The Fifth Season (46 page)

Lily's boat rocked from side to side, the sluggish diesel-engine threatening to die when one of the two crewmen collapsed under a hail of bullets. Spontaneously, she raised her head as something crashed against the wheel-house, then burst into flames. Lily knew that she would die unless she could get to one of the other vessels. As flames took hold, her fellow passengers' screams filled the air, panic gripping them all when those on the ship ahead severed the thick rope tying the boats together. Suddenly they were alone, their vessel on fire, the current taking them farther away from the others as the engine idled along ineffectively. She could see the distance growing between her vessel and the others, transfixed by the scene as another ship exploded into flames. Then, incredibly, the Balinese turned away, apparently satisfied with the results of their mission.

‘Help me!'
Lily heard someone scream and spotted the remaining crewman leaning over the side, buckets in his hands. She did not hesitate, going directly to his assistance.

‘Start from up there!'
he ordered, and she obeyed, throwing the sea-water hard against the wheel-house. The flames leaped back, threateningly.

‘It's not making any difference!'
she cried, rushing to fill the empty container.

‘It's our only chance!'
he yelled again, cursing the others for blocking his access. ‘Get out of the way!' he screamed, kicking at two women huddled together in fear. More than half of the original complement had jumped overboard, five more lay dead, the rest too terrified to move.

‘See if you can find some more buckets,'
Lily ordered, dragging one of the women to her feet.
‘You'll find them down there somewhere,'
she said, pointing to the open forward hatch. The woman scrambled down the hole, reappearing moments later with two more buckets. A young Chinese boy jumped to his feet and grabbed the two buckets, joining in the effort to save their small ship. They worked together, filling the containers from over the side, slipping and sliding along the rolling deck, throwing whatever was not spilt over the burning timbers.

Once the fire had been extinguished, they examined the damaged wheel-house, dragging the dead crewman's body away from the simple controls.

The engine continued to chug along unaided but they knew from the sluggish noises emanating from below, that they needed more speed. The older man took charge, increasing the engine's revolutions and changing to a course which would enable them to rejoin other ships which had survived the attack. Later, they were to discover that these numbered fewer than one hundred. The final tally would show that more than twenty-thousand refugees had perished, many burned alive in their ships, while others were swept further out to sea when they attempted to swim to safety.

The remaining ships regrouped near Banjuwangi but fears of an aerial attack drove the ships down the Bali Strait, and around the Kucur Penin-sula to Grajagan Bay and the safety of the sparsely-inhabited, south Java coastline. There, they remained, the fleet's captain reluctant to attempt the crossing in such small numbers. Radio communication had provided them with information suggesting that there was a major build-up of fishing-boats developing in both Cilacap and Pelabuhan Ratu, to the west.

The captain had argued that the Australian authorities could deal with a fleet of their size but would be unable to prevent a group of six or seven hundred vessels arriving simultaneously. He suggested that they follow their original plan, which required that the huge number of vessels break into much smaller groups once within sight of the Australian coast. The captain had explained the dangers. A small fleet could easily be turned back by warships and coastal patrols. For most, this would be their only opportunity to flee their strife-torn country forever.

They had heard that the Australians treated refugees well. Lily's group was encouraged by the stories they heard about places such as Darwin, Port Hedland, and Dampier. She knew that none of those who had participated inearlier refugee migrations had been forced to return and that the success of their attempt depended heavily on landing on Australian soil. Once there, they could remain. As Lily listened to the unfamiliar destinations described by the experienced captain, she and the others had great difficulty believing that some of these Australian coastal towns such as Exmouth and Onslow, had even fewer inhabitants than the number gathered aboard their floating village.

Guided by their experienced captain, the refugees reluctantly agreed and settled down to wait for their next opportunity.

* * * *

She knew for certain that the distant rumbling was not thunder. The streets outside were filled with panicked citizens preparing to leave before the onslaught of Abdul Muis' murderous bands of thugs, news of their imminent arrival sending fear through their hearts.

‘We must go, Hani, today,' Budi insisted, but she was unwilling to leave without word concerning her brother. Numbed by the news that her father had been killed when Bandung had been overrun, Hani had only Budi to turn to in her hour of need. She feared reprisals, and word that the
Mufti
Muharam
forces were already marching towards Sukabumi had struck fear in her heart. Although Hani shared their faith, she believed that her father's association with the late General Praboyo virtually guaranteed that she would also be punished. Her sister had already fled Sukabumi without so much as a goodbye.

In the weeks which had followed her mother's death, Budi had become more than a friend. She had shifted her dependence to him, reciprocating Budi's feelings, grateful that he had been there during her difficult time.

Then, when she had also lost her father, Budi had insisted that the young woman who had only recently become his lover flee with him.

‘Are you sure your father has agreed?'
she asked, for the umpteenth time.

‘It's all fixed, Hani,'
Budi replied, confidently,
‘We will all leave together.'

‘But my brother…'
she argued again, leaving the statement hanging.

‘You can't wait any longer,'
he said, angry that she did not seem to understand the risks in remaining. ‘Besides, I must leave with my father this afternoon. It's our last chance and you know why.' His tone was not at all accusatory. They were both Moslems and neither supported Abdul Muis'
Mufti Muharam.
Hani wondered why Budi's father had delayed this long. Even his senior position as local head of the State Electricity Company had not prevented the ever-increasing attacks.

When their house had been burned to the ground just days before, Budi's father was finally convinced that none of them could ever be safe again. Abdul Muis' savages had spearheaded the attacks, obviously determined to destroy anything and everybody even remotely associated with religious beliefs other than their own.

Budi's father's sin had been to maintain power into the small orphan-age run by Catholic sisters, sufficient it would seem to warrant attacks against his family and property. When the decision to flee was taken, Budi had pleaded on Hani's behalf, his father agreeing to meet the cost of all three berths aboard the ships leaving for Australia. They would depart from the Samudera Beach harbor and, as space was limited, everything they owned would be left behind. Everything, that is, except the thin, yellow, half-kilo gold bars Budi and his father would carry, strapped securely around their waists.

Hani looked around the empty house which had been her family's home.

‘I'll come with you now,'
she decided, sadly.
‘I won't be long.'

Budi waited while she completed packing the few items he had suggested she take for their voyage, her selection limited by the one small case each passenger was entitled to take on board. Satisfied that she could squeeze nothing more into the bulging airline bag, she changed into jeans with a matching denim jacket, laced up her white sneakers, removed her brother's baseball cap from the dresser and marched stoically out into the hall where Budi waited. Then, without another word, she followed him outside and climbed onto the back of his motorbike, tears blurring her vision as he drove them both swiftly away.

* * * *

‘Tell the pilot we won't need him until tomorrow morning,' Hamish McLoughlin shouted, now clear of the heli-pad where the drooping blades continued to rotate menacingly, even though the engines had stopped. The Indonesian nodded, bent unnecessarily and ran back to inform the pilot.

Hamish watched the interpreter, waiting for the man to return. The junior official had been seconded to him by the United Nations' office in Jakarta. Reluctantly, he had agreed to the daunting task of accompanying the three-man evaluation team, selected to inspect conditions amongst the refugees camped along that stretch of the south Java coast.

‘Will you need me for the rest of the day?' he asked hopefully. Hamish McLoughlin looked at the others who both shook their heads.

‘No, but don't go too far from the hotel,' he replied lightheartedly, knowing that the nervous official would not consider wandering outside alone. McLoughlin then turned to the others in his party.

‘Seen enough?' he asked. They were all tired, their nerves frayed and tempers tested continuously by the frustrations they encountered.

‘We should get back tomorrow,' the senior officer suggested. Hamish nodded. Although they officially traveled under the protection of the United Nations, there was no evidence of any such political umbrella here, only danger. Although joint coordinator for this survey, he bowed to his associate's greater knowledge and experience.

‘Agreed,' he said, not unhappily. They had been fired upon earlier in the day, their interpreter then refusing to accompany the team any further.

Hamish McLoughlin retired to his room to change out of the now filthy clothing, soiled during repeated attempts to maintain his balance amongst the slippery conditions encountered earlier.

He caught a lift to the seventh floor of the poorly-maintained hotel and immediately upon entering the room opened the French-doors overlooking the Indian Ocean. The smell of decay lingered, as listless air-conditioning struggled to combat humidity and years of neglect.

The dilapidated structure, built by the Japanese during the Sixties as a small token of their war reparation commitments, stood like some lone citadel, guarding the mythical ghosts and myths which thrived through local folklore. Hamish had smiled when their interpreter had asked the UNHCR team not to wear anything green whilst on or over the water, for Nyai Loro Kidul, the Queen of the great ocean which dominated this coast, was an unforgiving mistress.

He removed his damp shirt, then stood admiring the view from his balcony as a soft, fresh ocean breeze gently touched his suntanned-skin, the smell of salt heavy in the air.

In the distance, Hamish could see small fishing perahu making their way back to the main markets where they would sit and haggle for hours, negotiating a price for their catch. He had visited this scene earlier in the day, when the village had come alive, the evening catches off-loaded as he watched. Sharks, dolphins, swordfish, huge red sea bass, sting-rays and even turtles of incredible age and size were placed in rows for the traders to see. The overpowering stench of unused, rotting bait and unsold produce randomly discarded everywhere, with seafood scraps lodged decomposing in the cracked, and broken concrete floor, all tested his resolve. The others in his team had also paled when they entered the fish markets, their nostrils assailed by the smell of rotting flesh, sun-dried squid and waste from gutted catch.

‘For chrissakes, Peter, do we have to do this?' he had asked the team leader, through gritted teeth.

‘Won't take long,' was all he said, extracting a handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. The others followed suit, stepping carefully between the rows of baskets filled with long-legged crabs, white-bait, fish heads and prawns. When they came to a trader squatting behind a basket covered with banana leaves, Hamish's curiosity got the better of him and he stopped. The fisherman looked up and grinned at the foreigners, his toothless features and gray stubble-face in no way betraying his true age.

‘Does tuan wish to buy my catch?'
Hamish waved for the interpreter to assist and, as he pushed his way to the front, the banana leaves were thrown back to reveal neatly carved hunks of dark red turtle meat, the dismembered body stacked carefully around the creature's severed head.

‘Let's get the hell out of here,' he said, disgusted with the sight. The men had then made their way outside, leaving the congested markets behind as they strolled along the densely occupied beach, smothered with thousands upon thousands of refugees camped, waiting for their turn to board once the tide had changed. As far as the eye could see, fishing boats rested on their sides in the shallow waters, their sun-bleached timbers and gunnels painted with thick red and blue lines, and bows decorated with grotesque faces to warn the ocean's demons against trespass.

Further out to sea, in deeper water and beyond the breaking waves, the main body of the refugee fleets waited, their passengers already on board.

When they had flown over the massive build-up, the team agreed that earlier estimates of five hundred vessels were totally unrealistic.

‘What do you think?' Hamish had asked Peter, writing this on a pad nestled against his knee.

‘Closer to a thousand, I'd say,' Peter shouted, his voice barely audible above the helicopter's screaming engine.

‘How long will they wait?' he scribbled again. Peter raised his open hands and mouthed the words, ‘who knows?' The pilot had then flown them along the coast in both directions where they spotted at least another two hundred boats steaming towards the main flotilla. Now, standing on the beach, Hamish understood how the earlier error in estimating the number of vessels moored together out at sea had occurred, as it was impossible to differentiate one ship from another within the floating mass, at least not from this elevation.