his terraced accommodations. Mary remained inside, apparently preparing the evening meal.
“Selamat sore, Pak Seda,” Coleman called, pleased with the opportunity to approach the instructor outdoors.
Albert had not seen the young man coming. In fact, he had not been conscious of anything much for the past hour. Startled, he jumped up and prepared to escape from the intruder before recognizing the student on his way up the path. He quickly buried the letter deep into his baggy trousers pocket, then waved, beckoning for Coleman to approach, composing himself as best he could considering the weight of the communique hidden in his trousers.
“Selamat datang, Mas Koesman. Silahkan masuk .”
Coleman hesitated, surprised at the initial reaction he had witnessed, then proceeded to address his teacher. “Maaf mengganggu, Pak ,” he apologised.
“Come in, come in,” Seda repeated opening the front door to his bungalow. They entered together. Coleman waited in the guest room while Seda disappeared momentarily, returning with his wife.
“Selamat sore Njonja Seda,” Coleman extended his hand to the short homely-faced woman. Her hair was dull red and her skin showed signs of a harsh childhood, perhaps on a farm, the guest concluded.
“Sorry, I do not speak much Indonesian. I leave that to Albert,” she explained.
Coleman was amused that Mary showed another of the country’s characteristics. Foreign languages were something never spoken and rude if used by others in front of real Aussies!
They sat, talked, and drank strong black coffee. Coleman politely refused the offer to stay for dinner, returning to his room to study. The brief discussion had been rewarding. Seda had agreed to provide the additional instruction Coleman had solicited. Payment had been offered and brushed aside. A schedule was established and both had parted feeling pleased with the arrangements. Seda was particularly pleased that he had been asked. Coleman was delighted that the senior guru was personally committed to assisting with the extra-curriculum instruction. Later, as he lay awake, his mind recounted the two meetings with the Timorese that day. Albert’s earlier over reaction to being startled now caused Coleman to smile as he recalled the scene as the instructor’s behaviour had been almost comical.
Albert Seda also lay awake anxiously contemplating the letter from his brother Nathan. Sleep was impossible. The disguised threats unsettled his stomach. Should some source inform the Australian authorities of Albert’s relationship to Nathan, dire consequences would follow for their remaining family in Timor. Tired and agitated the following morning, Albert decided not to attend classes for the day. He had to have time to think, to convince Nathan that it would be impossible for him to do those things that he asked. No, not asked, demanded.
In the following weeks a further and even more threatening communication arrived and Albert assumed the Asian philosophical approach to Nathan’s letters. He decided that he was, after all, of Indonesian heritage and that bore certain responsibilities even though he had not found peace in his country of birth. He had also considered his remaining family in Kupang and the additional hardships they may have to suffer if he refused assistance.
He really had no choice but to submit. He agreed to cooperate and, in so doing, commenced down a parallel path to that of Stephen Coleman, unaware that their respective journeys would eventually twist and turn in opposing directions as each moved forward in search of their own dreams and, perhaps too, their ajal .
Their final destiny.
Chapter 3
Kampung Semawi, Java - October 1965
The line extended for kilometres. In some places, the bicycles were four and five abreast as the children free-wheeled down the gentle incline enjoying the lower temperatures and light humidity of the early morning. As they rode, they talked, laughed and flirted, occasionally pedalling, as they coasted down the hill. They were happy, innocent, and eager to get to school.
The girls wore dark skirts, white cotton blouses and thin red scarves knotted loosely below the neckline. The boys wore similar colours, dressed in shorts or trousers, depending on their age, and white short-sleeved shirts without the distinguishing loose tie. The girls held themselves erect, poised like Parisian models, their backs straight, both hands elegantly touching but not gripping the handlebars as they maintained their positions in the column.
Many of the young ladies sported waist length deep black hair. Occasionally, as the bicycles passed under the trees and then out of the thin shadows into the light, the sun’s rays would touch the fine long strands causing their well-kept crowns to shine with the care, the brushing and the natural aloe vera applied each evening by their doting mothers before they retired.
Even though their appearance could cause one to think otherwise, these were not wealthy children and they wore sturdy sandals. Some wore white socks but only as an option as these were not a mandatory part of the school uniform. The boys wore an assortment of footwear. Most preferred a sandal not dissimilar to those worn by the girls, but more robust to withstand the perpetual pounding they suffered from the mid-morning and late afternoon breaks when the nearby field became a soccer battlefield.
Occasionally a scooter would pass, and then slow, to permit the driver or passenger to converse with the slower moving twowheelers. To be privileged with a scooter did not, surprisingly, create peer group animosity as young Indonesians generally applauded others’ successes.
Sharing was already a cultural trait well before the Marxist-Leninist philosophies crept into their lives. Thousands of years of cultural development had produced a people who had achieved a special ability to understand the import of preserving their way of life, to appreciate their history and respect their families and, at all costs, to coexist with their neighbours in their restrictive, suffocating dwellings. This same cultural force was also responsible for the occasional but sudden explosions of temper and violence which sometimes caused normally calm souls to run out of control, or run amok , often killing at random on a scale not understood in the West. Or at least that was so before militant religious sects eventually gained a foothold in the developed nations.
The road to the school travelled directly through the rich rice fields, the black tar macadam raised several metres above the millions of individually owned sawah under cultivation, permitting traffic to pass unhindered. Each plot, some almost unworkably small, would have been farmed by the same family over and over for many generations. Ownership would have passed from father to son throughout the centuries, the unwritten titles rarely questioned or disputed. Often these fields remained as the only real security that these betel nut chewing peasants could really rely upon.
Of course, the occasional dispute would arise as to just how much creepage had taken place when the padi fields were worked for it was relatively simple to enlarge ones area by widening the mud retaining walls over a few seasons. The gradual change to the miniature dam wall would go unnoticed as a few centimetres were added here and there until finally, after some years had passed, the plots size could differ in area considerably. If not kept in check, a farmer could conceivably lose land the size of a small suburban front yard over a period of ten or fifteen years.
Coconut groves separated these magnificent green fields from the roads. Flowers grew alongside the pathways and Hibiscus hedges were planted between the small thatched-roof dwellings. The rich volcanic soil provided food for all, including the slow-moving long-horned water buffalo. They were used to till the heavy black mud, producing a bed of fertile ground waiting to be seeded to commence the growing cycle once again. Clumps of banana trees grew in isolated spots throughout the sawah, giving shade for the farmers during the heat of the day. During the wet season, children would casually snap a large banana leaf away from its tree and use the branch as protection from the rainy squalls. To the villagers, the banana and coconut trees were symbolic of protection such as a roof may give, although one would be foolish to sit under the latter without