

Once in the air Aris explained that it was Hartarto who had got them onto the flight, ‘He owed me a favour...it was funny though, he asked me who Pierre was!’

They found another two members of the expedition staff who recounted how had made it to Pontianak by road their experiences of the previous days.

‘We were passing by a field and saw a group of boys playing football…the ball was the head of a man. In one of the markets a man was standing on a wooden crate holding up a decapitated head, he pulled entrails from the neck and another man put a cigarette in its lips.’

‘A state of complete fucking anarchy.’

‘They believe they get the enemy’s strength by eating his liver after chopping off the head,’ said Aris.

‘When we arrived at the airport yesterday,’ Williams told them, ‘there was an impressive military presence, now most of them seem to have scappered!’

‘In normal times the government in Jakarta keeps these areas under tight control,’ Aris told them. ‘Any conflict that threatened ethnic or even religious harmony, was immediately put down by the governor provincial military governor.’

‘Now these are not normal times, since the start of crisis it’s gotten worse and worse,’ added Tegu. ‘The lid’s been really blown off now.’

‘Yeah, Kalimantan’s a free-for-all. The problem is that the military doesn’t seem to have a clear policy for dealing the violence. They’ve been criticized for their heavy-handed approach in other provinces,’ Aris said, ‘and the military, police and local government officials don’t think things are going to return to normal very quickly.’

 

Chapter 41

 

A CONFERENCE IN LONDON

 

Fitznorman had agreed to meet Fogg in England during the bi-annual Asian Arts conference that was held in London, sponsored by the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was a good timing as Kate was to give a paper on ethnic art in Borneo. The main themes of the conference were the safeguard and restoration of monuments and the illegal export of art from Cambodia.

His first plan was a weekend on the South Coast of England with Kate, taking advantage of the long weekend break. Their plan was to drive to Calais take the Tunnel Shuttle, then a couple of nights in Brighton, before heading up to London for the conference. It would be a few days of business, but mostly pleasure.

They had booked a small hotel just outside of Brighton and were looking forward to relaxing and enjoying the fine summer weather.

They spent a pleasant couple of days finishing with a late Saturday visit to the pier, then feeling hungry they ended up in an Indian restaurant, the Star of Kashmir, where they found themselves with a weekend crowd of local thirty year olds who had forsaken the pubs. They ordered a Chicken Vindaloo with a Lamb Rogan Josh, which they ate accompanied by a not very memorable red wine.

The next morning after a solid traditional English breakfast they set out on the London road. They had not gone far when Fitznorman regretted their visit to the Star of Kashmir and the Chicken Vindaloo, his stomach started to churn.

He pulled in for an urgent stop at the Pease Pottage service station, where as he left the men’s room feeling much better, he was startled by the sight of Garry Lawford, an American who had been introduced to Fitznorman a couple of days before Ribeiro had been killed. He was leaning against an electronic games machine reading the Daily Mirror, another person Fitznorman vaguely recognised stood next to him.

What the hell are they doing here? he thought, then quickly turning towards the exit, his head bowed and his hand over his face. It was more than strange, he knew of no reason for their presence, normally they should have been in Jakarta. But there they were, amongst the bank holiday crowds on the South Coast of England. Fitznorman’s immediate reaction was they were following him, or was it just some kind of strange coincidence.

Fitznorman knew that Lawford had been investigating Lars Olsson – a conservationist, for the Tropical Timber Producers Association. On his first meeting with the American, Fitznorman had realised he was not to be meddled with, a dangerous type who seemed to be living out a Texan tough man fantasy, a hangover from his marine captain days.

He slipped away behind a line of columns to watch them hoping that Kate would not leave the car to come in looking for him. After a few minutes they left and Fitznorman rejoined Kate in the car.

 

Arriving at Four Seasons on Hyde Park Corner, there were two messages waiting for Fitznorman. The first was from Aris informing him that Professor Nordin was dead, he had been found floating in the Kuching River the previous day, an autopsy was to be carried out as the police suspected foul play. Coming after Ribeiro’s death and the presence of Lawford was more than suspicious.

The second message was from Jimmy Fogg asking Fitznorman to call him urgently. He called Jimmy from his room, who insisted he come to his home near Richmond, some urgent news for Aris that could not be discussed over the phone.

Fitznorman did not mention Lawford, or Nordin, there was no reason to. Jimmy did not know them and very little about the work in Indonesia. But it was a strange coincidence, Lawford’s presence had struck him as sinister, perhaps Fogg did know something.

The following morning he took a taxi to Jimmy’s place in Richmond, a sumptuous mansion set next to a fine leafy park.

Jimmy was waiting for him wearing a worried look.

‘Listen I’m sorry to pull you down here Scott, but I think it’s important, there’s a couple of things. First I have some good news, I could have told you on the phone, but I have to be careful.’

‘Good.’

‘The other thing is a bit strange...’

Fitznorman looked at him questioningly.

‘Well do you know a bloke called Gary Lawford?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Fitznorman carefully.

‘Well this Lawford came to see me, the day before yesterday.’

‘He came to see you?’

‘Yes, it was very strange, he said he was in Brighton and wanted to talk to me about a deal in Malaysia.’

‘A deal in Malaysia?’

‘Yes, but the funny thing when he came, he hardly spoke about his deal at all.’

‘What did he talk about then?’

‘You!’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, he wanted to know what were doing you doing in England, whether you were here for business. He didn’t ask like that of course, but that’s basically what it boiled down to.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Nothing important, only what everybody knows. But I have the impression that he’s involved with some kind of business in Indonesia or Malaysia, timber. He went to a great deal of pain to explain that they were serious business people, opposed to illegal logging and exports. Who they are exactly I don’t know, but it seemed that they’re not very happy about the allocation of timber concessions and your friend Mr Aris.’

‘I see.’

‘He was obviously digging for information.’

‘Did he mention our business...the bones?’

‘No, but it’s a funny coincidence. It’s none of my business Scott, but I’d be careful if I were you, my old man knows those Malays very well, he served out there during the Emergency. From the stories he has told me, they seem to be a dangerous lot that is if you get on the wrong side of them.’

‘So what’s the good news?’

‘Ah, now we come to the essential, our skull is the real McCoy. The owner, as I already informed you, is the widow of an American diplomat, an amateur collector, who had acquired the skull some years back from a worker in Solo.’

‘I though it was in Jakarta?’

He shrugged.

‘Well he seemed to be a pretty serious individual, but he ran into difficulty on the stock market just before he died, leaving his widow in a little hard up. What she wants now is to top up her pension fund, her son is a lawyer and is using the Russian as a front man, to sell the skull and avoid any unpleasant scandal for the family.’

 

Back in London early that evening he told Kate of Lawford’s visit to Jimmy Fogg and they decided to return to Paris as soon as she had presented her paper at the conference.

The pleasure was gone. He wanted to get back to Paris for a few days before they flew back to Singapore.

They talked about Lawford.

‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure, but it’s very clear that Ministry of Information in Kuala Lumpur is watching things very closely. I imagine they are not at all happy and see you as cheating them out of their heritage. It’s not good for Malaysia’s image, there’s a lot of political interest in our work, just as there is in Indonesia.’

‘Do you know how Lawford is involved in all that?’

‘I don’t know the details, but you should know that Lars Olsson’s conservationists suspect Lawford of being involved in a lot of dirty work for people in the Chief Minister of Sarawak’s office and their cronies, especially some high profile locals who don’t want their names in the media.’

The next morning before leaving for the Eurostar at St Pancras, they caught the TV news showing Indonesia troops out in force across the country. Major General Sjafrie Syamsuddin had declared, ‘the last thing the country wanted was to scare away foreign companies that do business in Jakarta.’

It was clearly an attempt to reassure expatriates and investors. The general told the official Antara news agency, ‘I assure all foreigners living in Jakarta there is no need to worry about their safety.’

 

Chapter 42

 

A VISIT TO SOLO

 

It would have been strange not to have visited the home of Pithecanthropus erectus, or Java man, at the site where Eugene Dubois had made history by discovering the first fossils of Homo erectus, thanks to his extraordinary vision and good fortune. Together with Pierre Ross they asked Aris to organise a visit to the historic sites in East Java.

Aris not only agreed, but insisted on joining them for what was to be a small expedition, an escape from the crisis torn capital where it was becoming more and more difficult to conduct normal business. They would cover two thousand kilometres in three Landcruiser, accompanied by an armed and uniformed army Sergeant Major and of his two men, to care for their security, especially that of Aris himself, not only an ethnic Chinese, but also a rich and important figure in Indonesian business.

Fitznorman had suggested flying to Jogjakarta, but Aris would have nothing of it. ‘If ever there was a moment to show my friends Java then this is it,’ he told them.

His interest in anthropology was growing by the day, as was the political crisis and his need to keep a low profile, well out of the media’s eye. Aris had the good fortune of being less indebted to the international banks than many of the hapless Indonesian industrialist business friends and entrepreneurs who saw bankruptcy looming if the crisis was not resolved very quickly. He also had the foresight to move a considerable part of his liquidities out of the country to Singapore and Hong Kong.

They set out equipped for a seven-day expedition in the three vehicles complete with the necessary supplies, including a significant sum of money in Dollars and Rupiahs, to cover costs, which could only be paid in cash in the villages and isolated regions of the island.

The roads of Indonesia were dangerous, congested, and badly maintained and much too risky for driving after dark. The first day they averaged not more than forty kilometres an hour, less than in Kalimantan.

On the afternoon of the second day they arrived in Bandung towards six, where Aris had booked them into the Grand Hotel, the historic site of the famous first non-aligned nation’s conference, held in 1951, where Nasser, Nehru and Bung Soekarno, invented the third world.

Aris was at ease wherever he went, he was a Totok, an ethnic Chinese born in Indonesia, who no longer spoke Chinese and who had almost completely lost his Chinese culture. He was a Christian, a Roman Catholic. To Fitznorman, he was certainly one of the most inscrutable individuals that he had ever met. Each word of conversation, each expression, each gesture was full of nuance, leaving the other believe what he wanted to believe, or, conveying an idea, so subtle, that sometimes Fitznorman felt that Aris was uncertain of what he wanted himself.

He was short, flat footed, and bespectacled. Often, the remains of his last meal clung to his teeth. In spite of his unimposing physical appearance, he was remarkably precise and authoritative in giving instructions to his subordinates.

Above all other things, Aris was an Indonesian, there was no doubt in his mind about that, he had faith in his country in spite of the difficult period it was traversing. At first, it could have appeared strange, the ethnic Chinese had been frequently victims of mob violence, or government legislation. Perhaps Singapore or London would have been safer havens for his investments once he had become rich.

It was not so simple. Asia was Asia, and the Chinese had been in Indonesia for many centuries, long before the Europeans, before the Arabs and before the Indians. They had known good times as well as bad times. On closer examination it was obvious that people such as the Aris and others like him had not done too badly in Indonesia.

The towns and villages of Java were part of his home, he knew just where to find the things he wanted, above all the right place to eat and the specialities of the region. Eating was his greatest pleasure, good eating, and to be more precise eating in general. Fitznorman, knew he’d never have to worry when it came to mealtimes, Aris always found the local speciality, and the best table in the towns or villages, where they paused to eat.

Along the road at the small town Javanese eating places, Fitznorman confirmed what he already knew, Indonesians ate with their fingers and . Aris did likewise, speaking and waving his hands at the same time. When he was amused by the conversation or especially when he laughed, particles of rice flew in all directions, accompanied by the mushing sound of his chewing.

Aris also enjoyed the company of young women and Fitznorman was not surprised to discover to his greatest pleasure that Aris brightened their evenings with the presence of local beauties he invited to their table to entertainment them and dance whenever a little music was available.

They crossed the chain of volcanic mountains strung across the centre of island on the south Java coast, descending to Jogjakarta, a city long known to Indonesians as the world’s largest village and that had since become a large bustling city with broad tree lined avenues and a flyover where the roads from Parangtritis, Solo and Jogja met.

It was a good few years since Fitznorman had last visited Jogja, but it had not changed much with many parts of the city retaining a village-like character with its surrounding countryside little changed since the Mataram Kingdom.

A detour to Borobudur was a must, the Buddhist temple lay forty kilometres north of Jogjakarta. Taking the Jogja-Semerang road, they arrived in Muntilan, the closest town to the site.

Borobudur was built by the Kings of Central Java at the beginning of the ninth century. The temple, the world’s largest stupa, was certainly one of the most surprising vestiges of Indonesians past.

The scene was extraordinary, as they climbed the grey black volcanic andesite terraces of the pyramid which led to the upper levels of the temple. The spectacle was vast, breath taking. Through the huge bell like forms of the many Dagobs and statues of Buddha, they looked over the surrounding plain, a ragged view of fields, bamboo and palms, slowly rising towards the slopes the Merapi, the flaming mountain, and Merbabu, the two huge volcanoes to the North East.

From the uppermost terrace they looked our over the scene, awed by an almost mystical sensation of time and space, and their own insignificance inspired by the vast monument to the Lord Buddha.

‘People say that if you pray here you will have your wish!’ said Aris breaking the silence.

‘What should I wish for?’

‘That’s up to you...but it wouldn’t be a bad idea if it was for a quick end to this crisis!’

The next morning they took the road east in the direction of Solo with the sharp peak of Merapi on their left. Aris pointed out the new lava flows and the dense white clouds rising off its slopes as Merapi emitted bursts of steam and volcanic matter. It was considered one of the world’s most destructive volcanoes, killing almost two thousands people in twenty-five eruptions since 1930.

Aris told them that there six observation posts high on its slopes surveyed the volcano night and day which recalled how such volcanoes had decided the life of man and his ancestors on Java for an incredible and unimaginable two million years.

Their Sergeant Major recommended avoiding certain towns, skirting them on secondary roads. By midday they had become helplessly lost amongst the small hills and valleys, and the villagers, only speaking a Javanese dialect, could not understand their questions. They drove around in circles for more than an hour only passing buffalos and farmers working knee-deep in the rich volcanic soil of the region.

Aris told them that is was typical of Indonesians villagers when questioned, to first determine by subtle questioning precisely what the stranger really wanted. If the unfortunate stranger asked whether he was heading in the right direction or not, it would be impolite to disappoint him by giving him the bad news. Even the Sergeant Major could not help, his uniform only intimidated the villagers who figured that the strangers were important people, who before long would ask for more than just directions.

Finally they arrived in Solo, to Pierre Rossard an almost sacred site, one where man’s ancestors had trod since the dawn of humanity.

From the Toyota they saw barefooted children playing in narrow lanes shaded by leafy trees, veiled school girls in brown uniforms waiting at the sides of roads for sputtering public minivans, women carrying everything from babies to huge durian in woven baskets. The narrow streets of the city were filled with small traders and craftsmen. The markets seethed with scooters, rickshaws, horse drawn carts and bicycles, making it difficult for the Toyota to pass. There were vendors selling everything from farm tools to plants, medicines, and cosmetics. Songbirds flutter in plaited bamboo cages. In the ancient part of the city, the rivers were a dirty brown from the rich red volcanic soil.

‘Solo, is said to be Jogja’s sister city,’ said Aris, ‘it’s one of Java’s least Westernised and most Javanese city.’

It was an aristocratic stronghold, the original capital of the Mataram Kingdom, with its palaces and decorative street lamps, the latter a vestige from the Dutch colonia