Indonesia
Chapter One
I was 21 years old when I finished university. And at 21 years old, I had no
idea what I wanted from life or what I wanted to do as a job. I certainly
wasn't ready to sign my life away to an accountancy firm and start the beginning
of the rest of my life sitting in an office, staring into a computer screen. My
careers advisor recommended that I take some time out to travel and see the
world. "There's no hurry", he said, "there will be plenty of time to get a job
in the future, you're still young". And of course, he was right. In my heart
of hearts I knew that inside the body of a young man lurked a naive boy, and
that I needed to experience more of life before settling down to nine-to-five
hell.
So it was to the grave disappointment of my parents that I set off to Indonesia
to teach English, having completed my "TEFL" course (teaching English as a
foreign language). It was not a difficult decision to make - tropical beaches,
hot weather, cheap cost of living and gorgeous young Indonesian girls were all
strong lures. I knew that in one or two years' time my friends and family would
all still be there for me, and I could go back and visit whenever I wanted. I
thought that this was the best decision I had ever made.
I arrived in Indonesia in May 2001 to find a country of both extreme beauty and
extreme despair. The incredible natural landscape was blotted with the scars of
the country's recent history - civil war and economic breakdown had led to
widespread physical and moral destruction of Indonesia's islands. Everywhere we
went, we saw derelict and destroyed buildings, people living in shacks, and
filthy, diseased animals roaming the streets. Despite all of this, the people
seemed remarkably happy, many of them seemingly glad just to be alive. These
people made me feel ashamed when I thought of how quick we British are to moan
about the slightest hardships we have to endure.
Despite my initial shock, I was determined to stick it out and it was with a
certain amount of excitement that I started my new job, teaching the English
Language to the children of this country. At first it was hard - my Indonesian
was not good, so teaching was an uphill struggle. After a few months, however,
my Indonesian improved, as did their English, and I established a rapport with
my pupils. Despite our different cultures and backgrounds, and despite
everything these children had been through, they always made me feel welcome in
their country and treated me with the respect that no teachers in a British
school are ever afforded! Likewise, I had respect for them and their country
which had shown me so much hospitality.
One pupil, however, gave me cause for concern. He was a young boy of around
eight years old, from the nearby village. Unusually, his attendance record was
poor - unusual because in this part of the world good education is seen as a
rare blessing which many children are unable to benefit from. When he did turn
up to school, he was invariably late and would sit at the back of the classroom,
not talking to me or to any other pupils. Perhaps even more worryingly, I often
saw bruising around his face and arms. Now, maybe I was putting two and two
together and coming up with a hundred, but I was concerned for the wellbeing of
this child. Indonesia does not have the kind of social care that we in the
Western world take for granted, so I saw it as my responsibility to look out for
my pupils. No-one else was going to.
Going against the advice of my colleagues, I decided to go to the boy's home to
try and talk with his parents. I have no desire to stick my nose into people's
private lives, and I appreciated that as a foreigner I may not be welcome
uninvited into their home, but my concern for the boy (and to be honest, my
curiosity) go the better of me. I found the address in the school files,
recognising the area of the village as a no go area, one which the UN had
decided it was unsafe for foreign nationals to venture into. However, having
grown up on the mean streets of South London I considered myself to be pretty
savvy, so I ventured over towards the address in the Northwest corner of the
village.
The going was tough. I had no car, and the long trek along dusty roads and
tracks in the hot late afternoon sun was an arduous one. Sweat was pouring from
my forehead and into my eyes, which combined with the low sun to effectively
partially blind me. The roads were deserted, and the afternoon was quiet except
for the distant sounds of children crying and dogs barking. When I eventually
reached the area, I found no road name or house numbers, just a few rows of
shacks, derelict buildings and scrubland. Dead animals lay in the roads and the
whole place smelt of decay and excrement. Of all the places I had seen in this
country, this was easily the worst. And to make matters worse, I was completely
lost. The only people I had seen crossed the road to avoid me, and would not
make eye contact. Somehow I got the feeling that nobody around here was going
to help me.
It was whilst I was vainly searching through an abandoned shack, looking for the
boy and his family, or anyone that could help me, when I felt something hard
sticking into my back.
"Don't move", I heard someone say, speaking English in a thick Indonesian
accent. It was then that I guessed that the object prodded into my back was a
gun. Somebody grabbed my arms and swiftly secured my hands behind my back, I
guessed with handcuffs. Before I could see my assailants, a bag was pulled onto
my head and a drawstring tightened around my neck. I heard voices shouting (at
least two male and one female), in my panic and confusion I could not understand
what they were saying. Suddenly I felt a blow to my stomach, followed by a
second blow to the back of my knees, leaving me kneeling on the ground, doubled
up in pain. Almost as soon as I was on the ground, I felt a sharp stinging pain
to the back of my head, and I lost consciousness.
