Empire of the East Read Free

and drive it into an area of some sensitivity.
    By coincidence a front-page editorial in the English language Indonesian Times caught my eye on a news-stand. It was headed — as might have been expected — INCORRECT REPORTS ON SECURITY IN ACEH , and the gist of what followed was that any such reports were the baseless inventions of the foreign media, produced with the intention of harming Indonesia’s image. No more convincing evidence of trouble could have been offered than that from Jakarta’s point of view the situation in Aceh was serious enough to have jolted the Indonesian press out of its normal silence in all such matters. This very long and puffed-out article provided absolutely no information on the subject of current happenings. There was nothing to bite on. The Indonesian people, who have lived for some thirty years in a news blackout, shy away like deer from any discussion into which politics enters. No one we spoke to in Medan admitted to any idea of what was going on in the North.
    There was also a letter from my daughter Claudia — a medical student who would be working and travelling for a year in Indonesia — dealing with her adventures on the island of Sumba. Her letters were an ideal complement to my own experiences in these islands, and it was hoped that we would be able to meet and travel together to East Timor at some point during these travels.
    Claudia and her friend Rod, also a medical student, had been engaged in a project with homeless street children in Java, and at the termination of this were visiting a number of islands where their principal concern was the predicament of the original inhabitants. In many cases these were threatened by the loss of their land, and under pressure to abandon traditional religions, dress, housing and means of subsistence, thereby becoming available as the labour force of logging, mining and plantation industries that were moving in. In Sumba the enemy was mass tourism, and as this letter shows the processes of deculturation involved were much advanced.
Well, we finally made it to the Pasola, and stayed in a house where a funeral was going on. The people were no longer Merapu but converted to Christianity and we heard some had been forcibly baptised. The only difference this appears to have made is they don’t keep priceless ikats (traditional dyed fabrics) symbolising the Merapu religion in the rafters any more and they don’t kill a horse to carry you off to heaven. In the one we saw they were not even allowed to inject the corpse to preserve it — so when they showed us grandma wrapped up in an ikat in the sitting position, she had a lot of bubbling red exudate coming out of her nose and mouth. They said tomorrow she’d be black and smelly, so they’d keep her covered up. We gave a donation to help her on her way, and so she’d protect us and give us a long and prosperous life. We also brought gifts of sugar, and were given local betel which we bravely tried but didn’t enjoy too much, but caused a lot of merriment as we inexpertly spat it out. Three pigs were swiftly killed by a knife in the chest, then we got to eat pig fat served with blood soup — Mum enak! Yesterday the second day of the funeral saw the end of a cow and a buffalo, then off to the ancient grave with a massively heavy stone top. There were cries of ‘Wooohhh’ as they levered it up, then pushed her in. The Pasola was wonderful — far, far more exciting than expected. Full details in my next.
    Next morning Mr Andy was waiting for us at the reception exactly on time. If possible he seemed to be even smaller and neater than on the previous day, and there was evidence of some further needlework on the doubtful areas in his denims. He was clutching a small wallet containing, it was to be supposed, the essentials of travel, and his moustaches were lifted slightly by his unrevealing smile as we came into sight. The car, delivered to the forecourt, was a seemingly new Toyota of robust