Indonesian Gold

 

Published by: Sid Harta Publishers

P.O. Box 1042
Hartwell
Victoria Australia
3124
email: [email protected]

Internet sites:
http://www.sidharta.com.au
http://www.publisher-guidelines.com
http://www.temple-house.com

First Published: January 2002 Copyright: Kerry B. Collison
Design, Typesetting, Graphics: Alias Design Cover Design: Mario Cicivelli

Editing: Robert N. Stephenson Proofreading: A. J.
Stephenson

_©
This book is
copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or
review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any person without the
written permission of the copyright owner. Collison, Kerry B. ISBN: 
 
9781877006098 (e-Book)

INDONESIAN

©

The Happy Warrior – an anthology of Australian Military
Poetry

Co-edited by: Kerry B. Collison & Warrant Officer Paul
Barrett

In Search of Recognition – the Leo Stach Story

(Biographical)

The Fifth Season Indonesian Gold
The Asian Trilogy

consisting of:

Jakarta
Merdeka Square (Freedom Square
)

(book of the month, Singapore)

The Timor Man

(book of the month, Singapore, Hong Kong,
Australia)

Screenplays

Co-author –
The Golden Flux

 
Recognized for his chilling predictions in
relation to Asia's evolving political and economic climate through his books, he brings unique
qualifications to his historically-based vignettes and intriguing accounts of power-politics and
the shadowy world of governments' clandestine activities.

Further information is available on the Internet site:
http://www.sidharta.com.au
Photo: Courtesy of Dominion Newspapers,
N.Z.

For those readers who are new to Indonesia, The
Philippines and the Malay Archipelago, or unfamiliar with Australian slang, there is a glossary
at the back of this book, following the Postscript.

The use of italicised dialogue is deliberate – this
indicates that the characters are, in fact, conversing in their own tongues.

This story is a work of fiction. The inspiration for this
novel was based on events surrounding the infamous, billion-dollar BRE-X gold fraud, and the
determined few who recklessly destroyed so many lives and severely impacted on indigenous
cultures with their all-consuming quest for gold, in Kalimantan, Indonesian Borneo.

The characters as depicted in Indonesian Gold and the
events recorded in this book are not intended to reflect any association with any real person in
any way, with the exception of those characters whose names are accurately recorded.

‘Be not penny-wise; riches have
wings
,
and
sometimes they fly away by themselves
,
sometimes they must be set flying to bring in more.
'

 

The pilot's grip on the cyclic control firmed
instinctively as an abrupt wind change challenged the hovering helicopter, lateral stability
maintained as he manipulated the collective and foot pedals to position the helicopter directly
above the deserted stretch of exposed, river sand.

Droplets rolled down the pilot's brow momentarily
blinding, and he cursed loudly, wiping sweat-stung eyes with the back of his torn flying suit as
he struggled to identify movement through the thick, jungle canopy, along the river's
edge.

Where the hell were they?

His concern growing, the pilot permitted the chopper to
drift as he continued to search for signs of his party, relief sweeping across his face when he
spotted the men breaking from the dense jungle, dragging their unwilling companion towards a
narrow, treeless strip near the water's edge.Without hesitation, the pilot decreased the main
rotor's lift, the hasty descent resulting in his approaching passengers' near decapitation as
whirling blades drove the placid, silicon-laden carpet below into a maelstrom of stinging,
blinding river-sand.

Camouflage-battle-dressed soldiers dragged their gagged
captive across the shallow water and onto the sandbank, the soft, dry surface tugging at their
boots and she pleaded, begging for mercy, her cries drowned by the helicopter's blades as these
chopped furiously through the thick tropical air.

The pilot signaled, impatiently, observing as the men
bundled their prisoner on board. He then drove the Bell 205 to five thousand feet, before
navigating his way visually to the drop zone.There, he hovered steadily, cursing the two men as
they struggled to untie their hysterical victim's hands while she kicked and screamed.

Her captors punched her repeatedly – savagely. When her
limp frame offered no further resistance, the killers removed the cloth covering her face and
tossed her, unconscious into space, watching in silence, as she tumbled earthwards towards the
slashed and burned forest floor, below.

****

The young woman's death would be recorded as a suicide.Two
months later North American stock markets would reel in shock when it was discovered that the
Kalimantan gold mine, once touted as the world's richest deposit, was indeed,
worthless.

May
1989

Kalimantan Timur
(Indonesian
East Borneo)

To the unskilled, the suggestion of change in the still,
suffocating, humid forest air might have gone unnoticed. As the momentary breath of wind passed
by ever so gently, Jonathan Dau paused, conscious of the shift in the natural balance of his
immediate environment. The shaman cocked his head to one side and listened. Somewhere, amongst
the trees, a wild pig snorted and the shaman stiffened – identifying the deception; and one so
often played by the spirits. Encumbered by this thought, the Dayak chief's hand unconsciously
moved to the gold amulet hanging on a simple thread around his neck, and he whispered an
appropriate chant.

Deep in the sun-hidden canopy above, where wild,
black-speckled orchids hung unnoticed, protected from man's curious hand,
proboscis
monkeys engaged in dispute or play squealed – their occasional engagements of no importance to
the
Penehing
leader, Jonathan Dau. With brow creased and a perceptive eye, he searched his
timeless surrounds, finding reassurance when the hornbill came into view; satisfied that she
would watch over him. Equipped with the cautionary signals his instincts and empiric knowledge
had taught him to respect, the shaman exhaled slowly and paused. Then, with rehearsed motion he
drew deeply, his chest swelling, as he inhaled the forest's air. His senses questioned the scents
and movements within his immediate environment. Becoming one with the forest and its demanding
spirits, he remained motionless, as time moved slowly forward. Then the shaman's eyes glazed and
he stood silently centered on the gently swaying bridge; a giant butterfly flapping across his
vision unseen, but recognized by its presence as the chief remained in trance-like
state.

The squawk of a hornbill shattered the moment. A puff of
wind caressed his cheeks and he turned and looked downstream; his eyes followed the black
hornbill's flight along the narrow river's course, before her form blurred amongst the towering,
giant forest trees. The
dukun
remained paused, alert, and when he recognized the
hornbill's familiar cry, he knew then that the interlopers were near.

Jonathan Dau offered a brief chant before he cautiously
lifted one foot then another, moving at surreptitious pace while proceeding across the rickety,
twisted, ageing twine-and-bamboo suspension bridge strung perilously across the narrow gorge, and
over the cascading falls far below. Suspecting that wandering forest ghosts, those lost souls
known to roam the misty, upper-river reaches remained in observance he decided that it would not
be prudent to linger there. Jonathan Dau quickened his pace and, with determined steps, soon left
the dangling bridge well behind. He entered deep into the forest where in compatible blend, his
image fused with the sun-blocked landscape. Now in perfect harmony with the surrounding spirits,
Jonathan Dau, chief shaman to the
Aoheng
,
Penehing
tribe made his way downstream to
where the reported sighting had been made.

****

Eric Baird accepted that swatting the mosquito would be a
waste of energy. By the time the insect's blood-drawing presence was obvious, the damage would
already have been done. He raised his hand perfunctorily, missed, sighed then moved his body
forward to restore circulation to a now bruised, near-calloused backside.

The expedition had, without doubt, been the most
disastrous he had ever undertaken in his years spent dragging his frail, thin frame through
Indonesian leech-infested, swamps and jungles. He sighed, again, his despondency due more to the
absence of his companion, Mardidi, than the overwhelming obstacles encountered since leaving the
young and ailing Javanese, two days downstream. Mardidi had succumbed to yet another malaria bout
just days before and Baird, albeit reluctantly, was obliged to leave his personal assistant
behind. Baird pushed ahead to maintain the punishing survey schedule. An experienced expatriate
geologist, Baird valued the advice and experience of field assistants, wishing now he had not
acted so hastily in moving this far upstream without reliable guidance.

He listened to the longboat crew's mumblings and, although
unable to understand their dialect, their mood reflected their misgivings at having ventured into
unfamiliar territory. The three-man crew consisted of
Modang
river-Dayaks, whose
temperament had become visibly hostile as their party progressed upstream, following un-charted
tributary systems that fed the great Mahakam River. They were now in P
enehing
territory,
the Dayak tribal group known for their mystical powers, derived from decapitating their foes.
Baird, questioning his own judgment at having undertaken this expedition without his partner,
drifted off into a troubled review of events which had brought him to this relatively unexplored
place.