Jakarta Kid

2005-03-17T11:23:00.000-08:00

http://jakartakid.blogspot.com/ has shorter chapters.
http://jakarta-kid.blogspot.com/ has longer chapters.

CHAPTERS
1. JAKARTA: SIX DEGREES SOUTH
2. NIGHT AND DAY
3. THE HILL TOWN OF BOGOR
4 THE HIGHLAND CITY OF BANDUNG
5. TWO WEDDINGS
6. ONE HAND AND HIS MOTHER
7. BANGBANG ON JALAN SUDIRMAN
8. PELABUHAN RATU
9. SINGAPORE AND JOHOR BARU
10. FOUND IN KEBAYORAN LAMA
11. DOCTOR JOSEPH
12 THE HAVE A NICE DAY HOTEL
13. THE BOY FROM SUMATRA
14. THEY SHOT YOUR FATHER?
15. A LOVER LIKES HIS LOVED ONE TO BE POOR
16. HAMID'S GRANNY AND IWAN'S FEET
17. REJECTED BY HIS FAMILY
18. MOTHER LIVES FAR AWAY
19. FAMILY
20. BABY
21 TWO WIVES TO SUPPORT
22. SUKABUMI
23. NEW HOME
24. BANTEN AND MERAK
25. SAEPUL PUNCHES HIMSELF IN THE FACE
26. PUNCAK
27. A GIRLFRIEND AGED SIXTEEN
28. ENGAGED
29. RAMADAN
30. ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE
31. ALDI
32. DADANG
33. BOROBUDUR
34. OLD BATAVIA
35. CIOMAS AND BALI
36. NIGHT CLUB
37. POLICE
38. SEXUAL HABITS
39. ARRANGED MARRIAGE
40. ORPHANS
41. BANDUNG CONFERENCE
42. THIRD WORLD
43. TB
44. PRIMATES
45. SAMSU'S GARDEN
46. AGOSTO
47. PANTI BAMBU
48. TAMAN MINI
49. OYA
50. THE SPIRITUAL WORLD
51. DUKUNS
52. THE BEACH AT ANYER
53 ISLAMIC BOARDING SCHOOL
54 FIRDAUS SQUEEZED MY HAND
55. FAJAR AND THE LITTLE STREET MUSICIANS
56. MEGAWATI AND RIOTS
57. NEIGHBOURHOOD CHIEF
58 DENGKLOK
59. THE ROAD TO CICURUG
60. ELECTIONS AND TESTICLES
61. STRESS
62. KAMPUNG
63. MAY RIOTS
64. KUALA LUMPUR
65. AGUNG
66. NINJAS
67. DESTABILISATION
68. CHANGE

http://jakartakid.blogspot.com/
http://jakarta-kid-2.blogspot.com/

Video
http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=KentClark3

Various people's photos:
Photos of Jakarta area http://community.webshots.com/user/aangirfan
Photos of Indonesia http://community.webshots.com/album/34974358MFLDww
Map of West Java http://www.euroindonesian.com/country/indonesia/WESTJAVAMAP1.jpg

Other people's blogs:
http://jakartass.blogspot.com/
http://ourmaninhanoi.blogspot.com/
http://wassumbee.blogspot.com/
http://carfwebnet.blogspot.com/
http://coffeeliqueur.blogspot.com/
http://sparklingcosmic.blogspot.com/
http://indcoup.blogspot.com/
~~~

1. JAKARTA: SIX DEGREES SOUTH

2005-02-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

Seated on the pavement in front of the flea-pit cinema, in a state of utter dejection, was a young boy. He was barefoot and dressed in a dirty ragged shirt and long trousers several sizes too big. He was moving his head from side to side like a depressed young panda in a zoo. At his feet were a few scraps of cooked rice on a crumpled piece of brown paper. Was he twelve years old? Difficult to tell as he was so undernourished.

"What’s your name?" I asked him in Indonesian.

There was no reply; he avoided eye contact. I asked a few more questions but got no answers. I stood back. Passers-by ignored him, or, in the case of three well-dressed young men, mocked him with jeers and insults.

At one point he stood up, a little shakily, and walked to a stall selling drinks. He held his head high, and, in a surprisingly insistent manner, held out his hand to demand a drink. The young stall holder, no trace of emotion on his face, handed the boy a glass of coloured liquid. The boy drank thirstily before returning to his patch of pavement.

What was I to do? The lad seemed like a hopeless case.

But let me begin at the beginning, back in the year 1990. It was partly the Robert Louis Stevenson Syndrome which persuaded me to give up a well-paid teaching job at a private school in London and go to live in the faraway city of Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia. As a child in Scotland I had dreamed of following the path of Robert Louis Stevenson; I had wanted to escape to a tropical land where I could have adventures and mix with the friendly local people. Of course, as Stevenson knew well, there is more than one side to a person’s personality. Part of me wanted an adventure, but part of me wanted stability and safety. Part of me wanted to live free of responsibility, but part of me felt that in order to be happy I had to be helping waifs and strays. Stevenson died at the age of 44, having lived for many years abroad. It wasn’t until I reached the age of 45 that I plucked up the courage to move to Indonesia. And in that wonderful country there were adventures and dilemmas galore.

But why did I choose Indonesia? Well, there was this edition of the National Geographic in which Indonesia looked so strangely, wildly beautiful. It was a land of erect blue volcanoes, exotic mosques, dark tropical skies and beautiful, uninhibited people; it was just the place for a not totally young, unattached chap like me who was tired of London and severely sick of some of his students.

I have taught difficult children both in a slummy Glasgow ghetto and in a wealthy London ghetto; I know that by the time British boys reach puberty, their vices have deepened and their parents have usually divorced, several times. To teach bolshy Britons, as opposed to respectful Asians, you need an unreasonable amount of stamina and tea. There are, in theory, hours and hours of preparation and each and every lesson you are supposed to enthuse these prickly, gum-chewing, pubescent and prepubescent boys. Teaching is like appearing live on television seven times a day, with a different script each time. I had fallen out of love with some of my audience (or vice versa), had secret self-doubts, and needed to appear on a different stage. I needed something to cure my neurosis.

There was an advert in the Times Educational Supplement for a teacher of English and Humanities at a school in Jakarta. I would not, under normal circumstances, have thought of applying. There would be hundreds of applicants and they would all be fantastically beautiful twenty-something-year-olds with doctorates from Cambridge. But I was desperate to get out of Britain. I applied and in some mysterious way I knew I was going to get to Indonesia; it was somehow ordained; maybe it was something to do with the fact that my interview was at 9 am on the ninth day of the month and it was 1990. But I don’t want to appear superstitious.

The interview, in a swanky London club, went well. I had had an expensive haircut and was wearing my Austin Reed suit. The Headmaster, tall, sun-tanned, in his late thirties, showed me pictures of the visit of a princess to his school and I said all the right things about his interests in jogging and art. I got the job. Fantastic!

Of course I began to worry about amoebas, hookworm, enteric parasites, giant leaping tree snakes, the sixteen hour flight and all the air turbulence that could be packed into such a journey. However, I was off to Java for adventure and discovery, for a chance to find a soul mate, and for an opportunity to help some waifs and strays.

Adventure and discovery? I wanted to lose myself in a distant Third World country and discover the answer to some of life’s big questions. I wanted to wander through shanty towns and rain forests and learn about animism and Islam.

Love? I was sometimes a bit of a fidgety loner and needed a soul mate, a fellow alien, someone I could be deeply attached to. And sometimes in my dreams there was a misty vision of a lost and lonely figure in a city that was a port. Could that be someone I was going to meet in Jakarta?

Waifs and strays? It was time I tried to do something useful. I had had a Sunday-school upbringing which had emphasised the gentler, kinder side of religion; the heroes had been people like The Good Samaritan and David Livingstone. I belonged to no church but felt that life was not simply an accident. I believed that there was a bit of Mother Teresa, a bit of Casanova and a bit of Hitler in each and all of us; we had to choose who to be; we reaped what we sowed. Could a discontented devil like me do any genuine good?

Waifs and strays, and romance and adventure, I had come across during brief holiday trips to such places as Bombay, Bangkok, and Margate.

At Bombay’s Victoria terminus railway station, I had seen a boy with pencil limbs and half blind pearly eyes. He had been too weak to stand up. I had stuffed some money and some vitamin tablets into his mother’s hands and then guiltily rushed off to catch the train to Delhi. The boy had smiled. I should have taken him to hospital, but I didn’t.

I remembered a garden party in Rio de Janeiro when I had asked a vicar how I might help some of the poor people of the favelas. "It’s difficult when you’re only here for three days holiday," he had said. "A child with TB needs help over many months. Why not get a teaching job in a Third World country and then help these people in your spare time?" I had liked the sound of that, but, for many years I had put off making the move. I could be a highly nervous, windy character.

I had needed to be pushed by circumstances. My ennui with London meant that now I was off to the "Big Mango", the "City of Drains" and the "Queen of the East." Perhaps some valium?
"I’m going to live in Jakarta," I told Richard, one of my neighbours who used to travel a lot on business. "Have you been there?"

"Yes. It’s filthy. Rubbish everywhere. Dirtiest place I’ve ever seen. A horrible police state. You’ll hate it."

But I knew I was not going to hate it! I was going to be living on Java, Indonesia’s main island, a Garden of Eden, described by one writer as the most beautiful tropical island on Earth. And I had a teaching contract that promised me free medical insurance, a rent-free house, free electricity, a maid, a car, and even a driver. I couldn’t wait to get my packing done, say my goodbyes, and head to Heathrow.

British Airways flew me from London’s outdated and overcrowded Heathrow airport to the wealthy city of Singapore. At Singapore’s clean and efficient Changi airport, I transferred to a Singapore Airlines evening-flight to Indonesia. Jakarta’s Soekarno-Hatta airport proved to be a beautiful modern construction combining gardens with steep Javanese roofs.

I was to be met at Soekarno-Hata by my colleague-to-be Fergus, who had been teaching abroad for most of his twenty year career. Sure enough there he was in the midst of the airport throng, tall and smartly dressed in a Sean Connery way, holding up a piece of card bearing the words: "Welcome Kent."

I had made it across the Indian Ocean. My, these Jumbos are good at getting above air turbulence, most of the time. I was now six degrees south of the Equator and about to begin life in one of the world’s great hot steamy cities.

"Good flight?" asked Fergus, giving me a firm handshake, taking my bag and handing it to his driver to carry.

"I slept a lot," I responded dozily. "Sorry the flight was a little delayed."

"No problem. Just ignore the touts and taxi drivers and we’ll get you to the car park. How do you like the heat?"

"Great. I love it . And the smell of flowers."

"Frangipani," explained Fergus.

It was already dark, but, as we drove to my new home in Fergus’s air-conditioned Kijang, I could see well lit, stylish tower blocks which made it all look so comfortable. No, wait, there were smaller streets suggesting an East of mysterious dreams and exotic possibilities; two dark eyed girls hopped into a battered orange three wheeled taxi; barefoot newsboys plunged into the traffic to sell their wares; men with pirate mouth-coverings hung from the doors of an overcrowded bus; under a flyover a homeless family was settling down for the night; at ramshackle wooden stalls teenagers were hawking steaming noodles and hairy fruit; kerosene lanterns were being lit outside a shop selling bottles of weird liquids; a green and white prayer house was filling up with white-robed figures; pedicabs were being repaired in an oily tumbledown workshop; grinning little boys with sarongs around their waists were enjoying a wrestling match in the grounds of a mosque.

After a journey of enchantment we finally reached the two-storey, three bedroom house I was going to be renting in a posh, middle class part of a district called Kebayoran Lama. We walked through a dark front garden and entered a huge dimly lit but well furnished lounge-dining room where my servants awaited me. The room had a large dining table of dark wood, a three-piece suite in dark leather, a tiled floor, a picture of a mountain in Bali, and a broad staircase that led to the upper floor.

"Tomorrow the nightclubs!" said Fergus, eyes twinkling. "But tonight there’s only time to show you your house and introduce you to your maid and your house guard."

I shook hands with Ami, a smiling and rather pretty girl aged about thirty, and with middle-aged Rachmat, who looked much too skinny and gentle to be an effective guard. I wondered what the folks back home would think when they heard I could sit in the garden sipping gin and tonic while my servants scurried around doing all the work!

"I asked Ami to have some nasi goreng and some beers ready for us," said Fergus.

Rachmat retired to the front porch; Ami retired to her quarters, a room I discovered some weeks later, while Ami was out shopping, that was the size of a broom cupboard.

I sat at the stylish table and began to tuck-in to spicy fried rice. Fergus, sitting on the leather settee, refrained from eating. I began to ask some of the many questions circulating in my jet-lagged brain.

"Tell me about my staff," I asked.

"Ami is married," explained Fergus, "and she goes home to her husband every Sunday, her day off. Incidentally, it’s not a good idea to get too familiar with your domestic staff." Fergus’s tone was friendly and avuncular.

"Good point," I said, immediately conjuring up a picture of Ami’s husband wielding a machete. I had read that Indonesians smilingly put up with a certain amount of exploitation, and then they run amok.

"The maid will clean the house, wash your clothes and cook," explained Fergus.

"What do I pay her?"

"About fifty pounds a month."

"Heavens."

"Don’t pay her anymore," said Fergus "or she’ll take advantage. She’ll see you as a soft touch."
"The same pay for Rachmat?" I asked.

"Yes." said Fergus, "Your guard’s supposed to stay awake at night to guard the house but in practice they all fall sleep."

"What’s the teaching like?" I asked.

"Piece of cake," said Fergus, looking very serious. "The school sets high standards and the students and staff are mainly great. There’s the occasional young member of staff who’s scruffily dressed and who doesn’t worry about spelling. I don’t know why the boss appoints them."

Fortunately I was wearing a smart shirt. "You like it here?" I said.

"Yes. I was in Australia before this," explained Fergus. "The worst students are the Australians and the Brits. Spoiled and lazy. I prefer the Asians."

"Where else have you been?" I asked.

"Kenya. That was beautiful but there was hostility from the local people. I was in Oman. An attractive country. I started in the UK but only lasted a few months. I didn’t see why I should waste my time on brats."

"How do you spend your weekends?"

"Squash at the sports club or the Mandarin Hotel," said Fergus, "and working-out at the gym." Fergus was seemingly someone who took great care over his personal appearance.

"What about the poverty. That worry you?" I said.

"It’s not as bad as it used to be. Suharto’s ‘the father of development.’"

"Do you mix with the locals?" I asked.

"I’ve made friends with some of the secretaries in the office," said Fergus. "People like that."

I glanced at Fergus. Did his eyes suggest someone who carried some secret burden; or was it Scottish gloom, loneliness or simply temporary tiredness?

"This is the biggest Moslem country in the world," I said. "Does that create problems?"

"No, it’s only in Aceh they have fundamentalists. Jakarta’s very broad minded."

"Like Bangkok?" I asked.

"Not exactly. There are no go-go bars of the sort you’d get in Patpong. But the locals are very friendly and there are lots of bars. It’s not as fussy as Kuala Lumpur."

"Do you take malaria tablets?" I inquired.

"There’s no malaria in the city," pointed out Fergus. "The Thousand Islands can have malaria though. That’s just off the coast."

"When do you think my luggage will arrive? It’s coming by boat."

"Quite a few weeks," said Fergus. "Did you bring the basic essentials with you on the plane?"

"A few clothes. A few books. Most of my teaching materials will be on the ship."

"Have you got a lot of stuff coming over? Furniture?"

"No. I sold my London flat," I said "and most of the things in it. It’s amazing what you can do without. Do you miss Britain?"

"Not at all," said Fergus, grinning. "Each time I arrive back in Jakarta I think of it as home. We had one girl who came out here to teach and she just wasn’t suited. She was homesick within weeks. Missed the English way of life. Missed her friends. She had a boyfriend back in England."

"I like foreign places," I said, "and I’ve no attachments." At Heathrow there had been an ex-colleague who had been weeping at my departure, but I had never been romantically attached to her.

"You’ll love it here Kent," said Fergus cordially.

Fergus and I picked up our beers and began touring the house. Fergus seemed easy to get on with. He spoke highly of life in Jakarta. I was feeling tired but happy.

"Master-bedroom," said Fergus, as he pointed into a high-ceilinged room with tiled floor, king sized bed, shuttered windows, desk, and large wardrobe. "It’s a good idea to have the filter on the air-conditioning cleaned from time to time and remember to spray the room with insect killer."

"Are mosquitoes a problem?"

"You don’t want to get dengue fever," said Fergus. "It gives you dreadful headaches and you can start vomiting blood."

"Ah."

"You should have no problems with noise at night. Apart from the pre-recorded call of the muezzin, coming from a distant mosque. If you have problems sleeping, move to the edge of the bed and you’ll soon drop off."

"Aha."

"En suite bathroom with light blue tiles," announced Fergus, as we entered a spacious loo fit for a five star hotel. "Make sure the maid doesn’t use the same cloth for cleaning the toilet bowl and the dishes in the kitchen."

"Is she likely to?"

"Yes."

"Garden?" I asked.

"We won’t walk around it now," said Fergus. "You get snakes at night."

"OK."

"Kitchen," said Fergus, once we were back downstairs. "Nice big fridge. I should mention that Ami had typhoid last year. They’ve nearly all got it most of the time. I would keep an eye on her to make sure she washes her hands occasionally. At home I do most of my own cooking."

"What do you eat?" I asked.

"Tinned corned beef and tuna."

"No nasi goreng. And what about security?"

"Security shouldn’t be a problem," said Fergus. "There was a spate of violent robberies a few years ago but the army rounded up the worst offenders, shot them and left their bodies lying around for all to see."

"Goodness."

"OK," said Fergus. "Tomorrow I’ll take you to the bank to open an account. In the evening it’s a trip to one or two bars. It’s not long until term starts so you need to know where things are."

With Fergus gone, and my bags unpacked, I lay in bed and thought about my new life. I had had my typhoid jags so I didn’t need to worry about a serious dose of that particular infection; the house was luxurious; the school was apparently well-managed; the country was magical. This was going to be paradise, so long as I behaved myself. I wondered about the nightlife tour that Fergus had organised.

2. NIGHT AND DAY

2005-02-27T08:56:00.000-08:00

Our nightlife tour began at a massage parlour in Jakarta’s Pasar Jahat, a scruffy dimly-lit area containing shops and stalls selling everything from batik to bananas. From the parlour’s plush reception area, with its pink sofas and a glass tank containing an albino python, Fergus and I were escorted upstairs to our respective curtained cubicles in what looked like a hospital ward. The air conditioning was freezing. I examined the sheet on my bed and noticed the hairs and little flakes of skin left behind by previous occupants. My tummy began to misbehave. Could it be ‘Jakarta tum’?

"Satu jam?" said a figure appearing suddenly inside the cubicle and then disappearing before I could reply.

I removed my shoes and lay on the bed. A mosquito hovered somewhere above my head. My bloated tummy rumbled.

"Satu jam," announced the woman who had crept back into the cubicle. She was not young, she was not pretty and she had filthy fingernails. Where had these fingers been?

"Dutch?" she asked, as she began to haul off my socks. There was something callous about her mouth and she had the sniffles.

"English," I replied, while holding on to what remained of my clothing.

"You like massage here?" she said pointing somewhere at my middle.

"No thank you. Tidak boleh. It’s my shoulders that hurt."

With her cold wet hands she began torturing my toes and eventually reached my appendix scar an area which is peculiarly sensitive.

"Ouch. Not there. Tidak disana."

She tittered and pressed even harder. She didn’t like me.

"My shoulders. Here," I said.

After half an hour she began yawning and looking up at the ceiling. After thirty five minutes she stopped altogether.

"You have shower now. You give me tip," she said.

"I’m supposed to have an hour. Satu jam. If you want a tip, invest in Microsoft and avoid the Jakarta stock market."

She wasn’t listening so I got dressed and pulled back the curtain to make my exit.

"You give me tip," she said, grasping my arm hard.

I shook loose and went downstairs to wait for Fergus who eventually appeared with a slight grin on his face.

"What was she like?" I asked.

"A Sundanese girl. Really helped the old shoulders. Your massage?"

"Oh, fine," I lied. "And where are we off to next?"

"The Gamesman’s Bar in Blok M. It’s not far."

The Gamesman’s Bar, on a dark little street with potholes, was a place of bulky Brits, fat Americans, pool tables, mirrors, chrome, and numerous TV screens showing baseball games. It was here we met up with a fellow-Brit called Carmen, a small, bouncy, plainly dressed teacher in her middle years, who had volunteered to come with us as chaperone. We sat at a small table and ordered American beers and beef burgers and chips. As we ate, Fergus pointed to the spot near the door where an expatriate had been shot dead in some kind of gangster incident, the details of which Fergus was ignorant; and I had my shoes shined by a prosperous looking shoe shine boy who obviously knew the right location for meeting the rich and generous.

"Fergus and I are single," said Carmen, "so we’re allowed to come to places like this."

"It looks relatively respectable," I commented, "apart from the length of the waitress’s skirts."

"The waitresses have respectable legs," said Carmen.

"Not quite Paris catwalk," I commented unkindly. The girls looked as tired as the men at the bar.

"See the balding guy in shorts?" asked Fergus.

"At the bar next the hard-faced Indonesian girl in hot-pants?" I asked.

"That’s Rod," said Fergus. "Super guy. Great squash player. I feel sorry for his wife though. Stuck at home in Pondok Indah. It’s not always easy for the wives."

The next part of our tour involved crossing the road to a pub called Pop Gun. I could say that the decor looked refined, the oil men looked spotless, and the women were safely within their sell-by dates, but I might be lying. In fact the red walls, like the men and girls, were chipped and fading; the place had the simplicity of a Liverpool bus shelter.

"Makes me think of a bar in a film about Saigon," said Fergus, as we sat on bar stools with our backs to the bar.

"Mister," said a lady, as her hand brushed against my appendix scar.

I pushed her away. She was like a creature from scene one of ‘The Scottish Play.’

"She’s no spring-chicken," joked Fergus, who was being poked in the chest by a mini-skirted granny, the sort you see near Milan’s main railway station.

"You chaps enjoying yourselves?" asked Carmen.

"Well, it’s not quite the Sari Pacific," said Fergus. He didn’t look any more comfortable than I did. The plump, balding oil men were wearing T-shirts, trainers and jeans; Fergus had on dark glasses and was wearing shiny black shoes.

"OK," said Carmen after we had had a few sips of beer. "Now to the real night life. No expats apart from us.

"We’re off to Tanjung Priok," added Fergus, "to a little place Carmen was introduced to by some Indonesian student."

So we paid lots of rupiahs to a well-dressed urchin who had been guarding the Kijang and drove towards the docks and the Bintang Disco. On the outside, the disco looked sort of cheap and seedy, with lots of corrugated iron and no sign of any windows. An unsmiling old Chinese woman took our money, only a few rupiahs, and we entered a long, poorly lit room with some plain tables and chairs, and some space to dance. The clientele seemed to be exclusively teenagers and the music was the very latest. It could have been a scout hut in England, but there was a glittery, neon-lit bar, and the predominant colour in the room was black. We ordered large beers and took a seat.

"Is it safe here?" I asked. Something made me feel uneasy; maybe it was because we were near the docks where I imagined there were bound to be hoodlums and cut-throats; maybe it was the fact that we were the only foreigners.

Carmen took my arm and said, "See the smartly dressed gent near the door? He’s army. This place has military connections so it should be safe. The management’s Chinese, as always."

"Always?"

"Well, the place next door’s also Chinese."

"The posher looking place?"

"Yes," said Carmen. "We wouldn’t have got in there. An expat friend’s married to a high up British policeman who advises the local traffic police. He was taken to the place next door by an Indonesian police colonel. Topless girls. We definitely wouldn’t have got in. That sort of thing, topless girls, is very illegal. You have to be well connected."

"The girls here all look Chinese," explained Fergus. "They’ve got Chinese eyes and light skin and they’re expensively dressed. But some of the boys are indigenous Indonesians. They’ve got light chocolate skin like southern Italians and their eyes are different."

"It’s much nicer than the Blok M bars," said Carmen. " More relaxed. People smile more."

"Do you two frequent places like this?" I asked. Fergus, consumer of tinned tuna and American beef burgers, didn’t seem like the sort of person to go ethnic. And I couldn’t imagine Carmen, a woman devoid of make-up or frills, as a night-owl.

"Carmen’s usually at the sports club," said Fergus.

"And so is Fergus," said Carmen. "Although he might be seen occasionally in the Sportsman’s."

"I prefer places like the Hilton," said Fergus.

"The boys seem to be dancing with the boys and the girls with the girls," I noted. "Do the races mix?"

"Mmm," said Carmen. "There are lots of mixed race people, but this place could become like Yugoslavia. My driver hates the Chinese Indonesians. He points to a whole line of shops and businesses and tells me they’re all owned by the Chinese. Who owns the naughty bars and hotels? Usually the Chinese. Who owns the businesses cutting down the rain forests or burning them? Who runs the monopolies like flour? Mostly the Chinese."

"The Chinese don’t own everything," said Fergus. "It gets exaggerated."

"You’re right," said Carmen. "Some people also hate the Javanese because they’re the big bosses politically. In some parts of Indonesia there are wars between villages or kampungs on a regular basis, but it doesn’t get into the papers. People tend to live in tribal groups."

"Will it become like the Congo?" I asked.

"Suharto and the army keep a tight grip," said Carmen. "The army’s everywhere; it’s in every village; it’s in local government; in the cabinet; in the parliament; in the civil service; in the universities; in business. They run lots of businesses. Businesses of every sort. The army won’t want to lose its wealth and power."

"They say the army’s got few soldiers and little money," I said.

"The army’s got about one and a half million para-militaries as helpers," said Carmen. "Then their businesses provide most of their money."

"I visited a police state once," I said, "and couldn’t see any policemen. It all seemed jolly friendly. That was Baby Doc’s Port Au Prince."

"Here it’s subtle," said Carmen. "You can’t see Buru Island, where the political prisoners were sent."

"And they’ve buried the half million or so murdered in ‘65," said Fergus. "They don’t talk about it.

"What’s the music?" I asked, changing the subject.

"They’ve started playing dangdut," said Fergus, who got up and seemed to be moving to the dance floor where some of the teenagers had begun moving their arms and hips in slow, sensuous movements. In fact Fergus went straight to the toilet.

When our beers were finished we moved on to a place called something like ‘Ranamok’, back in the centre of Jakarta. There were lots of big cars parked outside and a long queue consisting of noisy young expats and silent Indonesians with pale, unhealthy faces. As we waited in line to buy our expensive entry tickets, I sniffed the pleasantly warm air; a security guard was smoking a clove cigarette; beef sate was sizzling at a fast-food cart lit by a hissing kerosene lamp; three street kids were seated on the cracked pavement playing dominoes and drinking fruit-jelly drinks.

When at last we got inside the Ranamok Disco, I began to suffer from smoke-and-sweaty-people phobia. The vast room was packed wall to wall and seemed to have only one way-out. There may have been fire-exits. It was just that, in the crush, I couldn’t see them. The rather obscene American music was deafening and finding a seat, or having a conversation, or even dancing, seemed impossible.

"Most of the Indonesians here are for sale," screamed Carmen. At least I think that’s what she said.

"We’re not staying long," shouted Fergus, starting to struggle through the crowds towards the exit.

Next on our itinerary was the J Bar, a small place of smoky blue light and mirrors, which had its fill of slim, doe-eyed, sickly looking teenage girls and fat, grandfatherly, sickly looking expatriates. The atmosphere was of one of chilling yet fascinating misery. The air conditioning was too cold.

"As we came in, " said Fergus, "did you see the man in the suit, by the door? The small, bulky, middle aged guy."

"Yes?" I said, recalling a dark skinned fellow whose eyes had avoided mine.

"That’s said to be the gentleman who carried out the murder in the Gamesman’s Bar," said Carmen.

"And that very thin bloke to the left of the bar is Henry," said Fergus. "Helps run one of the Indonesian banks."

"The one in the expensive suit, talking to the dark-skinned girl?" I asked.

"That’s him," said Fergus. "Poor man discovered dark spots on his skin. Doctor told him it’s skin cancer. His wife’s got cancer now as well."

"His wife is the dark girl?" I asked.

"No," said Fergus.

(I was told that some years later the K Bar was destroyed by an angry mob.)

The nightlife tour was enlightening, but I was relieved when it was all over. And I hadn’t yet met any deserving waifs or strays.

The new term began and I found everyone at the school, myself included, full of boundless energy and smiling enthusiasm. The school was housed in a large red-roofed mansion to which various annexes had been added. There was an open-air swimming pool and gardens coloured by oleander, orchid trees and peacock flowers. The school day was pleasantly short, which allowed me time in the afternoons to prepare lessons and go shopping. I now had an eight-seater Mitsubishi van and a small, thin, middle-aged driver called Mo, a man of few words.

And at weekends there was the Javanese countryside to explore.

"Take me to Bogor," would be my usual command to Mo on a Saturday morning.

Bogor, an hour’s drive from Jakarta, is nulli secundus, second to none. This moist, hillocky, and handsomely shaped little city lies languorously beneath a steep sided volcano, Mount Salak, and is crossed by rivers and canals on either side of which stretch miles of red tiled residences, and gardens overflowing with bougainvillea, hibiscus and jasmine. It could be Southern Europe in the nineteenth century: down a half-seen alley a veiled woman is hanging flimsy garments on a washing-line; fresh young ginger on a kaki lima cart is squeezed to extract its fragrant juice; in a half-hidden cul-de-sac goats nuzzle the haunches of slender kids; gorgeous cocks strut and crow in the backyard of an old Dutch house; schoolgirls in white uniforms walk arm in arm past the deer park and Palladian palace; blue and magenta kites soar high above the scarlet flame trees; in a deep gorge naked boys splash and tumble in the river; birds in gilded cages sing their siren song.

Bogor is full of little districts, or kampungs, which are free of road traffic and full of gossiping housewives, street vendors and hordes of grinning children. At first I was nervous of invading people’s privacy and kept to the main highways. But then I discovered that if I explored the narrower alleys and stared into people’s houses people didn’t seem to mind the intrusion. Maybe they were too polite to object; maybe they hoped I would give them money; maybe they were intrigued by the presence of a funny foreigner; probably in the crowded little neighbourhoods life tended to be communal and there was little expectation of privacy. As in many Third world countries, the children were not shy about following you down the street and beginning a conversation.

3. THE HILL TOWN OF BOGOR

2005-02-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

"Hey, mister!" said Dede, when I was on my third trip to Bogor. "Remember me?"

"Yes. How are you?" I said. It was a lad with a small gory lump on his leg and I’d met him previously, at around the same spot, during a stroll along the little lanes near Jalan Pledang.

"Fine. Where’re you going?"

"Just out for a walk. Jalan jalan." I was proud of my growing knowledge of the Indonesian language. (To be honest it’s the easiest language in the world to learn.)

"Come to my house?" asked Dede.

"OK. Where?" I was delighted that for the first time ever I was being invited into a real Indonesian’s house. This was real travel and I felt a wave of excitement.

"Right here." He pointed to a russet roofed bungalow the size of a large caravan. A small, grinning granny stood just inside the door.

We stepped through a tiny garden and into a simple little lounge with concrete floor, a threadbare settee, a slightly broken wooden chair, a shelf sporting football trophies, a TV and a picture of a mosque. The granny retreated behind a canvas curtain to a primitive kitchen where I glimpsed pots and pans on the floor. I sat on the chair while Dede sank into the settee. Fergus would have hated this place, but I loved it. It was like being one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five meeting the gypsies; or the children of Coral Island encountering the natives.

"How’s your leg?" I asked Dede. " Did you go to the doctor with the money I gave you?

"I got some ointment." Dede pulled up the hem of his school shorts to show me the wound. It was no worse than before.

"Did you get a receipt?"

"I lost it," said Dede.

From behind a curtained door, a girl in a short black skirt appeared. She can’t have been more than twenty and she was alpha double plus in a dark-eyed Sundanese sort of way. Is it the big eyes, or the curvy lips, or the gypsy face that marks out the Sundanese?

"My sister." said Dede, "Her name is Rama."

"Hi," I said, trying unsuccessfully not to stare.

"Hi," she said, smiling like a heavenly body from a brighter universe. "Where are you from?"

"I teach in Jakarta," I said. She looked away. I should have said I owned a computer software company and lived in Washington state. "What do you do?"

She turned to me again and said, "I haven’t got a job. Can you give me work as a maid at your house?"

"Sorry, I’ve already got a maid," I responded.

She looked away again. Why hadn’t I said I needed someone to open doors for me or something like that?

"I have to go to the market," she said and slipped out the door.

Dede sat with his knees under his chin looking like a hungry rabbit. "Do you like Newcastle?" he said suddenly.

"I’ve never been there."

"I’ve seen them on TV. And Manchester United."

"Ah. Football."

"You like something to drink?"

"No thanks," I said. I didn’t want to risk drinking the local water; and I felt an urge to go to the loo. "May I use your toilet?" I asked.

Dede smiled in a slightly embarrassed fashion. "We haven’t got one. You can use the canal or the river."

"OK. I must be going then. Thank you for letting me see your house."

"You come back next week?" asked Dede.

"Yes, that would be nice."

I had no intention of squatting above the canal or the river next to a lot of other cheery squatters. I got my driver to hurry me to a high street fast food restaurant which was blessed with a real latrine. My image of Rama and Dede was slightly changed by my discovery that their house did not possess a privy.

As the weeks went by I made lots of weekend trips to the countryside.

One sunny October day I discovered a particularly magical realm on the outskirts of Bogor. Along a bosky country lane I found myself taking photographs of buffalo, fields of tapioca, dark wooden shacks among tall trees, and smiling children carrying huge baskets of mangoes and bananas. There was an aroma of burning wood and goat manure. Some of the houses along the lane were simply grubby slums, full of naked babies and toddlers, but some had decent brick walls, concrete floors, peach-coloured tile roofs and glass windows. The occasional house even had a car parked in the front yard and one mansion, belonging no doubt to a government official, had five cars. Some of the children wore clean, red and white school uniforms while others wore ragged shirts, skirts and shorts, but all of them, at least on the surface, looked fairly healthy.

Not quite all of them. There was a clearly unhealthy child crouched outside a windowless, wooden hut and he cried miserably when I pointed the camera in his direction. He had the head of a five year old but the body looked younger. Although his stomach was enormous, his limbs were rickety and withered as in pictures of starving children in Africa. He was too weak to stand up. For the first time I had met one of the waifs and strays that I was anxious to help, but unfortunately it was a rather an extreme case.

The four year old boy was named Budi. I spoke to his hollow-cheeked mother and gave her money so she could take the child to a doctor. The father, who looked tired and unwell, told me he worked in the mornings as a farm labourer, earning about 60 pence per day for his family of six. One litre of milk cost about 60 pence.

I had encountered the Third World and, naively, thought I had achieved something useful.

On a sunny Saturday morning, one week later, I returned to Budi’s house to find him looking even more sick and fragile. I asked his mother if she had taken him to the doctor. No, she had not. But I noticed she had what appeared to be a new set of earrings, and the other children in the family, who looked healthy enough, had some cheap toys which also appeared to be new. I was angry and let it show.

"Budi must go to the doctor!" I growled. "I’ll come with you. I’ll pay the bill."

I seemed like the pushy, know-all, foreigner treating the locals as inferiors. But I felt justified in my aggressiveness; Budi looked dangerously ill; his parents seemed pretty ignorant and needed help; I came from a culture where we had learnt that doctors could help children. Also, I’m sorry to say, I had got used to ordering around my driver and maid, and having doors opened for me at the Hilton.

Mother, father and sick child were persuaded to get into my vehicle and off we drove, a short distance, to a clinic.

It was a dirty little concrete house with cobwebbed walls and virtually no furniture. The sullen young man, who claimed to be a doctor, gave Budi a brief examination and muttered something to the parents. I was being ignored.

"What’s wrong with the child?" I asked.

"Malnutrition," said the doctor, scowling.

"Anything else?"

"Maybe TB."

That seemed to be the end of the conversation. I wondered if the doctor was going to write out a prescription or make some recommendation about further treatment, but he remained silent. I guessed that he hated his country-clinic work and would rather have been doing something in a comfortable part of Jakarta.

"Should the child go to hospital?" I asked.

"Yes," said the doctor.

I waited for him to say something else. More sunless silence.

"Will the parents agree to the child going to hospital?" I persisted.

The doctor spoke to the parents and then said, "They don’t want to go to the hospital."

"Can you persuade them?" I urged.

"They don’t want to go," repeated the doctor, in a tone of voice that signalled he’d be happy to see me leave immediately and never return.

"Should the child get some medicine now?" I asked

The doctor shook his head and we retreated outside.

"You must take the child to the hospital," I said to Budi’s father.

"We’re too busy," he replied.

I appealed to my driver to see if he could persuade the parents to see sense and he had a brief word with them.

"Nothing doing," said the driver.

It seemed that the locals would smile, and be polite, and put up with all sorts of indignities. But when they dug their heels in, they dug them in hard. I needed some advice and resolved to speak to my colleague Carmen whom I was due to meet for lunch the following day.

I had Sunday lunch with Carmen at a simple little Jakarta restaurant called Sari Bundo on a street called Jalan Juanda. We both had the rendang, which is thinly sliced beef loin cooked with coconut milk, lemongrass, turmeric, lime leaves, garlic, ginger, bayleaf and chillies. As we ate, I explained to Carmen the story of the malnourished child called Budi.

"Try one of the churches in Bogor," was Carmen’s simple advice. "They may know what to do about Budi.When I’ve been abroad I’ve always found the church useful in a crisis."

"I’m going to Bogor after lunch," I said, "I’ll call in at the big church near the main police station."

"Good luck."

"You’ve done lots of teaching abroad?" I asked.

"My last job was in Tanzania. I loved it." Carmen beamed.

"Why did you leave?"

"I thought I was missing England."

"And were you?"

"I came back home and found everything dull and grey. No mystery. No street life. The tedious nine-to-five job, teaching Maths. There are three types of student: those who can count and those who can’t. Sometimes those who can’t count decide to bait the teacher. I remember one kid who was an overactive baiter of masters."

"I know the type," I said, after almost choking on a piece of beef. "What were the Tanzanians like to teach? Could you mix with them?"

"The school kids were lovely," said Carmen with a giggle. "I thought I was getting on well with my garden boy. He was a wretchedly poor youth and I gave him a job, got him an education, and helped his family. Before I left Tanzania, he stole from me and ran off."

"Disappointing."

"I felt very hurt," continued Carmen, temporarily losing her normal sunny expression. "I think the local people were friendly on the surface but we expats were still from a foreign tribe."

"Is it the same here?" I asked.

"There’s a more complex civilisation here. So it varies."

"You like the Indonesians?"

"Very much," said Carmen. "I like the dolce far niente. The nearer you get to the Equator, the more friendly and easygoing people become."

"Italy rather than Switzerland."

"Mind you, there are disadvantages when things are very lax," said Carmen. "There was this Bangladeshi restaurant I used to use in London. Chap called Aziz said his town, North of Dacca, was a pleasant Moslem paradise. Then he told me the other side of the story. He said things didn’t work because too many people were cheats and liars. It was a mafia town. Girls were forced into marriage."

"The Indonesians seem to marry young," I commented.

"But not too many of the marriages last," explained Carmen. "Both my maid and my house guard have been married twice. The children get shared among members of the extended family."

"Sounds like England."

"Among the Indonesian poor, life is communal," said Carmen. "Children get shared around. Money gets shared around. If my gardener learns that his neighbour’s come into some money, he’ll want his share."

"Sounds friendly."

"It doesn’t encourage saving. They’re not too good at running a business." Carmen guffawed loudly in her good humoured way. She was a friendly soul.

After the lunch with Carmen I shot off to seek the help of the church. On Bogor’s busy Jalan Veteran, near the Botanic Gardens, I found a big Catholic church built of stone and next to it a venerable old building housing some sort of Catholic order. I introduced myself to a brother John, a relaxed, comfortable looking, middle aged Dutchman. He showed me into the shaded inside garden, where, seated on cushioned rattan chairs, we had a chat with two other elderly Dutch brothers about the problem of Budi.

"There’s a high death rate among these infants," said Brother John. "I’ve been here, off and on, over thirty years. Seen a lot of funerals. But, it’s not as bad as it used to be. Now they’ve got more clinics and there’s more to eat. In fact the population has soared."

Brother Michael, a well fed figure with a white beard, said, "I used to work among some poor rural communities. You know you have to take account of these people’s culture. You have to get to know their way of seeing the world. Otherwise you can’t achieve much."

"But," I said, feeling indignant, "to me, as a newcomer, it’s a simple matter of getting the child to a hospital, which I’ll pay for. The mother spent the last lot of money on some earrings. That’s a problem of human nature, not local culture." I thought it would be silly for me to spend the next six months studying local customs and arts before taking any further action.

"Look at it this way," continued Brother Michael. "These people, by training and habit, expect to go to a dukun, that’s a shaman or witch doctor, when someone’s ill. They’re scared of hospitals. They’ve probably heard of some neighbour whose treatment in hospital went horribly wrong. These folks are used to the idea that, when you’re ill, you stay at home, treated by the dukun, and sometimes you live and sometimes you die. They expect some of their children to die."

"Could it be that the mother is simply lazy and can’t be bothered to go to the hospital?" I asked.

"I think she’s scared of hospitals," said Brother Michael.

"Kent, I’ll see what I can do," said Brother John, "I’ll go and visit them. Maybe we’ll make progress."

"Thanks," I said, "You make me feel better."

A few days later, having had a phone call from Brother John, I was in the reception area of the Menteng Hospital in Bogor. Supposedly Bogor’s best hospital, the Menteng consisted of a series of simple, single storey buildings in pleasant gardens.

"Do you know how long it took?" said Brother John grinning. "I spent six hours trying to persuade Budi’s family to bring him here to the children’s ward, and here he is!"

"Well done," I said. "Six hours! You’ve got stamina. And how’s little Budi?"

"The doctor says he’s severely malnourished and has TB and pneumonia. He says the child must have many weeks of hospital care and that it could take five years to get him restored to good health."

"What do the parents say?"

"I’m afraid they want to take Budi home today."

My heart sank. "What does the doctor say about that?" I asked.

"The doctor said Budi will probably die if he goes home, but he can’t stop the parents doing what they want."

"Let’s go and speak to the parents." I was feeling growing rage.

We walked through an area of garden to the third class children’s ward, a shed-like building which certainly looked third class. There were rows of simple iron beds on each side of the long graceless room. A host of thin-faced female relatives, wearing traditional headscarves and plastic sandals, stood at Budi’s bedside while tiny Budi howled and sobbed.

"Budi must stay in hospital," I said to the mother. I tried not to sound too aggressive.

"He wants to go home," she replied, looking impassively at Budi.

"But the doctor says he may die if he goes home," I continued.

"I’ve got to get home to look after the other children," she said, almost sharply.

"You’ve got other relatives who can help," I pointed out.

"Budi doesn’t like it here," she exclaimed.

"He’s only a child. He doesn’t understand," I said.

"We’re taking Budi home today," she insisted. She bared her teeth as she spoke.

I approached the three extremely young nurses who were gossiping at the other end of the ward.

"Can you help Budi?" I asked. "He keeps on crying. Can you give him something to calm him?" I think that’s what I said, but my grasp of the main Indonesian language was still not great.

The nurses giggled like shop girls and retreated out of the ward.

I turned to Brother John. "Can I speak to the doctor?" I said.

Brother John set off in search of the doctor while I tried to speak to Budi. The child was in no mood for listening to a frightening looking foreigner and shrieked even louder.

"The doctor’s busy," said Brother John, on his return, "but he says he has arranged for Budi to have outpatient treatment twice a week."

"So what do we do now?"

"We can’t force them to stay here," said Brother John.

"I’ll arrange for my driver to come here once a week," I said, "to give them money for the outpatient treatment."

"OK," said Brother John.

On that particular day, the Third World seemed to be a place of ignorance, obstinacy and stupidity. As I was driven back to Jakarta, I wondered if Brother John and I had given in too easily.

4 THE HIGHLAND CITY OF BANDUNG

2005-01-31T09:26:00.000-08:00

Teaching adolescents is not the same as teaching adults or young children; and teaching Chinese adolescents is not the same as teaching Spanish ones; and the last lesson on a Friday can be a pain. I was thinking about this as I sat at my desk supervising my little class and watching the clock. The air-conditioning whirred, the palm trees in the garden swayed as the sky darkened, and I was tired. Well-disciplined Korea girl was onto her fifth page of neat writing which would take me hours to correct. Motivation was not a problem with her as she had a high respect for all things English, but, many of her paragraphs would be Pickwickian blather. Well-behaved Singapore girl and diligent Tokyo girl were onto their fourth sheets and I knew their efforts would be logical and clear. Singapore girl was a serious minded Christian and Tokyo girl had strict but lovely parents. Tokyo girl was the only one whose work would verge on the imaginative or lyrical. Bangkok girl, struggling with her third page of simple text, looked in my direction and smiled that well mannered, almost saucy, Siamese smile. Her upbringing made it impossible for her ever to be rude; but English grammar gave her nightmares. Polite Malaysian boy, still on his second page, tried to hide a yawn. He was not a lover of books or hard toil, but always did what he was told. All these kids were lovely and I could teach a hundred of them at a time without any stress.

Barcelona boy was different. He was spreading ink blots on his desk rather than getting on with his first page. He was the typical textbook teenager: desperate for peer approval, not greatly inspired by school work, and quite happy to annoy adults. Come to think of it, Barcelona boy was the only adolescent behaving like an adolescent. He had a Walkman stuck in his shirt pocket and his trainers were the hundred dollar sort. He was an expert in deceit; he didn’t know where the ink blots had come from. He was an expert in manipulation; he flashed his innocent smile in the direction of Bangkok girl. He was an expert in intimidation; he gave me that look that said: "I can make more trouble than you can ever produce and my rich dad will always back me up." I reckoned he could develop into the typical bully: a con-man, a seducer and a thug. The bell rang. I gently reprimanded Barcelona boy and complemented myself on my degree of calm. I reminded myself that I must try not to take things too personally and that there is a bit of Hitler in all of us. My driver would probably agree with that.

The October half-term holiday arrived and little Budi was still alive.

I decided to take a short holiday trip to the highland city of Bandung, Indonesia’s third largest metropolis, which lies 120 miles East of Jakarta. My driver and I motored up over the misty Puncak Pass, with its tea estates, past the rough-hewn town of Cisarua, volcanically active Mount Gede and then the dishevelled town of Cianjur. We moved leisurely on through a world of rice fields, wide muddy rivers and muddy looking children flying kites. As we began once more to climb narrow winding mountain roads I told Mo, the driver, to drive slowly and carefully. I may have had a Sunday-school upbringing, but I have a worrying lack of faith when it comes to cars and anything remotely dangerous. Mo speeded up and on a blind corner, with a precipitous drop below, decided to overtake the lorry in front of us. An enormous truck came speeding round the bend heading towards us.

We tried to squeeze between the two vehicles. There was a loud hooting of horns, a death threatening shout and a scraping sound. We just made it. All three vehicles.

"Stop the vehicle and park!" I commanded.

We parked. I inspected the minor scrapes and then lectured my driver.

"Mo!You’re of a mature age. You’ve got a wife and two children. You normally drive so slowly. Why choose the worst possible place to speed up and then overtake?"

There was no reply. Was he suffering from stress? Had he gone mad? He wasn’t going to enlighten me, but he did drive slowly from that point on. Too slowly.

After a four hour journey we entered the city of Bandung, once known as the Paris of Java. We drove past damp crumbling kampungs, faded colonial villas and modern factories, producing textiles and processed food; nearer the centre there were dark tree-lined boulevards, sinister army barracks, grey concrete shops and office blocks which were tall and of various vintages. We tried to find the Savoy Homann Hotel but Mo had never before driven a vehicle outside of the Jakarta area and he was as clueless as me about Bandung’s one way streets. I was hungry and grumbling. Half an hour passed as we circled the city.

At last we found Jalan Asia Africa and the handsome hotel. The Savoy Homann hotel dates back to 1880, the year that the Jakarta to Bandung railway line was completed. The railway encouraged the building in Bandung of more villas and hotels; it brought to Bandung, for the purpose of recreation, the Dutch planters who grew coffee, tea and quinine in the surrounding highlands; and at weekends it brought Jakartans, escaping from the heat of the capital. In 1938 the architect A. F. Aabers rebuilt the Savoy Homann in an elegant Art Deco style which made it one of Bandung’s most famous landmarks. The hotel has had many famous guests, including India’s Nehru, China’s Chou En Lai, Egypt’s Nasser and Charlie Chaplin. It was my kind of place and it was not expensive. Having booked in to a room furnished in a 1930s style, I set off excitedly to explore the local streets in search of some supper.

The area around the central square reminded me more of the impoverished Belleville district of Paris rather than Paris’s posh Chaillot quarter. On one side of the square I began to cross over a busy main road by way of what looked like a deserted metal pedestrian bridge. Half way across I came upon a small body curled up and half asleep. This eight year old boy was not blessed with great good looks, and judging by the smell, he was as unwashed as any tramp on the London underground. His begrimed shirt was too big, his stomach and face were slightly swollen, one ear was cut and oozing, and he had no shoes.

"What’s your name?" I asked, as I knelt down beside him.

"Abdul," he said in a tiny voice.

"You should see a doctor," I said. "Do you want me to take you?"

"Yes," he whispered.

So, with the sky turned funereal, and the monsoon rain cascading down, we stood on the main road trying to hail a taxi.

"How much to the hospital?" I asked the first driver to come along.

"Ten thousand rupiahs."

This was about four times the normal fare. I had half-opened the taxi door but now I slammed it shut as my way of showing my rejection of his offer. Had he no sympathy for a sick child?
When the next taxi appeared, two expensively dressed women, loaded with jewellery, pushed in ahead of us.

Eventually, with the help of a third taxi, we reached the hospital, an institution managed by Christians. Dripping with rain, we entered the classy reception area. Some of the wealthy visitors stared in surprise at the ragged Moslem urchin with the stick out ears and the rather unhappy little mouth.

In a green walled surgery, I introduced myself to the doctor, a thin Chinese Indonesian woman with a kindly face. I explained how I had found the child. Abdul’s ear was carefully washed and several types of pill were issued. The doctor asked the boy a few questions and then turned to me.

"He says he’s been abandoned by his parents," she said. "His ear will be OK, and his cough."

"Is there somewhere I can take him?" I asked. "He shouldn’t sleep on a bridge with the rain pouring down."

"I’ll give you the address of my church. You can talk to the pastor. He may be able to help."
By taxi we reached the church, which was in a ritzy neighbourhood. A fat uniformed guard, wearing an angry sneer, barred the door.

"He can’t come in," said the guard, referring to the shivering eight year old Moslem boy.

"We’ve come to see the pastor," I said.

The guard lifted his arm as if to push the boy away. At the same moment, a middle aged Chinese woman, who had spent a fortune on her coiffure, came out of the church, staring at the child as if he was a gob of phlegm. The guard was distracted and we slipped inside the church.

We located pastor Simon, a big Dutchman with a twinkle in his eye, and sat down for a chat, in his comfortable wood panelled office. Pastor Simon asked Abdul lots of questions, which were answered by the boy in a trembling voice, as the tears flowed down his grubby little face.

"His parents have divorced," said the pastor, addressing me. "His mother’s gone off to some unknown address in Jakarta; his father’s taken up with another woman; he was being looked after by his grandmother but she beat him. That’s why he ended up sleeping in the central square in Bandung."

"How does he survive?" I asked.

"These children in the square, and there must be several dozen there, can earn up to a dollar a day. They do some begging and they shine shoes. On a good day there’s enough money to buy food at a stall and play the arcade games. But this little chap got sick."

"What can we do?"

"There’s little anyone can do. They enjoy the street life. It gives them freedom. They don’t want the discipline of home or school." Pastor Simon smiled cynically. Here he was, the Christian Pastor in the wealthy church, apparently writing these people off.

"Isn’t there a home for such children? Doesn’t Bandung have some institution that’ll take them in?"

"You could try Lembang, up in the hills, above Bandung. There’s an international children’s village there. It takes abandoned children." Pastor Simon wrote down the address, shook hands, and showed us to the door.

We left the church, still hungry, and found a three wheeled bicycle taxi to take us to a clothing shop. I was enjoying myself; I was having an adventure; and in a smug sort of way I felt I was behaving better than the average mortal.

For about two dollars we bought a T-shirt, trousers and shoes from the astonished Chinese Indonesian store owner. Abdul’s greasy old clothes were thrown into the gutter, but still Abdul didn’t lose his unwashed smell.

"Take us to the Savoy," I called to the grim-faced becak driver. "It’s very close to here and we’re extremely hungry."

In the darkness and the miserable rain he appeared to pedal us to the edge of Bandung, then back to the centre and then to an outer industrial suburb. Was the problem the one-way road system, or the driver’s lack of geography, or was it just possible the gentleman was trying to cheat the stupid foreigner? A piece of plastic sheeting gave us some protection from the rain and from the driver.

"Don’t you know the way?" I shouted through the deluge. My smugness and euphoria had evaporated.

"Hotel Savoy? It’s very near," called back the driver.

"You don’t know the flipping hotel," I wailed. "You don’t know where you’re going." I was determined I was not going to pay this guy more than a few cents. Never in a million years. At that moment we turned a corner and there was the hotel.

We got out to pay the bill. Eight thousand rupiahs.

"That’s far too much. You took us the wrong way. All round Bandung. It’s criminal."

"Eight thousand rupiahs," he growled. He had the look of a slavering hyena.

"OK, here you are," I said.

We entered the elegant hotel restaurant where Abdul, in spite of his new clothes, couldn’t help but look a little out of place. His table manners were good but somehow he didn’t look or smell like one of the elite. He ate huge quantities of oxtail soup, chicken with rice, and ice cream, and less than a fifth of it went on the floor.

As I drank my coffee I pondered the problem of what to do next. When I had first arrived at the Savoy, earlier in the day, I had allowed my driver to go off in search of accommodation for himself. The arrangement was that I would meet him again the following morning. I had no idea where he was, but I would need him if I was to ferry Abdul to the children’s village in Lembang.
I took Abdul to the hotel manager’s office and introduced myself to the manager, a small serious-looking man in his forties.

"I found this abandoned child in the street," I explained, "and I have to locate Mo, my driver, but I don’t know where he is..." I went into some detail.

"I’m afraid I’ve no idea where your driver might be," said the manager sympathetically, "I don’t think we’ll find him tonight."

"Well, there’s a problem. Where can the child stay tonight, if not with the driver? I don’t want him back on the street. Do you have a room he can stay in at this hotel?"

"He can’t stay on his own. He has to be supervised, but he can stay in your room as it’s a double."

"I don’t think so." What if I bumped into other expats? What on earth would they think?

"It’s no problem."

"Mmm."

I took Abdul out to the street and we headed back towards the central square. There was a stall selling food, just the sort of place where a driver might eat. Was that my driver shaking black sauce onto his noodles? The kerosene lamp was none too bright. It was indeed my wonderful driver.

"Mo, I just want to thank you," I said, "for driving so slowly and carefully today. It was a delightful journey. By the way, this child is called Abdul...."

Next morning, as we headed up the steep hills to Lembang, both Abdul and the driver were totally silent.

The children’s village was a collection of mainly low rise buildings, crowded with lively little children in red and white school uniforms. In his smart office I found the director, a middle aged Indonesian who spoke good English. He wore a sober suit, he had a sober manner, and he was most hospitable. I told him the story of Abdul.

"Yes, we can take him," said the director, much to my relief. "We’ll make inquiries about his family."

"I suppose you have to check his story."

"His family have a right to know what’s happening and to be consulted."

"What about payment?"

"These children are sponsored by people from all over the world. I’ll give you a form to sign. I think it is, in dollars, between one and two hundred for the year."

The director spoke softly to Abdul before handing him over to a female assistant. I handed over the required sum of money and speedily took off back to Bandung, with my wordless car wallah.

5. TWO WEDDINGS

2005-01-30T11:13:00.000-08:00

November brought school exams, occasional short downpours, and more weekend trips out of Jakarta.

While wandering along the tree-lined banks of the River Cisadane in Bogor, enjoying the perfumed tropical air and the cheerful grins of passing schoolchildren, I encountered a crinkled old woman with the sweetest of smiles. The woman was holding a wooden pole, suspended from which was a spooky looking fruit bat, as big as a poodle. With its wings stretched out, the bat looked bigger than the woman.

"Is it your pet?" I asked. On closer observation, the winged creature had a cute face like a sheep dog.

"Yes, it’s my friend," she said.

"Do you live here?" I pointed behind her to the simple little white-walled, red roofed house, which was part of a terrace clinging to a steep slope.

"Yes."

"You’re quite high above the river. Wonderful view of the rice fields and the volcano."

"Come into our house," called out a pretty girl appearing at the bright green door of one of the houses.

"She’s my grandchild," explained the old lady proudly. "Her name’s Melati. She’s learning English."

I climbed some stone steps, squeezed into the tiny front room and sat on a wooden chair next to a sewing machine. Melati, who was wearing white cycling shorts, stretched out on the torn settee, next to her young brother. Above their heads was a picture of a mosque. Granny stood with the fruit bat at the open door.

"I want to practise my English," said Melati, in Indonesian. "Can you help me?"

I switched to English. "You go to school in Bogor?" I said.

"Apa?"

"You live in Bogor?" I asked.

"Apa?"

I decided to continue in Bahasa Indonesia. "Who is this next to you?" I said.

"Adik saya," she said.

"Brother," I explained.

"What’s this?" Melati asked in Indonesian, while pointing to her head.

"Head," I said in English. She didn’t repeat the word.

"What’s this?" She pointed to her arm.

"Arm."

"What’s this?"

"Knee."

"What’s this?"

"Leg," I said. Young brother was having a fit of the giggles and I thought it was time to change direction. "What is this?" I said, pointing to the settee. "Settee."

"Settee," she repeated.

A good looking woman in her mid-thirties had appeared at the door and was standing next to granny.

"My mother," said Melati, seeing me looking in the direction of the newcomer. The mum smiled warmly and nodded in my direction.

"Mister, where are you from?" asked the boy.

"Ursa Major," I said. The lad looked puzzled and perhaps a little worried.

"Do you have a wife?" asked Melati.

"Do you want to marry me?" I asked.

This time they all grinned.

"I’d like to come to England," said Melati. "How long does it take to get there?"

"By boat, several weeks."

"Wahai! Is it near America?"

"No. It’s near Holland."

The conversation rambled on for some minutes. Then I noticed that the Mother was no longer smiling; no longer looking in my direction. I sensed this was a signal that it was time for me to go.

"I have to get some shopping done," I explained.

"Can I come with you?" asked Melati.

I looked at the mother but she was staring at the wall.

"Sorry, that’s not possible," I said.

"Come back soon," said Melati.

I always loved being invited into the homes of ordinary Indonesians. I loved the fact that they dropped whatever they were doing in order to make me feel welcome. I loved their warm smiles and normally relaxed body language. I loved their relatively uninhibited chatter. But, I had come to realise that there was a moment in any visit when someone would signal that it was time for me to go; they had work to get on with; it was time to feed the baby; they were getting bored; or mum had bad vibes. The signal might be a frown or a yawn or a remark such as: "What time is it?" Often the signal would come after only a short visit. In any case there was a limit to how many things we could chat about. My Indonesian vocabulary was too limited for discussions of anything other than the relatively trivial. Politics was out because they didn’t feel free to criticise their government. And although these people were earthy and flirtatious, there were sometimes limits to what the community would allow by way of risky repartee. They had their taboos.

Having left Melati’s house I visited Budi’s little windowless home to see how the sick five-year-old was getting on. His hollow-cheeked mother was seated by the door with a host of little children, including a pale fragile looking Budi.

"How is he?" I began

"Fine," she responded automatically.

"Did you get the last lot of money for the hospital visit?"

"Yes."

"Have you got receipts from the hospital?"

"Not yet."

"Have you been back to the hospital for the twice weekly check up?"

"Not yet."

"Have you still got the money?"

"No."

I noticed she was wearing new shoes and a thin gold chain.

"Has Budi been getting the medicine the hospital gave him?"

"It’s finished."

"It can’t be. Have you still got the bottles?"

"I threw them out."

I was boiling with indignation. She looked relaxed and unfazed; perhaps empty-headed rather than aggressive. I wondered if she had ever been to school. I wondered if hunger had robbed her of brain cells.

"Look, we must go to the hospital now for a check up," I said.

"I’m busy. Maybe tomorrow."

"Budi must get his medicine, and on the way back we can stop at the shops and buy some food for your family."

"OK." She seemed to like the idea of shopping for food.

"Have you got Budi’s medical card?"

"I’ve lost it."

"You are unbelievable," I said, unable to control my tongue. "You’ve not got Budi’s money, nor his medicine, nor his medical card, and you’ve bought yourself new shoes."

There was no reaction on her face.

And, when I repeated this information to the doctor at the hospital, he also didn’t blink. He simply wrote out another prescription.

"Doctor," I said, "how can I get this woman to bring her child to the hospital twice a week?"

"Maybe it’s better not to give her money. Maybe someone else can handle the cash. Can you come with her each time?"

"I work in Jakarta," I explained, "but I’ll send my driver here twice a week. He’ll bring her to the hospital."

On the way back from the hospital we stopped off at the modern supermarket at Internusa. I handed some money to Budi’s mother and left her to get on with the shopping. She bought several varieties of crisps.

"That’s no good," I said. "Give me the money you have left and I’ll buy some fruit, vegetables, fish and tinned milk."

Back at Budi’s house a small crowd of ragged children had gathered to await our return. Seated next to this brood was a pale spindle-shanked man in his thirties, who looked too tired to stand up.

This was Asep.

"Where do you live?" I asked the cadaverous chap.

"Near here. Along that path across the road."

"May I see your house?"

"Yes, I’ll take you."

At a funeral pace we walked alongside some fields of rice and tapioca until we came to trees and a small settlement of mouldering shacks. Asep’s earth floor house was in a damp shady hollow. Outside the house stood a shoeless and shirtless small boy with a swollen stomach and a slightly older girl with a sweet and innocent face.

"Do you work around here?" I inquired.

"I can’t work. I’m sick," said Asep.

"Would you like to get an x-ray at the hospital?"

"Yes."

"OK. Here’s some money. I’ll come back for the receipt next week. There’s enough there for medicine too, and some food.

"Thank you mister," said Asep smiling wanly.

There seemed something too passive, too submissive, and too docile in Asep’s body language. He did not seem like someone who would fight his illness. I hoped Budi was not the same.
I set off back through the trees.

"Hey mister!" said a ragged little boy standing next to some goats. "There’s a wedding. Come and join us!"

"That’s kind," I responded, and followed him to a cheerless hovel, outside which stood two old men and a table bearing two plates of meagre little grey coloured snacks. There was a strong smell of animal dung.

I was led into the two room house and briefly presented to the bride and groom, who were enthroned on gold painted chairs and dressed to look like figures from a Hindu epic. He looked pale and she looked sad. Back outside an old man handed me some rancid looking crisps, which I managed to make disappear into my pocket.

That evening, wearing a suit and tie, I attended a wedding reception at one of Jakarta’s five star hotels. In the ballroom, with its cream and gold walls and giant chandeliers, there must have been many hundreds of guests, mainly Indonesians. The bride was a demurely pretty girl called Rima, the niece of one of Fergus’s friends.

I joined the queue to shake the hands of the bride and groom who were seated on gold painted thrones on a stage. Rima and her mate were both attired in traditional costumes including brown batik skirts. They looked rather serious but both made an attempt to smile as each guest appeared briefly in front of them.

After the handshakes came the food. The tables for the buffet meal were laden with dishes of mie goreng, leaf-wrapped spicy vegetables, chicken in coconut, gado gado, baked fish, slow cooked crispy beef and all the things you might expect in a good rijstaffel.

As I loaded up my plate, I got talking to Sarwoto, a small portly Javanese in his thirties. He was part owner of a bar called Hadrian. On our visits to Hadrian, Fergus, Carmen and I had always found Sarwoto to be good company. He was highly educated and spoke perfect English; he was a genial and rather complex character; he was a Christian with strong animist beliefs; he came from a wealthy and well connected Indonesian family.

"He’s not just marrying her for love," said Sarwoto, who was wearing a princely gold Batik shirt.

"How do you mean?" I asked. "Not just marrying her for love?"

"It’s an arranged marriage. It’s about money," explained Sarwoto, eyes twinkling.

"Which one’s rich?"

"Both. Rima’s father was a bank manager. There are also army and government connections. Her mother’s sister is married to a government minister. One member of the family owns five houses and five station wagons." Sarwoto grinned, perhaps admiring the family’s sagacity.

"And the groom?"

"Father’s in the Ministry of Social Welfare or something. Very rich. Giant mansion in Bambu Apus near Taman Mini, a house in Tebet and another in Bogor. Oh, and the groom works for Pertamina, the oil company. They’ll be able to send their kids to university in the States and have shopping trips to Paris."

"I was at another wedding today, in Bogor," I said.

"Two weddings in one day," said Sarwoto, looking in the direction of the food.

"There’s a lot of poverty in Bogor."

"You go to Bogor a lot?"

"It’s a beautiful place."

"I’m going to get some more of that beef," said Sarwoto, and off he went.

My first reaction to Sarwoto not picking up on my comment about poverty was disappointment, mixed with warm and comfortable feelings of moral superiority and false pride. Then, my chicken drumstick slipped off my plate. I remembered that Sarwoto regularly helped out at a home for handicapped children.

I sidled up to Jim, a young American businessman and pillar of the church.

"Hi Jim. You can help me," I began.

"Always willing to help," said Jim.

"I came across this little kid with TB, pneumonia and malnutrition. In a poor kampung out in Bogor. The problem is getting advice about medical treatments. And the kid’s mother needs some advice about child care."

"There’s a lot of them die in the kampungs. Very high death rate. Not a lot one can do."

"Do you know of any organisation that could help?"

"The women’s organisations can’t help individuals. My wife’s group raises money for an Indonesian charity that helps blind children."

"It’s just that I want to help this poor kid."

"You know how you could help, if you’re wanting to do something charitable? My Scout group could do with an extra volunteer."

"I don’t think that’s quite me."

"Excuse me, I’ve just seen someone I must speak to before he goes. See you again some time."
And off he went.

Jim was very rich but he was a genuinely decent sort. Maybe it was difficult for him to feel deep sympathy for a kid he had not actually met; maybe he wanted his charitable giving directed mainly towards Christian run institutions rather than individual Moslems; maybe be was a pessimist about the chances of a foreigner successfully intervening in the life of a slum family.
I wondered what my reaction would have been if Sarwoto or Jim had mentioned the existence of some poor child to me. I would have thought that it was vaguely interesting, but it was up to them to sort it out.

In the post next morning was a letter from the director of the International Children’s Village in Lembang, near Bandung. It was about Abdul, whom I had found asleep on the bridge. The director had visited the grandmother’s village, which had turned out to be not so poor, and discovered a few more facts about the child. Abdul had a little brother and sister, his parents were already divorced, and his mother might be working in Saudi Arabia. The grandmother had decided to keep Abdul and so he had been returned to her. I suppose a grandmother is better than a children’s home or sleeping in the street.

6. ONE HAND AND HIS MOTHER

2005-01-29T11:42:00.000-08:00

Christmas 1990 was approaching and I had shopping to do.

Mo, my middle aged driver, wasn’t smiling. I could tell, as I could see a tense little mouth in my vehicle’s front mirror. It was the late afternoon rush-hour and I had asked him to stop on a very busy street called Jalan Katedral, a street which has Jakarta’s main mosque on one side and its cathedral on the other. I had spotted something strange. Seated at the roadside with his rough featured, peasanty mum, and a plump baby, was a boy aged about six. The boy had no hair and no shoes. Even worse, he had no trousers and one of his hands was missing.

I don’t think Mo liked the look of the trio but I got out of the Mitsubishi and crossed the road to speak to them.

"Hello!" I said. "Do you live here?"

The mother pointed behind her at the broken fence and the patch of waste land behind.

"Has the boy got no trousers?" I asked. The boy had the sort of innocent look worn by little African children in Oxfam pictures; he had sores on his legs and bare bottom. And one of his front teeth was missing.

"We haven’t any money," said the mother. She had the face of a big tough Red Indian who had fallen on hard times.

"The boy has only one hand?"

"He lost his hand. His name is One Hand."

"And his tooth?" I asked.

She held up her fist, seemingly to indicate that someone had punched the six-year-old. Perhaps she had punched him.

I handed the woman some money, whereupon she got up and swiftly disappeared round the corner, with the baby, heading in the direction of the nearby market, called Pasar Baru.
One Hand clutched my leg and rubbed his head against it. Then he picked up a piece of grass and began to play with it, with one hand.

I walked round the corner to see where the mother had gone, but there was no sign of her. One Hand followed me. We crossed the road to Jalan Antara where several of the homeless slept. Mo, my driver, brought the vehicle over and acted as my translator as I spoke to one of the families. A ragged woman, with a thin but pretty face, told us that One Hand’s father no longer lived with them. At this point, One Hand wandered off, out of sight.

"Where will the mother be?" I asked the ragged woman.

"She’ll be back later," she replied with a cheery grin.

Having done some shopping, I returned to Jalan Antara. The sky had been darkened by black rain clouds and the air was warm and damp. One Hand’s mother, carrying her baby, emerged from the shadows. The lady appeared to be wearing a new dress and new earings. Where was One Hand? Round the corner he came, head down, still wearing only a shirt.

"One Hand still has no trousers," I said to the lady.

As I spoke, the baby produced some yellow diarrhoea.

"Is the baby OK?" I inquired. "Do you want to see a doctor?"

One Hand’s mother nodded approval.

Mo, my driver, was looking even less happy as I ushered One Hand, his mother and the baby into my van. It was a short journey to the huge and ancient Dipo Hospital. This was a place of dim lights, high ceilings and malodorous stains.

The doctor could see the baby was fat and smiling. "Not much wrong," he said, as he wrote out a prescription.

Outside the hospital I asked the mother, "Would you like some clothes and shoes for the boy?"

"Yes."

So we did some shopping in the traffic free streets of Pasar Baru, buying a shirt, a pair of shorts and some sandals. I felt like a happy Santa Claus dispensing gifts. I felt Christmassy.

"I’ll come back tomorrow at six o’clock to the spot where I met you," I explained. "Will you be there?"

"Yes."

I left them seated on the dark wet pavement watching the luxury cars go by.

Next evening, when I returned, there was no sign of them. I walked around the block and asked a stallholder, "Have you seen the boy with one hand?"

"They’ve gone to the canal to wash some clothes." I grew angry at having to wait.

Around seven o’clock a woman appeared carrying a baby and far behind trailed One Hand, trouserless and shoeless.

I met up with them and said, "I’ve been waiting one hour! Where are One Hand’s trousers? I bought some only yesterday."

"They’re being washed," said the mum.

"But the poor kid’s going around with no trousers and no shoes. And he has no hair!"

She didn’t reply. I wondered if she had sold the clothing.

"It’s not much of a life for the kid, is it?" I said. "Look, here’s some more money. Don’t waste it."
Mo gave me a disgruntled look as he and I drove off to the Meridien Hotel.

My next sighting of One Hand, his mum and the baby came a few days later when I was again in the vicinity of Pasar Baru. They were seated at the roadside, and One Hand was trouserless and shoeless.

"Things haven’t changed, have they," I said to One Hand’s mum.

"I want to go on the transmigration programme," she said.

"You mean go off to an outer island and cultivate a plot of malaria infested land in a region with poor soil and too much rain?" That’s roughly what I tried to say in Indonesian. The government’s controversial transmigration programme was aimed at reducing over-population on islands like Java by moving volunteers to the less crowded, outer islands. The transmigrants were given small plots of land and a little help with getting started.

"Apa?" she said.

"You want to go to an area which may not want to be invaded by Javanese like you?"

"Apa?" She didn’t seem to be getting my drift.

"You want a fresh start?" I asked in Indonesian.

"Yes, I want to go back to Sukabumi, but we need money for that."

"Sukabumi’s here on Java, near Bandung," I said. "You don’t want to go on the transmigration programme?"

"I want to go back to my family in Sukabumi," she insisted.

"How much money do you need?"

"Two hundred thousand rupiahs."

"If I give you the money will you use it properly?"

"Yes."

I gave her what she had asked for and returned to my van, from which Mo had been watching the proceedings. I was again in the Christmas mood. Two hundred thousand rupiahs was the equivalent of about one hundred American dollars.

"You gave her money?" said Mo, as he started up the engine.

"Yes. She hopes to go back to Sukabumi."

"You shouldn’t give these people anything!" said Mo, sounding bitter. "They are beggars. You should have reported them to the police. The police have places for such people."

"I’m sure they do."

Mo continued, "I’ve had to work hard all my life. My parents were poor. I had to work to pay for my education. That woman doesn’t work. She doesn’t deserve help."

For some reason this reminded me of an occasion in India when a middle class citizen of Bombay had said to me, as we drove past some pig-sty slums, "Filthy animals, these people!" Come to think of it, he had also pointed to some children who had had limbs chopped off to make them better beggars. Goodness! I hoped that was not what had happened to One Hand.

I invited Mo to join me for a meal in a cafe. We collected our plates of nasi goreng at a counter, I sat down at a table near the window and Mo went off to a table near the kitchens. I asked him if he wanted to join me but he said he preferred to sit separately. I suppose he may have been a bit shy, or maybe he hadn’t forgiven me for telling him off about his reckless driving at a certain point during our trip to Bandung.

I never saw One Hand again. Perhaps they really did go back to Sukabumi. That was better than begging on the streets of Jakarta.

But I missed the little kid.

Towards the end of the Christmas holiday I received a dinner invitation from a personable teaching colleague called Anne, who lived in the centre of Jakarta, in a posh district called Menteng. Anne had a businessman husband called Bob and a teenage daughter called Pauline.

The evening sky was full of dark pink clouds as my vehicle travelled through grey, traffic-filled Kebayoran Baru and on to Menteng, home to embassies and President Suharto. The bumpy ride was enlivened by a knife wielding gang of high school students hanging from the doors of a graffiti covered bus, the occasional plain clothes policeman at a street corner, and exhibitionist ragamuffins selling posters and toys.

Anne’s house was a 1930’s mansion full of ferns, antique furniture, faded photos in silver frames, and marble statues of Buddhas and fauns. A maid led me to the far end of the living room where Pauline, attired in T-shirt and jeans, was watching Taggart on TV. Next the TV was a desk with a computer and pile of school books.

Pauline stood up, stretched herself, and gave me an welcoming smile. She had a pretty nose.

"Hi. Mum’s on the phone," explained Pauline. "She’ll be here in a moment. I’m supposed to be doing homework. It’s Baudlaire. Can I read you a bit?" She picked up a book.

"Go ahead," I said.

"There are perfumes as cool as the flesh of children," she read. "Sweet as oboes, green as the prairies." I was aware of two maids hovering in the background.

"Does it make any sense?" I asked.

"Sort of."

"What is Baudlaire saying some perfume makes him think of?"

"Cold flesh."

"And?"

"Oboe music."

"What do you think?"

"Children’s flesh around here makes me think of ringworm, fungal infections and scabies."

A smiling Anne emerged from the kitchen. Anne always reminded me of Monaco’s Princess Grace, or perhaps a respectably dressed Madonna, the singer. Yet she worked as a humble teacher and her face suggested genuine compassion and concern for the world.

"Kent, sorry to be neglecting you," she said. "I was hearing awful things about torture and murder carried out by the military."

"Aceh?"

"No. The British army in Malaysia."

"Oh dear."

"Let’s go out to the garden," suggested Anne.

Anne and I went to sit on comfortable chairs positioned on a terrace that overlooked the dimly lit swimming pool. The frogs were making loud frog noises and frightening away the mosquitoes. A maid brought us glasses of white wine; Pauline fetched some olives.

By the time our glasses were empty, Bob had arrived, and a maid, positioned beside a table at one end of the terrace, was ready to serve supper. Bob was wearing a smart grey suit and looked like a slightly tired film star, used to playing the part of a kind and respectable husband.

"What have you been getting up to?" asked Bob, after we had loaded our plates with beef sate, peanut sauce, red peppers, French beans, new potatoes, green mango, avocado and lettuce.

I told them about my trip with One Hand to the Dipo Hospital.

"You have to be careful with hospitals," said Anne, looking pensive.

"British ones," said Bob, as he refilled my glass with meaty red wine. "Over a thousand people die each year in British hospitals because of mistakes with medicines."

"I was thinking about Florence Nightingale," said Anne. "She thought she was helping the soldiers in the Crimea, but the death rate went up at her hospital after she arrived. Her hospital had the worst record in the area."

"Why was that?" asked Pauline.

"She was a bit of an amateur," explained Anne. "At first, she didn’t understand enough about hygiene."

"The problem in Indonesia," said Bob, "is that medical standards are not always very high."

"I gather you weren’t totally impressed with Carmen’s nightlife tour?" said Anne, changing the subject.

"That seems a very long time ago!" I replied. "Actually, it was interesting, but after teaching I’ve no energy for that sort of thing."

"I know what you mean," said Bob, looking sincere.

"One or two people in Bob’s office seem to find the energy," said Anne. "What is it Baudelaire says? ‘After debauchery one always feels more alone, more abandoned.’"

"Mmm," said Pauline, smiling faintly. "Mummy’s been visiting the library again."

"I was interested in the life of this poet Pauline’s been studying," explained Anne. "He seemed to find it difficult to resist the Paris nightlife, and ended up feeling like someone expelled from Paradise."

"Talking of the office," said Bob, "that new chap Carl was comparing this country to Nigeria. That was his last posting."

"Different civilisation," said Anne. "Nigeria’s never had anything quite like Borobudur and Buddhism."

"That’s what I said," continued Bob. "But he went on about corrupt politicians and soldiers, the potential for clashes between Moslems and Christians, tribal wars with primitive weapons, and so on. He’d been to New Guinea. He said the Christians there believed in evil spells and killing each other with bows and arrows, except on Sundays. He said the parents trade their daughters like cattle."

"Kent," said Anne, "you’ll find Indonesia is much more diverse than Nigeria."

Diverse it certainly was. As I was being driven home, a host of images passed through my mind: massage parlours and mosques, volcanoes and flame trees, shanty houses and luxury mansions, and Budi, Abdul and One Hand. I was slowly learning about the Third World, but I hadn’t yet made any deep friendships with Indonesians. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long before finding my soul mate.

7. BANGBANG ON JALAN SUDIRMAN

2004-01-27T10:04:00.000-08:00

The second school term had begun and we were now well into 1991. The school was running fairly smoothly, I had hardly ever been bitten by mosquitoes, and my tummy was behaving itself. Best of all I had lots of time off, thanks to the short school day and the large number of public holidays to celebrate the holy days of Moslems, Christians, Hindus and Buddhists. There were always exotic new people to meet and totally unfamiliar situations to offer a challenge.

One Saturday morning in February, I was being driven past the glitzy skyscrapers on Jakarta’s Jalan Sudirman towards the Hongkong Bank when I saw a body lying lifeless on the grass on the central reservation. The body was that of a small boy and he looked as if he might have been hit by a car. Two adults had stopped to have a look.

Should I get out and offer to take the child to hospital? In Indonesia there is the danger, when someone has been hit by a vehicle, that an enraged kampung mob will appear and try to grab the supposed driver so that they can kick and beat him to death. There was no sign of a mob. A quick decision was called for. To stop or not to stop?

"Stop! Park!" I yelled to Mo, my driver. The traffic slowed and I was able to get out of the Mitsubishi and over to where the body lay.

A policeman had arrived. The boy looked about ten years old, was poorly dressed and had the face of a youthful garden gnome. Fortunately he was breathing and had no obvious injuries.

"What happened?" I asked, in order to establish that I had nothing at all to do with the accident. "Is there a hospital nearby?"

A man pointed. We were right opposite the modern Jakarta Hospital. The policeman picked the kid up and I followed them all the way to the emergency room.

A young Chinese-looking doctor, having given the boy what seemed like a five second examination, declared that nothing seemed to be broken and that the urchin could be returned to the street. The boy’s eyes were now open and he was able to answer the nurse’s questions.

"He’s a street kid," said the smiling doctor, addressing me, "and he’s not right in the head. Probably also has epilepsy. He says he has no parents and his name is Bangbang."

It was becoming clear that indeed Bangbang wasn’t completely normal. He suddenly poked the doctor in the stomach and then stared at him hard with a wide-eyed manic grin. The doctor chuckled.

Back to the street? Surely not.

"Maybe he should have an x-ray to see if his head’s been injured," I suggested. "I’ll pay."

"He’ll need to go to the Dipo Hospital," said the doctor. "They’ve got a place for mentally disturbed children there."

So, with the policeman and Bangbang, we drove in my vehicle to the hospital I had previously visited with One Hand. Bangbang sat fairly quietly, enjoying the ride. Only occasionally did he poke me gently in the ribs and give me the staring grin.

The policeman, an affable chap, took us to the drab emergency room, where a doctor looked at Bangbang and decided he could be admitted for tests. The policeman showed me where to pay the deposit for Bangbang’s stay and then led us down long dingy corridors until we came to the absolutely vast quarters reserved for stressed, mentally ill and mentally backward kids. The high ceilings and dark walls reminded me of classrooms in Victorian schools. Bangbang seemed to be the only patient.

The three nurses on duty stopped watching their TV in their little office and started to chat to the policeman and the new little arrival. Jokes seemed to be being made but I couldn’t make out what was being said. They all seemed totally at ease, in a Javanese sort of way, and to be enjoying each other’s company. Bangbang looked content and I relaxed. The policeman shook my hand, accepted some money for his bus fare, and departed.

"Mister likes children?" asked the oldest nurse, a lady in her mid-thirties whose face, shoulders and hips made me think of a happy Hermann Goering. Her name was Fatma.

"I felt sorry for Bangbang," I explained. Fatma’s eyes suggested she might be sneering rather than smiling.

"Mister has no children?" she continued. The other two nurses were now grinning.

"Not yet," I said. "How about you?"

"Two children," said Fatma. I noticed on one of her fingers a chunky gold ring that didn’t look cheap.

"And now you’ve got Bangbang to look after," I said. "I’ll be back tomorrow evening."

"Bring us something nice," said Fatma.

"Maybe," I said, and left.

Next afternoon I brought some chocolates to the nurses who smiled and looked pleased. Bangbang trotted up to me, squeezed my arm, took my hand, and gave me a sudden punch in the stomach. Fortunately it was a gentle, friendly punch. Bangbang and I then took a walk around the ward.

A few evenings later, I was able to meet the Dipo Hospital’s child psychiatrist, Dr. Joseph, a round faced, middle aged Chinese Indonesian with thinning hair.

"Mr Kent, you are very kind to help Bangbang," said the doctor, sitting at the nurses’ desk, looking benevolent and calm.

"It gives me something to do," I said.

"The tests show Bangbang has no broken bones," explained the doctor.

"I find he can be quite affectionate," I said. "For brief periods he even appears quite normal."

"We’ve discovered that Bangbang has got parents," said the doctor. "They’ve been to visit him. They say Bangbang’s often gone missing."

"Do they want to take him home?" I asked.

"If you want him to stay here a little longer, I’m sure they’ll agree."

"What do you think is wrong with Bangbang?"

"He’s got epilepsy and he’s psychotic. He claims he gets beaten at home. Maybe he gets beaten because he has epileptic fits."

"Is the father poorly educated?"

"Yes. I’ve told him he must not beat the child."

"I think Bangbang should stay here a little longer," I said.

When I returned to the hospital the following evening, I found Bangbang strolling along one of the corridors, on his own. I took him by the hand and returned him to his ward.

"I found Bangbang wandering around the hospital," I said to Fatma, the nurse in charge. "He should be kept in the ward. He might try to run off."

Fatma and her assistant seemed unconcerned. They continued watching the TV in their little office.

Next evening I returned to the Dipo Hospital to find Fatma and her friend busy eating chicken stew. There were no patients to look after.

"Bangbang has run off," said Fatma, looking surprisingly happy.

"What!" I shouted. "Have you looked for him?"

"The hospital guards looked all over. He’s gone." They carried on eating, picking up bits of chicken in their fingers.

"All you do is sit in your office and eat and watch TV," I said. "You only have one child to look after and you manage to lose him!"

They smiled, refusing to be unfazed.

Oh dear. What would Bangbang’s parents say?

"I’m going to see the hospital’s director," I announced, hoarsely. I wanted someone to take the blame and I didn’t want it to be me.

I strode along corridors and up flights of stairs until I came to a grand hallway and the offices of the hospital’s top people. The Director of the Dipo Hospital had an office that reminded me of a ballroom at a Grand Hyatt. But it was empty, as was the office of the deputy.

"When will they be back?" I asked a secretary, seated at a desk in the hallway.

"Next month," she said. "They’ve both gone on the Haj pilgrimage."

There was no one at the hospital on whom I could vent my rage.

When I got home, I noticed that Rachmat, the house guard and gardener, had not cut the grass in the front garden and Ami, the maid, was not ready to serve supper.

"Rachmat!" I shouted.

A grining Rachmat poked his head around the kitchen door.

"Rachmat, the grass should have been cut days ago. Get it cut first thing tomorrow!" I found myself speaking like a colonial master.

"Ami, why is supper not ready? This is ridiculous." As I spoke, the roast chicken was rushed onto the dining room table.

I sank my knife into the chicken breast. Red blood oozed out.

"Ami! This chicken is not properly cooked. This is useless."

I had noticed, when I had first arrived in Jakarta, that certain expats addressed almost all Indonesians as if they were stupid ten year-olds. It was too easy to do. People like Ami and Rachmat did occasionally behave in a slightly sloppy way; and when they were told off they seemed to put up with it.

The problem was mine. I would need to learn not to take advantage of the politeness and servility of some Indonesians. I would need to learn to adjust to Jakarta’s occasional frustrations. I would need to be less like a volcano. What I needed was a soul-mate.

When the weekend came I visited little Budi in Bogor. Good news. His eyes shone, he smiled, his hair looked darker, and, although still seriously malnourished, he had put on a little weight.

I took a walk to see consumptive Asep in his damp little home under the trees.

"Have you had an x-ray?" I asked.

"Yes," said Asep, handing me an envelope containing the evidence. The doctor says I have TB. I’ve got some medicine."

"Got a receipt?"

"Yes," he said, handing over some slips of paper and some funny little plastic bags containing pills, all of which I examined with care.

"There’s a receipt for the x-ray and the consultation. I can’t see any receipt for the pills."

"I got the pills from the puskesmas, the local clinic. It’s cheaper."

"So what happened to the money left over?"

"For food."

"Is that a new TV I can see inside?" I could see a cheap little television sat on a table.

"No. We borrowed that from a friend. It’s an old TV."

"These pills from the clinic look odd. Are they as good as the pills from the hospital?"

"Yes."

"I’d prefer you to get the next lot of pills from the hospital and you must get a receipt!" I handed him the money for the next hospital visit.

As I set off back towards my van, I passed a falling down shack, outside which sat a very sick looking young teenage boy, by name Eddy. His face was grey.

"What are these strange green herbs stuck to your forehead?" I asked.

"The dukun, the medicine-man, put them there. I’ve got a fever."

"Are you getting better?"

"No, I feel very bad."

"Want to go to Bogor’s Menteng hospital?"

"Yes, but my father has no money."

"Don’t worry about that."

When we reached the hospital, the doctor did a blood test, diagnosed "typhoid", admitted him to a ward, and had him put on a drip. The boy’s hollow-cheeked father, who did not look very bright, signed the requisite admission form. I paid a deposit and left money for medicine.

"Eddy will need to stay here for at least a week," said the doctor. "He’s very dehydrated."

Three days later I returned to Bogor to find that Eddy was no longer in hospital . His father had taken him home.

"Why did you take the boy home?" I demanded of the father, when I reached his hut.

"Eddy was better," came the reply.

"Has he got any medicine?"

"No."

"This is crazy. We must get back to the hospital immediately."

The father didn’t argue. We piled into my van and drove fast over the potholes towards the centre of town.

"Why," I asked the doctor at the Hospital, "was Eddy allowed to go home without any medicine?"

"We can’t force patients to stay," said the doctor, avoiding my eyes.

"Should he stay in hospital?" I asked.

"He’s not yet better but the father wants him home. However, he can get some outpatient medicine." The doctor began to write out a prescription.

Before going home I visited Budi’s house. It was empty but a little way along the road I came across the family on their way to visit neighbours. Budi was in tears, trailing behind his mum and dad. Mum was scolding Budi and her teeth were showing. I stopped to ask after the child’s health. I was assured that all was well.

By the time I got to the plush and exclusive Piste Top Bar that evening, to meet Fergus, I was ready for a drink. I had a lot on my mind. I was discovering that in the Third World it was not always so easy to help the waifs and strays. There was the problem of human nature. Nurses could let their child patients walk out of the ward; foolish TB patients seemed to prefer buying TV sets to buying hospital medicines; ignorant fathers could take their children out of hospital too soon; impatient mothers could reduce their sick children to tears. Perhaps it was the same in the slums of Liverpool or London.

I looked around the bar. The clientele were mainly Indonesians in dark suits or designer dresses. On several tables there were whisky bottles positioned beside the candles.

"How was your day?" I asked Fergus.

"Squash at ISCI. Well, I was thirsty. Went for a workout. Sunbathed at the Mandarin. How was your day?"

"Still no sign of Bangbang." I was aware that I had been in favour of Bangbang staying on at the Dipo hospital.

"Well, it’s not your fault."

"It’s crowded tonight," I said, changing the subject. "Who’s the guy getting all the attention over on our left?"

"Relation of Big Daddy, sitting with his body guards," said Fergus.

"Big Daddy?"

"The President," explained Fergus.

"And the guy in the dark blue suit at the back?" I asked.

"I could be wrong, but it looks like the general who organised the East Timor invasion in 1975. A good catholic."

"Surely not."

"And the CIA station chief is the guy at the next table who looks like a Colombian drugs baron."

"You’re having me on. That’s Carmen."

Indeed it was Carmen and she came to join us at our table. As the Philippino band began to play a song about "Money! Money! Money!" I began to relax with my beer.

A few days later my driver had good news. He had visited Eddy in Bogor and found that the boy was restored to good health. His typhoid was gone.

8. PELABUHAN RATU

2004-01-25T10:48:00.000-08:00

One March evening, as I was about to drink my after-supper coffee, the maid appeared with a startling message.

"Bangbang’s father is here to see you," she announced.

Various thoughts flashed through my head. How on earth had Bangbang’s father got my address? Had the Dipo hospital given it to him? Was he a big strong chap in the habit of carrying a machete?

I walked slowly to the door, trying not to think about what a father might say about the disappearance of his son from a hospital.

The father was a thin little man with a wonderfully warm smile. "Bangbang has returned home," he said, handing me some bananas. "I’ve come to thank you for helping him at the hospital."

"Thank you," I said, letting out a sigh. "I’m sorry Bangbang disappeared. I am very relieved he’s come back home."

"Would you like to visit my home? It’s near Kebun Jeruk," he said.

"I’d love to."

A half hour drive took us to Bangbang’s house, a narrow, garage-like building next to a busy highway. Bangbang’s smiling mother, bigger than her husband, had the gentle manner of a nun. The house seemed to be full of children. A shy but grinning Bangbang stepped forward, squeezed my hand and gave me a little punch.

I was given a quick tour of the small habitation. Cheap curtains acted as walls for the two bedrooms; water in the combined toilet and kitchen was supplied by a pump; Islamic pictures decorated some walls.

Father and I sat on a broken settee in the lounge and had a brief chat.

"Is Bangbang getting any medicine for his epilepsy?" I asked.

"Yes," said his father, sounding hesitant, "but it’s expensive."

I handed him a little money and received warm thanks. He did not look at all like a man who would beat his epileptic child.

"What work do you do?" I asked.

"I repair cars."

"You have a large family?"

"Ten children."

"And how’s Bangbang?"
"He keeps on running away."

From time to time Bangbang would make a face and punch one of his brothers or sisters on the arm. They just smiled. I hoped he wouldn’t punch his gentle-looking mother, who was heavily pregnant.

A staffroom is a useful place for picking up information.

"Where’s the very best place for a weekend break?" I asked John, a tall and adventurous young teacher who had been all over Indonesia.

"My favourite place is Pelabuhan Ratu," said John, placing his coffee mug on top of a pile of exercise books. "On the south coast, four hours from Jakarta; a fishing village in a large horseshoe bay."

"What do you think Alan?" I asked our sensitive and friendly lover of gamelan music and Indonesians. He was on his second clove cigarette of the break.

"Pelabuhan Ratu gives me bad vibes," he said. "I get a haunted feeling down there. Lots of people get drowned on that bit of coast and the locals believe the drownings are caused by Ratu Kidul, the goddess of the South Sea. She recruits drowned victims to her underwater kingdom."

"A goddess? Is that Islamic?" I asked.

"Nothing to do with Islam," said Alan, looking serious. "Ratu Kidul is queen of the spirits and there’s a very strong belief in her, particularly by the Sultans of Yogyakarta. The goddess is believed to marry each of the sultans in turn, down through the ages. Presumably the marriage is in a spiritual sense."

"Do they really take this stuff seriously?" I asked Alan.

"There’s only one big hotel in Pelabuhan Ratu, the Samudra Beach. The hotel keeps a locked room on the top floor for the goddess. They all take it seriously," he said. "I tell you Pelabuhan Ratu gives me bad vibes."

"My driver has a story about this," said John with a wide grin. "Near the Samudra Beach hotel there’s a small lava flow, called the Karang Hawu cliff. This is where the lady flung herself into the sea and became transformed into the goddess. What my driver says is that in the Karang Hawu area there are some very friendly ladies who will invite you into their homes, in return for a small fee."

The school bell rang to mark the end of break. I turned to Joanne, a kindly and mature lady from New Zealand, who was just finishing her mint tea.

"What do you think of Pelabuhan Ratu, Jane?"

"It’s lovely. You should go," she said. "It’s very unspoilt; you probably won’t see any other white men. There’s a lovely fish restaurant, a handful of shops and even a small hospital. "

"What’s the road like?"

"Good until you get to Ciawi and then it gradually gets worse and worse and worse."

She was right. After Cibadak the road became narrow, pot holed and twisting. Mo, my driver, had to concentrate hard while I was able to sit back and enjoy the scenery. We entered a wild and magical world of goblin hills, impoverished wooden huts and towering phthalo green rainforest. Occasionally there were sunny terraced rice fields, followed by dark and gloomy rubber plantations.

After a bumpy four hour journey the Indian Ocean came into view. The driver and I began our descent towards Pelabuhan Ratu and a giant glistening bay which was edged by forest-covered hills, abrupt cliffs, wide beaches and tall palms.

"Samudra Beach Hotel," I instructed Mo.

We drove past little fishing boats, with red and blue sails flapping in the breeze, and past tousled wooden houses decked in pink and peach bougainvillea, and on to the concrete box hotel built by President Sukarno in the 1960’s.

The hotel seemed to have only a handful of guests. My room looked as if it had not been redecorated since the 1960’s but at least there was air-conditioning and a shower. I could not feel the presence of any goddess.

I headed for the dimly-lit bar and ordered a glass of wine. I was the only customer. What appeared, after a ten minute wait, was a glass of something from a bottle which had probably first been opened back in 1960.

"The wine’s gone off," I told the bright-eyed young barman who looked as if he could have been a student.

"I’m sorry," he said, flashing me a smile. "Not many people ask for wine. Would you like a beer?"

"Yes please. The hotel seems a bit run down."

"It has been renovated," said the barman, putting on a serious face, and pouring me a Bintan.

"Not very well," I commented. "The fittings such as baths and air conditioners look thirty years old. And the schools I passed on the way here. They all look as if they’re falling down."

"What this country needs is a revolution." The barman seemed to be smiling as he said this. I wondered if he came from a simple house with no bathroom, or if he was one of the well-connected.

"That’s a dangerous thing to say," I pointed out.

"No. It’s true. We need a revolution."

"I prefer peaceful change," I said, in case anyone else was listening. "The trouble with revolutions is that the little people get killed."

I wondered, half seriously, if the barman was an agent provocateur, and decided it might be a good idea to go for a walk along the deserted beach.

My stroll took me to a collection of dilapidated little warungs, or stalls, next to some palm trees. Each simple wooden building acted as both bar and home. I chose the only stall where there was any sign of life and sat drinking a cola in the company of the owner, moustachioed middle-aged Rachman. From my bar stool I could watch the waves breaking on the sunny shore.

Rachman told me he had four children. Mira, a pretty girl in her late teens, was standing at the far end of the bar; she was combing her long dark hair. Budi and Udin, two little twins with eczema on their legs, were playing with a skinny dog. Abi, a winsome boy, aged about twelve, was using a broom to sweep a patch of earth in front of a shed containing chickens. The boy was limping and did not look happy.

"Abi doesn’t look well," I said to Rachman.

"He’s fine," said Rachman.

Abi, hearing our coversation, came over to the bar.

"I’ve got a fever and a headache," said Abi.

"Do you want me to take him to the local hospital?" I asked Rachman.

"That would be kind," he said.

"You’ll come with us?"

"No. It’s OK for you to go alone with the boy."

"I think the hospital will need to have you there in case they want to give him an injection or something."

"No. My wife and I don’t need to go."

"But he’s only about twelve years old."

"He’ll be all right."

Abi and I drove to the little hospital near the centre of town and consulted the doctor, who looked as if he was not long out of school.

"It’s polio," said the doctor. "Very common here because of the faeces in the sea water.
Abi will be better soon if he looks after himself. This looks like a fairly mild case. But it was good you brought him here."

"I’m glad it’s not serious," I said. "Are there lots of serious diseases around here?"

"The south coast has malaria. Then there’s typhoid all year round, and TB, and hepatitis, and we suspect there’s a growing AIDS problem."

"I’ve seen a few people with skin diseases," I commented.

"Most of them have skin problems."

I spent much of the next day exploring the beautiful coastline, breathing the sea air and taking pictures of gorgeous little fishing boats in the turquoise sea. Each time a catamaran approached the beach, hordes of small boys would wade into the sea to unload long silvery fish.

Wherever I wandered, I was met with friendly faces. Outside some fishermen’s huts a small boy inched up a tall coconut tree, released a coconut, slid down to the ground, hacked off the tip of the nut with a machete, and offered me a drink of sweet refreshing liquid. Then he and his friends brought me a young goat to inspect.

I stopped off at the main market, which comprised a series of dark, low-ceilinged warehouse-like buildings linked by muddy pathways. Black shiny flies covered the chicken innards laid out on a blood-covered table; open sacks of everything from coriander to ginger gave off the aromas of the East; sensuous dangdut music flowed from stalls selling cassettes.

In the evening I returned to the warung to see Abi.

"How is he?" I asked Rachman.

"He’s fine. Getting lots of rest."

"How’s the warung doing? Lots of tourists?"

"No. We get lots of young Indonesians coming to the beach at holiday periods but they’ve no money. I need to restock the warung, but I can’t afford it. My daughter is studying in Bandung but it’s a struggle to pay the fees."

"How much do you need to restock?"

"One hundred thousand."

I counted out a few rupiah notes and handed them to Rachman.

"You’re very kind to us," said Rachman’s plump, soft-hearted-looking wife, who had appeared from inside the hut.

"You know some of the foreigners who come here like to sleep with the locals," said Rachman. "Is there anyone in our family you’d like to sleep with?"

"Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying," I lied. "I’ve got to go back to the hotel to get my packing done. Going home tomorrow." Somehow their words had disturbed the pleasant atmosphere.

"Are you driving back to the Samudra Beach?" asked Rachman.

"No. Walking," I said.

"Be careful around here," said Rachman. "Last week there was a woman tourist found dead next one of these huts."

"Goodness. What happened? Was she old?"

"She was young. The police don’t know what happened. No sign of violence."

I walked very carefully back to the hotel, glancing behind me from time to time. I was beginning to feel bad vibes. Would I have wanted to get close to any of Rachman’s family? There was a photo in their warung showing the daughter with a boyfriend. Then there was the question of what the hospital doctor had said about local diseases. And there was a question of my karma.

On the way back from Pelabuhan Ratu I stopped off in Bogor to see little five-year-old Budi. His mother came up to the van, before I had time to get out, and spoke to Mo, my driver.

"Budi’s dead," said Mo, with a face lacking expression.

I felt concussed. I felt my insides lacerated. "What happened?" I asked the mother.

"He got a fever," she said, grinning, in the way that Indonesians sometimes do when trying to soften the effect of bad news.

"Did you go to the doctor?"

"There was no time," she said.

Mo and I drove back to Jakarta in silence. My first big challenge in Indonesia had been to get Budi better, and I had failed. How could it happen? Where had I gone wrong? Shouldn’t there have been a happy ending? Where were the angels? I pictured Budi crying and his mother showing her teeth.

As we sped along the motorway I stared at the strange shapes of the clouds and tried to rest my brain. But I kept on thinking about Budi. And I kept on thinking of my failure, my hurt pride. In the months before Budi had died, I had made fewer and fewer visits to the child; I had left it to my driver to deliver the small sums of money for his medicine; I had given them the bare minimum in cash and time.

I had to go to the Piste Top Bar that evening to meet Fergus. The Filipino band were in a very jolly mood and they were talking to the audience.

"Hey mister Fergus," said the lead singer, "Your friend looks so sad."

9. SINGAPORE AND JOHOR BARU

2004-01-24T09:59:00.000-08:00

After ten months in Jakarta I was fully aware of just how comfortable the place could be for an expat, if he or she didn’t worry too much about the poverty and deaths in the slums. In the centre of Jakarta, the sky-scraper streets like Thamrin, Sudirman and Rasuna Said looked clean and safe and even a little green, thanks to the many trees; there were ritzy five star hotels where you could pop in for a coffee or a beer; gleaming new shopping malls were popping up; splendiferous supermarkets could sell you Scottish shortbread, English Marmite, American beef and French wine; there was no shortage of boutiques selling Armani or Patek Philippe or Chanel. At one’s residence there was no need to clean the car, or dig the garden, or wash the dishes; there were servants to do everything from the ironing to the cooking. At school there were lots of Indonesian assistants to prepare and photocopy materials and put up wall displays. It was always pleasantly warm and mainly sunny. And in Jakarta you were not so far from lots of other interesting tropical countries.

When the summer holidays began I decided to take a short flight North to the tropical island of Singapore, ruled at one time by Sumatrans, at another by Indians, and then in more recent times by the British, and even the Japanese. Three quarters of Singapore’s population are Chinese who came to Singapore as labourers in the 19th and early 20th century. The rest of the population are mainly of the Malay and Indian race.

Singapore was, fairly recently, a grubby Third World country with a bit of a reputation for poverty, racial problems and crime. Now part of its fame is due to its great wealth and incredibly safe, clean streets. In Singapore, unlike in so many towns and cities in Britain, you will not see filthy run-down housing estates, you will not normally see litter or graffiti, you will not see drug dealers at street corners, and you will not see knife-wielding teenagers mugging old ladies. There is censorship of nasty videos and zero tolerance of crime. Drug dealers are likely to be executed.

I took a taxi from Singapore’s Changi Airport and studied the scene. At first it was fast traffic, concrete motorway, concrete tower blocks, and neat patches of tropical garden and park. But then we slowed as we entered the heart of the hot, humid city. Slim brown school girls in white uniforms were walking sedately past green shuttered colonial buildings; in the shade of a cool veranda a thin pussy cat stretched itself and fell asleep; glistening Mercedes glid past villas with palladian pillars and gardens of ferns and palms; turbaned Malays were heading towards a mosque; incense drifted upwards from a Hindu temple. Wonderful; but was there something missing? Some colourful graffiti or a cow crossing the road? To be honest, since Singapore gained its independence, too many of the colourful old buildings have been knocked down, to be replaced by modern skyscrapers. And some unkind people have described Singapore as being a police state, where eccentricity and non-conformity have been outlawed.

Lee Kuan Yew, while prime minister of Singapore until 1990, seemed to believe in the idea of a nanny-state run by an elite; he did not entirely trust American capitalism; he supported the ideas of Confucius.

"How’s life in Singapore?" I asked the Malay taxi driver.

"Difficult."

"Why’s that?"

"Housing’s expensive. It’s hard to pay all the bills."

"Singapore’s doing pretty well though, isn’t it? Compared to Indonesia."

"You have to work hard here because everything costs so much. All work, no play."

"It must be a good place to bring up children. The streets are safe."

"Yes, it’s safer than most places."

"No dengue fever. No malaria."

"You can get these here occasionally. There was dengue quite recently."

"No red-light districts."

"There are at least four. Want to go there?"

"No thanks." I had heard that the red-light areas were tame and strictly controlled.

I checked into a Malay-run four star hotel and was not wonderfully impressed. A large overflowing rubbish bin almost blocked the emergency stairs. Staff seemed sullen. Never mind, I would eat outside.

At a cheap hawker food stall I feasted on Malay chicken broth and an assortment of meat and vegetable dishes flavoured with shallots, prawn paste, lemon grass and tamarind.

I took a taxi to the enchanting area around Serangoon Road, known as Little India. There I sniffed spices and garlands of flowers; I pretended to be interested in buying cheap watches and Indian jewellery; I visited an elaborate and slightly erotic temple filled with incense.

I wandered happily through Chinatown taking photos of washing hanging from bamboo poles, tall crowded tenements, dusty old shophouses with ferns growing out of their tin roofs, and bald headed men sipping green tea and playing mahjong in high ceilinged restaurants. I stopped for a beer.

"Tourist?" said the young Chinese chap standing next to me. He was wearing a sober tie and looked like a businessman.

"Yes. I work in Indonesia."

"Enjoying it?"

"Very friendly people in Jakarta."

"Be careful with the Malay race. They are the majority in Indonesia, you know, and the minority here."

"Why the need to be careful?"

"They’ll be very friendly and invite you into their homes, but they’re expecting gifts. They’ll take more than they’ll give."

"Interesting." I decided not to argue with him. I was on holiday. "Singapore’s doing very well," I commented.

"I think we are now richer than Britain," he said. "In terms of people’s incomes."

"Why do you think you’ve done so well? This place used to be Third World. Just a muddy swamp."

He smiled, looking very pleased. "Where you have the Chinese people," he said, "and you have honest British-style institutions, like in Hong Kong and here in Singapore, then you get wealth."

"Why is Indonesia not so rich?" I asked. "It’s got millions of Chinese Indonesians."

"No honest institutions in Indonesia," he said. "The Chinese businessmen get away with murder."

Next day, I took the train from Singapore across the causeway to the Malaysian city of Johor Baru which lies at the bottom of peninsular Malaysia. Just before we reached our destination, the Chinese woman sitting opposite me decided to speak to me. She was smartly but soberly dressed, in her forties, and had the face of a kindly and hardworking nun.

"How do you like our Singapore?" she asked.

"It’s pretty clean. No graffiti or starving children, unlike Indonesia. That’s where I work."

"In Singapore you know you get fined if you drop litter? You get hanged if you get caught with lots of drugs?"

"So I’ve heard. Do you find Singapore too strict?"

"For a woman it’s good. You’re not going to get harassed there. You know back in 1959 we didn’t know how well Singapore would survive. We were worried about race riots and strikes. A lot of people welcomed a strict government, so long as it built houses and schools for everyone."

"What work do you do?" I asked.

"I run a boarding house for schoolchildren from Indonesia. They attend the international schools in Singapore."

"What sort of kids do you get?"

"Rich children, the sons of army people, civil servants, business people. They tell me the schools in Jakarta are not good."

"The teachers get paid very little," I commented, "and some of the children are always fighting."
"It’s sad," she said.

We drew into Johor Baru and I set off to find the most interesting tourist attractions. The sky was grey; many buildings seemed boringly Westernised; Abu Bakar’s Grand Palace didn’t seem particularly grand; the Abu Bakar Mosque was a vaguely interesting Victorian building. I settled eventually for a smart Indian restaurant.

While tucking into biryani and paratha, washed down with Tiger beer, I got into conversation with a bespectacled young Chinese who had been reading a computer magazine. He was sitting at the next table and was almost finished his meal.

"Malaysia’s making good progress with technology," I said.

"Thanks," he said, slightly shyly. "Our problem is that we’ll never catch up with the Americans. We just can’t compete with their wealth and their universities. They’re so far ahead." He sort-of laughed.

"Where were you educated?" I asked.

"Sheffield University." His eyes lit up.

"Did you like it?"

"A lot. That was before Mrs Thatcher made foreign students pay more money. You’re British?"

"Yes," I said, "but I’m working in Jakarta. Are there close ties between Malaysia and Indonesia? They both speak the Malay language." I preferred to find out about Asia rather than discuss Mrs Thatcher.

"They don’t speak much English in Indonesia," he said, frowning. "You know about thirty years ago Indonesia went to war with us."

"Sukarno, Indonesia’s first president?"

"Right. Sukarno had a rebellion in Sumatra and trouble in other parts of Indonesia. There was big inflation and starvation. Big problems. To distract attention he tried to grab North Borneo from Malaysia. Britain helped us and Sukarno was defeated."

"The British and Americans didn’t like Sukarno, did they?"

"It’s complicated. The Dutch wanted the islands of the East Indies to be part of a loose federation; the Americans wanted the Indonesian army to have a strong control of all the islands, so as to fight communism. The Americans didn’t seem to mind the Indonesian generals taking over West Papua."

"But the Americans fell out with Sukarno," I commented, to show-off that I knew a little of the local history. "Sukarno didn’t last too long after failing to get North Borneo."

"Sukarno refused to be an American puppet. America replaced him with General Suharto; There was a big slaughter in Indonesia; maybe half a million opponents of the army were murdered. Suharto became Indonesia’s second president."

"Was it the communists who got murdered under Suharto?"

"They were not all communists. Some were innocent Chinese."

"Things seem peaceful and harmonious here, in Malaysia," I said.

"Not always," he whispered. "We’ve had race riots in the past."

"What happened?"

"As you know, we Malaysians are a mixture of races. About twelve million Malays, five million Chinese and one and a half million Indians. My parents remember when Chinese people had to flee for their lives. The police just stood and watched. Chinese Malaysians got attacked by Malay Malaysians. My parents were very, very scared."

"When was that?" I asked.

"1969. A lot of Chinese left the country."

"Sounds like it was racial?"

"It’s difficult. We can’t mix too easily. Sex between the Muslim Malays and the non-Muslim Chinese is illegal." He glanced around to check that nobody was listening in to our chat.

"Tricky."

"Some Malays don’t like the Chinese success in business. They don’t like that we Chinese eat pork." He laughed.

"Your government is dominated by Malays?" I asked.

"Yes. The government is mainly Malays. Business is mainly Chinese. The Malaysian government has tried to help the Malays get into business. Malays are given extra help when it comes to jobs, education and owning shares. They set quotas." He gave me a quizzical look.

"So, are the Malay Malaysians catching up with the Chinese Malaysians?" I asked.

"Not much has changed," he said, grinning. "How do you get a rich Chinese family to hand over some of their business to Malays? How do you get a poor Malay family interested in running a big business? I think the Malays now have about twenty percent of the shares of companies. It’s below target."

"But aren’t there now quite a lot of Moslem Malay businessmen?"

"Some of them are just ‘front men’," he said. "You get the same in Indonesia. A company is headed by one of the President’s children or by an ex-general. But the real brains behind the business are likely to be Chinese."

"Why do you think the Malays have stayed poorer than the Chinese?"

"When we Chinese came to Malaysia, when it was a British colony, we came to work in the tin mines and on the rubber plantations. We were illiterate peasants. But we improved our education. We advanced."

"What about the Malays?"

"Some of them suffer from the Malaysian disease." He looked a little bit angry.

"What is that?"

"They want cars and all the modern conveniences. But they don’t want to study hard and they attack the materialism of the West."

"You think some of them want to go back to a simple Islamic way of life? Village life and schools teaching mainly religion?" I asked.

"A few of them do," he said.

"You wondered how you would get a rich Chinese family to loosen its grip on its business. In Indonesia the Chinese run certain monopolies like flour and sugar and they allegedly use dirty tactics, like bribery, to keep the non-Chinese out of business." I wondered if I was being too blunt.

"You are right, my friend," he said. "There are faults on both sides." He stood up, shook my hand warmly, and made for the exit.

Back in Singapore that evening, I took a clean and comfortable bus out to a housing estate near Jurong. The houses looked shapely and colourful and a zillion times better than the spare little concrete sheds lived in by workers in Jakarta. Gardens were well tended and there was no graffiti or litter. (Some of the older housing estates in Singapore are boring shoe-boxes.)

"Nice houses," I said to a Malay shopkeeper with a big stomach and funny little hat.

"That’s true," he said, looking a little suspicious, or even grumpy.

"Is it easy for Malay Singaporeans to get into business?"

"Easy?"

"A lot of the top people are Chinese?" I said.

"It’s changing," he explained, relaxing a little and looking proud. "My second son goes to university. A good boy. We now have Malay accountants and lawyers."

"Your other children?" I asked in the Indonesian language, which is borrowed from Malay.

"My first son is a taxi driver," he said in Malay, grinning. "My third son’s a bit of a problem. He just drives around on his motorbike." He laughed, perhaps to show he wasn’t worried.

"Do you miss living in a kampung?"

"What?" He looked as if he hadn’t understood.

"Is it good living in one of the old Malay housing areas? With the little wooden houses?"

"It’s relaxed in the kampung. You can sit with your friends and watch the fishing boats or the children playing. No worries."

"Sounds nice. Got a big family?"

"Where my brother lives, in the kampung in Ponggol, we have lots of uncles and aunts, grandparents, cousins, nephews, nieces. We’re never lonely there. Everyone looks after everyone else."

"What about the new housing estates?"

"Some of the people in the new apartments never meet their neighbours. They’re working in an office or watching TV."

I decided that Singapore was a safe place, for the person who towed the line. It was a good place to bring up children. And it was not as dull and conformist as I had been led to believe. Yet, I was somehow pleased when I got back to Jakarta, with all its eccentricities and extremes. I felt that it was in Jakarta that I was more likely to find my soul-mate.

10. FOUND IN KEBAYORAN LAMA

2004-01-23T09:46:00.000-08:00

Sometime during the second half of 1991, something happened which I felt I might have previously glimpsed in my dreams.

My driver, Mo, had not turned up and I was in an ulcerous mood. It was a Sunday but I had no transport. I decided to go for a walk and headed along the dusty main road in the direction of the wonderfully scruffy market at Kebayoran Lama.

The market had its usual Congolese appearance, or perhaps it was Calcutta on a bad day. Rising from a choked and crumbling drainage ditch came the smell of bloated dead rats and human excrement; a three wheeled taxi with an explosive exhaust set down a woman in an Islamic headscarf outside a jerry-built shopping bloc; an orange bus covered in schoolboy graffiti swerved around a pothole as big as a car tyre; piles of fresh cassava, chilli and taro stood next to a mountain of steaming rotting vegetable matter; a bandaged leper was having money extracted from him by a uniformed official; a policeman was ignoring the unsmiling pickpockets and the tattooed street thugs with their army-style haircuts; big-eyed, thin-limbed street kids were selling plastic bags next the stalls selling shoddy shirts, pirate cassettes and toy guns; dangdut music blared from the stolen radios guarded by vendors seated on the railway tracks. In its own way the market was gorgeous and bewitching.

Down a narrow Dickensian lane there was a games arcade, unlit inside, and next to that a flea-pit cinema showing an Indian film.

Seated on the cracked pavement in front of the cinema, in a state of utter dejection, was a young boy. He was barefoot, dressed in a dirty ragged shirt, and long trousers several sizes too big. He was moving his head from side to side like a depressed young panda in a zoo. At his feet were a few scraps of cooked rice on a piece of brown paper. Was he about twelve years old? Difficult to tell as he was so undernourished. I decided to find out what was wrong with the boy.

"What’s your name?" I asked, as I squatted down in front of him.

There was no reply; he avoided eye contact. I asked a few more questions but got no answers. I stood up, moved back several paces and watched. Passers-by ignored him, or, in the case of three well dressed young men, mocked him with jeers and insults.

At one point he stood up, a little shakily, and walked to a stall selling drinks. He held his head high, and, in a surprisingly insistent manner, held out his hand to demand a drink. The young stall holder, no trace of emotion on his face, handed the boy a glass of coloured liquid. The kid drank thirstily before returning to his little patch of pavement.

What was I to do? The lad seemed like a hopeless case; he was not the sort of normal, cheerful, talkative waif or stray I had envisaged myself helping when I had first arrived in Jakarta. In any case, I had no money on me and without money there was no possibility of transporting him to some hospital or other institution, if indeed that was appropriate. He couldn’t stay with me at my house; I was not allowed by the terms of my lease to have any guests stay at my home, other than family and friends from Britain. And yet I couldn’t abandon this child.

I walked home at speed, a journey of twenty minutes along potholed pavements, and collected a few thousand rupiahs. As I hurried back to the market I hoped I would find the boy still in the same place. And if he was still there, what then? The sadness on his face had been haunting. He hadn’t looked manic or psychotic like Bangbang. In fact he had the delicate face of Botticelli boy or a Michelangelo Madonna. Had his family thrown him out? Why wouldn’t he speak? I grew more and more anxious to get back to the little cinema before any possible decision on his part to wander off and disappear for ever. I didn’t want another failure.

Sweating, and with nerves writhing, I reached the crowded bazaar, the games arcade and then the cinema. There he was seated on the pavement. Thank heavens. I took his hand and he accepted it. I was making progress. I walked with him towards the stall holder who had given him the free drink.

"Does this kid live here?" I asked.

"No," said the stall holder. "I don’t know where he’s from. He wandered into this area recently."

I took the boy round the corner to some kampung houses, stopped an old woman and said, "Do you know this child? Does he have a family?"

"He’s not from around here," she said.

I tried another stall holder next the cinema. "What should I do with this kid? Where can I take him?"

"He’s mental," said the elderly man, in a sympathetic tone. "You could try the Jiwa Hospital for the insane or the Dipo Hospital. They’re both in the city centre."

"Are you sure he doesn’t have a family? He doesn’t live near here?" I asked.

"He’s not from here," insisted the man.

I flagged down a bajaj, an orange three wheeled taxi, and found that the lad was happy to get in. No problem. No protests. No struggling child. No lynch mob to accuse me of kidnapping. The kid still held my hand.

"Take us to the Dipo Hospital," I said, as we set off.

"That’s an hour’s journey," said the bajaj driver. "This machine only does short runs." So after ten minutes we transferred to a red four wheeled taxi, with broken air conditioning, which took us by a circuitous route to our destination, the big hospital from which Bangbang had escaped. I asked the driver, a tall man with a gold chain round his neck, to wait while I went to the hospital’s front office.

"I found this kid in the street," I said to the two strongly built men at the desk. They looked like off-duty commandos. I briefly explained the story.

"What’s wrong with him?" asked the slightly fatter one, hardly able to contain his mirth as he studied the ragged, trembling waif.

"I don’t know, but I’d like to have him admitted to the hospital," I said.

"Has he got a fever?" said the slightly thinner one, derisively.

"No. I don’t know what’s wrong with him," I explained. I was incensed by their lack of sympathy for the boy.

"Well he can’t come into the hospital if there’s nothing wrong with him," said the fatter one.

"He’s very thin, he won’t speak and seems to have no family," I said.

"Maybe he’s mad," said the thinner one, and they both guffawed.

This was the hospital which had raised my blood pressure when it had managed to lose Bangbang. Now I realised it would be stupid to trust the same hospital again. I took the desperately worried looking child by the hand and returned to the taxi.

We drove to the Jiwa Hospital, a mental hospital, in the nearby Jakarta district of Johar Baru. The hospital was in an old colonial building, looking like a fort, surrounded by neglected grass, a few trees and some moderately poor housing. I dreaded to think what conditions might be like inside.

"Can I speak to a doctor?" I asked the guard, a young fellow in a uniform.

"They’ve gone home," he said.

"A nurse?"

He fetched a nurse, a middle aged lady with a sad and sympathetic face, and I told my story.

"We can’t help," she said in a quiet voice.

I was tired, hot and now angry. "Why not? This is a mental hospital and this is a kid who seems depressed and unable to speak."

"We only take adults," she said, "and then it’s only after they’ve seen the doctor. I’m sorry."

"But I was told this was a suitable place," I said. "This child has nowhere to go. I can’t return him to the street." I was raising my voice and the guard and the taxi driver seemed to be smirking. The kid was staring at me like a refugee begging not to be shot. Then he squatted in the grass to do the toilet.

"You could try Doctor Bahari’s private clinic in Menteng, not far from here," said the nurse. "It’s expensive but I’m sure they’ll take him."

"Great! We’ll try that. Thanks for your help." Suddenly I felt more optimistic. A private clinic would surely be a hundred times safer and more comfortable than a government run mental hospital. We got back into the taxi where it looked as if the driver had been fiddling with the meter as the fare had jumped enormously.

"Menteng," I said, and off we went by what seemed like an especially long route. The sky was darkening as we reached our destination, a dusty, treeless side street that had seen better times.

Doctor Bahari’s small clinic, housed in what had once been a sizeable middle class villa, was different from the Jiwa Hospital. It had a doctor, a small, grey haired, plainly dressed, thoughtful-looking lady, who invited us into her office. She asked the boy some questions in a respectful way. He remained silent. He looked puzzled and drained.

"We’ll call him Ujang," said the doctor.

I related what I knew about Ujang, which wasn’t much. Then I asked, "Can you take him into the clinic?"

"Yes. Certainly."

"Thank goodness!" I breathed deeply and smiled at Ujang, whose eyes possibly picked up the signals coming from my face. At least he was now looking me in the eye.

"You’ll need to buy him some sandals and new clothes," said the doctor looking at Ujang’s bare feet and over-long trousers.

"What’s wrong with Ujang?" I asked the doctor.

"It’s too early to say but it’s possible he’s mentally backward," she explained.

"Do you think Ujang has a family?"

"He probably does, as he seems socialised and able to show affection."

"Do you think we’ll be able to find his family?"

"It’s unlikely. Jakarta is a very big place. Even if we did find them, they might not want him back!"

The next stage was to pay for ten days stay at the clinic and for the purchase of some clothes. The clinic was certainly expensive. Not that I minded, as a place where you had to pay a lot of money was more likely to look after Ujang properly.

We entered the quarters for the less seriously ill patients, the majority of whom seemed to be middle class Chinese Indonesians suffering from stress or breakdowns. The appearance of this part of the clinic was that of a dimly lit, run-down boarding house There were pot plants, comfortable old chairs, and even individual bedrooms. There was a rat in the gutter, but it looked healthy and happy.

Then we entered the section protected by metal bars and a locked door. This was a large sparsely furnished courtyard with smaller cell-like bedrooms off. This prison-like area was where Ujang was to stay along with half a dozen or more patients who all looked heavily drugged and deranged. The only child, apart from Ujang, was an angry looking, lunatic girl, who followed me around, occasionaly grabbing at my arm. The fiercest patient was a man in his forties with staring eyes who staggered up to me and demanded a cigarette. A male nurse simply pushed him away. The nurses seemed to be the same types as at the Dipo Hospital, grinning like tigers.

I put my arm around Ujang’s shoulder and tried to explain things to him, but I think that to him my words were without meaning. Could I leave him in this place with its mentally disturbed adults? There seemed to be no alternative. He had to be in a secure place where he would receive food and shelter. Fingers crossed that nobody would hurt him.

I took Ujang for several walks around the courtyard and then stayed chatting to the nurses as long as possible, but eventually I had to move towards the exit. Ujang wanted to come with me. He looked like a pup about to be abandoned. He clung on to me very hard until the nurses prised him off.

"I’ll be back tomorrow evening," I promised.

11. DOCTOR JOSEPH

2004-01-21T10:34:00.000-08:00

When School was over next day, I hurried to my van.

"Doctor Bahari’s clinic, fast!" I instructed the driver. We moved at a reasonable pace until we hit the rush hour traffic and began to crawl down Sudirman Boulevard and past Le Meridien hotel. One hundred thousand families in Jakarta are five-car families. Mum, dad and three of the kids each have their own car. And then there are all the four-car families and three-car families and two-car families. Now you know where some of the World Bank’s money goes.

How would Ujang be faring among the mentally disturbed adults? Would he know I was coming back to his locked ward?

After a journey of at least an hour, we passed a Hero’s supermarket and drove up to the clinic. I jumped out of the vehicle and hurried in, looking carefully at people’s faces. All smiles. The heavy door was unlocked and there stood Ujang. He was alive and well; his skinny little body was dressed in new shirt and shorts. He wasn’t exactly smiling; more hesitant and worried. I took his hand and he gripped it strongly.

"How’s Ujang?" I asked a nurse.

"He’s fine," she said. "He’s eating well, and this morning, when he woke, he gave a whoop of joy!"

"Great." I felt like giving a whoop of joy.

"Come to the doctor’s office with Ujang," said the nurse, "Doctor Joseph would like to meet you."

Dr Joseph, round faced, middle aged and Chinese, sat in his comfortable leather chair looking totally relaxed. It was the child psychiatrist from the Dipo hospital, the doctor who had been attending to Bangbang before he got lost.

"We’ve met before," said Dr Joseph, smiling warmly. "You know Bangbang’s been found? He turned up at his parent’s house."

"Yes, I know," I said.

"We’ve an open door policy for those children at the Dipo hospital," said Dr Joseph, "but here there’s a locked door for some of the patients."

I thought it better not to comment on this.

Dr Joseph continued: "My colleague told me the story of your finding Ujang in the street. It’s very kind of you to help this poor child. Ujang still doesn’t speak. It may be depression. He may have been lost for some time."

"How’s his health? Do you think he might have TB or anything like that?" I looked at Ujang who was still looking rather frail and heartsick.

"No," said the doctor. "We’ve done some tests this morning. Apart from worms, he’s fine."

"Should I try to visit him every day, or is there a danger he may become too dependent on me?" I suspected that Ujang and I might well become dependent on each other.

"I think you should visit him because it’ll help him to come out of his depression. He hasn’t got anyone else to visit him," said the doctor, giving me the answer I had hoped for.

"Is he safe here with all these strange adults?" I asked.

"They’re all heavily sedated. There’s no problem." Dr Joseph smiled broadly.

"What treatment will Ujang get?" I said.

"We’re giving him some drugs to deal with the depression. We could try electric convulsion therapy."

"I don’t want that for Ujang!" I said, gulping, "It’s too controversial and Ujang’s only a child."

"But it can be very successful."

"Well, I’d prefer not to try it. Definitely not."

"OK. We’ll continue with the drug treatment."

"He seems to shake a little bit. Is that the drugs?" I asked.

"It could be."

"Can you please reduce the dosage, so he doesn’t shake?"

"We could do." Dr Joseph was politely indicating disagreement with me.

"Can I take Ujang for a short walk or for trips in my vehicle?" I hoped I could play uncle.

"Certainly. It’ll do him good."

"I’ll take him to the supermarket now," I said.

When Ujang and I arrived at Golden Truly supermarket, Ujang was swaying slightly and looking heavily doped. I took a trolley, persuaded Ujang to sit inside it, and wheeled him around. Great fun for me, and there just the hint of happiness on Ujang’s face. We picked up some milk and some papaya. What was upstairs? We came to the escalator.

Ujang stepped on and I followed, clutching two plastic bags with my right hand and the escalator rail with my left hand. We moved up rather fast. Ujang, who had not been holding on to the rail, began to fall backwards.

I let go of the rail and tried to support Ujang’s back which was moving swiftly towards my nose. I began to fall backwards and imagined collision with the spiky metal bits of the escalator and a nasty swift descent head first.

The woman behind me involuntarily provided temporary support for both me and Ujang. She was a big strong woman. Balance was restored, my heart thumped, and I fastened Ujang’s cold little hand on to the rubber rail. Crisis over. I had discovered that the kid was new to escalators.

I needed a drink and that meant a trip to a fast food restaurant. In a place selling fried chicken, Ujang and I sat on bright yellow chairs, next to green and red plastic flowers, and I ordered two colas.

Ujang gulped his down and then, deciding to have a pee, stood up abruptly, and moved over to a plastic tree, beside which he squatted down . As he was about to begin, a waiter gently took him by the arm and guided him to the gents.

Back at the clinic the problem was parting. Ujang looked at me wistfully and help on tight to my arm. We walked around the courtyard, warding off the poor demented girl and a tough looking skinhead who wanted a cigarette. Then we walked around again. And again. At last one of the nurses took hold of Ujang while I squeezed past the metal door to make my exit.

I couldn’t get Ujang out of my mind. Travelling into work next morning I wondered what would happen if I had to leave Indonesia? Would I always be able to pay the clinic for his keep? If I left Indonesia he wouldn’t have any visitors. Would he shrivel up and die of loneliness? I could imagine him in later years, sitting alone in a corner, staring into space, wondering what had happened, and why he had been deserted.

Over a cup of grotty coffee in the staff room, I spoke to Ian, who already knew the basics about Ujang. "Do you think Ujang will ever find his family?" I asked.

"Not a chance," said Ian, a keep-fit fanatic, bachelor and lover of nightclubs. He was the sort who would never give money to beggars, although I have to say he did have a soft spot for dogs.

"I felt so sorry for Ujang when I found him in the street," I said.

"He’d be better off in the street," said Ian.

"Some kids would be, but this one was different," I pointed out. "He wasn’t coping."

"Sometimes these people get violent when they’re older. You’ll need to watch out," continued Ian, frowning.

"Amanda, what do you think?" I asked.

"You’re taking an awful risk, taking a child off the streets," she said. "You could be in trouble with the police, the immigration authorities and goodness knows who else." Plainly dressed, unmarried, middle aged Amanda, a born administrator, was not the sort to mix with the locals or do anything unorthodox.

"Rubbish," said Fergus, looking up from his book, "The police couldn’t care less. If he’s a mentally backward street child, then officially he doesn’t exist. He’s better off in the private clinic. He wouldn’t make many friends on the streets of this city!"

"I don’t know about that," said Carmen. "I came across a mentally backward woman living on the street. Her hair was neatly cut, her clothes were clean and she was not malnourished. Some of the kampung people must have been helping her."

"Now that I come to think about," I said "Ujang’s hair was quite short and must have been cut quite recently."

"Watch he doesn’t get dependent on you," said Carmen. "He’d be awfully upset if you had to leave Jakarta. Another thing to watch: if you show favouritism to a child in an institution, the staff may take it out on the child when your back’s turned. They can be jealous."

"Surely not," I said. "Would professional staff do that?"

"Yes," said Carmen, emphatically.

"Talking of primitive emotions," said Fergus, "I heard that that massacre in the Dili churchyard was planned in advance."

"East Timor?" asked Ian.

"Yes," said Fergus. "They say the burial trenches were dug by the army before the massacre."

"That’s only a rumour," said Ian.

"Don’t forget the Amritsar Massacre," said Carmen. "And Bloody Sunday, and the Australians hunting down Aborigines like wild animals."

"Amritsar?" said Fergus.

"Well," explained Carmen, "that was unarmed Indians being mown down by a British general."

"I wonder if the Dili massacre will affect arms sales from Britain," said Ian.

"No chance," said Carmen, guffawing and almost spilling her coffee.

That evening brought another visit to Ujang and a chance to talk to Dr. Joseph.

"How’s he getting on?" I asked.

"We’ve discovered his name," the doctor replied, in his usual mellow, relaxed way. "Ujang whispered it to me this morning. He’s called Min. It rhymes with lean or seen."

Min was also feeling mellow, as he had his feet up on the doctor’s desk; obviously Dr Joseph had the knack of putting his patients at their ease.

I was feeling tense, but very happy that Min had broken his silence. We now knew he could speak!

"What else has he said?" I asked.

"Very little. Min seems to have extremely limited speech," continued the doctor. "That could be because of mental backwardness."

"Has he said anything about his family? His address?" I asked.

"Not yet. I don’t think he has the mental ability to understand a concept like ‘address’. He hasn’t mentioned any family."

"Do you think we’ll find his family?"

"Very unlikely."

"He still seems a bit dazed or even drunk," I said. "He shakes a lot. Could you reduce the strength of the drugs you’re giving him?"

"Yes, later we’ll reduce the strength. The drugs are to keep him peaceful and bring him out of his depression."

"Can I take Min out for a trip to the shops?"

"Of course."

We returned to the fast food restaurant and bought great big ice cream cones. Min grinned wickedly, licked his vanilla ice, and then swiftly jabbed it against my face. He shrieked like a happy two year old. Well, it was progress of a sort. I wiped my face clean, paid the bill to a bemused girl, and returned to the clinic. I didn’t mind getting a little taste of his food as long as he was happy. In earlier days I would never have imagined that an apparently mentally backward child could play an important role in my life; Min had filled a gap.

12 THE HAVE A NICE DAY HOTEL

2004-01-20T15:37:00.000-08:00

The weeks went by and I continued to visit Min every day. He began to put on a little weight. Some days there were moments of great cheerfulness but on other days he was moody and wouldn’t speak. On his bad days I looked at his shaky little legs and his sad, lost-looking little face and felt my own mood worsen. I worried about his unhappiness and but couldn’t think what on earth to do about it. I decided I needed a Saturday trip, to take my mind off things, and headed for Bogor, with Fergus.

Having arrived at Bogor’s Have A Nice Day Hotel, Fergus and I sat in the hotel’s shady garden supping Bintang beers. The sky was blue and the air was pleasantly warm.

"Why do we come to this hostelry?" asked Fergus, in a jovial mood.

"The view of Mount Salak, these Romanesque statues in the garden and the cool beer," I replied.

"It’s certainly not for the swimming pool," said Fergus. "It’s a black sort of green, like a smelly old durian."

"Look at that pile of bricks and muck dumped beyond the pool. And the wood under these tiles is rotted. This place has hardly been up a year."

"The owner was telling me he’s a civil servant," said Fergus.

"So how come he has the money to build a little inn? What does a civil servant earn? Thirty dollars a month?"

"It wouldn’t be so bad if they were making lots of money from tourists, or anybody else, but we seem to be the only customers."

"Tourism’s supposed to become Indonesia’s biggest industry," I said. "Bogor could make a fortune from tourists. It’s as magical as Bali."

"You’ve never been to Bali," pointed out Fergus.

"I’ve seen the postcards," I explained, "and Bogor has the same sort of mountains and rice fields."

"The locals live for the day," continued Fergus. "Piles of garbage as high as the houses, graffiti, pot holed roads jammed with minibuses, and sloppy service."

"Imagine if the Italians ran this city."

"The organised criminal ones from Naples and Bari?" asked Fergus, smiling.

"No, the hardworking ones from Sorrento and Capri."

"It could be full of street cafes and jam packed restaurants."

"So, why do we like the place?" I asked.

"Well, I’m always happy to lie beside the pool and read a book," explained Fergus, who liked to sport a good tan. "You couldn’t do this in England in December."

"I like the fact you can walk into someone’s funny little house and they’ll sing and dance. And every walk is an adventure; into a balmy nineteenth century world."

"Sounds poetic," said Fergus.

"Azure skies and African Tulip trees, butterflies and bananas, cockerels and kites, dishy girls and .... I’m stuck."

"Disgusting donuts from a certain franchise," said Fergus, "exotic ferns and endearing pot bellied children. And I’m stuck too."

"What are you reading?" I asked Fergus.

"Wilbur Smith. Always a good read. What have you been reading in that notebook?"

"Stuff for a school project," I explained. "It’s jottings I made at the British Council library; things people have written about Indonesians."

"So what do they say?"

"Alfred Russel Wallace, in the 1860’s, talks about the people here in Java being impassive, reserved, diffident and bashful. He says the upper classes are terribly polite and are like the best bred Europeans. Francis Drake believed the South Javanese are loving, true and just."

"And the bad news?" Fergus inquired.

"Wallace says the people have a reputation for being ferocious and bloodthirsty. Some guy called Nicolo Conti, in 1430, writes that the Javanese and Sumatrans are more cruel than all other races. They look on killing a man as a mere joke. And listen to this. Conti says that if one of them buys a new sword, and wants to try it out, he’ll thrust it into the first person he meets. And nobody will be all that bothered. So watch out if your maid buys a new can opener."

"She’s just bought a thing for grating carrots," said Fergus.

"Someone called Barbosa, writing round about 1860, thinks the Malay race, including the Javanese, is very subtle in its doings, very malicious, great deceivers, seldom telling the truth, prepared to do all sorts of wicked things and so on. Wallace believes they don’t have much appetite for knowledge."

"Sounds like some of the kids I used to teach in Britain," commented Fergus.

"I wonder what a Javanese explorer coming to Europe or America in 1800 would’ve reported," I said. "Slavery in Russia and America? A large chunk of the British population starving?" I was showing off my limited knowledge of history.

"Children working down mines in England," added Fergus.

"Terribly polite upper classes who might look on the death of a black slave, or a deformed child worker in a factory, as a matter of no great importance."

"Talking of slavery, " asked Fergus, "I don’t think our waiter’s coming back to offer us another drink."

"The waiter was saying this used to be his father’s land but he sold it, and was able to buy a television and pay for some repairs to the roof of his little house."

"I reckon this land is worth half a million dollars. There are generals and judges with mansions around here."

I left Fergus at the pool and went to visit Eddy and tubercular Asep in another part of Bogor. Eddy looked fine but I discovered his little brother Andi, aged about six, had a swollen stomach and match stick arms. I gave the mother some money to get him checked up on, at the hospital. The mother looked quite chunky but seemed about as bright as a reading light in a hotel bedroom. They say that malnutrition has caused vast amounts of mental retardation in Indonesia.

Asep was looking more bright eyed.

"Any receipts, Asep?"

"Yes. For the hospital medicine. The TB medicine is very expensive."

"Jings. One hundred and twenty thousand rupiahs for the pills and the doctor’s included some imported vitamin tablets. The doctor must be getting commission."

"There’s a little girl’s been burned," said Asep, changing the subject. "A cooking stove fell over. That’s her next to Eddy’s house." Asep pointed to a shy little barefoot girl with a cute grin. She looked about ten.

"How long ago?"

"About a week."

"Been to the doctor?"

"No."

"OK. If her mother agrees, we’ll take her to the hospital now."

The little girl’s leg had been badly scarred from knee to upper thigh and it wasn’t difficult to persuade both her and her mother to visit the hospital. The doctor applied some dressings and asked her to return the following week.

On returning to Jakarta in the late afternoon, I hurried to Dr Bahari’s clinic. Min was in high spirits and I decided to take him to an amusement park called Dunia Fantasi, which is at Ancol, to the West of the docks at Jakarta’s Tanjung Priok. We drove past black miserable slums populated by thin ragged people and then into the park with its beautiful golf course, gardens and well dressed pleasure seekers.

"Who’s this?" asked the thin little manager at the entrance gate, as he looked in a kindly way at the slightly shaky, waif-like Min.

"This is Min. He stays at a clinic." And by way of explanation I showed him a note from Dr Joseph.

"We can let you in free," said the manager.

"That’s very kind."

"I’m sure the lad will enjoy the clowns and the rides."

We passed through the turnstile and into a fantasy world. Recorded children’s voices singing celestial songs seemed to emerge from the hibiscus; florid wooden horses did their merry rounds; Dunia Fantasi employees dressed as clowns greeted all the grinning children. I call them clowns but they had ghastly ghoulish faces which delighted the school kids and their mums. Min reacted differently. At the sight of the clowns, he hid his face in my chest and then tried to drag me back through the turnstile. There was a look of panic and terror on his face.

"They’re only people..." But I would not be able to explain to Min. I held on tight and pulled him swiftly away from the ghouls and over to the merry-go-round. I hoisted Min onto a wooden horse and off we went. Yes, he liked this and wanted a second go.

When it came to the big toy cars I was just able to squash Min in. He must have been the oldest kid having a ride. We were refused a second shot on the grounds that Min was not a toddler.

Eventually we had a wander along the beach, near the Horison Hotel. Min was now feeling more confident and felt brave enough to grin into my face and then spit at me. This seemed to be his way of being playful and having a little joke. I frowned and tried to look disapproving, without much success. He spat again and seemed to find this wildly funny. Then he decided to knock my glasses off. Now I was just a little upset.

It was definitely time to return to the van and drive back to the clinic. Maybe I’m not very good with two year olds. On the other hand, I could forgive Min just about anything. Min was like me; he was a bit of an alien and an outsider. He was my soul-mate.

Another Saturday came along and another sort of adventure. After a hurried visit to Min, who was in a reasonable mood, I battled southwards through the traffic on a different mission.

My destination was Jakarta’s Pertama Hospital where I was to meet a young teenage boy called Daus, and his aunt. Daus was a cheery, guileless soul with a large bulge on the side of his face. His aunt was a smiling, plainly dressed woman. How had I met them? While out shopping, I had come across the lad and his aunt at a simple stall selling soft drinks, near the Blok M bus terminal. My suggestion of a future trip to the nearby Pertama hospital had been accepted.

Having arrived at the big concrete, tower-block hospital, and having met up with Daus and his aunt, we entered Dr Agung’s surgery. Tall, slim Dr Agung seemed mature and civilised. I explained how I had met Daus and then pointed to the obvious lump on the side of the boy’s face.

"It’s big," I said.

"It certainly is," said Dr Agung, running his finger over the boy’s face. "I’m going to arrange a blood test."

"Daus has no parents," I explained, "so he’s not been to hospital before."

"I look after Daus," said the aunt, "but we’re not rich."

The doctor spoke rapidly to Daus and his aunt and I couldn’t make out what was being said. He then turned to me, speaking in English.

"We can do something to help," said the doctor. "We can remove some of the swelling. Daus and his aunt tell me they’re keen to go ahead with the surgery."

Dr Agung then launched into a long technical account which was partly in Indonesian and partly in English. He seemed to be saying that Daus probably had elephantiasis. There was a reference to swelling being caused by a parasitic worm which blocks the lymph channels. I can’t claim that I understood much of what was being said.

"What’ll it cost to operate on Daus?" I asked.

"I will do the operation free of charge," said Dr Agung, "but you’ll have to pay my clinic for his bed there. We get lots of hair-lip patients brought to us by the British Women’s Association, but a case like Daus’s is not quite so common."

"Thank you for doing it free," I said. "When can you do the surgery?"

"The Monday after next." Dr Agung looked at his new calendar for 1992. "January 15th. Daus should be here at nine in the morning."

"My driver will bring him with his aunt. Thanks again for offering to do the op. free."

As I was being driven back home I began to think of some of the words that, according to Wallace, had been used to describe Indonesians: "impassive", "bashful", "polite", "loving", "just", "not much appetite for knowledge", "cruel", "ferocious", "subtle" and "great deceivers." My encounters with a whole host of Indonesians, from Min and Melati to Abdul and Dr Agung, suggested that the Indonesians were not much different from the British in terms of sins and virtues. What seemed to make the Indonesians different from the Brits was that the former lived in a world that was so much more intoxicating, unpredictable, precarious, dazzlingly bright, lusty, and full of children. Britain was grey clouds and the predictable nine to four.

13. THE BOY FROM SUMATRA

2004-01-19T09:42:00.000-08:00

It was late afternoon when I arrived at Dr. Agung’s clinic which was housed in a small villa in the upmarket district of Menteng. It was the day of the operation to remove the lump from the face of Daus, the boy with elephantiasis. An elderly receptionist pointed me in the direction of the ward where patients recovered from their operations.

The ward had only two patients. A hollow-cheeked little girl, who had had a hair lip operation, was sitting up in bed, reading a comic. Daus was lying half-asleep on his bed. Next to him sat his smiling aunt. As I approached the boy, he began to stir. His right hand moved up to his face and he began trying to remove his bandage. Then he sat up groggily, moaned, and made an attempt to get out of bed.

"Daus, stay in bed," I said, panicking ever so slightly. "Nurse! Daus is waking up."

But there was no nurse in sight. I searched along the corridor and eventually found a thin, little nurse in an office. "Come to the ward. Daus is waking up." The middle-aged nurse got up slowly from her seat and strolled along to the ward where we found Daus’s aunt holding her nephew down.

"The sedation can’t be very strong," I pointed out. "He seems to be trying to rip out his stitches." I used a mixture of Indonesian and sign language to try to make my point.

"Get back to sleep, Daus," said the nurse calmly, as she gently pushed him back under the covers. Daus obediently closed his eyes. It was fortunate Daus had his aunt to guard him. From time to time she would hold down his arms to stop him interfering with his wounds.

"How was the operation?" I asked the aunt.

"The doctor says it was fine."

"Daus has no parents? He’s always lived with you?"

"He has no father, as far as he knows," said the aunt, with a relaxed smile. "He was born in Sumatra. His mother died when he was aged two. He used to run away to the cemetery to sit by her grave."

"Very sad."

"His relatives stole the small piece of land he inherited from his mother."

"Could he do anything about that?"

"Nothing. No one paid him much attention."

"He’s been unlucky."

"The next thing was that he got hit by a vehicle."

"A serious accident?"

"He survived. And then he decided to come to Jakarta to visit us, his uncle and aunt. And he decided to stay. He enjoys working at our cold drinks stall in the market."

The nurse appeared with a bill. The neatly typed document showed that the operation was free, but that the clinic was rather expensive. I needed another weekend trip to Bogor to calm my nerves.

Rain was threatening as I strolled alongside one of Bogor’s canals, thinking I was in Burano, near Venice, in an earlier era. There was an aroma of toilet water with a hint of coriander and frog. White shirts, red dresses and blue jeans hung on a washing line silhouetted against a cloud-blackened sky. There was a chirrup of birds from cages hung beneath roofs.

"Hey mister," called a young voice. "Come in here."

It was Dede, fan of Manchester United, and I accepted his invitation to sit in his simple front room, where his granny was doing some sewing and the television was showing a Japanese cartoon.

"Look," said Dede. "My leg’s better."

"It should be by now, after all these months."

Dede and I practised some English for ten minutes. Then I noticed a curtain moving.

"Hello Mr. Kent," said a figure emerging from the bedroom. It was the lovely Rama, dressed in a little lilac mini skirt, and she had remembered my name. "Take my photo."

"OK."

"You sit next to me on the sofa," she said, "and Dede’ll take the photo."

She sat beside me and placed her hand on my knee. Click.

"Take one of me and Rama," urged Dede.

As they sat back, ready to be photographed, four schoolboy friends of Dede pushed through the door and plonked themselves down on the floor in front of Rama. Then two older youths, one carrying a baby, sidled in and took up the remaining space on the sofa. Finally Rama’s mother, her uncle and aunt, two neighbours, and seven small toddlers came into view. The baby was crying, one schoolboy was scratching his groin and one was sticking out his tongue. Click.

Sweat was running down my forehead and over my glasses, leaving salty stains. I knew that I was there to be stared at and that the latest intruders were not going to go away. It was like being in an overcrowded broom cupboard with the door closed and several electric fires turned on.

"I’m sorry but I’ve got to go. Got an appointment," I lied.

It was raining as I left and I was followed by two of the youths.

"Where’re you going, mister?" asked the one with the earring in his nose.

"Back to my van," I explained.

"Do you like morphine?" asked the one with no earring, but lots of spots.

"Certainly not," I said, and began to speed along a series of little alleys and tracks until I had left them far behind.

The rain was of Bombay-monsoon proportions as I splashed my way up some steps to a house that I recognised. It was Melati’s house and I decided to seek refuge there.

"Hi mister." said Melati. "You help me with my English?"

"If you’d like." I wiped the rain off my glasses and sat by the window.

"You’re wet, said Melati."

"Some people say that," I admitted.

"So am I," said Tikus, Melati’s younger brother, who was dressed in sodden football shorts.

"You been playing football in the rain?" I inquired.

"No, swimming," said Tikus.

"You like music?" asked Melati, switching on a tape.

"Very good. I like dangdut. We don’t have it in England." But the music wasn’t dangdut.

"You like Michael Jackson?" asked Tikus, and he began a much exaggerated version of that singer’s dancing.

"Here’s my English text book," said Melati, handing me a thin publication, and turning down the music.

I opened it and began to read. "Ade meet his friend. They are going play badminton" I put the book down and closed it.

"You teach me words. What is this?" she said in Indonesian, as she pointed at the floor.

"Floor."

"What is this?"

"Picture. It’s Iwan Fals."

"What is this?" asked Tikus, not wanting to be left out.

"Your sister’s T-shirt." They looked puzzled by the string of words.

"Mister, we need money," said Melati, changing the subject, and pleading with her big dark eyes.

"What for?"

"For school."

"I only give money to people who are ill."

"I have a headache," said Melati brightly, as she held her hand to her brow.

"Then you should rest. I must be going."

"I’m very thin, mister," added Tikus, as he held in his tummy, and then turned to show the meagreness of his rump.

"Nonsense," I said.

A girl, who was genuinely wraithlike, stood grinning at the door. This was Melati’s sister, Dian, aged about eighteen, and cute like her sister.

"Dian’s got a bad cough," announced Melati.

"How long’s she had it?" I asked.

"Three years," said Melati.

"Has she had an x-ray?"

"Yes. She’s got TB," said Melati, emphasising the words to ensure I got the message.

My mood changed from flippancy-mode to serious-mode. "Is she getting any medicine?" I demanded.

"No. We can’t afford it," explained Melati.

"Why didn’t you tell me last time I was here!" I complained. "You are strange. Look, she must go immediately to the hospital for medicine. It can take a year to get better. She must take a cocktail of pills every day. You’ll all need a check-up." I think I used the word bodoh, meaning ‘stupid’. It’s difficult to be subtle when you don’t have mastery of the language.

I handed over some money.

"Thank you mister," said Dian, smiling prettily.

"I must have receipts," I said. "And I’ve given you enough money for you all to have an x-ray. Is that OK? "

"Thank you," said Melati.

"Look the rain’s stopped," I said. "I have to get back to Jakarta." I stood up, avoided shaking hands, and escaped into the cooler air of the alley. I would need to remember, next time I visited Melati, to keep a distance from anyone who coughed, and to avoid touching the hand of anyone who looked unusually thin and pale.

Late that afternoon, I took Min to Medan Merdeka, the vast parkland which lies at the heart of the administrative district of Jakarta. The main feature of the park is former President Sukarno’s big erection, the white, marble obelisk known as Monas. Sukarno, a man who reportedly had nine wives, although never more than four at any one time, had his 132 metre erection topped with a gold-plated flame, paid for apparently by the World Bank. Monas is an elegant monument and it commemorates Indonesian independence; the phallus shape symbolises fertility.

By day, Medan Merdeka can be a sunny green space filled with joggers, vendors selling balloons, children playing in ponds and office workers enjoying steaming, noodle snacks. By night the park is said to be home to runaway children, drug dealers, prostitutes and plainclothes policemen.

For Min and I, the first stop was a stall selling fruit, everything from custard apples to mangoes. Min grabbed a piece of melon without waiting to be asked. I could see how he had survived as a street child. The stall holder was laid back about ithe incident; I paid for the fruit and apologised on behalf of Min.

Min was having one of his better days. There was a little less of the sad, lost look about the skinny little creature and he was a bit more steady on his feet, in spite of the drugs Dr. Joseph was pouring into his fragile body.

As Min and I wandered along various paths, I tried to imagine this park as it had been in former times: a field for grazing cattle, a training ground for the soldiers of the Dutch East Indies, and, in the 1960s, the site of mass rallies where Sukarno made rousing speeches attacking the western imperialists.

It began to grow dark and we headed across an area of grass in the direction of the road where my vehicle was parked. Suddenly a straight backed man in a khaki T-shirt loomed up in front of us. He looked like trouble.

"Who’s this child?" he demanded to know. His rude tone didn’t put me in the mood for giving a friendly explanation.

"This is Min," I replied simply.

"What are you doing with an Indonesian child?" He stood in front of us, barring our way.

"We’re out for a walk,"

"What right have you to be with him?"

"He’s mentally backward. I found him in the street and now he lives in an institution."

Judging by the sneer on the man’s face he thought I was a kidnapper or worse.

But then I remembered Dr. Joseph’s note, took it from my pocket and handed it to the man to read. At the same moment, Min separated himself from my hand and began to do what looked like a drunken Maori war dance, accompanied by various simian, whooping sounds.

"Look, would you like to take this kid home with you? You can have him," I said, confident the man would not take me up on the offer.

The gentleman stared at Min, had an attack of the willies, turned, and slunk off. Min and I returned peacefully to the clinic.

As I was being driven back home to my house I was thinking how lucky I was to be in a place so full of exciting little adventures. And what about Min? I saw him as being a mixture of two-year-old and teenager. The speech part of his brain and the ice-cream-in your-face part of his brain suggested an age of two years. But the war dances, the moody expressions, and the reasonably advanced survival skills made me hope that part of his brain was teenage. Whatever his age, Min certainly had character.

14. THEY SHOT YOUR FATHER?

2004-01-18T09:05:00.000-08:00

We were now into a new year, 1992, and I had known Min for just over two months. Doctor Bahari’s clinic was proving to be expensive with large bills having to be paid for Min’s keep every ten days. I had begun looking around for alternatives and one of the places I decided to investigate was a Roman Catholic home for street children.

The home, in North Jakarta, was situated in a dilapidated old building that might formerly have been a mixture of house, workshop and warehouse. Having made a Saturday morning appointment to see the director, I arrived slightly early. The place was strangely quiet. A cleaner, a skinny and cheerful teenage girl, seemed to be the only person on site. She led me from the hall into an empty office where I took a seat beneath a large picture of the Madonna. The office had a comfortable appearance, a lot of money having been spent on plush leather chairs, an almost roof-high music centre, and a hardwood desk.

While I waited for the director to arrive, my thoughts were of Indonesia’s Catholics. They made up around three percent of the population but many were stunningly powerful. In the early years of his presidency, Suharto ruled with the help of an army led by General Benny Murdani, a right-wing Roman Catholic. Towards the end of the 1980s, however, there were some changes. Sections of the army seemed to have become more critical of the president and his family. Suharto ‘sidelined’ General Murdani and began to promote some orthodox Moslem groups, perhaps as a way of countering the army and other possible opponents. On the other hand, there were still many generals who were nominally Christian; and most of Suharto’s business partners continued to be Chinese Indonesians, some of whom were of the Christian faith. Suharto’s wife was born a Roman Catholic.

After a twenty minute wait I decided to seek out the cleaner to ask if I could look around. She took me upstairs to see the dormitory.

"This is where the children sleep," she explained, with a smile.

All I could see were broken metal-framed windows, bare grey walls, empty shelves, and six wooden beds with no mattresses or sheets.

"You only have six children?"

"Yes. They’re at school now."

"You have lots of rooms in this huge building but only six beds?"

"We’re fairly new."

"Jakarta has at least fifty thousand street children. It’s strange you only have six beds and you seem to be the only person here." I tried not to sound cross.

She grinned and said nothing. I returned to the office, waited in vain for another half hour and then left. I reckoned the home would not be a secure environment for Min.

My next stop was the impressive skyscraper building of the Social Welfare Department. After making a few enquiries I located the easygoing, grey-haired lady in charge of provision for handicapped children. She sat in a bright and comfortable office which looked onto to a room crammed full of well-fed civil servants, typewriters and mugs of tea.

The lady gave me a very short list of non-government institutions which might suit Min but I had to explain that I had already tried these and they had proved unsuitable. There was, for example, the home for the multi-handicapped which only admitted children who were both blind and deaf. Then there was the home for the severely physically handicapped who spent their days lying on beds barely able to move.

"Min is apparently mentally backward and homeless. Do you have a place for such children?"

"No," she reluctantly admitted, after a long pause.

"No orphanage?"

"There are some street children in Jakarta," she said in a quiet, serious tone of voice. "Ideally these children should be with their families or extended families. There are some shelters, run privately, but only about 100 children choose to live in these places."

"I can understand that some of the children prefer the freedom of the streets," I said, trying to sound friendly. "They can have fun riding on train roofs and they can avoid school. But what about the street children who are mentally backward and can’t cope?"

"You know," she continued, "there are tens of thousands of mentally ill or mentally backward people wandering the streets in West Java. It is very difficult to help them all."

"So you have no government institution that provides free care for someone like Min?"

"No," she said, trying to look compassionate. "Remember we are a poor Third World country."

"Not so poor," I said. "Most of the cars parked downstairs are Mercedes and big station wagons. And you know, Indonesia has more billionaires than Britain."

She smiled politely, shook hands and returned to her tidy desk.

Later that afternoon, when I visited Min at Doctor Bahari’s clinic, I got talking to two of the nurses. One was a moderately good-looking, middle-aged female and the other was a big, muscular and moustachioed male. They told me about a twice weekly school for backward children, run at the relatively nearby Jiwa Hospital.

"I’d like Min to go to the school," I said. "How much will it cost?"

The two nurses took me into a side office to discuss prices.

"He’ll need to go on my motorbike," said the male nurse. "It’ll cost one hundred thousand rupiahs each trip."

"That’s crazy," I said, tired and furious after a long and frustrating day. I reckoned one hundred thousand rupiahs was around £30 sterling. "It should only cost around three thousand rupiahs a month for the schooling. A taxi would be about three thousand one way."

"One hundred thousand or he won’t get in," insisted the male nurse.

"He’s a poor street child who’d benefit from a bit of training.," I said, hoping for some sympathy. "I’ll pay twenty thousand."

"One hundred thousand."

I wanted some physical expression of my anger but decided it would be unwise to punch the muscular man. He was much bigger than me. I picked up a metal chair and slammed it down hard on the floor. It made a very loud noise. Neither of the nurses looked particularly moved or concerned, but Min looked white and scared. I thought I had better forget the schooling, calm down and make some kind of peace.

"I’m sorry to get stressed," I said. "Jakarta can be a difficult place sometimes."

A few days later, Margaret, the well-proportioned, middle-aged mother of one of my students, from a family that was half Indonesian and half Dutch, came to see me in my classroom. Margaret was a good soul and took an interest in charitable institutions. Seeing her looking so terribly chic, I found it difficult to believe that as a child during the war years she had lived in squalor in a Japanese internment camp.

"I hear you’re looking for a place for the child you found," she said, as we sipped cheap coffee. "I think I’ve found somewhere suitable."

"I certainly hope so."

"It’s called Wisma Utara," continued Margaret, "and it’s not far from Blok M. It’s not nearly as expensive as the place you’ve been using."

"That’s a relief."

"It was started by a widow with a mentally backward son. She was worried about what would happen to the son when she died and so she raised the money to build this home. It’s in a kampung but it looks not too bad an area. And they’ll definitely take your child. Shall I drive you there?"

"Let’s go."

Margaret and I collected Min and we motored to the suburb where Wisma Utara was situated. Having parked our vehicles, we walked along leafy little lanes sided by home-made brick and concrete houses with pretty gardens and brightly painted doors. This place was full of trees and light and little children, in contrast to the grey downtown area around Doctor Bahari’s clinic. Wisma Utara itself looked like a simple brick-built primary school and it had a long narrow front garden.

"Welcome. I’m Joan," said the girl from Flores, who greeted us in Wisma Utara’s lounge, a place cheaply furnished with dilapidated settees and a black and white TV. Joan was in her thirties, dark skinned, friendly and unpolished. "I’m the senior member of staff. I’ll show you the room where Min can sleep. It’s my room."

The bedroom had a crucifix, a picture of Mary, Joan’s bed, and a bunk bed with bright covers. I liked the room.

"It’s so much more cheerful than Dr Bahari’s clinic," I commented to Margaret. "There are no psychotic adults giving you frightening looks."

"Let’s meet some of the other children," said Joan, leading us to a back courtyard, where a dozen young people, both staff and inmates, were either seated or trying to play badminton.

"The Down’s syndrome one is Hari," said Joan. "The little one with poor eyesight is Tedi."

"Who’s the one with his finger stuck in his ear?" I asked, looking at an emaciated teenager sitting alone in a corner. Green bubbles oozed from his nose.

"That’s Dadang."

"Has he seen a doctor?"

"The doctor comes once a week to see any children who’re sick."

"And the pretty teenage girl?" I asked.

"That’s Diah. She’s a bit backward. She’ll be sharing the room with Min. And the young man next to her is Dan who’ll be helping to look after Min." Dan, in his twenties, looked cheerful, calm and decent. He lacked the tough, prison-warder-look of some of the nurses at Dr Bahari’s clinic.
"What do you think?" asked Margaret, smiling in my direction.

"I think it’s great," I said. "Min seems reasonably relaxed. When we visited the place for the severely physically handicapped, Min immediately tried to drag me out." I was referring to a privately run institution where the young patients had been lying motionless in bed.

"So we’ll leave him here at Wisma Utara," said Margaret. "After we’ve signed him in."

Joan put her arm around Min, and held on tight.

"Min, this is going to be your home," I said, looking into Min’s eyes and trying to look relaxed. He gave me the puppy-about-to-be-abandoned look.

I signed a piece of paper and then, with Margaret, made my exit.

"Best to leave him and forget about him," said Margaret, as we headed back to the main road.

"You mean not visit him?" I asked.

"Yes. Not visit him."

I was horrified. Of course I would visit him, but I wasn’t going to argue the point with Margaret. Min was my soul-mate. How can I explain that? The attraction was not particularly physical. Min had an appealing face but I had no interest in his body. The attraction was mental. Min and I liked each other’s funny ways; we were both outsiders; we depended on each other. I had friends like Fergus and Carmen, but I wouldn’t say that my attachment to them was particularly deep. That was my problem; I was not always particularly good at long-term, relaxed closeness with ordinary people, but, I could be devoted to waifs and strays. Possibly that was because I found I could trust them and not be hurt by them. A psychiatrist might suggest that I should sort myself out and get a wife and children, or maybe a dog or a cat.

"Many thanks for finding the home," I said, as I bade farewell to Margaret. "I’m off to Mayestic for some shopping."

Jakarta’s Pasar Mayestic market sells fabrics, animal intestines, coconut milk drinks, goat soup, sweet potatoes, lemon grass, elixirs to improve sexual performance, cheap stationery, and just about everything else. It has a cinema showing lurid films, a games arcade, beggar women carrying fat babies, shoe shine boys, massage parlours, street cafes and the strongest smell of rotting garbage in our entire galactic system. Slimy decomposed things, wormy bloated objects, frothy scummy stuff, and lots of other kinds of fly-covered ordure all get dumped in a great steaming midden on one side of the main street. Nobody ever seems to remove any of this putrefaction, apart from the pretty children who rummage through it looking for bits of plastic to sell.

I was standing near the dump, savouring the stench, when I was approached by a seller of newspapers, aged about thirteen. He was small for his age, slim, dark-eyed and dark haired.

"Newspaper?" he whispered, frowning deeply. His shoes and jeans looked expensive.

"I can’t read Indonesian. Sorry," I said.

"Where are you from?" the newspaper boy asked.

"England. Where’re are you from?"

"I sleep in the market."

"You don’t have a home?"

"I’ve run away from home." The frown grew deeper and the eyes more moist. I was deeply curious.

"Why did you run away?"

"My father was shot dead." He looked down at the ground, perhaps to hide tears.

"Why? What happened?" I said, taken aback by his news. I reckoned he wanted to unburden himself by telling his tale.

"Some people shot my father. They stole his land. In Sumatra."

What could I say? "They shot your father? Then you moved here?" I said.

"We moved to Jakarta. My mother remarried. I had to stay with my grandmother. That’s out just beyond Ciputat."

"Why did you run away?"

"I don’t get on with my grandmother."

"I’m sorry," I said. "Couldn’t you get your land back?"

"No. These people are powerful. Soldiers support them."

The story had a ring of truth. I had read constantly in The Jakarta Post of land disputes, often involving the use of hired ‘muscle’ from the military.

"Do you have any friends?" I asked.

"There’s about six boys sleep in the market. There’s a man gives us food."

"Listen," I said. "If you want to go back home, my driver will take you. It’s only half an hour from here to Ciputat."

"No. My grandmother doesn’t like me. She thinks I’m stupid." He sounded very determined not to return.

"It would be better at home. You could go to school."

"I’m no good at school." His angry frown grew deeper.

"What’s your name?" I asked.

"Hamid."

"Your grandmother will be worried about you, Hamid. How about my driver giving you a lift home?"

"No."

He wasn’t going to be persuaded, even after a further five minutes of chat. And I was aware that if I stood talking to the boy too long we might attract a crowd of nosy onlookers. The locals often like to listen-in on conversations between foreigners and Indonesians. Perhaps they might suspect illegal goings-on.

"Well, Hamid," I said, before leaving, "here’s my card with my phone number. Let me know if you want to go home." We shook hands on that.

15. A LOVER LIKES HIS LOVED ONE TO BE POOR

2004-01-17T09:47:00.000-08:00

"To Wisma Utara," I instructed Mo.

The traffic moved slower than a wingless pigeon as we journeyed past the discoloured concrete shops and restaurants on the dusty highway called Jalan Fatmawati. It was nearly twenty four hours since I had put Min into Wisma Utara and I was desperate to see him. I had been worrying about him since waking that morning. Would he think he had been abandoned? One hour after leaving work, I reached the children’s home.

I entered the lounge, with its faint aroma of urine, and there sat Min, solemn and sad, watching TV. Sitting next to him were Joan, half blind Tedi, pretty Diah, and bubbly nosed Dadang. At first Min didn’t notice my entrance. Then he turned and caught my eye. He jumped up from his seat, hurried towards me and took my hand. I ruffled his hair and his eyes sparkled. A lump came to my throat.

"How’s Min?" I asked Joan who looked tired, like a peasant woman who had too many rice fields and too many children to look after. She stood up and made an effort to smile.

"Just fine, Mr Kent," she responded. Her thick dark hair was cheaply cut, her legs were bare and her sandals were plastic.

"Is Min behaving himself?"

"No problem," said Joan.

"Can I take him for a walk? Maybe someone can come with us?"

"Certainly," she said. "Dan’s been looking after Min."

Youthful, amiable-looking Dan, wearing cheap T-shirt, slacks and plastic sandals, took Min’s hand and we set off through the local kampung. Although this was Jakarta, it seemed as if we were in a country village. There were banana trees , peacock flowers, clumps of bougainvillea and simple houses and tiny gardens, full of babies, cockerels and washing. Min was like a happy colt that had been allowed out into the fresh air. He laughed at a cat that darted across our path, jumped when a small dog barked and stared excitedly at a kite in the sky.

"What’s Min been doing today?" I asked.

"We have a school at the home," said Dan softly. "Min goes to that."

"Can he cope?"

"Some of the kids can’t do anything much, but I think Min can learn to kick a ball and hold a racket."

"Min’s speech is very limited," I said, "but in other ways he seems quite bright. He looks at you in a sensitive way."

We reached a wooden hut outside which stood a young teenage boy one of whose eyes was white and sightless. I decided to be friendly and stop to chat.

"Hi, this is Min," I said to the white-eyed boy. "He lives in Wisma Utara."

"Hello mister," said the kid, smiling politely at me, and giving Min a sympathetic look.

"What happened to your eye?" I asked White-Eye.

"I’ve had the problem since I was small. The doctor says it’s now too late to save it."

"Maybe glaucoma," I said. "Is this your house?"

"Yes. Come in."

We stepped inside. The one roomed house was just big enough to take a bed and four people standing very close together.

"How many people sleep here?" I asked White-Eye.

"Seven. I sleep under the bed with my brother and sister."

"Britain used to be like this," I said, as we made our exit. I felt like a time-traveller. I had moved, within a matter of minutes, from the late 20th Century buildings near Fatmawati to wooden huts that could have been built during Britain’s Middle Ages.

Having bid farewell to White-Eye, we continued our stroll. There were more questions I wanted to ask Dan.

"At Wisma Utara, are all these children from fairly rich families?"

"Yes," said Dan. "Apart from Tedi, whose mother’s blind and makes her living from massage. Tedi may have to leave soon, as his mother’s behind with her payments."

I had a suspicion that children like Tedi might be happier back with their mums and decided to make no comment on the child.

"Some of the orphanages I visited seem to take only rich children," I said. "You have to pay to get a child in. There doesn’t seem to be any free orphanage that’ll take street kids who’re mentally backward."

"You have to pay for everything in Jakarta."

"What do you get paid each month?"

"About twenty dollars a month," said Dan, grinning. "I send some of that to my parents in the countryside."

"The lady who set up Wisma Utara did it for her handicapped son," I said. "Does the son stay at the home?"

"The son went back to his mother," explained Dan. "He claims one of the staff hit him."

"Oh dear. Do you think someone really did hit him?" I was immediately worried about Min.

"Maybe somebody restrained him," said Dan smiling. "Nothing serious."

After our stroll we returned to Wisma Utara’s lounge where I sat with Min for some time watching TV. When it was time for me to leave, Dan was kind enough to hold on tight to Min. Dan seemed to have the knack of handling Min in a calm and gentle manner. I felt reassured that he had been chosen to be Min’s minder. But I did note a deeply pained look in Min’s eyes as I waved goodbye.

I drove to South Jakarta’s Blok M shopping district to visit Daus, the boy who had had the operation to remove the lump on his face. Blok M had once been covered in orchards; now it was covered in oily buses, choking traffic fumes, potholed pavements, grubby office blocks, crowded markets, Japanese nightclubs and seedy hotels. Near Blok M’s bustling bus terminal, I found Daus helping his aunt at her stall which sold cold drinks. Some weeks had passed since teenage Daus had had his operation. Having lost both the bulge and the stitches, Daus looked happy and well. He wore a new flowery shirt and a wide grin. The doctor had said that Daus would never be completely cured, but at least he now looked more normal. I got a free drink of cola before happily heading off for home.

I was working my driver too hard at weekends. When Sunday arrived there was a phone call to tell me that Mo’s grandfather had died, for the third time, necessitating Mo to take a day off. For my day’s outing, I hired, from an agency, a driver called Agus. What unsettled me about this nervous and gaunt young fellow was his tendency to drive down the middle of the road in the wrong gear.

Although we somehow reached Bogor safely, we then became lost. We found ourselves on the edge of a small, deserted-looking shopping complex which I had never seen before. I got out to ask directions, but the only human I could find was a body lying on the ground beside a lockup door.

The body was alive and breathing but only just. The poor young man, around twenty years of age, seemed to have no cheeks on his face or his posterior. He seemed to consist mainly of bones, dirty skin and rags. He was like an Egyptian mummy, except that he was covered in flies.

"What’s your name?" I asked the body.

"Chong," he whispered, barely audible.

I fetched some biscuits and bottled tea and put them down beside Chong. He struggled to sit up and sip the tea

"Do you want a doctor?"

He nodded.

I summoned Agus who looked sympathetically at the corpselike creature.

"I don’t think we should risk putting him in my van," I said. "He might die or he might be infectious. We need an ambulance."

To my amazement, Agus, without further urging, shot off to phone for an ambulance, which duly arrived within five minutes.

I waited for the ambulance driver, who wore dark glasses and a gold watch, to help in lifting Chong, but it was not to be. Agus and I had to do the tricky manoeuvre of hoisting the bag of bones. I sat with Chong in the ambulance. Agus was to follow behind in my vehicle.

"Please drive slowly. The patient’s very weak," I said, as we set off.

The ambulance driver, as we approached the first of many deep potholes, put his foot down like a true rally driver, and our bodies bumped and jerked in every direction.

"Slow down," I shouted.

He stepped on the gas and we zoomed ahead, overtaking motorcycles and making everything rattle and vibrate.

On arrival at the Menteng Hospital, a stretcher, thank goodness, was provided to transport Chong into the emergency room. A tall young doctor gave the patient a brief examination.

"Can he be admitted?" I asked.

"No," said the doctor. "He’s mentally backward."

"But this is a hospital and this patient is almost dead from malnutrition," I said, almost spitting.

"He’ll need to go to the mental hospital."

"He’s not a danger to anyone. He’s not mentally ill, is he?"

"Mentally backward," said the doctor. "There’s a hospital at Babakan for mental patients. He must go there."

Chong was reloaded into the ambulance, driven the short distance to the mental hospital, and unloaded onto the pavement outside the admissions office. The hospital was made up of dozens of low-rise buildings, in various states of repair, within a vast area of parkland.

Agus explained the situation regarding Chong to a cheery young administrator who agreed to take the patient.

"Yes, he’ll need to go to the ward for the physically sick," said the administrator, who was wearing rather expensive leather shoes. "You can pay for a month’s treatment. It’s about a dollar a day. And you’ll need to pay for the ambulance."

"How much do we pay for the journey?" I asked the ambulance driver.

"One hundred dollars," he said, adjusting his Mafia-style dark glasses.

"It can’t be," I said. "We’ve only travelled about three miles in all. A taxi would’ve cost us about one dollar."

"One hundred dollars," said the ambulance driver, looking like a Komodo dragon pretending to be half asleep.

"I’ll give you five," I said, trying to look tough. I was still not entirely used to the callousness of some Indonesian hospital workers.

"One hundred."

I appealed to the hospital administrator.

"You must pay," he said, grinning. No doubt they reckoned I was one of these rich and stupid foreigners.

Chong was still lying face down on the pavement.

I signed a form, paid the ambulance driver in full, and escorted Chong’s stretcher to the Merdeka ward. Built around a courtyard, the ward’s single-storey brick buildings put me in mind of a prisoner of war camp in need of renovation. The rooms were dimly lit, the iron beds had no sheets and the dark walls were losing some of their plaster. There were few patients.

"I’ll buy some tins of milk and some biscuits," I said to the genial male nurse, the only person on duty. " Please make sure they’re given to Chong."

Sunday evening found me enjoying dinner at the home of Anne, Bob and their daughter Pauline.

"Delicious food, as always," I said, as I finished the first course.

"The soup," explained Anne, "is sayur asam. The cook makes it with beef broth, tamarind juice, candlenuts, shallots, garlic, chillies and shrimp paste. And various fruits and vegetables such as long beans and sweet corn."

"And the beef we’re about to eat?" I inquired.

"Beef empal," said Anne. "It’s spicy fried beef cooked with bay leaf and coriander and it’s usually served this way with rice and fresh raw vegetables. Imported Australian vegetables, washed by me."

"Your beef and chicken are always good," I said.

"I don’t buy the supermarket chicken," said Anne, looking pleased. "Sometimes their refrigeration doesn’t work and the meat’s rotten."

"Why do you think their fridges don’t work?" asked Pauline, with a naughty grin. "Has someone stolen the money for the repairs, or are the repair people incompetent, or do the managers just not care?"

"All three," responded Anne. "They say a few bad germs are good for you but think of all the kids who die of dysentery and typhoid. Hygiene saves lives."

"At least we can afford antibiotics," said Bob, "unlike some of the kampung people."

"You have to be careful with certain locally made medicines," said Anne. "One pill might contain five milligrams of the antibiotic and the next pill none."

"Goodness," I said. I was learning a bit more about the Developing World.

"Where have you been on your travels this weekend?" asked Bob, looking in my direction.

"Bogor. I love the fact it’s alive with people." I supposed Chong was still alive.

"I know what you mean," said Anne. "Bob and I like places like Tunis and Fes. Full of life."

"Fes is nice," I commented.

"Andre Gide, or his character Michel, speaks of the North Africans living their art," said Anne. "I suppose he meant their art is not so much in their paintings but more in their markets and colourful houses and everyday life."

"Bogor’s a bit like that," I said. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that Anne was a well-read lady.

As Bob poured some more Australian Chardonnay into our glasses, I glanced at a pile of school books on a side table. Anne noticed the direction of my gaze.

"Pauline, what is it you’ve been reading for your latest project?" asked Anne.

"Plato," she said, looking bright eyed. "Plato writing about Socrates. It’s for Religious studies."

"Socrates is interesting," said Anne.

"Interesting?" asked Pauline, looking cynical.

"Socrates," said Anne, "argued that a lover likes his loved one to be poor. That gives the lover more control."

"Lots of male expatriates," said Bob, with a hint of a smile, "find it convenient that some of the local girls are short of money."

"But I thought," said Pauline, "that there was a difference between love and lust. A decent lover would not want his loved one to be short of anything."

"How many lovers are decent?" asked Anne, rhetorically. "Not too many."

Pudding arrived and conversation was suspended as we tucked into something creamy and meringuey. I wondered what Min and White-Eye and Chong were getting for supper.

16. HAMID'S GRANNY AND IWAN'S FEET

2004-01-15T10:11:00.000-08:00

It was a Saturday and I had lots of people to visit.

On reaching Jakarta’s crowded Mayestic market I set about trying to find thirteen-year-old Hamid, the seller of newspapers who claimed his father had been shot dead and who claimed he had run away from his granny.

A shoeshine boy directed me to a dark indoor market, a bit like an underground car park, and the little shop where Hamid was working. The shop consisted of sacks of grains and spices and various canned goods.

"Hey mister, how are you?" said the slightly scowling, dark-eyed runaway.

"I’m fine, Hamid. How are you? Working hard?"

"I’m OK. I’ve just finished work." His scowl deepened. He looked depressed.

"Are you interested in a trip back to your grandmother?" I asked.

"OK," came the shy reply. There was a hint of hesitation.

"Good! Let’s go to my van and you can give the driver directions." I was elated at his change of attitude. I hurried him to my vehicle and we set off at speed.

After about thirty minutes we reached rice fields on the edge of Jakarta and then turned onto a narrow road running past some humble shacks.

"Slow down," ordered Hamid.

I looked at the simple houses with their grimy walls and wondered what sort of life the grandmother lived.

"Turn right," said Hamid. "A bit further. Now, stop. Here we are."

We got out of the vehicle. On our left stood two down at heel habitations. On our right there was a mansion. Hamid led us towards the latter.

"Grandmother’s house?" I gasped. The two storey mansion had a mock-Tudor look.

"Yes."

"She must be rich. This place is huge!"

"My grandfather was a banker. He’s dead now."

The garden had its fair share of weeds and the paint on the windows was flaking, but this was the house of one of the elite.

The front door was open and we entered the large front room where we were met by a bright-eyed boy slightly younger than Hamid.

"My brother, Dede" explained Hamid.

Grandmother appeared. She looked small, grey, weary and disappointed with life. For the lost boy there was neither hug nor warm smile of greeting. We were invited to sit down on a well-worn settee next a dusty pot plant. Hamid muttered a few words to his grandmother and then there was a moment of silence.

"I found Hamid in Pasar Mayestic," I said, by way of explanation.

"He runs away sometimes," said grandmother in a tired voice. "He doesn’t always attend school."

"Maybe the school’s not very good," I said.

"Hamid is not bright," said granny, putting her hand to her head, as if to suggest Hamid had something missing up top.

"What about his brother Dede? Does he like school?" I asked.

"Dede’s clever. He can speak English," said grandmother.

"I learnt English from watching TV," explained Dede, beaming.

"You know Hamid’s mother has remarried?" said grandmother. "She’s married a minibus driver. They’re both alcoholics and he takes drugs." Granny spoke softly and bitterly.

I let the information sink in. I guessed that granny had written off Hamid’s mother and new father as useless cases. I guessed she was not happy at having Hamid dumped on her.

"Is Hamid’s mother your daughter?" I asked.

"No. She’s my daughter-in-law. She was married to my late son," said granny.

"Hamid said your son was murdered," I said.

"That’s right," said granny, turning white.

"Where do Hamid’s parents live?" I asked.

"Ten minutes from here," said grandmother. "Do you want to meet them?"

"That would be nice," I said.

Hamid and I hopped into my van and were driven along a bumpy path to an estate built for the much less affluent, a place of litter, graffiti, tall weeds and stray dogs. Hamid’s mum’s home was a simple and basic concrete structure. The front door was open and we entered a room with little in the way of furniture; I was introduced to a relaxed looking mum and dad.

The couple were in their early thirties, thin, and poorly dressed but showed no obvious signs of drink or drugs. Again, as on our arrival at Granny’s house, there were no hugs for worried looking Hamid. Mum brought me a glass of water. Like her husband, she seemed friendly and polite, but why had she not put her arms around her son, or given him some sign of welcome? Why had she not started questioning Hamid about his absence and his return?

"Hamid said he wanted to come to visit granny," I said, breaking a long moment of silence. "I wondered why he doesn’t live with you here." I smiled, to compensate for my bluntness.

"He truants," she said, by way of explanation. "He’s not good at school." She smiled.

"He seems quite bright," I said.

"Not like his brother," she said.

After we had chatted about trivialities for a few minutes, Hamid’s father decided to go outside to have a smoke with his friends, and then Hamid’s mother decided to go off and clean the kitchen. What was I to make of these two parents? They reminded me of certain of the nurses in one of the hospitals I had visited: self-indulgent, empty-headed, cold-hearted and thick-skinned. I had expected them to kill the fatted calf for the return of the lost child. Instead there was strange indifference.

"Shall we get back to granny?" I asked Hamid.

Hamid nodded and we returned the van. The drive back was in silence. I was feeling uneasy.

"I hope he’s going to stay here," I said to granny, once we had returned to her front room.

She didn’t say anything.

"Are you staying here?" I asked Hamid.

Hamid nodded.

We all shook hands and off I went, leaving behind a tense and angry looking boy.

Having left Hamid, I traveled to see Min.

I was always highly nervous before meeting Min at Wisma Utara. Was he going to be in good spirits? Yes. He was in the middle of the lounge dancing vigorously to dangdut music being played on a big cassette recorder. He was grinning, enjoying having an audience made up of Joan, Dan and some of the children. He was having one of his good days. When he saw me, he strode confidently over to me and grabbed my hand. We went for our usual promenade.

We sauntered along the kampung’s narrow concrete pathways, under shady golden shower trees and past gardens full of hibiscus. Before long we came to the neighbourhood rubbish tip. The rubbish tip was big. This one hectare of rusting metal, plastic bags, rotting food and other junk was set between a school and some houses. Smoke rose at one end, darkening out the sky. Here we watched the rubbish collectors, searching for paper, plastic and metal to be sold for recycling. Min seemed quite relaxed in this down-market area.

One of the collectors, a handsome, rickety, skin-and-bone juvenile in a white T-shirt, was seated at the foot of a battered wooden cart. He looked ready to be put on a stretcher.

"What’s your name?" I asked.

"Iwan," he replied, looking awfully serious.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Are you OK?"

"Tired."

"Where do you live?"

Iwan pointed to some huts made of bits of plywood.

"Do you live with your parents?" I asked.

"My father’s dead. I live with my grandmother."

"If you’d like to go to the doctor, I can arrange it with your grandmother."

Iwan stood up and we scrunched our way over the sea of rubbish in the direction of the scavengers’ houses. Barefoot Iwan was limping.

"Do you pay rent?" I asked him.

"Yes."

"Does your mother live here?"

"She lives in the countryside."

A white haired old woman, with an almost toothless grin, ambled up to us.

"This is my grandmother," said Iwan, "and this is our house. Come on in."

We entered the one room shanty. The furniture consisted of a bed and some shelves. There were a few items of clothing, some dishes and jars, a poster of Sukarno, and some pictures of young women which had been salvaged from old magazines. Min seemed quite at home and pleased to have the company of another child. I wondered if Min came from a home like this.

After a brief discussion, Iwan’s Granny agreed to an immediate trip with Iwan to the Pertama Hospital. We returned Min to Wisma Utara and then made the twenty minute journey to the hospital.

The doctor in the casualty ward took a close interest in Iwan’s feet.

"Leprosy," he said. "It’s like TB but spreads very much slower. Look at the holes on the soles of his feet."

I could see two holes the size of small coins, about half a centimetre deep. "Can you give him medicine?" I asked.

"He’ll need to go to the Leprosy Hospital in Bekasi."

"As an in-patient?" I asked.

"It would be better to be an in-patient, to make sure he takes his medicine. It’s not an expensive hospital. Very cheap. As an outpatient he’d need to attend once a month."

"Iwan, do you want to stay in the Leprosy Hospital?" I asked.

"Could my grandmother stay with me?" asked Iwan. He did not look happy.

"No," said the doctor.

"Then I’ll go as an outpatient," said Iwan.

It was agreed that next morning my driver would take the lad to Bekasi, a settlement on the edge of Jakarta.

My final visit of the day was to Bogor and this involved a thirty-five mile drive, mainly along a modern toll road, with pleasant views of flowers and hills. My destination was the mental hospital at Babakan in Bogor. This was where I had taken Chong, the skinny young wreck I had found in the street.

Leaving the mental hospital’s carpark with its posh Toyotas and Jeeps, I walked through the hospital’s pleasant gardens with their gorgeous flowering trees, skirted the palatial office of the director, and arrived at the pre-Florence-Nightingale Merdeka ward. To my relief I found Chong was still alive, had perhaps put on a little weight, and was in fact being attended to by an amiable female nurse. I smiled at Chong and patted him on the shoulder. He smiled wanly. I bought him some more milk and biscuits from the hospital shop before making my excuses and returning to Jakarta. I had dinner at the Hilton.

Come Sunday my driver and I took the road to Ciomas, in the hills above Bogor. The sky was clear and the hills, when we reached them, were the sort of sharp grey-blue you might see in Spain’s sunny Sierra Nevada. We parked beside a roadside stall where I bought a plant called Red Ginger. The plant’s bright red luminous flowers must have been nearly thirty centimetres tall.

Leaving the vehicle behind, I set off on a long country walk. I passed a falling down primary school, a tiny mosque with an onion shaped dome, fields growing maize, and a little hamlet with lots of banana trees and light pink bougainvillea.

After a pause to take some photos, I took a path through some woodland, which had that dark steamy smell of rotting flowers. Some way into the wood I came upon an old man and three schoolboys, aged roughly twelve to thirteen. The boys looked as if they were on their way home from school.

"Where are you from? Where are you going?" one boy asked.

"I’m from Proxima Centauri," I replied.

They tittered politely, presuming that I had tried to make some kind of joke.

The boy with the cleanest white shirt was called Lukman; the one with buttons missing from various parts of his clothing was called Andi; and the lad with a cigarette packet in the back pocket of his red shorts was Udin. The gnarled and cheery old peasant was called Herry, and he was the grandfather of Andi.

"We’re going to look for lizards," said Lukman. "Do you want to see one?"

"Yes, please," I replied.

We passed through a wilderness of boulders and bushes and came upon a small, wooden, open-fronted hut or pendopa half-hidden in the middle of a zone of tall grasses, rocks and small trees.

Herry and I sat on the front steps of the hut; Andi searched in the undergrowth and almost immediately pulled out a small lizard which he placed on his head; Lukman found an even smaller lizard and let it crawl under his shirt and then up his leg; Udin lay on the ground and smoked a kretek cigarette.

"Are there snakes here?" I asked.

"Yes," said Udin. "Lukman got bitten once. Had to go to hospital. His leg all swelled up."

Lukman pointed to a small mark on his skin.

"Any spiders?"

"Up there in the branches," said Andi, who immediately began to climb up the nearest tree like a circus acrobat. He swung from a branch making Tarzan noises, while Lukman tried unsuccessfully to pull him down, by grabbing at his clothing. To Andi’s left I could see a spider’s web and an elegant red and blue coloured spider whose body was the size of a thumb.

When Andi returned to the ground he was scratching his bare limbs.

"Ants and mosquitoes," explained Andi.

This area seemed like a Huckleberry Finn paradise for children, a domain from a South Sea treasure island; and yet it had mosquitoes and snakes and maybe even leprosy. My tummy rumbled.

"I think it’s time for me to get back to my vehicle," I said. "Can you show me the way back to the road that goes to Bogor."

"Which road? There are lots of roads," said the old man.

"I don’t know," I said. Not for the first time, I was lost. It happens sometimes.

We walked and walked until we reached a narrow stretch of road. I didn’t recognise it, but, there was a leather-jacketed young man standing there with a motorbike.

"Can you take me to the road that goes to Bogor?" I asked the man with the bike.

"No problem," he said, smiling.

Having said goodbye to Andi and Lukman, Udin and I were given a wonderful motorbike tour of the Ciomas countryside. We bumped along under tall dark trees, past a boy carrying a great bundle of grass on his head, over rivers full of kids pretending to be Mowgli, past a little fairground in a field, through hamlets with geese and goats, and on and on. The light was fading. Then we reached a roadside stall.

"Hey!" I said. "That white van down that path. I think it’s mine. Yes it is." My flipping driver must have taken it off the main road and hidden it in a camouflaged position.

I paid the bike driver and Udin and got driven home in silence.

17. REJECTED BY HIS FAMILY

2004-01-12T10:59:00.000-08:00

After a Saturday breakfast of fresher than fresh eggs, porridge oats with papaya and cream, croissants and coffee, Asiaweek, The Far Eastern Economic Review, Inside Indonesia and The Jakarta Post, I was ready for the day’s adventure. I strolled out to the garage to see my driver.

"Mo, did Iwan get his leprosy medicine?"

"Yes. Enough for a month," he said.

"Right, Mo, we’re off to Bogor. And later we’ll see Min, back in Jakarta."

Mo’s immobile face managed to show displeasure.

We sped along the narrow twisty roads, which were crowded with wandering bikes and children, but crawled along the wide, smooth toll road. As I sat comfortably at the back of my van, I began reading Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, in preparation for one of Monday’s lessons. In 1948, someone called Leslie Fiedler wrote an essay, in the Partisan Review, in which he described Huck and Jim as enjoying a sexual relationship. In old age, Mark Twain organized the Angelfish Club, a group of schoolage girls, called Angelfish, whom he regularly wrote to and invited to stay with him.

When I looked up from my book it occurred to me that the toll road was rather pleasant because of the views of golf-courses and bougainvillea. The only thing that disturbed me was that when I looked in the vehicle’s front mirror I could see that Mo’s eyes would occasionally close for a few seconds, and then open with a blink. My guess was that Mo was putting on some kind of act.

We reached Bogor safely and motored along sunny, tree-lined streets to the mental hospital. In the hospital’s Merdeka ward I found Chong watching an old black and white TV that was situated in the shabby lounge area. He had already grown strong enough to sit up unsupported.

"Hello Chong," I said.

He nodded. He was too shy to look either at me or at the maternal looking female nurse sitting near him.

"Chong’s been drinking the milk," said the nurse. "He’s put on weight already."

"He’s certainly no longer skin and bones," I said. "What does the doctor say?"

"The doctor said Chong’s suffering from depression," explained the nurse, in a quiet and sympathetic tone. "Chong is Chinese Indonesian. He’s a bit retarded and his family have rejected him."

"Oh dear," I said. "So he’ll be able to stay here?"

"Yes. When he’s put on a bit more weight, he’ll be transferred to another ward."

"Chong, how are you getting on?" I asked

Chong stared downwards and responded with a whispered word, which I could not make out.

"Chong, do you like watching TV?" I asked.

There was a pause and then a slight nod.

"Are there any children in this hospital?" I asked the nurse. I wondered if there were any poor children like Min.

"In the Pertama ward," said the nurse. "There are about five patients. To get there, you cross the grass and turn right, then left. Five minutes walk. You’ll see a single storey building with white walls and red tiles."

"May I visit them?"

"Of course."

"Would I be allowed to take them for walks in the grounds?"

"I think so. You can ask someone at the Director’s office."

I delivered some more milk and biscuits to Chong and then called in at the main office where a plump, bespectacled doctor, having asked me a few questions about my place of work, agreed to me giving the children some exercise. In Britain things would not have been so simple.

The red roofed building for the children was relatively basic, but it had some bright painted walls and it was surrounded by beautiful garden. The only person on duty was a little old man with a slender frame and a gentle smile. His name was Nano and he agreed to show me round.

The office, where Nano had been watching TV and eating rice and vegetables off a piece of brown paper, contained a battered filing cabinet and a table covered in dog-eared files. Next to the office, there was a long dormitory, the austerity of which was lessened by the cartoon characters painted on one section of wall. Two teenage girls, looking well-fed, respectably dressed and quite normal, were sitting on wooden beds, reading comics. At one end of the dormitory was a small cell which had barred windows but no furniture. Sitting on the concrete floor of the cell was a big, muscular, shaven-headed teenage boy who looked harmless but less than normal. He smiled at me in an open-mouthed, vacant-sort-of way.

"Who’s this in the cell?" I asked.

"Erwin," said Nano.

"Why’s he in the cell?"

"He’s very backward. Very strong. He might run away."

"And the two girls reading comics?"

"Wira and Sum. Suffering from stress," explained Nano.

"How many children all together?"

"Five."

"The other two?"

Nano led me through the toilets to a backyard, where, against a damp black wall, stood a bare boards bed. On the bed, in uncomfortable crouching positions, were two teenage boys. Their heads were shaven; their skins were covered in sores; they were tied very firmly to the bed by flat looking ropes or cords; they were completely naked.

"John on the left and Daud on the right," explained Nano. "They have very low mental ages."

Daud had quite a pleasant face. John was less than handsome.

"Are they dangerous?" I asked.

"No," said Nano. "But they might try to run away."

"Has Daud always been backward?"

"His mother says Daud was normal until the age of nine when he caught some infection which damaged his brain. He has epilepsy, just like Erwin and John. John was born mentally backward."

"Were these children put in the hospital by their families?" I asked.

"Yes, their families pay for them to be here."

"Do they get medicine?"

"Yes."

I wondered if Min might have ended up in a place like this, if he’d been unlucky. Probably not, because there would have been no one to pay the hospital bills.

"Can I take these kids for a walk?" I asked Nano.

"Erwin is very big and strong. He might try to run away," said Nano gently.

"What about John and Daud?"

"They are idiots," said Nano, smiling.

"But they might want to go for a short walk in the garden," I suggested.

"How far?"

"We could go to the little shop within the grounds," I explained. "Is there anything you need?"

"Cigarettes," said Nano, grinning. "Djarum filter."

"OK. And we can get some biscuits and milk," I added.

Nano untied John and Daud, and then rummaged in a cupboard for some clothes. The two boys stood reasonably still while they were fitted into shirts and shorts several sizes too big. They had to hold the shorts up as they walked.

I took John in one hand and Daud in the other. John seemed well dosed with medicine and a bit wobbly on his feet. Daud was a trifle wilder and tended to pull me forward while making strange faces and noises. To my surprise, Nano didn’t come with us, but the two girls, Wira and Sum, followed me at a distance.

We progressed through the garden, reached the tiny hospital shop, and bought our supplies. The packets of biscuits were a problem as the two boys found them impossible to open. It took me only three or four minutes to break into the plastic wrappings. John and Daud scoffed down the food as if they hadn’t been fed for days. Wira and Sum ate more slowly.

"Do you like it here?" I asked the girls, as we headed back through the gardens, past flowering frangipani and alamanda.

"It’s OK," said Wira, smiling sweetly. Sum looked less happy, as if she might burst into tears.

Safely back at the ward I handed over some clove cigarettes to a relaxed-looking Nano. I suspected that, like the nurses who had been looking after Bangbang when he vanished from the Dipo hospital, Nano would not have been too worried if any of his patients had disappeared. I felt extremely pleased that I had made the journey to and from the shop without major incident. Nobody had tried to escape. Nobody had had a fit. I returned to my vehicle in a good mood.

"To Andi’s house, beyond Internusa," I said to Mo.

While we made our thirty minute journey to the other side of Bogor, I gave my hands a clean with some medicinal alcohol.

Little Andi, playing in the mud outside his falling-down hut, still looked malnourished but at least his mother had taken him to the hospital for a check-up.

"The doctor says he hasn’t got TB," said mum, holding up an x-ray.

"Has the doctor given him any medicine?" I asked.

"Worm medicine, vitamins and milk powder," said mum.

I gave her some more cash and then went to see Asep, in his nearby hovel beneath tall trees.

"Are you still taking the TB medicine?" I asked.

"Yes," said Asep, who looked cheerful but pale and thin.

"How’s the little girl with the burns?"

"She’s right behind you," said Asep.

There she was, grinning happily, wearing a grubby little dress, and holding out a hospital receipt. Her leg looked a fraction better.

"Thanks for getting a receipt," I said to the little creature.

Having returned to the Mitsubishi, I requested Mo to take us back to the centre of Bogor. We bumped along, squeezing past buffalo and hordes of pretty school girls, and then past minibuses and crowded open-air markets. Eventually we reached the canal that was ten minutes walk from the humble home of the fruit bat, Melati, Tikus and Dian. Leaving the vehicle, I strode along narrow lanes and down steep steps. I was anxious to find out if Dian had got some TB medicine.

"Hi mister," said Melati, as I entered her small front room with its dreamy view of the river Cisadane and Mount Salak.

Dian came forward to present me with her x-ray, little packets of pills for TB and various receipts.

"Well done," I said.

I sat down near the door, in order to get as much fresh air as possible. Fortunately, Dian had been taking her pills for at least a fortnight and so she was not so likely to infect others.

"Mister, what’s your name?" asked Melati as she lay back on the sofa, showing lots of slim leg.

"Mr Been," I said.

"Mr Been," repeated Melati, impassively.

Tikus arrived, fresh from school, and sat between Melati and Dian. A shifty-looking young man, whom I guessed might be Dian’s husband, hovered at the door. He was no doubt ensuring that the foreigner caused no mischief.

"Have you been x-rayed, Melati?" I asked.

"Yes, all of us," said Melati. "My grandfather also has TB."

"Is he getting medicine?"

"Yes."

Granny arrived with the fruit bat and squeezed onto the sofa.

"Take a photo, Mr Been," pleaded Melati.

As I began to get my camera ready, Dian decided to get up and leave; the fruit bat tried unsuccessfully to stretch its wings; granny posed nicely; Tikus decided to tickle Melati.

"Keep still," I said.

Melati gave Tikus a pretend punch below the belt.

"Keep still," I complained. Click. "Now I’m off to have lunch," I explained, and made my exit.

Throughout my morning in Bogor I had been thinking about Min. Now I was in a hurry to see him and after a quick lunch of pizza, and a journey of an hour and a half, I had reached Wisma Utara, back in Jakarta. During the journey I had noted, from viewing the front mirror, that Mo’s eyes would occasionally close for a few seconds.

Min was looking well, and sidled up to me to take my hand. We went for one of our walks, heading on this occasion through an area of interesting, twisting little lanes. Outside a two storey kampung house with a smart green door, I got chatting to a girl, called Ijah. She was in her late teens, pretty like a nun from the Sound of Music, and dressed in green and white Islamic gear including headscarf. I told her a bit about Min. She listened politely and seemed interested.

"We have someone like Min in our house," she said quietly. "Would you like to meet him?"

"We’d love to," I said.

We stepped inside and climbed some narrow wooden stairs to an attic. Lying on a bed was someone who looked like a malnourished Extra Terrestrial with withered legs. He was maybe in his thirties or maybe forties. Min put on a worried face.

"This is my brother Tejo," said Ijah.

"Hello Tejo," I said, but got no reply. He avoided eye contact and looked nervous.

"What’s wrong with him?" I inquired of Ijah.

"He got ill when he was a child," said Ijah. "He can’t use his legs."

"Perhaps polio," I said. "Does he stay in this attic all the time?"

"Yes."

"Have you got a wheelchair?"

"No," said Ijah.

"Would you like me to buy one for Tejo?" I asked.

"If you like."

"Tejo, would you like a wheelchair?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Can he speak?"

"Oh yes," said Ijah, "but he’s not used to people."

"It’s nice to meet you Tejo," I said. "This is my friend Min. We’d like to come and visit you again." I rambled on for a bit, but got no reply from Tejo, although he did smile when I shook his hand and said my goodbyes.

Min and I walked back to Wisma Utara, but on reaching the entrance, Min decided he was not going to go back in. He decided instead to do a kind of dance in the middle of the street. I took his arm and tried to haul him in, but he broke free and continued his gyrations. I fetched Dan, the member of Wisma Utara’s staff who had been allotted to caring for Min. Dan gently took Min by the hand and Min obediently went in to supper.

As I was being driven home from Wisma Utara, my driver announced that he would not be unhappy if I dispensed with his services. In other words, he wanted me to find a new driver. My immediate reaction was relief. There would be no more eyes closing while driving along the toll road. When I had first arrived in Indonesia I had thought that I would be capable of treating people like maids and drivers with respect and consideration; but I had sometimes made Mo work seven days a week; and I did not necessarily have Mo’s total sympathy when dealing with certain waifs and strays.

I paid Mo his monthly salary plus the usual ‘extra’ that one is expected to pay when saying goodbye to an employee. Mo departed with a broad smile and I began making phonecalls in order to find a new driver. Fortunately the family of one of my students, a family that was about to leave the country for good, were anxious to find employment for their excellent driver, whose name was Mo. The new Mo was a married man in his thirties, tall, kind-faced and calm. I promised him that he would normally have Sundays off and that I would pay generous overtime for extra duties such as visiting hospitals.

18. MOTHER LIVES FAR AWAY

2004-01-11T11:45:00.000-08:00

As the school term wore on, it was natural that the students’ stamina and enthusiasm diminished, as did mine. We had done the grammar game, the vocabulary game, the move-round the-class game, the reading game, the map game, the computer game, the quiz game, the murder game and the fifty other such fun activities to help them practise their English. We had moved on to rather more routine exercises which provoked the occasional yawn. School terms were too long. Ever more frequently I looked forward to the retreats to the staff room for cups of coffee and comfort.

There were two staffrooms, one large and one small. I preferred the smaller room, which had space for only half a dozen people, and which seemed to encourage more intimate conversation.

"How’s your least favourite student?" Carmen asked me, as we sat in front of piles of uncorrected work and several half-drunk cups of staff room tea.

"You mean John?" I queried.

"I mean John," said Carmen with a happy giggle. "You know he doesn’t do any work for any of us. And he’s not just disruptive in lessons. He’s disruptive everywhere. He’s fallen out with all his friends."

"I had a chat with his mother," I said.

"She thinks it’s all our fault," said Carmen.

"Not any more," I explained. "She at last came out with the truth. It seems she’s been fighting with her husband and there’s going to be a divorce."

"I suspected as much," said Fergus, looking up briefly from his newspaper. "Now I won’t take the boy’s behaviour so personally.

"I imagine the Indonesians have less of a problem over divorce than the Europeans," I commented.

"Don’t you believe it," said Carmen. "One of the school secretaries was telling me that about half of all the Indonesians she knows have been divorced. Most Indonesian girls seem to get married in their late teens and there’s a high divorce rate among the early married."

"There’s less stigma attached to divorce in Indonesia," said Fergus.

"Divorce leads to poverty for some Indonesian women," said Carmen.

"I suppose a lot of the Blok M bar girls are the product of broken homes," said Fergus.

"And how’s Min?" asked Carmen, changing the subject.

"He seems OK," I said. "One day he can be very cheerful and the next day down in the dumps." I handed Carmen a photo of Min on one of his good days.

"He looks rather sweet but awfully sad," said Carmen, as she studied the print. "Do you think you’re ever going to find his family?"

"Not a chance," said Ian, a colleague with a pessimistic view of kampung people. "His family could be dead. You know the problem’s going to be when you leave Indonesia for good. He’s going to be left on his own."

"Anything’s possible," I said, not wanting to pursue the point. I turned to speak to Fergus. "Where are you off to for the Easter holiday?" I asked. It was already March and time to think of escape from the classroom.

"Thailand. And you?"

"Visiting my parents in the UK," I said. And I knew I would be worrying about Min each day I was away from him. Min wouldn’t understand any explanation I tried to give him.

I bought a wheelchair in the down-town area of Glodok, collected an anxious-looking Min from Wisma Utara, and walked, with the chair, to the house of Tejo, the man in the attic.

"Hi, Ijah," I said, on entering the house. "Can we take Tejo out in this wheelchair?"

"Ah, you bought it for him. Thank you. Yes." Ijah was again wearing her Islamic uniform. She smiled demurely.

"Are you coming with us?" I asked her.

"No thanks," she said.

Ijah and I carried a surprisingly light Tejo down the narrow wooden stairs and sat him in the wheelchair. He was smiling as Min and I wheeled him out the door and down the sunny lane.

The sky was brilliant blue, the birds twittered happily and the gardenia was in full bloom. At the bottom of the road we met a girl collecting washing from a line strung up outside her little house. The girl had sparkly eyes, lovely lips and long, slim legs. I noticed that Tejo was grinning happily.

"Who’s this in the wheelchair?" the girl asked, while giving us a cheerful smile.

"This is Tejo who lives in that big house up the street," I said. "The one with the green shutters."

"I’ve never seen him before," said the girl. "That’s the neighbourhood chief’s house up there."

"I don’t think Tejo ever gets out," I said. "So I’m letting him get some fresh air."

"That’s good," she said.

We did a circuit of the area and then returned a happy Tejo to his home. There, in the lounge, we were met by a worried looking Ijah and a cross faced young man.

"This is Tejo’s brother, Harjo," said Ijah, introducing Cross-Face and looking down at the ground. Cross-Face wore a smart shirt and his thin face had the scowling look of a bad-tempered Sicilian.

"You can’t take Tejo out of the house!" said Harjo, sulphurously.

"We were giving him some fresh air," I explained. "I bought the wheelchair for him so he can get out and about." Taken aback by Harjo’s fury, I found myself shaking. Min was staring at me and looking scared.

"You can’t take Tejo out," said Harjo.

"Are you going to take him out?" I asked angrily.

"No," said Harjo.

"Do you want me to take the wheelchair away for someone else to use?" I asked.

"No," said Harjo.

"Is Ijah going to take him out?" I said.

"No," said Harjo.

"Well what’s the point of having the chair if he’s not allowed to go out?" I protested.

An older, taller man appeared from a back room. He had the muscular look of a soldier and a face that showed no emotion.

"He might go out in the evening," said the older man, "when it’s dark"

"Can’t I take him out?" I pleaded.

"No," said the older man.

"There are institutions for people like Tejo," said Harjo, looking like a mad crusader or jihad warrior. "We may put him in a home for the handicapped."

There was a period of silence and then Min and I made our exit and returned to Wisma Utara.

I decided it would be better not to try to take Tejo out again, in case that made his family decide to banish him to some mental home. The male members of the family were obviously embarrassed by their crippled relative and felt they would lose face in the neighbourhood if he was seen around. I hoped I had not already done irreparable damage to Tejo. Oh dear! I had meant well.

For two days, work and school social events kept me from visiting Min. When I returned to see him I thought he looked pale and sick.

"How’s Min?" I asked Joan, who was sitting in the lounge area. She was dressed in cheap black trousers and T-shirt, and looked fed-up.

"I think Min was worried about you not coming here. He kept on mentioning your name. Yesterday he refused to eat."

This brought a lump to my throat. It was gratifying that Min liked me so much, but, deeply worrying that he couldn’t cope with my short absence. "How is he today?" I asked nervously.

"Just fine," she said. "Everyone’s fine."

"Are you sure? Min seems a bit white," I said. Min looked like an anguished ghost.

"No, he’s healthy," insisted Joan.

"Has he been feeling sick?"

"No."

"There are lumps of dried food on his T-shirt," I pointed out.

"Don’t worry, Mr Kent. He’s very healthy." Joan smiled unconvincingly.

"Has the doctor been here this week?"

"Yes. We told him everyone is OK."

At this point Min vomited buckets of white stuff onto the floor.

"Sick," said Min staring at me with big anxious eyes. This was one of his rare comments.

"I’d better take him to a doctor," I said, firmly. "Is that all right?"

"Yes. I’ll come with you," said Joan. "And can little Tedi come too? He’s been very sick for two weeks."

"Two weeks!" I fumed. "You said everyone was fine! Let’s go immediately." I was still learning about the Third World, and its sometimes odd attitude to truth and accuracy.

We bundled Tedi, a pale, tearful, half-blind, eight-year-old, into the back of my van, along with Min, and drove to the nearby doctor. The clinic was in a modest middle-class house and was modest in terms of equipment and cleanliness. The walls had been long stained by dirty fingers and damp. The shy young female doctor examined Min and issued some pills.

"What’s wrong with Min?" I asked.

"Nothing serious," said the doctor. "His temperature is normal. Blood pressure’s OK. Just something he’s eaten."

Half blind Tedi was examined next.

"Tedi will need to go to the hospital," said the doctor. "He has a high fever and is dehydrated. It’s urgent that he gets onto a drip."

"I’ll pay for his treatment," I said.

"We’ll have to ask the permission of Ibu Ani," said Joan. "Tedi’s mother lives far away in Central Java. It would take days to contact her."

We got back into the van and drove the short distance to the old, Dutch-style bungalow of Ibu Ani, the elderly lady who had built Wisma Utara for her Down’s Syndrome son. Tedi stayed in my van while the rest of us sat on chairs in the garden. Joan and I explained the situation regarding Tedi, but Ibu Ani didn’t seem keen to discuss the subject. She looked grey and tired.

"How are you liking Jakarta?" Ibu Ani asked me.

"It’s great, but I’m here to ask about Tedi," I pointed out.

"And is Min liking Wisma Utara?" continued Ibu Ani.

"Yes, but what about Tedi?" I said.

"His mother must deal with the problem," said the Ibu, quietly. "That’s the policy."

"But his mother will take days to contact," I said.

"There’s nothing we can do," said Ibu Ani.

"But the doctor says Tedi must get onto a drip immediately. I’ll pay for the treatment."

The arguments were repeated over and over again for thirty minutes until I think I simply wore her down. She agreed to Tedi going to the Pertama hospital.

In the emergency room at the hospital, Tedi was given a blood test, put on a drip and taken to the children’s ward.

"It’s almost certainly Typhoid," said the doctor. "It’s a pity he didn’t come to the hospital a bit sooner. We’ll need to hope no complications set in."

Next evening, Tedi was no worse.

Back at Wisma Utara, Min no longer looked pale and in fact was dancing to pop music when I arrived. Music seemed to make him really happy.

"We’ve sent Min’s photo to a newspaper called Pos Kota," said Joan. "They have a column with photos of lost children. Maybe Min’s family will see it."

"That’s fantastic," I said. "It’s a pity Doctor Bahari’s clinic didn’t think of using the press."

"Not many people read newspapers," said Joan. "Poor people can’t afford them. But maybe we’ll be lucky."

"At the end of the week, I’m off to Britain for a ten day holiday," I explained to Joan. "Min won’t understand why I’m not visiting him. Please give him lots of care and attention. Can Dan take him for walks?"

"Yes, Mr Kent. Don’t worry."

"I am worried," I said. "Min is used to me visiting every day."

"Dan will take him for walks," said Joan.

"I’ll take Min for a walk now, if I may," I said. "I want to see if Iwan, the boy with leprosy, is back at home. My driver told me yesterday that when he went to the rubbish dump to collect Iwan, to take him to the leprosy hospital, there was nobody there."

Min and I walked through the kampung towards the rubbish dump and after ten minutes had arrived at Iwan’s house. It was locked. There was no sign of life.

"Iwan’s gone to visit relations," said the old woman in the next hut. "He went two days ago."

"His medicine’s finished this week," I said. "Will he be back soon?"

"I don’t know. Maybe he’s gone for a few weeks," said the old woman.

"Do you have the address of the place he’s gone to?"

"No. It’s very far away. At least six hours by bus."

"Well, my driver will call back here tomorrow," I told her. "In case Iwan’s come back."

It was Saturday. Tedi was making good progress in hospital. Iwan, the leper child, was still not back in Jakarta. Hamid, hopefully, was still with granny in her big house. Andi and Asep and Dian and the others in Bogor had been given money to buy their next lot of medicine. Chong was putting on weight. I said goodbye to Min and set off to the airport for my flight to London.

19. FAMILY

2004-01-09T11:38:00.000-08:00

It is difficult when you want to be with two sets of people at the same time, but know that the sets are separated by oceans and continents. I wanted to be with my parents, but, during my ten days in chilly, grey Britain I worried all the time about Min, back in Jakarta. Was Min fully recovered from his sickness? Was he eating? Was he getting any exercise? If only he could have understood the idea of me being away for a ten day holiday, exploring the Lake District, with my mum and dad. How do you explain such things to someone with the vocabulary of a two-year-old? He would be thinking he had been abandoned.

During the five months I had known Min, he seemed to have made such a lot of progress. He had grown taller and stronger; he had started to speak again, even if it was only simple words or phrases like ‘hungry’ or ‘how are you?’; he could eat with a knife and fork; he could kick a ball.

On the flight back to Jakarta there was big dipper turbulence and a flashing thunderstorm over Kuala Lumpur. Big dippers can be scary. The lady sitting next to me vomited into her sick-bag, and I held on tight to the arm rests, trying to hold the plane up. On my headphones I listened to Clair de Lune, thought of Min, and prayed.

We touched down safely in Jakarta. It was wonderfully warm outside the terminal and my driver was waiting for me; I asked him to take me straight to Wisma Utara, an hour and a half journey through the dark. As always the traffic was heavy and I was tired and nervous.

We parked in our usual spot and I hurried down the poorly lit lane to the children’s home.

Min was alive. He must have been eating! He was sitting up straight on a bench looking worried and upset. He avoided eye contact. I sat beside him and took his hand. He withdrew it. I supposed he was angry and sulking because, in not visiting him, I had caused him days of heartbreak. But at least he was alive.

And there was eight-year-old Tedi, back from the hospital, and looking healthy. He had survived his bout of typhoid.

"Mr Kent, nice to have you back," said a very happy looking Joan, coming to sit beside me.

"How’s Min been?" I asked.

"He missed you Mr Kent," said Joan. "He kept on saying ‘long time’, ‘long time’."

I put my arm around Min’s shoulder and he sort of smiled.

"Mr Kent," said Joan "I have great news. You remember the photo in the newspaper? Min’s older brother came here!"

Min’s older brother had come to Wisma Utara! Min had a family! I felt a surge of joy. But it was joy mixed with anxiety and jet lag. "Fantastic," I said, "Are his family going to take him home?"
Various thoughts raced through my mind. I wondered why his family had not already taken him home. That was strange. And if they had taken him home before I had got back, would I ever have seen him again? And if they had taken him home, would he have been at risk of going missing again?

"The brother’s name is Wardi," explained Joan. "Wardi said he’d wait until you returned before doing anything. He wants to meet you."

"Where do they live?" I asked.

"Near Teluk Gong, down near the sea and the road to the airport."

"That’s miles from where I found Min. Right the other side of Jakarta!"

"A very long way," agreed Joan.

"Has Min got parents?" I inquired anxiously.

"Yes, a father and a mother and two sisters and three brothers. They’re very poor people, Mr Kent, very poor."

"How did Min get lost?" I asked.

"Wardi said that Min just wandered off. Just disappeared. He said they looked for him for days and his mother cried."

"How long has he been missing?"

"Some months," said Joan. "They’re not sure about the exact dates. The parents are uneducated people."

"Do they know what’s wrong with Min?"

"Wardi said Min was a normal child until about the age of seven, when he got an extremely high fever. He was desperately ill for weeks. After that, he wasn’t right in the head. Several times, he wandered off and got temporarily lost."

"When are they coming back to Wisma Utara?" I asked.

"Min’s older sister is coming here tomorrow morning. You can meet her then."

"Yes, that’s good," I said. "She can take us to see Min’s family in Teluk Gong."

"Can I come with you, Mr Kent?" asked Joan.

"Yes, that would be helpful," I said. There was so much to think about.

I took Min for a short walk around the dimly lit block of streets and tried to sort things out in my mind. How strange this all was. Strange, but wonderful that his family had found him. If he had been my child, I would have taken him home to Teluk Gong straight away. I wondered what Min must be thinking? I hoped his family wanted him back. The fact that they had responded to the photo in the newspaper presumably meant that they did want him back. Maybe there was a case to be made for Min staying a little longer at Wisma Utara where he could get regular schooling and food, and where he might be less likely to go missing. His behaviour could still be a bit wild at times. On the other hand, maybe Min was desperate to get home. Oh dear! What was best for Min?

The main things were that he should have a permanent family home and that he shouldn’t get lost again.

I thought of all the people who had said originally that I should have left Min on the street. They had said we would never find his parents. Well, we had found them and now we had to make sure that his return to his family was a success.

I looked at Min, who was now happy to take my hand, but whose face still suggested worry and stress. With his limited verbal ability, he couldn’t answer any questions I might ask. He could not tell me what sort of people his parents were. I thought of poor, deceased Budi whose parents were sickly, not very bright, and more keen to spend money on earrings rather than doctors. I thought of little Abdul whom I had found on a bridge in Bandung, after he had run away from his granny who had beaten him. I thought of Bangbang who seemed to find it so easy to run away, either from his family or from the Dipo Hospital. I thought of Hamid who did not seem to be wanted by his alcoholic parents or by his granny in the big house. I thought of Chong, rejected by his family, and ending up in the street. I prayed that Min’s family would be better than all of those.

I returned Min to Wisma Utara and walked back to my van.

"Back home now. I’m exhausted," I said to the driver. "How is Iwan, the leper kid? Has he come back yet for his leprosy medicine?"

"Not yet," said Mo.

Next morning, in Margaret’s room at Wisma Utara, I met Min’s older sister, Siti, and Siti’s husband, Gani. They looked as if they were in their late twenties or early thirties. Older sister had an attractive face that could have been painted by Raphael, a face that suggested someone calm, sensible and open-hearted. She was wearing her best country-peasant dress. Husband Gani was in T-shirt and cheap trousers and his narrow eyes and strained smile made his face more difficult to read. Both of them wore cheap sandals.

The greetings were amazingly formal. When Siti first arrived she took Min’s hands in hers and then Min shyly kissed her fingers. Everyone looked so very serious, including Min. It was like something from a previous century. But then Siti hugged Min and tears came to her eyes.

"It’s wonderful that you’ve found Min again," I said. "You saw his photo in the newspaper?"

"Yes," said Siti. "It was a neighbour who brought the newspaper to us. He asked if we thought it might be Min. We said it could be. The boy in the photo looked slightly bigger than we expected."

"Did you recognise Min when you came to Wisma Utara?" I asked.

"Min looked older, and in nice clothes, but we recognised the moles on his face and neck."

It occurred to me that Siti and family might be fakes, but there was some resemblance between Siti and Min, and they had been observant about Min’s moles, some of which were hidden by his shirt.

"Shall we go to Min’s home in Teluk Gong?" I said.

"Yes," said Siti.

So it was off in my van to North Jakarta with Min, Joan, Siti and Gani. I wondered if Min knew where we were going.

Having crossed the city from South to North we reached Teluk Gong’s street of cheap market stalls, unsavoury discos and grey concrete warehouses. Min was now in high spirits, seemingly recognising the scene. We drove over the wide black Angke canal and right down a narrow little street, squeezing past goats, undernourished school girls with cute faces, and old men pushing water carts. Min puffed his chest out and gave a squeal of delight. He was arriving home in style.

The road narrowed further and became a muddy track, which in places was flooded to a depth of about a foot. To left and right were miserable hovels as bad as any in Bombay. We bumped and juddered over pot holes, some hidden in black water, and then reached the end of the track.

On foot we passed through a sad little unofficial graveyard where tiny mounds of earth suggested the deaths of many babies. We crossed over sewage-filled waters by way of narrow planks and came in view of Min’s home. It was part of a terrace of wooden shanties built on stilts above the swamp. It was not an ideal home.

A crowd of ragged neighbourhood children called out friendly greetings to Min and then ushered us into Min’s crowded one room home. There were two beds, a chair, a chest of drawers, a few pots and pans and not much else. A little light came through gaps in the wooden and canvas walls.

Min was given handshakes and hugs by various people and his eyes twinkled with delight. The biggest hug was from a little old woman with a cheerful grin and kindly eyes. This, I later discovered, was his grandmother. Min then sat on the floor with a host of children and adults. Joan sat on the edge of a bed.

"This is Min’s mother, Wati," said Siti, introducing me to a small woman in her late forties. Wati was dressed in a faded and well worn skirt of the type worn in the countryside. Wati gave me an inquisitorial look as she sort of bowed and shook hands. Something about her piercing eyes suggested someone with a strong will.

"And this is Wardi, Min’s older brother," said Siti. Wardi , a strong, slightly frowning fellow, who looked about twenty, gave me a firm handshake. He had the same dark eyebrows as Min. I imagined that he might also be capable of the same dark moods as Min.

"And Min’s father?" I asked.

"That’s him sitting by the door," explained Siti.

I went across to shake the hand of a small, tired-looking man with a friendly smile. I suspected that he had had a life of hard physical toil and poor nutrition.

I was given the chair to sit on and I exchanged pleasantries for a short while with Wati and Wardi. Then I came to the point.

"Do you want Min to stay here with you tonight, or do you want him to continue for a bit longer at Wisma Utara?" I asked.

Wati and Wardi exchanged words in Sundanese, the local language of West Java. Then Wardi said, "It’s up to you Mr Kent."

"He’s not my child," I pointed out. "The decision has to be made by you. It may be best for Min to be back with his family immediately. He can’t stay at Wisma Utara for the rest of his life. It’s not as good as a real family home." I turned to Joan. "What do you think?" I asked her.

"Mr Kent," said Joan "It’s best for Min to stay a few more weeks at Wisma Utara because he’s getting schooling there and you’ve paid up to the end of the month."

"And he can’t get lost at Wisma Utara," I added. I was in two minds. To help me decide what was best, I was looking for clues from what I could see around me. Min seemed at ease and to be enjoying all the attention. I had not yet come to any conclusions about the family. The primitive house seemed dangerous, with its absence of clean water. "Wardi, what do you think?" I asked the older brother.

"It’s very difficult to decide," said Wardi, after more discussion with Wati. "We think you should decide."

"I can’t make the decision," I said.

Wardi conferred with members of the family before turning to me and saying, "It’s up to you, Mr Kent."

"You have to decide," I pointed out again. "What do you think Min would like?"

"He doesn’t understand," said Wardi.

I turned to Wati and asked, "How many children do you have?"

"I’ve had ten children," she said, frowning deeply, "but four died when they were very young."

"When Min was aged seven and got very ill, were you able to get a doctor?" I asked.

"No. We lived further out on the marsh in a tiny hut," said Wati. "There were no doctors and we had no money."

"What age is Min now?"

"About fourteen," said Wardi.

"I thought he was between nine and twelve years old," I said.

"But he’s got bigger recently," said Wardi.

"What work does Min’s father do?" I asked.

"He’s a labourer. He earns about thirty thousand rupiahs a month."

I worked this out as being about ten pounds a month, but my maths isn’t good.

And then a thought occurred to me.

"Joan," I said, "What would a small house cost in the kampung beside Wisma Utara?"

"I don’t know Mr Kent," said Joan. "I think very expensive."

I was due to get more money from my employer sometime in the summer.

"Would you like to live near Wisma Utara?" I asked Wati. " I haven’t got enough money at the moment, but I might have enough by August. I can’t promise anything Would you be interested?"

Wati and Wardi conferred again with family members.

"Min could go to the school by day and stay with you at night," I said. "Would you like a house there? A house with a water supply."

"Yes," said Wardi. "But it might be very expensive."

"Yes, it might be," said Wati. "We’ll need to give it some thought."

I was coming to the conclusion that I would prefer Min safely back at Wisma Utara for a few more weeks. I was not yet convinced that Min would be entirely safe in his family’s shanty house. I was beginning to think that a move by the whole family to the area around Wisma Utara was the solution to the problem. That would ensure Min got some kind of schooling and the family had a healthier environment. "So what about Min?" I said. "Is he staying here tonight or going back to Wisma Utara?"

"It’s up to you, Mr Kent," said Wardi.

"Well, I’ve paid Wisma Utara up to the end of this month," I said. "Shall we take Min back? We could walk with him to the van and see if he’s happy to get back in. Shall we try that?"

"OK, Mr Kent," said Wardi.

We all walked back to my vehicle and Min seemed happy to climb on board.

"Min will want to see you again tomorrow," I said to Wardi, before departing, " I can pick you up at nine in the morning and then we can give Min some exercise. Would that be possible?"

"OK, Mr Kent," said Wardi. "Tomorrow at nine."

I wondered what Min was thinking but his face wasn’t giving anything away. I felt relieved that Min was going to be sleeping in his safe and comfortable room at Wisma Utara, but I felt deeply anxious that I was separating Min from his mum and dad.

20. BABY

2004-01-07T09:02:00.000-08:00

Early next morning I collected Min from Wisma Utara and we set off for Teluk Gong where we were due to meet Min’s family. At the start of the journey, Min seemed a bit solemn but fortunately no worse than that. My new driver impressed me not only with his careful driving but also with his calm and sympathetic tone when addressing Min.

As we moved through the traffic I thought of what I had been writing in my diary the night before. How objective was it? I honestly couldn’t remember with one hundred per cent accuracy how each member of Min’s family had reacted to him on his return to his family home. I was not confident that I had recorded the conversations with total fairness and without error.

I suspected that my diary, like many works of non-fiction, was full of selectivity, prejudice and opinion, as opposed to fact. Probably I selected the bits that put me in a good light; probably I failed to notice lots of significant things that happened.

I suspect that if Min’s brother, Wardi, had written a diary of these events it would have contained some major differences of interpretation.

Did the family want Min to continue for a bit longer at his school? Were they interested in moving to a house near Wisma Utara? I did not know. They had a Sundanese-Javanese way of being reluctant to voice their opinions, particularly to someone richer than themselves. Their ideas and attitudes were influenced not only by universal human nature but also by their own local world which I did not fully understand.

Min perked up as we approached his home in the slums near the airport; he stood up in his seat and called out exultantly, "Min, Min."

We parked beside a vegetable stall, climbed out of the vehicle, and were met by Min’s big brother, Wardi, Min’s mother, Wati, Min’s two little brothers, Aldi, aged about eleven, and Itin, aged about five, and little sister Imah, aged about four. They had all put on their best clothes and were looking a bit ill at ease. It occurred to me that maybe they felt intimidated by people like me who arrived in big cars.

"How about a trip to Ragunan zoo in South Jakarta?" I asked, after we had exchanged greetings.

"OK," said Wardi, with a touch of a smile. Wati nodded in approval.

"Have you been there before?" I asked.

"No, Mr Kent. We have no money," explained Wardi.

We crowded into my Mitsubishi van and set off down the narrow potholed street. Happy, almost jubilant, expressions began to appear on the faces of Wati, Wardi and Aldi as we were chauffeur-driven past bemused neighbours, barefoot children and skinny goats. The morning sun was shining brightly and I was happy to be having another adventure.

As we drove towards the zoo in Pasar Mingu, I had lots of questions for Wardi and Wati. "Where does your family come from originally?" I inquired. "Have you always lived in Jakarta?"

"We used to live near Lamaya," said Wardi. "It’s a four hour journey from Jakarta. Lots of rice fields in Lamaya. We had to move because there’s no work there. Too many people."

"Would you like to go back to Lamaya one day?" I asked Wardi.

"Yes, but we have to live in Jakarta because that’s where the jobs are."

"Do you have other relatives here in Jakarta?" I asked.

"Lots, Mr Kent," said Wati, smiling. "In Teluk Gong and Cengkareng."

After a journey of about ten miles we reached the enormous park that contains Jakarta’s zoo, an institution that tries to keep at least some of its animals in quarters that resemble natural habitats. Having bought our inexpensive tickets at a dark little booth, we began our tour. We seemed to be almost the only visitors. There was something eerie about the atmosphere that morning. We passed under immense dark trees that completely blocked out sun and sky; we heard the constant screams of monkeys; there was a smell of rotting meat.

I noted that Min’s mum gave all her attention to four-year-old Imah, whom she carried in her arms; Wardi took the hand of five-year-old Itin; small, skinny, eleven-year-old Aldi walked on his own; Min held onto me. I was touched by Min’s trust, but would have preferred to see him take the hand of a member of his own family. In Indonesia I had noticed that many mothers devoted their energies almost exclusively to the baby of the family; older children either fended for themselves or were looked after by such people as uncles, big sisters and grannies. Who was going to be Min’s keeper?

We approached the compound containing the Java tiger. Min was terrified and tried to pull me away in the direction of the zoo’s exit.

We moved on swiftly to the monkeys. Min refused to look and again pulled at my arm. I couldn’t take him near the crocodiles or the Komodo dragons, but eleven year-old Aldi was enjoying himself.

I was fascinated by the weirdness of everything around me. What might make a being want to develop into something as big and ugly and savage as a Komodo dragon? Do beings such as trees and butterflies make choices? I had been told that a considerable number of Indonesians believe that even trees have spirits. Could Min perhaps see more than the rest of us? Was that why he was afraid?

After an hour-long visit to Ragunan zoo, and a quick snack of noodles, we battled back through Jakarta’s traffic to the family’s house in the Teluk Gong area, near the sea.

This time I wanted to have a closer look at the kampung, the local area, in which Min had been brought up. I wanted to get a clearer idea of how safe it was, or how dangerous.

"Shall we take a walk with Min?" I said to Wardi, as we stood at the front door of the wooden shack which was home to Min’s family.

"OK," came the reply. "You’ll need to watch your feet."

Wardi, Min and I walked along wooden gangways, taking us over fetid water, and then along muddy paths, taking us through narrow alleys sided by wooden shacks. The sky was a heavenly blue and the sun’s strong light created streaks of golden light and black shadow.

"Who’s this?" I asked Wardi about a little boy with deformed legs. The boy, who looked about ten years of age, was hauling himself along the ground towards his wooden house. One leg had a zigzag shape and looked beyond repair.

"Don’t know," he replied. But he asked the woman who came to the door.

"My son’s called Saepul," said the woman. Like her son, she had a facial expression that spoke of sadness, resignation and kindness. Every inch of her face and arms was covered in big fleshy lumps.

"Have you and your son been to a doctor?" I asked the woman.

"We’ve been to the hospital," she said. "Saepul was born this way. The doctors say an operation might not help him. They’re not sure."

"And you?" I asked.

"They can’t do anything for me. But it won’t get any worse."

"I hope to see you again sometime," I said. I presumed that if the doctor had recommended treatment, they would have had no money to pay for it.

We moved on and came across a windowless wooden shack the size of a large dog kennel. It was surrounded by muddy water and was flooded inside. A barefoot boy, aged about twelve, emerged from the tiny door. The skin on his face and hands was dreadfully lined and wrinkled. I supposed that his skin problems were caused by flood water and malnutrition.

"Do you live here?" I asked the lad.

"Yes, with my mother." He looked and sounded weary but managed a shy smile.

"What’s your name?" I said.

"Joko," said the boy.

"Does your father live here?" I inquired.

"He’s dead," said Joko, eyes moistening.

I gave the boy some money, continued the walk, and eventually returned Min to Wisma Utara.

I was glad that Min was still staying at Wisma Utara. Min’s family seemed to be decent people, but I wasn’t sure which of them was going to take responsibility for guarding Min, and stopping him from getting lost. More seriously, Min’s house was in the sort of area where kids could so easily catch diseases such as typhoid or TB. The sooner I moved Min’s family to a new house the better. I would, in the meantime, continue to take Min to visit his family each afternoon, after school.

The following sunny Saturday found Min, big-brother Wardi and I on a trip to the hilly town of Bogor. We drove past the perfect lawns of the elegant white 19th century Bogor Palace, once the official residence of governor-generals of the Dutch East Indies, and on through the busy central area with its churches and mosques, its crowded markets and green minibuses. Min and Wardi seemed to be enjoying the ride.

"Is this town like Lamaya, where you used to live?" I asked Wardi.

"A little similar," he said. "Lamaya is smaller and flatter."

"Bogor has some very rich people," I commented. "What about Lamaya?"

"A few of the Chinese Indonesians there are rich."

Three kilometres south of the town, we came to a neighbourhood known as Batutulis which is named after a famous piece of stone, kept in a small museum. The Batutulis is inscribed with several words of Sanskrit which tell of the supernatural powers of a 16th century Hindu ruler of the Pajajaran kingdom. The stone is said to have mystical powers and Indonesia’s first president, Sukarno, had a home built next to it.

"Sukarno’s house," I said, pointing to my left. I wondered how much Wardi knew about Sukarno.

"Sukarno was good," said Wardi. "He is very popular in Indonesia."

"Did they teach you about him at school?"

"I only had a little schooling," he said.

We journeyed past the Sukarno residence, crossed the River Cisadane by an old and fragile looking bridge and eventually reached a railway track. It was time for a walk.

We set off along a narrow path which sided the railway track. To left and right were shanty houses and that meant peach coloured tiles, rosy bougainvillea, and the occasional red rooster. Kids in white shirts and shorts the colour of alizarin crimson danced along on their way home from school. The sky above the volcano, Mount Salak, was of a cerulean hue and above that ultramarine. The colours were as intense as any I had seen during summer holidays on the Mediterranean coast of Italy or on the Atlantic coast of Morocco. We did not see any trains.

"Hey mister," said a little school kid, "where are you from?"

"I’m from here," I replied. I felt I belonged to this world of happy smiles and immensely bright light.

"Where are you going?" said the now puzzled little person.

"Here." This was where I wanted to be. I wasn’t going anywhere in particular.

A boy came along carrying a pigeon.

"Your cat doesn’t look too well," I said.

"Pigeon," he responded, with a grin.

Wardi looked puzzled. Min yawned. Wardi might have been wondering why I had chosen to walk alongside a railway track, rather than visit the Botanic Gardens or some modern shopping centre.

"I love the Bogor countryside," I said. "I love the little houses."

"Better than the city," said Wardi.

We came to a cluster of little huts on top of a slope and I decided to take some photos. A cheery old man in a Tommy Cooper hat was seated in an armchair next to a slumbering cat and some cadmium orange cannas. Two boys were playing marbles. Above were tangles of electricity wires and a tall flowering rose of India. I got out my camera and looked through the lens. About twenty children had materialised from various alleys and they were pushing and shoving to get the best position in front of the camera. No sign of the old gentleman. He was hidden somewhere behind all these kids. There were whoops and yells and snorts. I took one photo and put my camera away.

"Hey mister," said a chunky lady with an aggressive face, "there’s a sick baby here."

"Where?" I asked.

"In the little house there," she said, pointing to a nearby one-roomed wooden hut.

It seemed like the sort of place where, in Britain, you might keep a lawnmower. While Wardi guarded Min, I stepped inside the tiny habitation. On the floor sat a young mother and a granny, and in front of them lay a baby, bluey-purple in colour, and struggling for air.

"How long has the baby been ill?" I asked.

"Five days," said the mum, who, on the surface, didn’t look particularly worried.

"The baby must go to a hospital immediately," I insisted. "Look, it’s blue because it can hardly breathe. Have you been to a doctor?"

"No," said the mum.

"We must go now," I said. "I’ll pay. OK?"

"Maybe we’ll go later," said the mum.

"When?" I asked her.

"Tomorrow."

"That’ll be too late. The baby’s nearly dead." I pointed at the blue little face.

Granny spoke for the first time. "We’ve been to the dukun. He gave us some medicine."

"The witch doctor has not got oxygen and a drip," I said, sarcastically. "The baby needs to be in a hospital. Why can’t we go now?"

"My husband’s not home yet," said the mum. "We’ll need to ask him."

"When does he get home?" I inquired.

"Late tonight," said the mum.

"Where is he now?"

"Far away," she said.

"We must go now to save the baby," I said loudly.

Granny spoke for a second time. "She doesn’t want to go."

It occurred to me that it is the conservatism of the poor that causes them so many of their problems. The elite are more adventurous.

I was not going to give up. I stood at the door. Then I waited outside with Wardi and Min, the latter giving me a worried look. I explained the situation to Wardi, who was apparently happy to let me take the lead in this situation. If he thought I was wasting my time he was not going to tell me. We waited and waited. I was getting hungry, as I supposed were Wardi and Min.

I couldn’t wait for ever, so I went back in.

"Shall we go to the hospital?" I said fairly gently. "We can ask the doctor what’s wrong. We don’t have to accept any medicine. Come on."

The mother picked up the blue baby and without any further words we set off towards my van. As we drove to the Red Cross hospital I just hoped the baby was not going to die on the way.

In the emergency room the doctor got the baby fitted up to a supply of oxygen.

"How long has the baby been ill?" he asked.

"Five days," I explained.

"It’s amazing it’s still alive," said the doctor. "It’s got tetanus. The midwife, or whoever delivered the baby, probably used dirty scissors. It’ll have to be admitted to the children’s ward."

The doctor spoke to the mother and granny and they now seemed resigned to the fact that one or other of them would have to stay with the baby in the hospital. I paid the bills, left money with the mother, explained that I would be back a week later, and then hurried off with Wardi and Min to get some fried chicken and chips.

That evening I met Fergus for dinner at the Meridien hotel where a meal costs as much as one week’s stay in the third class ward of the Red Cross hospital. The restaurant reminded me of a lounge on a luxury cruise liner.

"Elections coming up," said Fergus, as he began to cut up his omelette. "and that means you have to be a bit careful when there are street demonstrations."

"Would you advise staying off the main roads?" I said.

"When they’re all out parading, yes," said Fergus. "But if you do happen to get caught up in the middle of the green lot, remember to hold up one finger. That’s their sign. The yellows are two fingers and the reds three."

"I’ve seen lots of people holding up three fingers."

"And I’ve seen a few drivers holding up one finger," said Fergus.

"How democratic are these elections?"

"Well, let’s say that the President’s party, the yellows, always win."

"Things should be calmer than last year, when they had the Gulf War," I commented. "Lots of Indonesians seemed to be supporting Saddam."

"Which might seem odd," said Fergus, "because Saddam was put into power by the Americans and armed by the Americans. He was very much a CIA-Pentagon asset."

"I suppose that what’s changed is that Saddam’s now presenting himself as the champion of the Palestinians. That’s why he’s popular here, but not in the Pentagon."

"Coming back to the subject of Indonesia’s elections," said Fergus, "There’s no need to worry.

Most Indonesians are pretty easygoing about life. They like to be hospitable to all visitors. But do avoid the street demonstrations."

21 TWO WIVES TO SUPPORT

2004-01-05T13:57:00.000-08:00

Because it was a Sunday and my driver’s day off, I had employed a driver from an agency, a young hollow-cheeked fellow who seemed a trifle nervous. I explained to him that I wanted a trouble free ride to the countryside and the city of Bogor. I asked him to avoid the political rally going on in the centre of Jakarta. It was May 1992 and we were in the middle of a general election campaign.

"Which party is having its parade today?" I asked the driver.

"The red party, PDI. Very big crowds," he said, as he crashed the gears.

"Well, be careful which route you choose to get to the toll road," I warned.

We left my leafy residential area, drove past markets and railway stations, skirted the offices around Jakarta’s Panin Centre, turned into Sudirman Boulevard, and drove straight into the middle of a mile-long procession.

Here they were: thousands and thousands of wild-eyed PDI supporters in control of the streets; they were draped in red, waving giant red flags, and screaming like Liverpool fans; some danced on the tops of buses and trucks, hired for the day; some rode noisy motorbikes; the most battle-hungry youths had masked their faces with blood-red scarves.

Now my driver and I were part of the parade but we were not wearing red and everyone else was.

At various road junctions, small groups of tough-looking soldiers and military police stood stony-faced, breathing in the traffic fumes, aware that they were outnumbered. Democracy was sometimes said to be a fragile thing, but so too was the police state. Indonesia had an army of about 400,000 but the population of Indonesia was over 200 million. What would happen if all the people united in opposition to the army?

"Turn left!" I said hoarsely, while trying to remember if I should be holding up one finger, or two. I thought two fingers seemed appropriate.

"We can’t turn left," said the driver, a touch nervously. "The army won’t let us."

"We’ll be here all day," I grumbled. "We’ve got to find a road out."

I wondered if the driver had done all this deliberately or if he only knew one route to the Bogor toll road. Even he looked anxious when burly chaps began thumping their fists against the side of our van. The driver held up three fingers and the thumping stopped.

The worst of it was that I had a more than urgent need to empty my bladder. Too much coffee and juice at breakfast meant that I was bursting. What I wanted was a quiet spot, away from prying eyes, but here I was surrounded by a large proportion of the population of Jakarta, and they all seemed to be staring into my vehicle. Surely there was a bush or a tree somewhere.

We inched our way down the broad boulevard as I crossed my legs and fingers. Sudirman seemed to go on for ever. Under the flyover at Semanggi, past the Sahid Jaya Hotel and on and on we went.

"Try turning left into that office complex," I urged.

"OK. What now?" replied the driver as we drove into a car park.

"Look for a back way out," I said.

Eventually, by way of the back streets of Menteng, we somehow reached the toll road to Bogor.

"Stop!" I ordered, five minutes after leaving the toll gates. "I need to get out to go to the toilet."

"Can’t stop," said the driver. "This is a toll road. The police don’t allow people to stop."

"Stop or I won’t pay you."

We skidded to a stop on the hard shoulder and I hurried across some grass to where the trees were. Alas, every square meter in this part of Java seems to have someone on it. Up a tree an old man was collecting fruit; to my left an old woman was hanging washing on top of some bushes; to my right three kids were taking a toddler for a walk. I crouched down and the peasant people politely looked away. At last I could breathe more easily and enjoy the journey.

On reaching Bogor and the area known as Batutulis, I visited the home of the blue baby. The child was now pink and healthy looking. I hoped it was not brain damaged by its days with inadequate oxygen.

"Have you been back to the hospital for a check up?" I said to the baby’s mum.

"Not yet."

"We’d better go now then."

At the Red Cross hospital the doctor examined the child and issued some more medicine. The doctor assured me that the baby was fine.

My next stop was Bogor’s mental hospital to see Chong, the young man who had been a heap of skin and bones when I had found him lying in the street. Chong had been moved to a different ward as he had put on weight and looked human again. It was a locked ward, a single storey building with a certain amount of pealing white paint and green mould. I took Chong for a short walk but could not get any conversation out of him. I supposed that being mentally backward, having been rejected by his family, and being a penniless Chinese Indonesian, he had the cards stacked against him.

In the mental hospital’s children’s ward, John and Daud were again tied up. I was allowed to take them for a walk to the shop where we bought more milk and biscuits.

"Why do you keep these kids tied up when there’s a garden here for them to play in?" I asked the well fed female nurse. She was wearing an expensive watch and a necklace with a little crucifix.

"They’re idiots," she said, with what was either a smile or a smirk.

In their impoverished hamlet in Bogor Baru, little Andi was still looking malnourished and Asep was still pale. Asep gave me some more receipts for his TB medicine, which I examined carefully.

"These receipts only cover twenty thousand rupiahs. What about the other hundred thousand?" I asked.

"I don’t know," said Asep, smiling innocently.

"Have you still got the medicine? I gave you enough money to last a month."

"The medicine’s finished," explained Asep.

"You’d better go now to get some more. Here’s money to last a month and I must have receipts to cover the full amount. It’s not to be used for school fees or clothes or televisions."

I thought of what more than one expat had said to me about some of the locals. ‘They are like children.’

I went to see Dian, sister of Melati and Tikus, in their little house near the centre of Bogor. Dian had a smart new top and skirt.

"Have you got a receipt for your TB medicine?" I asked Dian.

"I lost it," she said.

"Have you got the TB medicine?"

"It’s finished."

"It can’t be," I complained. "I gave you enough money for one month. You know you have to take the medicine for six months to a year, or even longer?"

"Yes."

"We’d better go now to the doctor," I said, very crossly. "I’ll come with you to make sure we get the medicine." I felt more than ever that it was like dealing with foolish and naughty primary school kids, and I began grinding my teeth. But at least I was learning more about the Third World and how the world worked. And, I supposed, I was having a bit of an adventure.

Having dealt with Dian, I took a stroll through a section of Bogor near Empang. It was an area I had not been to before and I had a feeling of pleasant excitement. I dawdled contentedly past an old church with a sharp steeple and next to it a large Christian school painted in dark colours; I wandered down a long flight of very steep steps decorated with colourful graffiti; I roamed along a dark river bank. The air was hot and humid and filled with the scent of Peacock Flowers and urine. The narrow tree-lined lanes were crowded with street vendors with poles over their shoulders; some poles supported pots of steaming soup and noodles, some carried flashing mirrors, and some bore light tables and chairs. Children were pulling along home-made toy cars attached to sticks or attempting to play games of football. I could see that West Java was over populated. There were babies and pregnant women at every street corner, at every door, and in every room, or so it seemed.

I turned a corner and there, seated at a snack stall, was a girl with the most beautiful face I had ever seen. Shall I compare her to a summer’s day or a day during the rainy season? How come this face began, according to some versions of Big Bang theory, with nothingness? Billions of years ago, time and matter apparently didn’t exist. Then bang, the universe was created, leading to this lovely visage. I was giddy just thinking about it. Were there even more beautiful faces in some parallel universes?

You can’t stare forever at dark dilated eyes, soft curving cheeks and cute kissable lips. It gets boring.

So I continued my journey. Having passed a happy group of little children outside a green roofed mosque, I climbed up and down various steep concrete paths, and eventually descended to a muddy brown river sided by a terrace of wooden houses. Outside one tumbledown shack sat a young woman of striking appearance. She had once been beautiful but now she looked wasted and grey.

"Hello," I said, "are you well?"

"Not well," she said, giving me a sweet smile. "I have TB."

"Are you getting any medicine?" I asked.

"No. I used to take the pills."

"How long ago?"

"Three years ago."

"And you’re not yet better?"

"Not yet."

I went with her to Bogor’s Menteng hospital. On the way she was struggling for breath.

"It doesn’t look good," said the doctor, in English, holding up an x-ray. "Suti says she’s taken the pills, off and on, over many years. The trouble is that if they stop taking the medicine before they’re cured, then the disease becomes drug resistant. Over the years her organs have been seriously damaged. I’m afraid she won’t last long."

"Has she got a family?"

"She’s single and lives with her mother. The mother is apparently fit."

I arranged for Suti to get regular supplies of medicine, but learnt some months later that she had died. What a mixture Bogor was: the scent of flowers and the scent of death.

Next afternoon, Min was in good spirits when I collected him from Wisma Utara.

"Has his family been to see him?" I asked Joan, anxiously.

"No, but it’s a long way for them to travel," she said.

"It’s odd that they haven’t been to see him," I commented. I hoped this was not a sign that his family were indifferent to Min’s welfare.

"I’m taking him to visit his home now," I explained. "We’ll be back after supper."

On reaching Min’s house in Teluk Gong, Min was in a state of high excitement. Min’s mother, Wati, seemed a little subdued in her greeting. There was no sign of Min’s older brother Wardi. Maybe he was at work. Min’s brother in law, Gani, was delegated to accompany Min and I on a walk through the slums.

We squeezed past the huts of some collectors of rubbish and stooped under washing strung between windows on either side of our narrow path. The dripping shirts and blouses , silhouetted against a darkening blue sky, added a touch of colour to an otherwise grey landscape. We reached a rubbish tip and turned left into a dark alley crowded as always with people of all shapes and sizes. Looking in the open doors of the wooden houses we could see children sitting on mats and doing homework, men preparing sate to be sold later from carts, and women picking the nits out of each other’s hair. When we reached a house where children were watching a cartoon on TV, Min decided to enter the house and join the youngsters on the floor. Nobody objected. Gani waited patiently for several minutes before gently taking Min by the hand and leading him back out into the narrow street.

One wooden house on stilts had two little stick-insect children at the door.

"What are your names?" I asked the two kids, who looked about seven years old.

"Sani," whispered the boy.

"Indra," whispered the girl.

"They look too thin," I said to their big-boned mother, who had come to the door. "Would you like them to see a doctor?"

"They’ve been to a doctor and had an x-ray," said the mum, "but we’ve no money for the medicine."

"Would you like to come with me to a clinic?" I asked. "It’s a good clinic, in the centre of the city. It’s the one I use myself."

"I’ll ask my husband," she said. A smiling little man appeared from inside the house and a consultation took place involving mother, father, Gani and members of the small crowd which had gathered. There was agreement that a trip into town would be a good idea.

We took Sani, Indra, their mum and their skinny dad to see my doctor at Jakarta’s Kuningan Medical centre, an upmarket clinic with carpets, exotic pot plants, and glass tables covered in copies of Moneyweek.

"It’s TB," said Doctor Handoko, a cheerful, middle-aged Chinese Indonesian. "I’ll give them the usual cocktail of drugs."

Doctor Handoko seemed to be in a bit of a rush. I suppose he was not used to dealing with patients from the slums, people who arrived in dirty plastic sandals and ragged shirts.

Back in my van I asked Sani and Indra’s father what he did for a living.

"I’m a driver," he explained, grinning in friendly fashion.

"Who do you work for?" I inquired.

"A rich Chinese Indonesian," he said.

"How much do you get a month?"

"Eighty thousand rupiahs."

"That’s about twenty pounds sterling," I said. "That’s less than I’ve just paid the Kuningan Medical centre for the medicine and a ten minute consultation."

"He’s got two wives to support," whispered Min’s brother in law. "Two wives and two lots of children."

I could see why Sani and Indra were thin.

I could also see that neither Wati, Min’s mum, nor Wardi, Min’s big brother, had come with us.

22. SUKABUMI

2004-01-04T00:07:00.000-08:00

The beginning of the May half term found me exploring the area around the small Sundanese hill town of Sukabumi, at the foot of the volcanoes Gede and Pangrango. Sukabumi, which lies between Bandung and Bogor, has more earthquakes and tremors than anywhere else in Indonesia, so I was watching out for signs of dogs or chickens behaving strangely. A major earthquake in 1972 killed over two thousand people in the region.

Having left my vehicle and driver on a quiet country road, I followed a path which ran below lofty flowering trees and above a muddy river. I was looking out anxiously for snakes, wild monkeys or even leopards, but all I saw, fortunately, were big blue dragonflies and orange-yellow butterflies flitting in and out of patches of brilliant dusty light and jet-black shadow. When I took a left turn and began to descend towards the river, I could hear splashing sounds and giggles.

"Hey mister," called a young voice behind me, "you can’t go down there."

I turned and saw two grinning boys, both aged about thirteen, and both dressed in threadbare shirts and shorts.

"Why not," I asked them.

"Women bathing," said the taller one, eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief.

"Ah," I said.

At that moment a young woman wrapped in towels, and carrying a basin full of damp clothes, came up from the river and hurried past me. She had Spanish good-looks and an enigmatic smile.

I returned to the main path and was followed by the two boys who introduced themselves as Hari and Dani.

"Are you going to school?" I asked.

"No," said Hari, with an amiable smile. "No money."

"You have to pay for school?"

"Yes. And for uniforms and books and outings," said Dani, putting on a serious face.

"Where are you going, mister?" asked Hari.

"Jalan jalan," I said. Just out for a walk.

"Ikut?" asked Hari. Follow you?

"OK," I replied, pleased to have some company.

Having passed some damp looking huts inhabited by grey faced people, and a stretch of green meadow which gave us views of the smudgy blue mountains, we arrived at a bridge made from bamboo. In the river below us, happy boys were swimming, washing and defecating. I could also see one child cleaning his teeth. This was a fast flowing river and not too crowded, but I imagined that, back in the overpopulated city of Bogor, the use of the river as a bathroom was a cause of that city’s ever-present typhoid.

Before I could say the word ‘salmonellosis’, Hari and Dani had stripped off their shirts and jumped feet first from the bridge into the river. Dripping with water, they then clambered back up to join me on the bridge.

As we continued our ramble through the hot sunny valley, steam rose from the boys’ wet clothes. I noticed that shirtless Hari’s ribs stuck out.

"How often do you eat each day?" I asked him.

"Sometimes only once a day."

"What work does your father do?"

"He doesn’t work," said Hari. "My mum works in Jakarta."

"What work?"

"She’s a maid."

"Who looks after you? Who does the cooking and washing while your mum’s away in Jakarta?"

"My big sister," said Hari.

"What about your father?" I asked Dani, who was also undernourished.

"Coolie," he said

We came to a grand mansion in large grounds with neat lawns. Three large station-wagons were parked outside the pillared entrance.

"Who lives here?" I asked.

"Haji Amar," said Hari, sounding respectful.

"What does he do?"

"He was a judge," explained Dani. "He owns the land around here."

A judge would earn about one hundred and fifty pounds sterling a month. But then he might also receive the occasional gift.

"You’ve been useful guides," I said. "Now I’m heading back to Sukabumi for something to eat."

"Smoking, mister?" said Hari, rather shyly.

"Smoking?" I asked. Then I realised they wanted cigarettes.

I gave them a few coins.

"For food," I insisted.

"Thanks, mister!" they said, taking the money politely and skipping off happily.

Back in Sukabumi I walked around the potholed streets. In the open-air market, women with fat legs squatted beside their piles of sweet potatoes and skinny youths were selling cigarettes from baskets hung around their necks. On a street where the outside walls were black with fungus and mould I found a dark little cafe. I dined on biscuits and cola.

After a night at a clean, air-conditioned hotel in the nearby hill resort of Selabintana, a hotel apparently owned by the army, I motored to Pelabuhan Ratu on the South coast. I booked into the Samudra Beach Hotel.

Walking East from the harbour I took photos of fishing boats and palm trees and enjoyed the salty sea breeze. Near some rice fields and a bat cave, I stopped to talk to a barefoot woman carrying a girl aged about seven. The girl, called Marni, looked pale yellow and her stomach was swollen.

"Is she sick?" I asked.

"She’s been ill for years," said the mother, whose own body was podgy and pale.

"Have you been to the local hospital?"

"My husband’s dead. I’ve no money."

We reached the simple little hospital in five minutes and consulted an earnest young doctor who did a blood test.

"It looks like Thalassaemia," he said. "That’s anaemia caused by defects in the genes that make haemoglobin. It’s inherited and quite common in this part of Indonesia. The girl’s father seems to have died from it."

"What can be done?" I asked.

"She’ll need repeated blood transfusions," said the doctor, in English. "We could get some blood by tomorrow from Sukabumi. Kids like Marni don’t always live too long. It depends on the type of Thalassaemia and on the treatment."

The doctor explained some of this to the mother.

"Does she want Marni to have a blood transfusion?" I inquired.

"No," said the doctor. "She says the girl doesn’t want a transfusion."

The girl was quietly weeping.

"But what about the mother?" I said.

"She says no."

"Are blood transfusions safe?" I asked.

"Blood transfusions can lead to a build up of iron, which can be fatal."

"What about AIDS?"

"That’s another risk."

The mother was determined that there should not be a transfusion, and maybe she was right, but I left her some money to pay for treatment in case she changed her mind.

I walked West from the harbour and after a few miles came to a wooden restaurant built on stilts. An old man appeared from inside and invited me to have a beer and some fresh fish. As I enjoyed my feast, I watched the surf roar in towards the blue and yellow fishing boats and thought that this could be paradise, if it wasn’t that the south coast suffered from poor roads and malaria.

Next morning, before returning to Jakarta via Bogor, I returned to Marni’s one room shack but there was no one there.

"The mother’s out working in the fields," said a middle aged man with strong muscles and thick dark hair, "I’m the community chief, the RT, and I’m related to Marni."

"I was going to give the mother some money for food," I said.

"Give it to me and I’ll make sure she gets it," said the man.

If he was the RT, the community chief, maybe he would be helpful. I gave him the money.

I stopped off in Bogor, and having collected hospital receipts from tubercular Asep, took a walk through some woodland beyond Bogor Baru. There were clusters of dingy wooden houses, steep ascents and descents on narrow paths, smelly goats in wooden enclosures, clumps of bamboo and occasional clouds of mosquitoes. The people here looked undernourished and were dressed in patched and tattered clothing.

Outside a cobwebbed wooden hovel, shaded by dark trees, sat a middle-aged woman and a boy aged about twelve. They gave me a tired but friendly smile and, intrigued by their appearance, I decided to introduce myself. The woman, whose name was Ciah, was yellow skinned and had the shrivelled look of the poorest of the poor. The boy, called Agosto, had a purple scar on his thigh and a sad look on his face.

"What do you do for a living?" I asked Ciah.

"Wash clothes," she replied in a weary voice.

"How much do you get?"

"About thirty thousand rupiahs a month." This was less than ten pounds sterling a month.

"Does you husband work in the fields?"

"My husband’s dead," she replied, smiling an embarrassed smile.

"My mother is sick," said Agosto.

"I get very tired," said Ciah.

When I suggested a trip to the hospital for a check-up, Ciah agreed immediately.

At the Menteng Hospital, the doctor diagnosed hepatitis and Ciah was admitted to the third class ward. Agosto sat by her bedside. He had a handsome little face but there was a look in his big dark eyes that spoke of lost hopes and despair. Not for him fishing trips with dad or games of football at school.

On returning to Jakarta, the first place I visited was Wisma Utara. Min was having one of his down days and refused to take my hand.

"Have his parents been to visit him?" I asked Joan.

"Not yet."

I thought of Hari, the kid in Sukabumi, who presumably didn’t see too much of his mother. Maybe Min’s family were all busy working.

"I’m off for a walk with Min," I explained. "I want to see if Iwan’s back yet to get his leprosy medicine."

Iwan was not back.

"He’s still at his kampung in Karawang," said a thin little man, who was standing beside a rubbish cart. He wore shabby clothes and had a grin that suggested possible slyness or a lack of intelligence.

"Do you know his address?" I asked.

"Yes. I’m Iwan’s uncle," said the man.

"I’m worried," I said, "because he’s not had his leprosy medicine for weeks and weeks."

"I could go and bring him back," said the man.

"Good. When can you go?"

"Tonight."

I gave him the money for the bus.

Hamid, the runaway I had found in Pasar Mayestic, had not been visited for some time, so I drove with Min to Hamid’s grandmother’s mansion.

"How’s Hamid?" I asked granny, when she came to the door.

"He’s run away again," said the tired looking woman. "Probably gone back to the market."

"What went wrong?" I asked.

"He doesn’t like school."

I returned with Min to Wisma Utara. At least Min was in a safe place.

While enjoying a cup of coffee in the staffroom, I got talking to Carmen about the lives of Indonesian children. I told Carmen about Hamid in Pasar Mayestic, Marni the thalassaemia girl in Pelabuhan Ratu, sad Agosto in Bogor and Iwan the boy with leprosy.

"Hamid looks like a survivor," I said. "He must have guts to survive in Pasar Mayestic. But Marni and Agosto look near to giving up; and Iwan is heading for disaster if he doesn’t take his leprosy medicine."

"You know at the beginning of the 20th Century," said Carmen, "life was rough for some British children working on farms. I was reading about a child called Angus who had to work like a slave when he was a child. He had to be tough to stay alive"

"I suppose children were forced to leave school at a young age," I commented.

"Angus’s parents were poor and gave him to a farmer; they sold him," said Carmen. "Angus had to work seven days a week from early morning until late at night. He could be beaten if he complained. He lived in a freezing cold building with no toilet or bath and he’d be fed scraps. Britain this century. At least in Indonesia it’s warm and you can bathe in a river."

"Selabintana was cold at night!"

I told Carmen about the judge’s house.

"Maybe he has a rich wife," she said. "Anyway, people say there’s just as much corruption in Britain and Europe as in Indonesia."

"I suppose in the West it’s more cleverly covered up," I said.

23. NEW HOME

2004-01-03T15:34:00.000-08:00

Next evening I found Iwan and his granny back home at their shack beside the rubbish tip. Granny, dressed in her usual old shawl and smiling her nearly-toothless grin, looked fit and well. But Iwan was not well. He resembled a famine victim; he appeared to have a fever; mosquitoes, lit by the light from a kerosene lamp, were buzzing around a coin-sized, infected wound on his left calf.

"Why did you go off without your leprosy medicine?" I asked him indignantly.

"I wanted to visit my mum." He was looking down at the ground and sounded as if he was ready for a stretcher.

"But you should have waited till you’d got your next lot of medicine."

"Sorry Mr Kent," said Iwan quietly.

I turned to granny. "Why didn’t you bring Iwan back when he got sick?" I asked.

She grinned sheepishly and said nothing.

"And how did you get the wound on the leg?" I asked Iwan.

"I was playing with some children."

An hour later, Iwan, granny and I presented ourselves to Dr Handoko at Jakarta’s smart Kuningan Medical Centre. A nurse cleaned the leg wound and issued some pills. Dr Handoko decided that Iwan would need to be admitted to a hospital. He phoned the expensive Rasuna Said Hospital to check they had a bed.

"Yes, they can take him," he said. "You’d better get there straight away."

Ten minutes later we were at the Rasuna Said, a tall block with dark marble halls, looking as much like a five star hotel as a hospital. I was beginning to feel rather pleased with myself as I explained to the female receptionist how I was helping Iwan. She asked us to wait in a side corridor. A few minutes later we were approached by a woman who could easily have entered a Miss Indonesia contest; she was long-limbed, dressed in a slim grey suit, and wearing a badge that said ‘public relations’.

"I’m terribly sorry," she said, "but we’re full up tonight. We have no beds available."

"I was told you had a bed," I protested.

"That was a mistake. I’m sorry but the boy will need to go to the leprosy hospital in Bekasi."

"Is it because he’s a poor child wearing sandals?"

"I’m sorry. There is no bed available." She smiled a public relations smile.

"But I was told you had a bed."

"He’ll need to go to the leprosy hospital," she said quietly. "People with leprosy can only be treated in the leprosy hospital."

"But it’s late at night. We can’t go all the way to Bekasi tonight. Iwan’s here because of his fever, not his leprosy."

"I’m sorry." She tried to put on her most sympathetic face.

"You’re only interested in well dressed patients. If Iwan was rich you’d take him."

We argued for ten minutes but she wasn’t going to budge. I began to suspect that Dr Handoko at the Kuningan Medical Centre had told the Rasuna Said about the fever but not about the leprosy or the cheap plastic sandals.

Two other nearby hospitals also turned us down. I reluctantly came to the conclusion that it was standard practice that lepers, no matter what additional ailments they might have, could only be admitted to a leprosy hospital. Non-lepers would not want to be walking on the same hospital floors as lepers.

I returned Iwan and his granny to their home beside the rubbish tip and arranged that my driver would take the two of them to the leper hospital in Bekasi the following morning.

When my classes finished next day I hurried to the leprosy hospital, a journey of an hour and a half. The hospital wards were in plain-featured, red-roofed bungalows spread around spacious grounds consisting of lawns, trees and vegetable patches. It was a little bit like an army camp. In Iwan’s ward there were about a dozen male children and youths, most of whom showed no obvious signs of being ill. Some were standing chatting; some had just wandered in from the gardens; one had movie-star good looks. Iwan was lying on a lumpy, stained mattress on a battered metal bed. His granny sat beside him.

"Have you eaten?" I asked, as I handed over some snacks I had brought.

"I haven’t eaten all day," said Iwan. His face and limbs seemed to be all bone.

"Have you been given some medicine?"

"Not yet," he said. "When we got here it was too late to see the doctor. It was just before lunch time."

"Is there a nurse here?"

"No."

"Its four in the afternoon. There must be a nurse!" I was becoming an angry Scorpio.

With the help of the neatly uniformed guard at the hospital gate I searched the hospital and its grounds but we couldn’t find a single doctor or nurse or administrator. The only people on site were the patients.

"I’ve heard there’s a better leper place in Tangerang," said the guard, "but I don’t have its address."

"Where can I find one of this hospital’s doctors?" I said impatiently.

He directed me to a good-sized bungalow three minutes drive from the hospital. A maid showed me into the lounge where a swarthy, middle-aged doctor was seated on a settee watching a large TV. I explained Iwan’s problems to the scowling man.

"Iwan’s not yet been seen by a doctor," I grumbled. "He’s got an infected leg and a fever. Can you come and see him?"

"No," snapped the doctor. "He should have come earlier in the morning. He’ll be seen tomorrow." The doctor remained seated and the TV stayed on.

"Surely the hospital should have a doctor on duty or even a nurse?"

"Tomorrow."

"Please."

"I’m about to have my meal."

"Iwan hasn’t eaten all day. Should I speak to the hospital director?"

"He lives in Jakarta." This was said with what seemed like a defiant smirk.

"Can you give me his phone number?"

"I don’t have it here."

"Will the director be here tomorrow?"

"No."

After several minutes of unsuccessful confrontation I returned to the hospital, collected Iwan and his granny, and drove them back to the Kuningan Medical Centre in Jakarta. We related our sad story to my doctor.

"I’ll prescribe Iwan some leprosy medicine," said Doctor Handoko, smiling. "Don’t worry. His fever’s much reduced."

We picked up more bags of pills from the chemist and returned to Iwan’s shack beside the rubbish tip.

More than most people, the Javanese tend to dig in their heels when faced with an opponent who is angry. I wondered if I would have had more success at the leprosy hospital if I had been more patient. Probably not. The doctor was very much off-duty; and he believed he was part of a system which was immune to reform; or outside interference.

Next day I returned to Iwan’s kampung. At the edge of the rubbish tip, teenage boys, seated on oil barrels, were strumming guitars; women were sorting through piles of aerosol cans, plastic bottles and plastic bags; old bicycle wheels and car parts were being beaten into shape by young men wearing tattoos; beautiful gypsy-like girls were attending to babies; chickens were picking their way through the weeds; a nauseous smell of burning plastic filled my nostrils.

Iwan, smiling and looking less pale, was sitting outside his house, resting his bandaged leg.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine, Mr Kent."

Granny fetched some glasses of water for us to drink.

"Where’s the water from?" I asked.

"From a neighbour’s well," said granny. "We can’t use the river water anymore, not even for washing clothes. It’s too dirty."

"They found a body in the river last night," said Iwan, eyes widening.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Nobody knows," said Iwan.

I looked at my glass of water which was brown, smelt of dead rats and toads, and had creatures swimming in it.

"Would anyone like a cola?" I said. "From the little stall up the road."

We were into June and Iwan was looking better, having got rid of his fever. He appeared to be taking his leprosy pills.

I had been taking Min more or less every afternoon to see his family in North Jakarta; but with the arrival of summer it seemed time to move Min’s family out of the slums of Teluk Gong and into the leafy kampung next to Wisma Utara, where housing was of a higher standard. I was due to get my summer bonus from my school and that could pay for a home for Min and family. There was talk of Min’s dad making his living by selling vegetables from a mobile cart.

One sunny Saturday morning I collected Min’s mum and dad and his brother Wardi from Kapuk and we drove to Wisma Utara to look at houses. Wardi was wearing a smart dark shirt. Wati, dressed in a new ensemble of long purple skirt and traditional brown batik waist band, was looking almost regal. Dad wore his usual humble working clothes. Min, looking a little shy, had been dressed by Joan in checked shirt and blue shorts. I was in a happy mood, but Min’s family seemed a little sombre.

The staff at Wisma Utara, including Joan, reckoned it should be possible to find a small simple house for around twenty million rupiahs, which was less than six thousand pounds sterling.

"Mr Kent," said Joan, who was standing with Min at the gate of the children’s home, "there are two houses for sale near here. I’ll take you to them."

The first of the houses was situated immediately opposite Wisma Utara. It was a small, two storey, brick and concrete house, squashed between its neighbours. Wati, Min’s mum, liked it a lot. But it only had windows at the front, which made it seem gloomy and unhealthy inside, and, at thirty million rupiahs or nine thousand pounds, it was well above my price range. Like all the houses in the area it had a home made feel about it and the rooms were tiny, with low ceilings. The toilet was like a broom cupboard with a tiny hole in the floor.

"Would you accept twenty million?" I asked the pleasant-faced, middle aged man who owned the house.

"No," he said, smiling. "Nothing below thirty million."

I tried bargaining but he wouldn’t budge even a million rupiahs; he reminded me of an easy going but sharp Neapolitan. I decided to move on.

The next house was a cheap wooden affair with lots of windows, but it seemed a bit ramshackle and there was no water supply. The cost was only fourteen million rupiahs. Wati quite liked it. Perhaps it reminded her of her house in Kapuk.

"Joan, are there any other houses?" I asked. My happy mood had gone.

"Not today. It’s not always easy to find houses for sale. Too many people."

"What do you think, Wardi?" I said.

"The first house was nice, but it’s too expensive." His eyes had a deeply pained look.

"And the second house doesn’t have water or a toilet," I pointed out. "I want you to have a house with a toilet."

There was a period of silence. Should I buy them the second-rate wooden house? Or should I wait for something better to come along?

Joan broke the silence. "The woman who owns the corner shop says she has a house she can show us next week. It’s got a toilet and it’s about twenty million rupiahs."

Should I eat into my savings to buy the thirty million house, a house I didn’t particularly like, or wait another week? Thirty million was too expensive; the house was overpriced.

"Joan, do you think the thirty million price will come down?" I asked.

"No," she said. "He told me he won’t reduce the price."

I decided I would wait until the following week, which would mean disappointing everyone concerned and delaying Min’s return to his family. I gave my explanations to Wati and company. I think we all felt like children who had woken up on Christmas morning only to find that Santa had left us absolutely nothing.

The following Saturday morning we were all back at Wisma Utara. Joan led us to the third house.

It was a two storey brick and concrete construction down a little cul de sac where all the houses were joined together by the usual thin walls. Downstairs there was a living room, simple kitchen with a water pump, and simple bathroom with a hole in the floor. Upstairs there were two bedrooms, divided by a simple curtain. The owners had bright modern furniture which was perhaps why I found the place attractive. The settee was a particularly bright light blue. The price was twenty two million rupiahs, which was within my range; and the neighbours seemed friendly.

Min’s family had a quick conference. They wore worried expressions. Wati explained that she still preferred the first house we had looked at, the one costing thirty million. Dad and Wardi remained silent.

"So, what about this third house?" I asked.

"OK, Mr Kent," said Wardi. He looked and sounded hesitant. Wati was scowling.

"Are you sure you want me to buy you a house?" I asked Wati.

Wardi answered. "Yes, Mr Kent." He was frowning.

I got the feeling that they definitely wanted me to buy them a house, but, something was worrying them. Was it a question of trying to get the best house possible? That was to be expected. Did Wati not believe me when I said I couldn’t afford the first house we viewed as I only had around six thousand pounds to spare? I supposed she thought all foreigners were infinitely rich. Was it a question of the hassle of having to move to a new home? I supposed that was natural. I couldn’t ask Min what he thought, as he wouldn’t understand. And I couldn’t have a deep conversation with Wati as my Indonesian vocabulary was so very limited.

"When can they move in?" I asked the attractive and astute looking young woman who owned the third house. Her tight blouse, short skirt and expensive shoes suggested she was a modern entrepreneur rather than a traditional shop owner.

"Any day," she said. "You pay the cheque on the day they move in."

"And you give us the documentation."

"Yes. They’ll need to fill in some forms at the lurah’s office."

"And we’ll also have to get identity cards," said Wardi.

"How much do they cost" I asked him.

"Very expensive to get a card for Jakarta. It costs extra if you want one quickly. Maybe a few hundred thousand rupiahs."

It was agreed that Min’s family would move into the new house within two to three weeks. I felt relieved that at last Min would be living with his family; living in what I considered to be a safe environment; and living right next to his school. I hoped I hadn’t rushed them into making a decision. I had a niggling feeling that Wati was not entirely happy with the way things had worked out.

The following Saturday, at Jakarta’s Pasar Mayestic, I searched the dimly lit concrete corridors of the market buildings for Hamid, the runaway with the rich granny and alcoholic bus-driving stepfather. I sniffed the cloves, nutmeg, and mace, listened to the flies dancing on bits of chicken, and eyed the fake designer sunglasses and watches.

"Shoe shine please," I said to a schoolboy carrying a wooden box.

I sat on the box and handed over my brown suede shoes.

"Have you seen this kid?" I said, handing him a photo of Hamid.

"He’s in the next building," he said, as he began applying the black polish.

"How much do you earn shining shoes?"

"About a dollar a day if I’m lucky. It’s to pay for school and help my mum."

After my shoes had been transformed, the shoeshine boy led me across a concrete bridge into the next building. Hamid was sitting outside a grocery stall.

"Hi. You’re living here again?" I said.

"Yes," he replied, tensing his brow.

"Why did you leave your granny’s house?"

"They say I’m stupid because I don’t like school."

"Do you want to go back?"

"No."

"How about some fried chicken?"

We sat in a little cafe and talked and ate. He wasn’t going to be persuaded to return home.

24. BANTEN AND MERAK

2004-01-01T08:23:00.000-08:00

It was a warm sultry evening in downtown Jakarta, back in July 1992, and I was with someone who looked like Maureen O'Sullivan, star of many a Tarzan film. My companion was Sue: in her late twenties, demure good looks, slim figure, long dark hair and long black dress. I had got to know Sue while teaching in London; we had spent quite a few evenings eating out or watching films such as ‘My Life as a Dog’ and ‘Life is a Long Quiet River.’ Back in London, Sue had seemed a relatively reserved sort of person, but also someone who could think for herself. Sue had a kind and sympathetic side to her nature and she was someone with whom I felt relaxed and comfortable. What was Sue doing in Jakarta? She was spending some days in Indonesia’s capital as part of her six week holiday in Asia. She was taking a sabbatical from her work as a secretary and having an adventure.

We stepped out of my vehicle and through the small front garden of a very large bungalow. A gong sounded, a uniformed footman opened the door, and Sue and I were ushered into the Oasis restaurant, the former home of a Dutch millionaire. After a Singapore Sling in the bar, we were shown to a table between the musicians and the marble statues of the Italian garden.

"You’re half way through your Asian journey," I said, as I studied the menu. "What made you decide to do all this traveling?"

"I’d been reading a book called ‘The Hero with a Thousand Faces’, by Joseph Campbell," said Sue, as she stared at the melting candle in the middle of the table. "Campbell argues that in all the world’s cultures, heroes go on journeys. Think of Marco Polo and Luke Skywalker. Journeys help us to understand how the world works."

"All the world’s cultures have the same dreams?"

"Campbell thinks we all share the same subconscious. Consciousness is a form of energy and it’s in everything, all over the world."

"We all go on similar types of journeys?"

"Campbell says that all journeys have the same pattern. First you get the inspiration to go on an adventure, but when you think about it you see all the possible dangers and you’re reluctant to set off. Then a series of events push you into the adventure. As you travel on your way, you face a number of difficulties. At some point you are tempted to take detours from the correct path. Eventually everything works out fine and you return home safely."

"I was reluctant to leave London," I said. "I was fearful that I wouldn’t be able to cope abroad. Then I felt events pushing me; some of the children I was teaching became so awful. There may be something in all this."

A waitress had arrived and she was trying to look cheerful and trying to catch our attention.

"I’m having the rijstaffell," said Sue. "A mixture of dishes."

"Me too," I said. "And to drink, the Australian white."

"This place is how I imagine a colonial club," said Sue. "Lots of wood paneling."

"Makes me think of a scene from the film Casablanca," I added. "The dim lighting and the rich and shady customers."

"I’ve been to some shady restaurants recently," said Sue. "In Bangkok I had lunch at a little restaurant near Silom Road. When I went back in the evening it had completely changed. The tables and food were gone. It was just crawling with scantily dressed teenage girls. Probably run by the German Mafia."

"You’ve been having an exciting time," I said, as I glanced at the beautiful young Chinese girl at the table behind Sue. "Is Thailand a Mafia country?"

"In a subtle way. I liked Bangkok because of the wats and golden stupas, but I didn’t like Pattaya. It seemed like a tacky gangster town."

"A bit rough?"

"Quite a few tourists die there," said Sue, giving me one of her serious looks. "They say it’s heart attacks or accidents; but one Thai businessman told me people get murdered and it’s covered up."

"Murdered for money?"

"Or because the locals secretly hate some of the single male tourists."

"What about the military? Are they powerful in Thailand?"

"Discreetly so. But then they’re powerful here too. Someone on the plane told me Indonesia’s controlled by the military."

"So they say. And how did you like India?" I asked.

"It’s the most foreign of the places I’ve been to. You know, giant lingams and temple sculptures showing people in acrobatic positions. I took scores of photos of sahdus and ghats."

"And the food?"

"It’s my favourite, but you get better tasting Indian food in Ealing. Some restaurants in India didn’t have lime pickle."

Our rijstaffel arrived, brought to our table by about fifteen maidens.

"It’s the same with Indonesian food," I commented, as I ladled spoonfuls of spicy chicken and beef onto my plate. "It seems to taste better in Amsterdam than it does here, although this place is good."

"I’d expected India to be more spiritual," said Sue solemnly, as she helped herself to salad, "but it seemed pretty earthy. Some of my chief memories are of cockroaches, crashed buses all along the highway, women in cages, lines of people squatting on the pavements emptying their bowels. I’d been hoping to find some kind of enlightenment, but it didn’t happen."

"And what about Jakarta?" I asked.

"The airport was clean and efficient; and the centre’s got some amazing looking bank buildings. I’ve been to some impressive shopping malls. Better than Singapore’s malls. Friendly smiling faces."

"According to the Jakarta Post," I explained, "about sixty per cent of Indonesia’s wealth ends up in the posh parts of Jakarta. The people of Sumatra and Irian Jaya are not very happy about that."

"They say Indonesia’s an empire run by Java," said Sue.

"I’ve heard it’s an empire run by the Jakarta elite, mainly generals and ex-generals and their Chinese-Indonesian friends." I spoke quietly, as the elite might be at the next table.

"Do you think that’s true?"

"It’s what some people say. I suppose in Britain in the 19th Century there was a small upper class that owned most of the land or the industry."

"Not much has changed," said Sue. "The Third World’s not so different from parts of London or Birmingham. Civilised bits and primitive bits."

"What makes the bad bits bad?" I asked.

"The Third World should be called the Low Standards World," said Sue. "Singapore used to be slummy but they raised their standards. Careful family upbringing, efficient civil service, clean hospitals, good schools, decent housing."

"Whereas in Low Standards Areas, you get low standards of honesty and cleanliness." Was the wine leading me to silly generalisations?

"Low standards," said Sue. "Uncaring parents. Uncaring employers. Corrupt police and so on."

"Indonesia’s not all low standards," I pointed out, in case the waitress was listening.

"How are you liking living here?" asked Sue.

"It’s wonderful. Sunshine, heat, bright colours, friendly people, no depressing winters, streets full of interest. I could go on."

"Any bad bits?"

"The traffic’s getting worse. And too many kids have TB."

Our conversation began to be drowned out by the Batak singers.

On the Friday afternoon I took Sue to see what was to be Min’s new house and hopefully hand over the money for its purchase.

"Nice neighbourhood," said Sue, as we walked down the lane leading to Wisma Utara. "The houses look clean. Look at all the flowers."

"My driver was telling me," I pointed out, "that even in a peaceful area like this, you get occasional drunkenness and student brawls. Touch wood, I’ve never seen any trouble around here."

"Student brawls?" queried Sue.

"From time to time gangs of school kids fight each other. Kids get killed."

"The children all look friendly."

"I saw a bunch of them once, in the middle of town, jumping onto a crowded bus. They were all armed with sharp weapons. Be careful with buses, by the way."

We reached Min’s house and were greeted by Wardi, Min, Min’s mum and dad, and all Min’s siblings. They seemed in a good humour and they were intrigued by the sight of Sue.

"Goodness! Your furniture’s here already," I said to Min’s mum. "How did you get it to the house?"

"A neighbour’s truck," explained Wardi.

The smart looking young lady who was selling the house arrived and we all sat down in the house’s low-ceilinged lounge. Gone was the bright blue settee, replaced by Min’s family’s simpler furniture.

"I’ve got the cheque," I told the lady-owner. "Have you got the documents?"

She handed over a piece of paper which didn’t seem to be related to ownership of the house.

"This is not what we need," I said, pretending to be an expert. "I can’t give you the cheque without the proper document. Can you get it for us?"

Off she went, presumably to find the missing bit of paper.

"What does her family do for a living?" I asked Wardi.

"They own the tiny shop at the corner."

"It’s good to find a non-Chinese person owning a shop and property," I commented.

"Her husband’s Chinese," said Wati.

"Are there lots of Chinese Indonesians?" asked Sue, wearing her earnest look.

"About four percent of the population," I explained. "But there have been mixed marriages over the years, so it’s difficult to be exact. They’re not all rich and they’re not all Buddhist or Christian. You get Moslem Chinese."

The lady returned with the necessary certificate, took my cheque and departed with a smile and a handshake.

"I must have some photos of you all in your new home," I said to Wardi.

Min put his arms around his dad and both smiled ecstatically. Click. Things seemed to be going well.

"What did you think of Min?" I asked Sue as we headed back to my Mitsubishi.

"He’s lovely. And I liked his family."

Sue and I used the Saturday to head West from Jakarta.

"To Banten and Merak," I instructed the driver and off we drove, past industrial Tangerang, with its textile and rubber factories, and then over a flat green landscape. Occasionally we would see long, low barn-like buildings, used by the brick and tile industry. The journey, mainly along a wide, straight Toll road, gave us another chance to talk about travel and life.

"The guidebook," explained Sue, "states that Banten used to have a harbour, before it silted up, and it’s where the Dutch had their first settlement."

"And before that the Portuguese." I had my guide books on my knee.

"What’s it famous for now?" asked Sue

"My maid told me it’s famous for magic."

"Magic?"

"Dervish dancers who eat glass."

"Is magic a big thing in Indonesia?"

"Nyai Loro Kidul, Goddess of the South Seas, gets a lot of attention," I said. "There’s a story that, in the late 1970’s, high up government people, wanting to help the president increase his power, arranged some ceremony involving the sea goddess."

"So it’s not just for the peasants," said Sue. "What about witch doctors or shamans?"

"They’re called dukuns. They say that dukuns have been used by President Suharto, and by former President Sukarno. Oil men get dukuns to help find oil. Businessmen and civil servants use them to ensure they grow rich. Women go to dukuns if they want men to fall in love with them. Sick people go to them for cures. Bad people use wicked dukuns to kill their enemies. You can have someone killed for about fifty pounds."

"That’s cheap. How do they get people to fall in love?" asked Sue, smiling.

"A businessman friend, who shall be nameless, was told that a girlfriend had secretly given some powder to his maid. The maid was supposed to sprinkle it over his clothes."

"Did it work?"

"Well Mike hasn’t married her, yet, but she’s done very nicely out of him financially."

"Where does Islam come into this?" asked Sue.

"Even some orthodox Moslems believe in good and bad spirits. Most traditional Moslems certainly believe in spirits. Last year there was a big Moslem rally in Jakarta and the newspapers quoted Moslems as saying there were thousands of genies in the air, protecting the meeting."

"Flying about in the air?"

"Like angels. In Java you get Islam mixing with ideas that are animist or Buddhist or Hindu. The government doesn’t mind, so long as everyone believes in God. The most important thing for the traditional Javanese Moslem is avoiding being selfish or self-assertive, which sounds good to me. That’s how it should be and I’ve met lots of Moslems like that."

"I told you that in India I was disappointed not to find things more spiritual," said Sue.

"Same here in some ways. A lot of the top people simply want to loot and pillage. Although they pretend to be good Christians or Moslems."

"You’re more likely to get in touch with the spiritual by keeping away from priests."

"You’ve given up on the Church?"

"I have," said Sue, with a touch of firmness. "Joseph Campbell argues that all religions are true but their stories mustn’t be taken literally. The Bible is not necessarily the word of God. God wouldn’t really want the Israelites to slaughter the people of Canaan or Egypt."

"Time for a snack?" I had spotted a food stall at the side of the road and wanted to stretch my legs.

"Yes please," said Sue. "I’m beginning to find the air-conditioning in this van rather fierce. It’ll be nice to get some heat."

We reached Banten about midmorning. The sky was full of soot-black clouds which made the houses, the trees and the ruined 16th century Sultan’s Palace look dark and eerie. There wasn’t much to see at the palace, other than its foundations. We had a look at the Agung Mosque, built around 1559 and recently restored. It had a slightly Chinese appearance, because of its pagoda-shape.

"I’m surprised how small Banten is," said Sue.

"Why’s that?"

"It’s like a farming village, yet the guide book says it was once the largest city in South East Asia and one of the world’s greatest ports. The spice trade made this place world famous."

Sue was going to take a photo of some schoolboys standing beneath tall palm trees, but one of the boys decided it would be fun to urinate and Sue put her camera away.

"On to the hotel for lunch," I announced, and soon we were passing by Indonesia’s biggest steel works at Cilegon, and then coming in sight of the little port of Merak.

After lunch at the Merak Beach Hotel we explored the town and a nearby beach. The sun was managing to shine full blast on gorgeous blue and red fishing boats and wooden houses built on stilts. Merak itself seemed to be a delightfully mucky little town, reminding me of certain ports in Italy like Barletta.

"It’s frightening to think," I said, "that Merak, and the other settlements along this coast, were wiped out by a tidal wave, taller than the palm trees."

"The 1883 eruption of Krakatoa," said Sue.

"The guide book says the tidal waves reached the coast of France."

"Are we going to be safe if we go along the coast to Anyer?"

"You can see Anak Krakatoa from the beach. If there’s a major eruption, we might consider leaving."

"Have you noticed the large number of provocatively dressed young women outside the cafes and restaurants here?" said Sue, eyes twinkling.

"It is a port," I said, as I noted the tight little skirts and long schoolgirl legs of a group seated outside a wooden shack selling beer.

"There’s the ferry to Sumatra, all the truck traffic and the Pertamina oil base. Lots of potential customers. Lots of risk of disease."

"Let’s have a beer and watch the world go by," said Sue.

25. SAEPUL PUNCHES HIMSELF IN THE FACE

2003-12-30T10:42:00.000-08:00

It was the morning after our return from Merak and Sue and I were driving in the direction of Min’s new home. The traffic seemed light and the sun was shining.

"All the cars seem to be Japanese," commented Sue, as we overtook a Toyota.

"In spite of the Japanese occupation during World War II," I said.

"Are the British popular in Indonesia?" asked Sue.

"I don’t know," I replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I’ve been reading Revolt in Paradise by K’tut Tantri."

"Which paradise is that?"

"Indonesia at the time of Dutch rule. K’tut was born in Britain but she went to live in Bali back in the 1930s."

Sue proceeded to tell me about K’tut becoming an American citizen, setting up a hotel on Bali, mixing with artists like Walter Spies and falling in love with a Balinese prince. When the Japanese invaded, K’tut stayed on in Indonesia and suffered torture. At the end of World War II, K’tut sided with the Indonesians fighting for independence from the Dutch. K’tut broadcast propaganda for the Indonesians and was nicknamed Surabaya Sue. In 1945 she was in Surabaya, in East Java, when it was bombed by the British, who were the allies of the Dutch.

The British did to Surabaya what Franco did to Guernica.

"I imagine the British may not be totally popular in Surabaya," I said.

"It was a long time ago."

We arrived at Min’s neighbourhood. "Do you want to meet Iwan, a child with leprosy?"

"Of course I do," she replied.

"You wouldn’t rather visit the shops?"

"I didn’t come to Asia to visit American-style malls. I want to meet Indonesians."

"Iwan lives next to a rather large rubbish tip. You don’t mind?"

"I want to see all that Jakarta has to offer."

Having collected a cheerful Min, we ambled along a series of concrete paths leading us to the tip. Min gave one of his happy shrieks as he spotted Iwan seated on an oil barrel. I was pleased to see that Iwan had put on some weight. He slid off the barrel and hobbled towards us, grinning shyly.

"Are you taking your leprosy medicine?" I asked.

"Yes, Mr Kent."

"He’s a sweet child," whispered Sue.

"Mr Kent," said Iwan, "there’s someone sick. Nuryati. Over by the smoke."

Iwan led us in the direction of the smoke which was rising from piles of dark grey refuse that was considered not worth recycling. Nuryati was a pretty ten year old girl living in a four-room wooden shack which had the spoil-heap as a garden. Her skin was scabby, crusty and cracked all over her body. Nuryati’s father, a bulky man with a rather untidy, unshaven appearance, was happy to receive our help.

We drove Nuryati and her dad to the relatively nearby Pertama Hospital where we were immediately able to see the skin specialist.

"It’s some kind of dermatitis," said the friendly little lady doctor. "Sometimes called eczema."

"What’s causing it?" I asked.

"She works on that garbage tip so she touches all sorts of chemicals and metals. Could be chlorine, formaldehyde, mercury or something like that."

"Can you treat it?" I said.

"I’ll give her some creams and lotions. There’s an antihistamine and a coal tar ointment. Ideally she should stay away from the tip."

After returning the little girl to her home, we went to chat to Wati, Min’s mum, who was sitting at her front door with her two youngest children. There was no sign of Wardi or middle child Aldi.

"Is Wardi not around?" I asked, after we had shaken hands.

"He’s in Teluk Gong," she said, looking a little tense. "At our old house, in North Jakarta."

"And Aldi?" I said.

"He’s at school in Teluk Gong. He’s a clever little boy. Doing well at school." Wati smiled proudly.

"Couldn’t Aldi go to school here?"

"I don’t know," she said, frowning.

The absence of Wardi and Aldi worried me. I didn’t want to be responsible for splitting the family. "Is Min’s dad going to sell vegetables here?" I asked Wati.

"We’re building the vegetable cart," she said, looking down at the ground.

"How is Min getting on at his school?" I inquired.

"Fine," she said, without much enthusiasm.

"Sue and I are off to get something to eat," I explained. "Good luck with the cart."

Min decided to do one of his strange war dances which involved making loud whooping sounds. The neighbours came out to stare. Sue and I crept away.

Sitting in the restaurant at the Meridien Hotel, I asked Sue what she thought about our conversation with Min’s mum.

"Wardi’s still living in their old home in North Jakarta," she said, "Aldi too. I reckon they don’t want to give that house up."

"It’s in an unhealthy area," I pointed out, as I cut into some sushi. "It’s a slum area, near the sea and the road to the airport."

"Does Wardi have a job in Teluk Gong?"

"I hadn’t thought about that," I confessed.

"He could have a job and a girl friend there. And Aldi will have all his school friends near their old house."

"Oh dear. I just thought it was good to get the family out of their slum and into a decent house. I was thinking also of Min being able to go to his school at Wisma Utara during the day, and being able to go home to his family in the afternoon."

"I’m sure it’ll all work out," said Sue sympathetically.

"Maybe I’ve been an idiot. I just hadn’t thought about things like Aldi’s schooling."

"They’re going to build a vegetable cart. That should help."

"I hope Min behaves himself," I said.

"One thing I noticed was that as we left Min’s house there was a woman near the corner shop who gave you a very hostile look." Sue emphasised the last three words.

"Worrying." And puzzling.

"Tomorrow," said Sue, "when I’m struggling through the streets of Manila in an old bus, I’ll be thinking of you being driven to the Meridien in your comfortable vehicle."

"I hope you’ve not minded meeting people like Min? And seeing lepers and rubbish tips?"

"No. I’ve loved it. I’m more excited by a shanty town than a museum." Sue gave me a sisterly smile.

The following Saturday I motored as usual to Bogor. Ciah had made good progress in recovering from her hepatitis, and had been able to go home to her cobwebby hut. Her sad looking little son Agosto, who had been guarding her in the hospital for ten days, was looking even more frail than his mother. I hoped their neighbours would keep an eye on them.

In the mental hospital at Babakan there was a new child patient, a muscular boy of about twelve called Saepul. He was sitting sullen faced at the entrance to the Pertama Ward. His chin, his forehead and his cheeks had large swollen bruises.

"Has someone been in a fight with Saepul?" I asked the female nurse, a motherly, round faced woman.

"Saepul punches himself in the face. That’s why his hands are tied behind his back."

"Surely he doesn’t punch himself!" I said, thinking the nurse was covering up some act of brutality by staff or other patients.

"Self inflicted wounds. It’s stress."

"Can he speak?"

"No. He’s retarded."

"You’re sure someone hasn’t hit him?"

As I spoke, Saepul rammed his bruised chin against his right knee with considerable force. Crunch. Blood began to ooze from the wound.

"You see. He hurts himself," said the nurse.

"That’s awful," I said. I could hardly believe it.

"Maybe he’d be better if he wasn’t tied up. Can I try taking him for a walk within the grounds, along with John and Daud?"

"If you like," said the nurse, rather to my amazement.

"Can you come with me?"

"OK. I’ll get the other two children."

John and Daud were untied from their beds and Saepul’s hands were unbound. As we walked through the gardens to the hospital’s shop, John and Daud tended to stagger. Saepul galloped along ahead of the rest of us, resisting the temptation to punch his own face. At the hut which served as the shop, I asked for biscuits and milk for the children and chocolate for the nurse. As I took possession of the food, there was a thump. Saepul had started to punch his cheek bone, making it more red and raw. I didn’t wait for my change. I took Saepul’s hand and hurried him out of the shop. I was relieved to find that Saepul stopped hurting himself once we were on the move back to the ward.

It was a wonderfully warm Sunday and I was seated with Anne, and her husband Bob, in their garden in Menteng. I was introduced to a new snack.

"You see the purple lance-shaped thing hanging down?" said Anne.

"The what?" I asked.

"At the end of the bunch of bananas," she explained.

"Ah yes."

"OK," continued Anne. "You take the bud. You pull off the outer sheathes, until you can see the pinkish white bit inside."

"Yup."

"Pull the hard stamen."

"The what?"

"The stamen. Pull it from the centre. Then you eat the bud with coconut milk."

"Sounds easy."

"Here’s some I made earlier," said Anne.

We glugged down luscious Bordeaux dessert wine, ate the buds, and listened to Agnus Dei, on a cassette player.

"It’s been a hard week," said Bob when the music tape ended. He had slight bags under his eyes and looked a touch grey.

"Problems?" I asked.

"It can sometimes be very odd doing business in this country," said Bob.

"How’s that?"

"The army," explained Bob. "Last week I visited a factory in Jemba. Both my taxi from the airport and my hotel were army-owned. The factory boss is a retired colonel. The local governor is a former general. The regent and sub district chief are former soldiers. Retired officers tend to end up as government ministers, bank directors, civil service bosses, regents or chiefs of cooperatives. If you are in business you can’t avoid dealing with the army."

"The army’s not too short of money?"

"Probably three quarters of their money comes from the businesses they run, and only a quarter from the government. Generals and colonels live in big houses and run big cars, although I suppose that would also be true in Britain. Depends on the size of the house."

"And they’ve got muscle?"

"Well, any army has. If the workers here go on strike, the army would not find it too difficult to sort it out."

"What about the lower ranks?"

"Bad elements are rumoured to get extra money, shall we say, from illegal levies."

"The soldiers don’t get paid much."

"To be fair," said Bob, "the army simply doesn’t get enough money from the government. In a sense they’re forced to go into business. Some of them are actually useful people. There’s a retired officer I work with quite a lot. Very devoted Moslem. He tells me the country needs the army to hold it together."

"The news magazines say the economy’s been doing well," I said.

"Kent," said Bob, putting down his glass, "you take a Chinese Indonesian businessman. He gets a big loan from the bank, with the help of his political contacts. He builds his factory, and maybe buys a big mansion and a Mercedes or two. He has to pay a lot of people. His profits disappear. He has to go back to the bank. That’s no problem, because he’s got contacts. But is the bank ever going to get its money back?"

"One report said that thirty percent of the government’s budget disappears corruptly," I commented.

"Yes," said Bob, "but what about the vast sums of non budgeted funds that are stolen? Think of all the bribes and gifts that can never be traced."

"Would you invest in the stock market here?" I asked.

"Not for many years to come," said Bob, shaking his head. "If the international media found out everything that’s going on there could be trouble."

"This country should be rich," I stated. "Unlike Singapore it’s got oil, timber, minerals, oil palms, rubber, thousands of islands with great tourist potential."

"It’s rich in its people and its village life," said Anne.

"But, can you trust the banks?" said Bob

It being the summer holidays, I made a brief trip to Singapore to eat and shop.

On return to Jakarta I went straight to Min’s house to see if he had survived my few days absence. A pale and mournful-looking Min took my hand and squeezed it.

"How’s Min?" I asked Wati, Min’s mum.

"He hasn’t been sleeping well," she said. "He was calling out your name."

That made me feel worried and guilty. I changed the subject. "How’s the vegetable cart?" I asked.

"Min’s dad has been out selling vegetables," said Wati, frowning.

"Where does he get them from?" I asked.

"He has to get up before dawn and go to the market at Kebayoran Lama. That’s a long walk. Hours."

"And how’s Aldi? Is he going to go to school here in Cipete or stay in North Jakarta?"

"He’s got to finish the term at his old school," said Wati, "back where we used to live."

Gani, Min’s brother-in-law, came for a walk with me and Min to the home of Nuryati, the girl with the skin problem. Her skin looked less red and crusty.

"How are you feeling?" I asked her.

"A little better," she said with a charming grin.

I gave her moustachioed father more money for the next lot of medicine. I noticed that he looked well fed and he had a good skin. Presumably, unlike his daughter, he didn’t get his hands dirty on the rubbish tip.

26. PUNCAK

2003-01-29T09:03:00.000-08:00

Another new school term found me filled with energy and enthusiasm. Honestly. But after the first five days of teaching it was good to escape, on the Saturday, from the oily traffic of Jakarta to the balmy hills beyond Bogor. Beneath a sky of tropical blue I motored up from Bogor towards the nearby Puncak Pass. I was hoping to find an interesting track that would lead me to some lost domain. Somewhere between the towns of Ciawi and Cisarua I found what I was looking for, although I don’t think I would ever be able to find the exact same spot again.

My path wandered through fields of sweet-smelling green papaya; it skirted rice paddies where muddy boys rode gentle water buffaloes; there was a primary school with a red and white flag and marching children; goats and ducks led me through a kampung where the houses had muddy brick and plaster walls, loose red tiles and gardens of jasmine; the children wore bright green sarongs.

I entered an area of dark shadows and spiky leaves. I passed beneath jackfruit, rambutan and durian, and squeezed through a tangle of lianas and bamboos. Help! I was in the middle of nowhere.

"Hello mister," said a lad, half way up a tree, collecting fruit. He was about thirteen years of age, dressed in clean blue school shorts and expensive-looking T-shirt, and had a happy and handsome Sundanese face.

"Hello," I said, relieved to find the voice came from a human. "Is there a restaurant near here?"

"There’s a hotel," said the lad beginning to climb down. He was followed by a younger boy wearing a mischievous smile and red school shorts and an older girl wearing a tight yellow blouse and tight jeans.

"How do I get there?" I asked.

"We’ll take you," said the older boy, scratching various insect bites.

"Thanks. What’s your name?"

"I’m Dede," said the older boy, "and this is my younger brother, Agus, and my sister, Melati."

"I’m Diego Maradona," I explained.

"The singer?" said Dede.

"No actually I’m Woody Allen," I said.

"Where are you from Mr Woody?" asked Dede, who apparently knew less about films than music.

"Jakarta."

"You want a place to stay?" asked Melati, who had lovely eyes and lips.

"No, just something to eat. Is it a good hotel?"

"Lots of girls there," piped up Agus, eyes sparkling.

"How do you mean?"

"Lots of women," said Melati, looking at Agus and giggling.

"You like drugs?" asked Dede.

"No. Definitely not. What kind of hotel is it?"

"They tried to burn it down," explained Dede.

"Who did?"

"A mob," said Dede.

"Why?"

"Some people round here don’t like these places," said Melati.

"Who owns it?"

"Chinese," said Dede.

"They didn’t manage to burn it down?"

"No. There were too many police and soldiers," said Dede.

"I think I’ll get something to eat at a roadside stall. Can you show me the way?"

"Certainly," said Dede, as he handed me some rambutan.

As we followed a narrow path through the woodland, I was thinking how good it was to still be able to find trees on the island of Java. Ninety percent of the island’s original forests have been cut down.

"Do you have any Gharu trees?" I asked. I had heard that such trees were to be found in western New Guinea and that the resin from the trees could be used as a drug to help you contact your ancestors.

Melati shook her head and looked puzzled.

"Left or right?" I asked, as we emerged from the dark and reached an area of rough grassland and scattered trees.

"Not left," said Dede.

"Ghosts on the left," said Agus, steering us to the right.

"Really?" I asked.

"An old man died near here," said Dede.

"What happened?" I said, noting the sober expressions on the faces of the two boys.

"People said he used black magic. He died suddenly," explained Agus.

"He was a dukun jilat," said Melati.

"What kind of dukun is that?" I asked.

Dede made sucking sounds with his mouth. "The dukun sucks the bit of you that’s sakit," he said, while scratching himself.

"Black magic?" I said.

"Some babies got sick," said Melati.

"The old man had some land," said Dede.

"A rich man from Jakarta now has the land," said Melati.

A red tiled school building came into view.

"My school," said Agus.

"Can I have a look?" I said.

Agus happily led us into the empty building which was made up of a handful of classrooms around a courtyard. I noted the rotting timbers, the graffiti on walls, and the complete absence of any kind of equipment or furniture other than cheap wooden desks with names carved on them.

Agus took a thick pen from his pocket and began to apply some scribbles to an exterior wall.

"I think we’d better move on," I said.

A small shop at a road junction provided a place for me to buy my meal of bananas, biscuits and cola. Mysteriously enough I could see my vehicle parked a few metres down the street. Before departing, I rewarded my guides.

"Thank you, Woody Allen," said Dede.

Chong, the malnourished young man I had found lying in the street and taken to the mental hospital at Babakan in Bogor, hadn’t been visited by me for some time; so to assuage my guilt I went to see him.

I strode through the hospital’s sunny gardens, admiring the white Gardenia, the red and yellow Rangoon Creeper, and the handsome, modern two storey block containing the director’s office; finally, some distance from the hospital entrance, I reached the warehouse-like ward housing Chong.

"I’ve come to take Chong for a walk," I said to the young male nurse who opened the locked door of the mildewed building.

"Chong?" The nurse, casually dressed in T-shirt and jeans, looked as if he had never heard the name before.

"Yes, please."

He went inside to check.

"Nobody here called Chong," said the nurse on his return.

"There must be. I brought him to this hospital and he was in this ward last time I visited."

"He’s not here."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes. I know all the patients."

"Do you remember Chong?"

"No," he said, with a sort of vacant grin.

"I’ll go to the Director’s office and ask there." I felt ready to lash my tail.

I explained the situation to the director’s secretary, who informed me that the director was away in Jakarta, but that I could speak to a deputy. I was eventually introduced to a round-faced doctor with thinning hair and a sharp looking man wearing an expensive suit and tinted glasses.

"We’ve sent someone to collect Chong," said the doctor, sitting back on the expensive black leather settee.

"Would you like some tea?" asked the man with the smart suit.

"No thanks," I answered politely.

A nurse entered with a young male patient who had broad shoulders and a grinning Javanese face.

"Here’s Chong," said the doctor.

"This is not Chong," I said. "Chong looks Chinese and he’s slim."

"This is Chong," said the smiling nurse.

"It’s not the person I brought to the hospital."

There was a period of silence.

"Have you tried the mental hospital on Jalan Dr Semeru?" volunteered the nurse.

"That’s not where I took Chong," I said.

"I’m sorry we can’t help you," said the doctor.

"Have you checked the records?" I asked.

"We have," said the unruffled doctor.

"What do you think has happened to Chong?"

"The only Chong we have is this man the nurse brought here."

"But he is not Chong," I said.

"Mr Kent, I’m sorry we can’t help you," said the man with the tinted glasses.

I supposed there was nothing I could do. It was possible that Chong had been allowed out of his ward and had wandered through the gardens and subsequently through the hospital’s open gates. There was no great incentive to keep a careful eye on a patient like Chong; I had not visited Chong for some time and his family had no interest in him. Perhaps he had got sick and died; perhaps he was wandering through the streets of Bogor.

Later that morning, while taking a walk alongside the Ciliwung river, not far from Bogor’s botanic gardens, I spotted a ragged-looking figure under a wide stone bridge. Could it be Chong? I crossed a patch of tall grass to have a closer look.

Instead of Chong I found a teenage boy, a granny, a small girl, a few pots and pans, several sleeping mats and some plastic bags: a home under a bridge.

"Hello," I said, being careful not to go too close. I didn’t want to actually enter their bedroom.

They stared at me with frightened eyes. Or was it hostility?

"Do you live here, under the bridge?" I asked.

The boy nodded.

"How many people?"

"Five," said the granny, who managed a slight smile.

"Do you work in Bogor?"

"In the market," she said.

I took some money from my pocket and held my hand out in their direction. The boy took it, almost grabbing it.

"Thank you," said the granny.

Leaving the centre of Bogor, I motored along the usual bumpy roads to Bogor Baru. Having visited little Andi and tubercular Asep, who seemed in reasonable health, I decided to find out how Ciah was getting on. Ciah was sitting on her verandah, looking pale but reasonably well recovered from her hepatitis. Maybe her lack of colour was due to the lichen and moss covered trees cutting off the sun from her shack.

"How’s Agosto?" I asked.

"He’s sick," said Ciah, standing up and beckoning me into the wood and bamboo house.

Lying on the black metal bed, which almost filled the stuffy room, was twelve-year-old Agosto. He looked fevered, withered and yellowy-green.

Two neighbours, having helped carry the boy down to the road and into the back of my van, accompanied us to the Menteng Hospital. I wondered if we would get there in time to save him. He closed his eyes but kept on breathing all the way through town.

We reached the emergency ward and Agosto was laid on a bed covered in stained plastic.

"How long has he been ill?" asked the young doctor.

"I think it’s about ten days," said Ciah in a tired voice.

"Cough?"

"Yes," said Ciah. Agosto seemed to be not quite aware of what was going on.

"Headache?"

"Yes."

"Stomach pain?"

"Yes."

"Constipation or diarrhoea?"

"Yes," said Ciah, sounding hesitant.

I got the feeling she was not too clear in her thinking.

The doctor looked at a rash on Agosto’s abdomen and peered down his throat. A nurse took his temperature, did a blood test and attached him to a drip.

"What do you think it is?" I asked the doctor.

"Typhoid, probably. Very common among children aged ten to fourteen. It can take several tests to be sure. Not easy to diagnose. We’ll give him antibiotics."

"Is he very seriously ill?" I said.

"It’s a pity Agosto wasn’t brought here much earlier," said the doctor frowning, "He’s very dehydrated and weak."

"Do you think he’s going to be OK?"

"We hope so. There’s always a risk of complications, especially when patients get here late."

"What kind of complications?"

"Meningitis, intestinal bleeding, pneumonia. There’s a problem if the infection gets into the bloodstream and moves to the liver."

"Why do so many kids get typhoid?" I asked.

"Patients who’ve recovered can still be carriers. The bacteria is in their faeces. So it spreads. Dirty food and dirty water."

"Kids don’t wash their hands?" I said.

"And food has to be boiled for twelve minutes to kill any bacteria in it."

"Why don’t kids get vaccinated?"

"Vaccination can cost a month’s wages and it only covers you for three years. Another problem is that some antibiotics don’t work anymore." The doctor gave a shrug and a friendly smile before heading to a desk to do some paperwork.

Agosto was wheeled through a section of garden and into the crowded third class children’s ward, a long shed-like building with big metal windows. Sitting beside the sick children were family members who had brought with them baskets of home made snacks and bottles of tea. In one corner of the ward, a mother and daughter guarded a little girl who was even more grey and wizened than Agosto.

"Who’s the girl in the corner bed?" I asked the nurse, as she adjusted Agosto’s drip.

"Suhartini."

"She’s not on a drip," I said.

"The parents are very poor," explained the nurse.

"Is she getting any medicine?"

"They can’t afford it," said the nurse.

"What’s wrong with Suhartini?" I asked.

"Typhoid. And there are complications."

I looked at Suhartini’s mother and older sister who were seated at the bedside. The tired looking mother wore a watch, although it may have been of little value. The older sister looked plump and wore a clean school uniform.

"I’ll pay for the medicine," I said to the nurse. "Has the mother got the prescription?"

"Yes, you can take it to the pharmacy near the entrance."

This was explained to the mother and I was accompanied to the chemist by the plump sister.

"How many days will Suhartini’s medicine last?" I asked the pharmacist.

"Three days."

"Can the doctor write out a prescription to last more than three days? I live in Jakarta and can’t get here every day."

"No," said the pharmacist. "The family must buy more medicine in three days time."

"I’ll need to give the mother some money for that," I said.

"Give me money for school," said the grinning sister. She seemed to show no trace of anxiety about her sibling, but then emotions are often difficult to detect.

Back at the children’s ward, I handed over some money to Ciah and to Suhartini’s mum.

"For medicine and food only," I said. "Not for other things."

27. A GIRLFRIEND AGED SIXTEEN

2003-01-25T21:00:00.000-08:00

After seven days, I returned to the third-class children’s ward of the Menteng Hospital in Bogor. In the simple sunlit room, there was a smell of unwashed bare feet and sweaty anxiety. I was feeling jittery; almost reluctant to look at anyone’s face. But I could see Agosto; he was still alive. In fact, although he still looked a bit shrivelled, he was reasonably alert and able to sit up. Ciah, his mother, was smiling a wan smile.

"His fever’s down," said the nurse, a pleasant, plump, matronly woman. "Now he needs to put on weight."

"How’s Suhartini?" I asked. The little girl’s bed was occupied by a new patient, a cheerful boy.

"Gone," said the nurse, in a soft voice.

"What happened?" I asked, my heart beginning to beat faster.

"No longer here," said the nurse, soothingly.

"Dead?" I asked, in a louder voice.

"She’s left this world," said the nurse, putting on a little smile.

Other visitors were looking in my direction and also smiling. It was that smile that tries to lessen the impact of bad news.

My stomach tightened. I wondered if she would have survived if she had got her typhoid medicine a bit sooner. It seemed criminal that when she had first arrived at the hospital she had apparently not been given any medicine.

"The government’s supposed to give hospitals money," I said to the nurse, with more than a hint of rage. "For free medicine; for the very poor."

"People have to pay," said the nurse quietly.

"Does this hospital get money from the government?" I asked, determined to press my point.

"The money runs out very quickly," said the nurse, giving me a smile with a hint of cynicism.

"I’ll give you my telephone number," I said to the nurse. "Phone me if there’s another case like Suhartini."

She never did phone.

After leaving the Menteng Hospital I returned to the Bogor district of Babakan. I had stuck Chong’s photo to a piece of paper, added my telephone number and a sentence about a reward being offered for his safe return, made lots of photocopies, and brought them to the mental hospital.

"Has Chong been found yet?" I asked the grey little man in the mental hospital’s dusty front-office.

"Chong?" he said. He wore a puzzled expression. Or was it boredom?

I explained about Chong. "I’ve made this poster," I said. "May I give them out to people?"

"Yes." His face had become expressionless.

In the open-air market area just north of the railway station I distributed my photocopies, mainly to resting pedicab drivers. Nobody who looked at the poster recognised the face or seemed particularly interested. I didn’t want to stay too long in case someone in authority asked me what on earth I was doing. You probably need permission in triplicate before giving out leaflets.

Weeks passed but there was no word of Chong. He had vanished; and I would never see him again.

The school term moved on and the rainy season arrived early. On a Saturday morning of black skies I made my daily check-up on Min at his home in South Jakarta. As I stepped into the little front room, Min got up from the frayed and stained settee and began dancing around and sort of singing. He was having one of his hyperactive days. I wondered if his more eccentric behaviour was related to his illness at age seven, which was presumably something like meningitis or encephalitis, or related to the poverty of his early environment, or related to something inherited. Probably it was a combination of factors.

"Kent," said Wati, Min’s mum, who was wearing her best batik dress, "Aldi’s now going to school here in Cipete."

"Great," I said.

It was good to hear that the middle child in the family, eleven-year-old Aldi, was now living in the new house, rather than back in the slums of North Jakarta. Aldi, looking handsome but not wildly happy, appeared at the kitchen door. He was frowning, but I presumed he was going to be able to settle-in and make new friends.

"Kent," continued Wati, in a begging voice, "Min’s relatives in Cengkareng. We’d like to visit them. Can you take us?"

"Cengkareng?"

"It’s near Min’s old house in Teluk Gong. Near the sea."

"I want to go to Teluk Gong," I said, "to visit Sani and Indra, the seven-year-olds with TB. So we can go to Cengkareng after that."

We trooped out of the house, me, Min, Min’s mum and dad, Wardi, eleven-year-old Aldi, and little Itin and Imah. In single file, and watched by the neighbours, we paraded down the street towards my vehicle.

It was raining heavily as we made the one and a half hour journey to North Jakarta through the more than usually jammed streets.

The area around Min’s old house looked different. Due to the heavy rains, and the high tide, it was under water. About two feet under water. There was a canoe sailing down the main street and happy kids in bathing costumes were swimming past the doctor’s clinic. Some citizens had moved furniture onto their roofs. We had to park the Mitsubishi on the higher ground at the entrance to the area.

"How do we get through here?" I asked.

"Motorbikes," said Wardi. "We can get ojeks."

The ojek drivers were doing a roaring trade. Wardi and Min got on the back of one bike and I got on the back of another. I kept my feet as high as possible as we drove along the Venice-like lanes to the wooden house on stilts occupied by little Sani and Indra. We didn’t hit too many deep potholes and we didn’t topple over.

"How are Sani and Indra?" I asked their mum, who was standing at her door. In fact I could see the two children and they were as puny and sickly as before.

"OK," said mum, wearing a vacant look.

"They’re twins, Sani and Indra," explained Wardi.

"Are they eating well?" I asked.

"No," said mum.

"Have they still got coughs?"

"Yes."

"Is the medicine finished?"

"No."

"Can I have a look?" I said, while stepping inside the house.

She hesitated. I could see the bed, and two shelves. There really wasn’t much else. On one shelf was a clear plastic bag and in the bag were the clear plastic cartons containing the TB pills. I pointed to the bag and she brought it over for me to have a look.

"The medicine cartons haven’t been opened since you got them from the hospital," I pointed out.

"Yes they have," she said.

"Look, the cartons are full to the brim. Have you been forgetting to give the kids their medicine?"

"No." She looked away.

"Have you got a calendar where you can tick off the medicine each day?"

"No."

I took a page from my notebook and made a simple calendar.

"My driver will come here next week to check you’ve remembered to give them their pills. They must get them every day. Are you going to forget tomorrow?"

"No."

Before leaving, I watched her give that day’s medicine to the twins and watched her tick off the date.

Leaving Teluk Gong, we drove East towards Cengkareng along minor roads that in places were about a foot under water.

"Look at those houses," said Wardi pointing leftwards to a middle class housing estate where flood water had reached window height. "These were only built a few years ago."

"They’ve cut down too many trees up in the Puncak," I said. "Instead of the trees they’ve got luxury houses and golf courses designed by these top name golfers from America."

"Yeah," said Wardi, looking blank.

"When it rains," I continued, "the water goes too quickly into the rivers. No trees to slow down the water. The rivers and drainage channels overflow their banks and Jakarta gets flooded. Friends of the President have taken over entire hills near Bogor."

"This area’s always flooding," said Wardi.

"If they’d built the houses on higher foundations they’d be OK," I said. "But the builder was too mean."

Not much further on we came to a man-made mountain range constructed of every kind of garbage. It was dark grey and smoking like a huge World War One battlefield after the guns had stopped; after all the sweet smelling flowers, all the cute furry bunny rabbits, and all the fluttery little song birds had been smashed, splintered and pulverised by machines and then buried in gangrenous filth . Now, little children, with wicker baskets on their backs, were scavenging for soggy paper and plastic and perhaps finding the arms or legs from a settee or from something else. Dangerous looking machines moved among the infants. Being probably as big as any dump in the Philippines or Egypt, it would make a marvellous tourist attraction and perhaps the shanty dwellers living on the edge of the tip could offer bed and breakfast and unusual souvenirs.

We motored on past flat fields and over wide canals to a more heavily populated area. It had stopped raining.

"Is it much further to your relations’ house?" I asked. "You said it was near Teluk Gong." I was beginning to feel hungry and irritable.

"We’re almost there," said Wardi

We parked under some trees and set off on foot along a muddy path sided by high brick walls. This opened out onto a flat red-brown plain which stretched into the distance. It made me think of the outskirts of Marrakech on a cloudy day. I could see no trees or grass but lots of home made shanty houses built with brick, corrugated iron and even cardboard.

Improved kampungs have concrete paths and drainage ditches but such luxuries were absent here. Strange coloured human waste lay in puddles. Great chunks of red earth clung to my shoes.

"Here we are," said Wati.

We had arrived outside a small brick house and were greeted by various of Min’s cousins, uncles and aunts. The smaller children had thin limbs and slightly bulging tummies. We crammed into the front room where there was simply not enough space for us all to be comfortable. Small cakes and glasses of water were offered although I was careful to avoid actually consuming anything. Goodness knows what was in the water.

"Have another cake," said Wati.

"I’m fine thanks. Haven’t quite finished the first one yet," I said. I couldn’t hide the cake in my pocket as there was always someone staring at me.

The conversation was in Sundanese which was Greek to me. I grew tired of staring at their few possessions: a calendar showing a mosque, a metal bed, several school exercise books, a broken mirror and a battered wardrobe.

"Can I use the toilet?" I asked.

An uncle led me outside and pointed to a muddy ditch a few feet from the well. A mobile stall selling noodles had arrived in the street and a crowd had gathered. Oh dear. I wandered down the road but everywhere there were people: playing chess, flying kites, sweeping the path, hanging out washing, tending their fighting cocks, having a good gossip, or tinkering with motorbikes. I reached the canal where other people had gathered to wash their hands. Ah well, when in Cengkareng, do as the locals do.

The following day, in Kem Chiks little supermarket in South Jakarta, a place where foreigners can buy everything from imported avocados to imported zit cream, I bumped into an amiable expat acquaintance called Tom. In appearance, Tom looked a little like Groucho Marks. We decided to have coffees and Danish pastries in the upstairs cafe.

I told Tom about the skinny children I had seen in Cengkareng.

"Probably got worms," said Tom, with a trace of a Manchester accent. "Almost everyone’s got them."

"Not very healthy," I said, while noting bachelor Tom’s pallid complexion and bald patch.

"You know places like Malaysia and the Philippines spend about five times as much on health as Indonesia does," said Tom, who had trained as an accountant and had a head for figures.

"But I have to say the people in Cengkareng looked a happy bunch."

"It’s the communal thing," said Tom. "They’ve all got lots of friends. Not like in Britain."

"You still like the life here?" I asked.

"In my next reincarnation I wouldn’t mind being in Bali."

"You believe in reincarnation?"

"Well it’s one of the more logical explanations of things," said Tom. "I want to find out a bit more about Islam."

"Your Moslem girl friend? What age is she?" I had first met Tom while having a drink with Fergus at the Hyatt Aryaduta Hotel. It was there that Tom had told his friend Fergus about this girl moving into his house.

"She’s now sixteen," said Tom very calmly. "She was a little younger when I first met her, but I didn’t sleep with her until her sixteenth birthday. She wants to marry me."

I was startled, but tried not to show it; I wanted to appear as an experienced man of the world.

"You’re forty something?" I asked. I looked again at Tom’s thinning hair.

"Yup. I don’t want marriage. It’s her idea. I thought about marriage but I don’t want all the complications, like becoming a Moslem and being married to her entire extended family."

"You look worried," I said.

"I am. She’s very determined about the marriage thing."

"What are her parents like?"

"Nice enough, but not exactly sophisticated. It’s her friends I don’t like. She used to work in a bar and I don’t like some of the people she worked with. Really tough people."

28. ENGAGED

2003-01-24T20:47:00.000-08:00

Some days after our meeting in the supermarket at Kem Chiks, Tom invited me for an evening drink at the Houghmagandy Hotel in South Jakarta’s Blok M. The Houghmagandy, a modest concrete tower on a street full of noisy buses and traffic fumes, is frequented by the sort of businessmen who cannot afford Five Star establishments, or who do not mind being hassled by the multitude of young women in the extremely dark and crowded bar on the top floor.

"Kent, I need your advice," Tom whispered, as we sat down with our beers in the almost empty lower-floor restaurant. Tom was looking peaky, slightly unshaven and a trifle dishevelled in old T-shirt and baggy grey trousers.

"The sixteen-year-old girlfriend?" I said.

"Her name’s Kuntil," said Tom, his voice sounding a little more confident. "I’m in trouble."

"What’s happened?"

"She came to the office and asked to see the boss."

"You’re still working in Sudirman?"

"Yes. Anyway, the receptionist told her the boss was away. Our receptionist’s sweet. Kuntil said she’d be back and she was going to write a letter to the press. Can you imagine the story?"

" I can," I said. "‘British expatriate, aged 43, working for the well known British firm of whatever, has broken his promise to marry Moslem girl, aged 16.’ How would your boss react?"

"He’s a man of the world," said Tom, "but the firm doesn’t want that kind of publicity. My contract would probably be ended."

"Do you think she would write to the newspapers? I mean, what would she gain if you had to leave the country?"

"Revenge."

"Seems to be important in this part of the world."

"I’ve gone off her," said Tom, now speaking quite loudly. "She wants eighty million rupiahs because she says I’ve broken my promise to marry. I think it’s her friends from the karaoke bar who’ve put her up to it."

"Criminals, I reckon. Tell me, what age was she when you first met?"

"Fifteen. But, I didn’t get involved deeply until she was sixteen. I was careful."

"Have you negotiated with her?"

"I went to see her parents. They’re quite nice really. I explained that I had promised to marry her, but that I’d changed my mind."

"How did they take it?"

"They were polite and friendly. But Kuntil is sticking to her demands."

"She’s no doubt disappointed she’s not going to escape from the kampung into a life of luxury with maids and drivers and your retirement home in Madeira. My advice is to talk to her, kindly. Give her a way out that won’t involve loss of face."

"It’s not that I’m hard up, but I’ve saved my money so I can retire early."

"Is your money in shares?"

"It’s all in an Indonesian bank that’s giving a huge rate of interest."

"Is that safe?"

"The manager told me he’d let me know if there were ever any problems."

"If his bank was in difficulty, is it likely he’d let you know?"

"He’s a very decent guy," said Tom, stretching himself and beginning to look less tense. "What are you doing at the weekend? Bogor again?"

"Yes, Bogor again," I said.

In Bogor my first visit was to Ciah and her son Agosto, in their wooden shack under the dark, damp trees. Agosto was home from hospital, recovered from his typhoid, but looking pale, thin and unsmiling. I gave Ciah a small sum of money to buy food.

"Sorry it’s not much," I said, "but there have been a lot of people getting ill recently."

To be honest, I could have given a lot more, but for some reason I was feeling grumpy. Maybe it was the after effect of the beers with Tom.

In the children’s ward at Bogor’s mental hospital in Babakan I visited the mentally backward youngsters, John, Daud, Erwin and Saepul. John was naked, tied up, and sitting in a pool of diarrhoea. Erwin was locked behind bars in his usual small cell.

"John’s lost some weight," I said to the nurse named Diana, a well-nourished woman who looked happy in her work. "Has he seen the doctor?"

"Yes," she said, grinning in a way that suggested possible insensitivity or malice.

"What’s wrong with him?"

"He’s greedy. He ate too much and got sick."

"Is he getting any medicine?"

"He’s OK."

"He looks ill; malnourished."

"No. He’s fine." What was it about Diana’s smile?

I took Daud and Saepul for a short walk in the hospital grounds, and then washed my hands.

I dropped in on Asep and little Andi in Bogor Baru. Asep was still getting his TB medicine and had put on some weight around his face and chest. Andi was running around with his friends, but his stomach still had that swollen appearance of the malnourished.

Next stop was at the house of Dian, the sister of Melati and Tikus. Dian showed me her TB pills and smiled from a face that had put on more flesh and become prettier.

I wandered alongside one of Bogor’s red-brown river gorges. To my right was the volcano, Mount Salak. To my left little kampung houses were clinging to a series of steep terraces; colour was provided by sky blue doors, red-brown cockerels in cages and sheeny pink bougainvillea in tiny gardens; a food cart vendor was seeking attention by knocking on a hollow bamboo stick; a young girl in a too short skirt was slowly climbing some wide stone steps; drifting down the river was a raft covered in semi-naked children.

"Hey mister. Come in." It was the voice of young Dede, fan of English football, and brother of the fragrant and beautiful Rama. Dede, dressed in school uniform, was sitting on the wall outside his house.

"OK," I said, pleased to have some company.

Once seated on the concrete floor of his front room, Dede took a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it with a match he had rubbed against the wall. He began blowing smoke rings. There was a slight movement of the curtain leading to the bedroom, suggesting someone was on the other side.

Seated on the lumpy settee, I looked at a framed photo positioned on top of the TV. In the photo, Rama was holding hands with a tall, ungainly young man with a big forehead, hollow cheeks and a facial expression suited to a spivvish barrow-boy.

"My sister," said Dede. "She’s got engaged."

"To the man in the photo?" I asked with a slight croak in my voice. It seemed incredulous that Rama should want to marry someone so less attractive than herself.

"Correct."

"Does he live near here?"

"Round the corner," said Dede. "His mum is friends with my mum. They’re distant relations."

Before I had time to think too deeply about Rama’s fate, a small boy, dressed in a sarong, appeared at the open door and stared in. He was accompanied by a grey old lady I took to be his granny.

"This is Hadi," said Dede, pointing in the direction of the elfin kid. "He’s just been circumcised."

"Brave chap," I said.

"Hadi," said Dede, addressing the lad, "show mister where you’ve had the operation."

The boy grinned and shook his head.

"Want to see my barbet?" asked Dede, cocking his head to one side.

"Your what?"

"Barbet," said Dede, dark eyes widening.

"Barbet?"

"Do you like barbets?" asked Dede. "I’ll show you it."

He went into the small front garden and returned with a tiny quivering object.

"Do you like birds?" he said, as he opened his hands to reveal the feathery fledgling.

"Yes, but not in cages," I said, feeling sorry for the creature. "There are hardly any birds in the trees around here. They’re all in cages."

He sat on the floor and let the bird walk over his head.

"Be careful. It may not be clean," I advised. "You don’t want to catch some disease."

"Oman’s ill," said Dede.

"Who’s Oman?" I asked.

"A little kid down the road," said Hadi. "He’s got typhoid."

"Has he been to the doctor?" I asked, suspecting that I already knew the answer.

"The dukun’s been to see him," said Dede. "And, his aunt’s ill as well."

"What’s wrong with her?" I said.

"She’s all swollen up," said Hadi.

"Has she seen a doctor?" I asked.

"No," said Dede. "The dukun treated her as well."

"We’d better go and see them," I said, with some reluctance. I felt I had already had enough hassle for the day.

Dede led me to a white walled kampung house inside which were lots of small rooms, all dingy, dark and untidy. There were grubby paw marks on walls; and in one room, piles of threadbare clothes covered a torn settee. We entered a room smelling of rotting meat. Lying on a mattress on the floor was a middle aged woman, named Nurul, whose legs and arms looked swollen to twice their normal size.

"Have you seen a doctor?" I asked.

"She’s been getting treatment from the dukun," said a young man standing by the door. "The dukun did something which made her bleed. But she’s no better."

"She looks fevered. How long has she been like this?" I said.

"Maybe ten days," said the young man.

"Do you want to go to the hospital, if I pay?" I asked Nurul.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Where’s Oman?" I said.

I was taken into a room off a back courtyard. Ten year old Oman, who was lying on a settee, looked like a skeletal creature from a Japanese internment camp.

"Has he seen a doctor?" I asked.

"We took him to the government clinic," said a plump woman with a kindly face and broken sandals. "They gave him some pills for typhoid, but they didn’t work."

"You got pills for how many days?" I inquired.

"Three days," said the woman.

"Did you go back to the clinic when the pills were finished?"

"No," she said, smiling.

"How long ago was that?"

"About a week ago." She looked unsure.

"Do you want him to go to the hospital?"

"He’s been to the dukun," she said, avoiding looking at me.

"But he’s not better," I pointed out.

"Give us the money for the hospital and we’ll go later," said a man who appeared at the door of the room. Unshaven, and dressed in a snazzy shirt, he looked like a down-market used-car-salesman.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Joko, Oman’s father," said the man.

"Why can’t we go to the hospital now?" I asked.

"I’ve got to go off to the market to work," said Joko. "My wife’s got to look after the other children."

"We’ve got to go now," I insisted. "Look. Nurul’s being taken now." Six young men had appeared carrying the sick woman on a stretcher.

Joko put Oman on his shoulders and we set off towards my van.

At the Menteng Hospital the doctor looked worried after examining Nurul.

"She suffers from diabetes," said the doctor, "but she’s also got septicaemia, blood poisoning. She should have been here when she first got ill." Nurul was wheeled away to the third class women’s ward.

Oman was fitted to a drip and the nurse handed me a prescription for pills to last three days.

"Typhoid?" I asked.

"Yes," said the nurse, a pretty girl in a tight white uniform.

"Can we not get medicine to last more than three days?"

"No. It’s always three days," she said.

"But I live in Jakarta."

"Maybe Oman’s father can buy the next lot of medicine."

I turned to Joko. "If I give you medicine money to last ten days, will you make sure it’s used only to buy your son’s medicines?"

"OK," said Joko, avoiding my gaze.