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For my wife, Kristan

Prologue

As is usual in Jakarta, when the car I was in stopped at a set of traffic lights, it was quickly surrounded by a bee-like swarm of mopeds and motorcycles, all waiting for the lights to turn green. I looked out of the car window to my left and caught the glance of the rider next to us. He looked directly at me, before reaching down. I couldn’t see clearly what he was doing but, in my mind, I was certain he was attaching a bomb to the side of our car. My heart started racing, my body sweating profusely. I was certain I was about to die.

I screamed at my driver, Suryadi, to go. He started moving the car cautiously forward as best he could, honking his horn in a futile attempt to scatter the surrounding scooters and clear a path. By the time we finally started accelerating away from the intersection, I was covered in sweat and my heart felt as if it was going to burst out of my chest.

‘What the fuck?’ I think. ‘This isn’t normal. I’m losing it.’

My wife, Kristan, was also struggling. One afternoon, she and our daughter, Brianna, were leaving a schoolfriend’s birthday party at Plaza Senayan, one of the many megamalls that dot Jakarta. They were on an escalator, and Brianna was admiring the goldfish she’d been given at the party when they heard a loud crash, followed by a number of short, staccato bangs. Convinced the building was under attack from machine-gun-wielding terrorists, Kristan grabbed Brianna’s hand and began dragging her down the escalator in a mad dash to the front entrance.

It was only when Kristan burst onto the street and witnessed a distinct lack of panic among the surrounding crowd that she realised she was mistaken. Brianna stood in tears, watching her new pet goldfish flapping helplessly on the ground.

After three years in Jakarta, our nerves were shredded. Something had to give.

Chapter 1 The Big Durian

It’s not the sticky humidity, or even the heat, that hits you first; it’s the smell.

When I was a young sailor aboard the HMAS Derwent back in 1986, the old salts prophesied, correctly, that you could smell Jakarta a day out from port. No doubt the place has changed a lot since then, but in one area at least, it remains much the same. A pungent mix of sweat, musky atmosphere and odorous pollution interspersed with the sweet smell of kreteks, the clove cigarettes favoured by the locals. It’s not necessarily a bad smell, just uniquely Indonesian. This ubiquitous odour is also the genesis of the city’s nickname, the Big Durian. Just like the spiky, pungent native durian fruit, once you get past the initial smell, you might actually come to enjoy it.

Now, in early 2004, I’m excited to breath it in again. I’ve just landed back in Jakarta, accompanying Kristan on her posting to Australia’s Embassy in Indonesia, our home for the next three years. We also have our two young children in tow, Brianna and Ryan, nearly three and one respectively.

Our house in the Embassy’s residential compound isn’t ready for occupation yet, so we’ve been booked into the Marriott Hotel for the first couple of nights. We are cheerfully reassured that the hotel has had an extensive security upgrade since being bombed by terrorists in August last year.

Like every new arrival travelling through the outskirts of Jakarta, I’m struck by the apparent contradiction of predominantly Muslim Indonesia overlaid with advertising billboards featuring mostly stylish young women in Western-style clothing and with barely a hijab in sight. Residential Jakarta is a patchwork of single-storey and multi-storey square houses, all living cheek by jowl down a mad scramble of lanes and alleyways with only the odd green mosque or major arterial breaking up the mosaic.

And then we are suddenly in the macet (‘congested’ in the local vernacular), and our van grinds to a halt before starting a slow crawl through a swarm of whining, honking motorcycles that weave through and plug every gap ahead.

The remaining four kilometres to the Marriott take an eternity. Halfway up the driveway to the hotel, we’re stopped by a group of men in paramilitary-style uniforms, who pop the bonnet and the boot, searching the car inside and out.

‘It’s just a bomb check,’ says our host. ‘Welcome to Jakarta.’

A couple of days later, Kate, the Embassy community liaison officer, takes us to our new residence, at Belimbing, a large, walled compound containing a dozen or so identical two-storey stone-and-brick, cream-coloured townhouses. Our allocated house is the closest to the front gate.

Kate opens the front door and ushers us in. It’s a nice place, if looking a tad old and in need of a good paint. The furniture is your stock-standard Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) issue – beige couches, wooden tables and sideboards and a floor rug, which upon closer inspection is actually a square piece of cream carpet. Nineteen-eighties Canberra chic. But it’s got a pool and barbecue area out the back, and we instantly know this will do very nicely indeed.

The next couple of weeks fly by as we set ourselves up in our new home and adapt to the tempo of daily life in Jakarta. Everywhere I look is exciting. New house, new friends, new sights, new tastes, new culture. Only the suffocating, relentless intensity of Jakarta’s macet slows us down.

Having your own car and driver, I realise, is a must. I’m able to purchase a car off a soon-to-depart Embassy family. The driver, Suryadi, comes as part of the deal. And he is a gem. A tall, wiry, gentle fellow, Suryadi is punctual and a competent driver; more importantly, he knows every backstreet and laneway in Jakarta. Along with Suryadi, we have two more additions to the family. Inem, our housekeeper, comes with the house, and Kasni, our nanny, has been selected by Kristan after an exhaustive selection process.

Life soon slips into a familiar routine. Kristan catches the work van to the Embassy each morning, Suryadi takes Brianna to kindergarten, Inem busies herself with the daily chores and Kasni dotes over Ryan. I mostly hang around the house or explore the city with Suryadi as my tour guide. But given the macet, my enthusiasm for the latter soon wears thin.

My social life does, however, experience an unexpected uptick after I watch a game of Australian Rules Football at Aphrodite’s Sports Bar one Saturday afternoon. I’d heard from Kate that Aphrodite’s televises live Australian Football League (AFL) matches every weekend, through the Australian Government–funded Australia Television overseas network. I’m a passionate Carlton Blues supporter, so this news was music to my ears.

During the game, a man approached me and introduced himself as Stevo, the coach of the Bintangs. I was aware that since the early to mid-90s, a thriving AFL community comprising footy-tragic expats and local converts had sprouted several local AFL clubs across Asia. The Bintangs are Jakarta’s resident AFL team. Born with a gift for the gab, and well versed in recruiting unsuspecting AFL ‘talent’ at Aphrodite’s, Stevo soon had me locked in for training the following Thursday night, which I duly attended. I loved it so much I haven’t missed a Thursday night since. The club is made up of an eclectic assortment of Embassy staff, business professionals, expat teachers and a few locals who all share a passion for AFL, cold beers and socialising. All in all, a great bunch, and I’m relishing the new-found camaraderie.

Notwithstanding the welcome boost to my social life, as the days roll on, I find myself spending more and more time at home, lounging by the pool, reading, exploring the local neighbourhood on foot or calling Kristan too often at work.

Kristan has enough on her plate. As the first secretary (Consular & Administration), she is responsible for coordinating a large portion of the day-to-day operations of Australia’s biggest Embassy, comprising over 350 staff. That number includes around eighty Australian diplomats from a myriad of government agencies, supported by a hardworking permanent complement of local Indonesian staff.

The challenge for Kristan is someone always has a problem, or a bone to pick. One minute she is trying to resolve a staff housing-related complaint in Jakarta, the next she is liaising with a serviced apartment complex in Yogyakarta, trying to arrange the installation of a microwave to heat baby formula for a young couple undertaking language training in the city.

She’s also the Embassy’s security officer, a huge undertaking in itself given the recent terror bombings in Bali and Jakarta, and massively exacerbated by the ‘she’ll be right’ mentality of many of the Australian staff. The magnitude of this task will soon become apparent.

The other – consular – side of Kristan’s job has its own set of dramas. Peak among these is the never-ending conga line of cases involving love-struck middle-aged Australian men. The story invariably goes something like this: middle-aged man arrives in Indonesia to take up a new job with wife and kids in tow. Within a year, said wife arrives at the Embassy tearfully seeking assistance to return to Australia. Shortly after, middle-aged man arrives at the Embassy seeking a visa for his pregnant Indonesian girlfriend to travel to Australia. Another six months or so later, he’s back again seeking a birth certificate for his newborn child and filing papers for his now wife’s permanent residency in Australia. Sadly, this is when things typically head south.

On his next trip to the Embassy, middle-aged man is normally alone and in shock. Back in Australia, his ex-wife is dragging him through the family court, while his Indonesian wife has absconded with the baby and is demanding child support. ‘What can the Embassy do?’ he pleads. The answer is, ‘Little.’

In the meantime, Kristan could do without her stay-at-home husband calling her every few hours just to have someone to talk to.

‘You’re bored, aren’t you?’ she says one time when I’ve called her about nothing in particular.

‘Terribly,’ I say.

Kate calls me one day with the exciting news that she has organised a shopping trip out to Pasaraya Mall at Blok M for Embassy partners that afternoon.

‘Ah, thanks. But I’m not really the shopping type.’

‘It’s a huge mall and I am sure you will find something you like. Kristan also thinks it would be good for you to get out of the house.’

There’s no way out. ‘Okay,’ I say, defeated.

Kristan organising my life is nothing new. She is of Dutch stock, tall and just a little intimidating. Whereas I like a bit of chaos and unpredictability in my life, Kristan prefers order and structure (full stop!).

It was hardly surprising, then, that when we first met in the navy, back in 1997, we didn’t exactly click. I was a newly minted sub lieutenant and China specialist, having just graduated from the Australian National University with a degree in Mandarin Chinese. Kristan was a young lieutenant trying to forge a career in the male-dominated, testosterone-fuelled arena of navy intelligence. To complicate things, Kristan was not only my superior officer, but also my boss.

We soon warmed to one another, though, so much so that I, ahem, helped steer her away from her plan A when we had both decided to leave the navy. I joined DFAT in Canberra as a specialist Chinese analyst, while Kristan was desperate to travel overseas, learn Italian and meet some tall, dark native of Rome.

That was a plan I couldn’t get behind. Fortunately for me, soon after arriving in Canberra, I learned DFAT was looking to recruit some South-East Asian analysts. These roles were a perfect fit for Kristan, given her background in navy intelligence focusing on military and political developments in South-East Asia. So, in a flash, I was on the phone trying to convince Kristan that joining DFAT was by far her best long-term professional prospect (and would yield infinitely better personal outcomes than traipsing around Italy looking for some Italian Fabio lightweight).

In August 1998, Kristan joined me at DFAT in Canberra. The rest, as they say, is history.

So I can’t really begrudge the fact that this plan has brought us to Jakarta and put me aboard a bus full of women about to go on a shopping trip.

The Pasaraya Mall is a grand complex full of hundreds of shops selling everything from electrical goods to high-end saris, from children’s toys to safari suits. It’s cavernous. The type of place you enter in daylight and escape hours later into darkness. In other words, my worst nightmare.

At the mall, Kate tells us we’ve got two hours to shop, and the group shoots off in different directions. Just as I’m weighing up the practicalities of getting a cab home, one of the group appears at my side and pleads, ‘Don’t leave me here.’

Lisa, it turns out, is exactly as excited about shopping as I am. We quickly find a nearby bar, and over a couple of Bintang beers and several chicken and beef satays, I realise Lisa is a gem. Having worked in Iraq for the UN, with scars from being blown up by a roadside IED to prove it, she is not your typical stay-at-home spouse.

Before I know it, a slightly harried Kate is calling my mobile.

‘Where are you? And is Lisa with you? We’re all waiting to head back to Belimbing.’

Shit! ‘Sorry, Kate. Yes, Lisa is with me. Time’s got away from us. See you in a sec.’

We make a quick dash back to the front entrance to find Kate and the rest of the group stonily awaiting our return, our lack of shopping bags suddenly obvious.

‘Couldn’t you find anything you like?’ she asks.

‘Just ran out of time,’ I respond sheepishly. ‘When’s the next trip? Would love to come back.’

‘Probably next week. Kristan will be surprised. She said you hate shopping.’

‘I’m warming to it.’

And with that, I also start warming to the assortment of other Belimbing expats, who are a friendly, eclectic mix, representative of the various government departments with staff at the Embassy. Mick is a big, tall copper from the Australian Federal Police (AFP), who becomes a bit of a drinking buddy. There were a few times I’d pop over to his place for a pre-dinner drink only for Kristan to have to send out a search party for me in the early hours of the next morning.

Another member of the Belimbing marooned-spouses collective is James, whose wife works in the Immigration Section. He’s more of a daytime distraction, and we like to have political and social debates over a morning cup of tea. James is also a big advocate of the local sarong, and the freedom it affords down below. Under the influence of his passionate and learned advocacy, I acquire a couple on one of my trips to Pasaraya Mall and take to them with a bit more enthusiasm than Kristan would like.

‘Would you mind closing your legs?’ Kristan growls at me from the opposite couch as we watch TV one night. ‘Really, as if I need to see that every night.’

‘Sorry, darling,’ I say as I straighten my back in a feeble assertion of dignity and quickly move to cross my legs.

‘I really do need to find you a job.’

Chapter 2 Duty Calls

‘Thank God,’ bellows Kristan down the phone. ‘Paul’s position has just been advertised.’

‘Okay, great,’ I say, sitting up straight. ‘I’ll start polishing up an application.’

The holiday is suddenly over and I need to get my head into gear. A posting to a high-profile mission such as Jakarta could be a fast track to career progression, and this could be my best shot.

Paul is the recently promoted counsellor (Economic). Prior to this role, he was the first secretary (Economic), responsible for managing bilateral trade issues and reporting on major developments in the Indonesian economy. This is the position being advertised and is right in my wheelhouse. But I’m a China specialist, so I start cramming everything I can learn about major developments and trends in Indonesian fiscal, monetary and trade policy. I particularly focus on key sectors with direct relevance to Australian commercial interests, such as mining and agriculture.

The competition for this job is likely to be fierce, but I’m already in Jakarta. Hiring me for Paul’s job will save the department a significant amount of money in language training, overseas relocation, travel and other related posting costs.

Swapping the sarong for a suit, I also get to lobbying at the Embassy. I formally request an appointment with the ambassador, David Ritchie, who gives me a good hearing but is understandably shy about making any promises. Next, I request to see Penny, Paul’s boss. Penny started in Jakarta as the counsellor (Economic) but has recently been promoted to minister-counsellor (Political & Economic), with overall responsibility for the output and performance of these sections at the Embassy. I’ve met Penny a couple of times socially since arriving here. Penny has a reputation for being a hard taskmaster and workaholic. Like David, she appears receptive to the idea of taking me on, but she’s somewhat more circumspect. From her line of questioning, I detect a note of doubt about my Indonesia bona fides.

Over the next few weeks, my quiet optimism at landing Paul’s job begins to wane. My polite enquiries as to the status of the selection process are met with stony silence. The wait is excruciating. Then one day out of the blue, I get word that Penny wants to see me in an hour. That’s great, I think, but the drive through the macet to the Embassy could take an hour and a half.

‘No rules today,’ I tell Suryadi, leaping into the car. ‘I have to be at the Embassy for 2pm! Cepat, cepat.’

Relishing the opportunity to play rally driver, Suryadi rises to the challenge, manoeuvring through the lanes of Jakarta like a man on a mission. Helpless in this task, all I can I think about is how important this next hour could be. What if I haven’t got the job? What will I do? Ambitious by nature, I’m becoming increasingly concerned a lengthy sojourn as an attached spouse in Jakarta will be a career-killer.

Suryadi beams as he arrives at the entrance to the Embassy with seven minutes to spare. The Embassy is located in Kuningan, Jakarta’s business district, on Jalan Rasuna Said, one of the city’s main thoroughfares and busiest roads. Waiting for the huge steel front gate to swing open, I’m struck by how heavily fortified the building truly is: a Fort Knox–type concrete monolith.

To my left is a strongbox-style concrete security post. Anyone wishing to enter the Embassy by foot has to be searched and have their credentials checked here. To the left of the security post, a fence approximately five metres high, comprising green steel poles embedded in concrete, runs the length of the front perimeter. Each green pole is bent outwards at the top, with the whole fence capped by large coils of concertina razor wire.

Welcoming? Not exactly.

The gate swings open and we enter a small holding area. Our way forward is blocked by another large steel gate, and once the steel gate behind us swings shut, a small battery of security guards in flak jackets and military-style steel helmets quickly surrounds the car.

I am quite used to the ubiquitous car security check. Every shopping mall, hotel and car park – or building of any type, for that matter – is required to conduct one, by law. But the veracity of these security checks largely depends on the institution. Sometimes they are quite rigorous, other times just a quick glance inside the car through a side window.

The Embassy’s car security check is in a class of its own. Wearing body armour, steel helmets and stern faces, the security guards quickly open the car hood, boot and doors, inspect empty spaces and ask questions, while two oversized dentist mirrors are run under the car chassis, scanning for explosives. The speed and efficiency of the whole process would make an F1 pit boss proud. For the rest of us, it’s just plain intimidating.

Once we’re through the security check, Suryadi drops me at the main entrance to the Chancery. This building, which houses the main diplomatic offices, is set back from the road about twenty metres. A small pond and garden separate the building from the front fence and road beyond. It’s not the most architecturally attractive effort – more like a white four-storey Lego-block tower, with windows evenly spaced along its exterior. A black-tiled curved portico, proudly displaying the Australian coat of arms, covers the main entrance.

I push open the main glass door and enter a wide visitors’ foyer decorated with leather seating, plants and pieces of Indigenous Australian artwork. Familiar with the drill from visiting Kristan, I walk straight towards the security office at the end of the foyer to have my visit logged and wait for someone to escort me to Penny’s office on the fourth floor.

I recognise Peter behind the counter, an attached spouse like me. Peter’s an affable fellow with an encyclopaedic mind for all things trivia. He also loves his sport, and we have bonded over a few beers discussing the relative merits of the AFL and his beloved National Rugby League.

The fourth floor is the restricted area, where the ambassador’s office, the deputy head of mission’s office and the DFAT Political and Economic sections are located. Access to this secure area is strictly limited to Australian diplomats, or A-based staff, to use the correct DFAT descriptor. Everyone else needs to be escorted, local staff and visitors alike.

On the fourth floor, Penny’s executive assistant punches a code into a small keypad next to the heavy security door, precipitating a sharp ‘click’ as the door unlocks. ‘Grateful if I could have your mobile,’ she asks as she pushes the door open. ‘No mobiles are allowed in the restricted area.’

She places my phone in a storage box bolted to the wall next to the door. I’m then led to Penny’s office, where we find her on the phone behind her desk. As we enter, Penny motions us to wait by the door. I stand waiting, heart in mouth.

Thankfully, she soon hangs up, stands and with an outstretched hand says, ‘Welcome to the team.’

I nearly faint on the spot, then shake her hand. ‘I take it I’ve got the job then?’

‘Yes.’

Penny motions me to sit. I’ll start on 1 November, a little over three months away. Until then, I’m expected to do language training, either in Jakarta or at a language school in Yogyakarta. While on language training, I’m also expected to do a mountain of reading to bring my Indo knowledge up to scratch.

Looks like I’ll have to pack away the sarongs; it’s going to be a busy few months!

Once my posting is officially announced, it only takes a week or so for the admin staff to find and vet a suitable instructor for my one-on-one language lessons, which I have decided to undertake in Jakarta.

Pak Jati and I meet for the first time in the Embassy’s Platypus Club, a small building attached to the Chancery that serves as a cafe during the day and a social club at night. Because of the tense security situation, and macet, he has kindly agreed to tutor me at the Embassy.

Pak Jati is a slight, genial fellow with a sharp wit and wispy beard extending from his craggy, sun-worn Javanese face, and we strike up an instant rapport. His love of a good yarn is only matched by his partiality for a kretek. Within five seconds of being introduced, he’s whipped one out and is puffing away. I actually don’t mind the sweet smell of the clove cigarettes; much preferable to the acrid stench of nicotine. After a quick chat and at least two more kreteks, we are whisked away by the local admin staff to an empty Chancery office that will serve as our classroom.

Pak Jati quickly ups the workload and I love it. I have an ear for languages and already speak fluent Mandarin. While learning any language isn’t easy, Bahasa appears to be relatively straightforward in that it’s not tonal and uses a Romanised script. Mandarin has five tones and requires memorising thousands of complex pictograms.

I am buzzing to be back in a work environment. There’s something about working in an embassy, particularly one as large as this one in Jakarta… Government ministers coming and going, tricky bilateral political issues to be navigated, intractable commercial disputes to be resolved and, that old DFAT chestnut, the high-profile consular case to be delicately managed. You overlay all this with the unpredictable local security situation and it’s no wonder the Jakarta Embassy is a hive of nonstop activity and excitement. I’m desperate to be part of it.

News comes through that the Embassy has decided to close Belimbing because Indonesian counterterrorism authorities have picked up intelligence that Jemaah Islamiah is planning another terror strike in Jakarta. JI, as they are commonly known, are an al-Qaeda-linked terrorist group dedicated to the establishment of an Islamic caliphate in South-East Asia. They are strongly suspected of having perpetrated both the devastating 2002 Bali bombings, which killed 202 people, including 88 Australians, as well as the attack on the Marriott Hotel in Jakarta last year, which claimed 12 innocent lives. And any map of Jakarta displays the words Kompleks Kedutaan Australia (Australian Embassy Compound) over a small area near Kemang in South Jakarta, clearly indicating where Belimbing is located.

Apart from us new arrivals, the Belimbing residents are likely to be elated at the news. They have been pushing to close the compound and move closer to the Embassy for years. Everyone loves the lush, oasis-like feel of the compound; they just hate the many hours a day spent in traffic more. The reality is that time trapped in macet far exceeds time spent by the Belimbing pool.

Kristan relays the good news that we will be moving into a standalone residence in the Dukuh Patra Kuningan area. Not only is Dukuh Patra a lot closer to the Embassy, several of our new friends live in this area. It’s particularly popular with families as it’s a quiet neighbourhood, tucked away off the main roads.

I’m excited, until Kristan breaks the news that our house won’t be ready for three months.

‘That’s great,’ I say, my frustration clearly evident. ‘I start in three months. The last thing I need is the stress of moving house while starting a new job.’

‘Since when have you ever done the heavy lifting when we’ve moved?’ Kristan’s riposte is brutally to the point. ‘You always find some excuse to make yourself absent. I just assumed I would have to do everything like always.’

I quietly wind my neck back in. ‘Okay, darling, sure. I’m just a bit nervous about my new job, that’s all. More than happy to help with the move.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ she responds dismissively.

Rumour has it that several five-star Western hotels have also been identified as possible JI targets. This includes the InterContinental Hotel, the venue for this year’s Australian Embassy Ball, one of the most anticipated events on Jakarta’s social calendar. The ball is due to be held in early September, and frantic efforts are now underway to source another location. So far, however, organisers have failed to secure one, given the reluctance of suitable venues to host such a high-profile event in the uncertain security environment. If one can’t be secured, it might have to be held at the Embassy itself.

‘I hate fancy dress!’ Kristan fulminates as she slams the closet door. ‘Why couldn’t it just be black tie and cocktail? As if I’m going to have a 70s kaftan in my wardrobe.’

Over the years, I have learned the hard way that proffering Kristan sartorial advice doesn’t go down well. Silence and perhaps a thoughtful facial expression are the best form of input.

Unfortunately, silence isn’t an option this time, as Kristan stands glaring at me from the foot of the bed.

‘Well…’ I stammer fearfully, ‘maybe just wear your little black dress?’

A deafening silence follows.

‘Actually…’ She pauses. ‘That’s not a bad idea. The LBD suits any occasion.’

‘And you always look gorgeous in that dress, darling.’ I slump back on the bed, heaving an inward sigh of relief. Disaster averted.

It’s Saturday 4 September, the night of the ball. This year’s 70s-themed event has been scaled back significantly so it can be held on the tennis courts at the back of the Embassy. The organising committee’s ‘in-house’ solution, made necessary by all the ‘chatter’ about JI, is novel to say the least.

We arrive at the ball to be greeted by a sea of kaftans, safari suits, tartan miniskirts and fake moustaches, with the odd afro tossed in for good measure. While a bit tight, the tennis court and adjacent areas provide surprisingly good space for all the tables, a dancefloor and a small stage for the band. It’s a long evening of dancing, drinking and shenanigans on and off the dance floor, as partygoers have a good crack at recreating New York’s infamous Studio 54 disco club.

It’s hardly surprising people are letting their hair down. Outside the main gate, the city’s on edge, a tinderbox of rumour. Here, in the surrounds of one of Jakarta’s most secure buildings, one can party with gay abandon. I mean, it’s not like someone’s going to attack the Australian Embassy!

Cocktails and swirling kaftans aside, I’m under the pump from Pak Jati. Normally, a newly arrived diplomat would have had the benefit of at least six months of language training to prepare for their posting. I’m only getting three months, and Pak Jati is determined to ensure I obtain the highest standard possible. Thankfully, I can count on his kretek addiction to provide regular breaks during classes.

Today, Thursday 9 September, is no exception. It’s 10.15am and we have been at it for over an hour when he calls a fifteen-minute break. Quite often I accompany Pak Jati on his smoko, but today I need to go and collect my election observer accreditation badge from AusAID on the second floor.

At my boss Penny’s suggestion, I have volunteered to be an election observer for the second round of the Indonesian presidential election in late September. The first round of voting took place in early July, but no single candidate was able to secure the requisite 50 per cent of the popular vote to win office. As a result, a second-round run-off between the two candidates who received the most and second-most votes – Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and Megawati Sukarnoputri, respectively – is necessary to decide who will be the next president. Penny thought being an election observer would help further my Indonesian political education; I jumped at the idea. This election is the first direct presidential election in Indonesia’s history. Opportunities to be an eyewitness to such historical events don’t present often.

So, with genuine excitement, I make my way to pick up my badge. Serina, Paul’s wife, is coordinating the accreditation process from an office next to the AusAID area, on the second floor towards the front of the building.

She is sitting behind a desk covered in ID tags, lanyards and reams of paper. Bubbly and always generous with her smile, Serina’s hard not to like.

‘Oh, hi, Grant. Come on in.’

She slides me a form to fill in and begins explaining the broader election observer accreditation process. I will be observing at an election booth in Menteng, along with Brad from the DFAT Economic Section. Supposedly, former president Suharto cast his vote at this booth in the first round, she notes.

As I finish the form, I can sense Serina is keen for a longer chat, but I don’t have the time. It’s nearly 10.30am and I’m loath to keep Pak Jati waiting.

‘Thanks, Serina. Anything else?’ I ask, passing her my completed form.

‘No, that looks good,’ she responds, checking it.

‘Apologies,’ I say, slowly getting to my feet, ‘but I’ve gotta run.’

‘Oh, okay, no prob.’ She passes me my accreditation badge. ‘If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to drop me a line or pop in to see me.’

‘Thanks. Definitely will.’ As I get to the door, on my way out, I turn to say a quick ‘See you later’.

But the words never leave my mouth.

Chapter 3 The Darkest of Days

Deafness is a curious thing. It can be quite disconcerting. Those of us who can hear largely take the ability for granted. It’s only when you lose your hearing that you truly understand the stark reality that silence itself can be deafening.

And it’s this unaccustomed silence that first occupies my mind as I lie prostrate on the floor. I’m confused as to how I got here. One second, I’m turning to say goodbye to Serina; the next, there’s a loud bang, and I’m lying on the ground gasping for air as if someone has just given me a sharp jab to the solar plexus. But as I lie here looking at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath, it’s the silence that’s most perplexing. My world is deathly silent, like I’m suspended in time and space. Am I asleep? Am I dreaming?

And then I’m jolted back into the real world by a sharp, acrid, pungent smell. Not strong enough to burn my nostrils, but unpleasant enough to make my eyes smart. I slowly struggle to my feet and am confronted with a scene of utter bedlam. The air is full of thick smoke, and I can see flames in the distance through a shattered window. But it’s the people rushing silently past and all around me, in and out of the smoke, that I find truly surreal. I feel like an extra in some grainy 1920s silent film. What the fuck is going on?

Finally, the fog of shock clouding my brain starts to clear, and I begin to piece together the sights and smells assailing my senses.

Shit! We’ve been bombed!

With that realisation, I stagger back into Serina’s office. The air is full of dust, and wires and panels are dangling from the ceiling above. I can see Serina sitting motionless behind her desk, her eyes as big as saucers. She’s obviously in shock. I ask her if she is okay, but can’t even hear the words come out of my mouth. Something obviously came out because she gives me a slow nod in return.

Having confirmed Serina’s safety, my mind instantly shifts to Kristan. Her office is on the same floor, towards the back of the building. Heart pounding, I quickly turn and rush out of Serina’s office. As I pick my way through the smoke and debris strewn across the floor, I start to discern soft, muffled sounds. Mainly lots of shouting, and all largely unintelligible. But I’m hearing something.

I arrive at Kristan’s office to find her standing in the doorway, confused but unharmed. The sense of relief is instant and overwhelming. Nearly in tears, I grab her, hugging her tightly.

Kristan hugs me just as tightly. From her stunned look, it’s obvious she hasn’t a clue what’s transpired.

Her mouth starts to move, but the words are barely audible.

I shake my head, ‘I can’t hear you. Yell in my ear.’

‘I was in my office,’ she shouts into my right ear. ‘I heard a bang and the whole building shook. Parts of the ceiling fell down. What’s going on?’

‘It’s a bomb… We’ve been bombed.’ Saying the words doesn’t make it any less surreal.

‘Oh, my God.’

I hug her tight once again, just as her boss, Graeme, appears. He is the senior administrative officer and the first person I have seen exuding calm since the bomb exploded minutes earlier. He says something to Kristan, largely inaudible to me.

Kristan then turns and shouts in my ear, ‘Graeme wants you to go down to the security office and tell Pete to make an announcement over the PA for everyone to evacuate to the basement.’

I give Graeme a short nod. ‘Understood. Will do.’

Then I give Kristan a quick smile. She’s close to tears. I squeeze her hand. ‘Everything will be alright, darling. I’ll see you down in the basement.’

Turning, I open the door to the internal stairwell opposite Kristan’s office. As I rush down the stairs to the security office in the main lobby, I feel a huge weight lifting off my shoulders. Kristan’s safe. But it’s not only a physical sense of release I feel. It’s as if someone has flicked a switch in my mind. The confusion and apprehension since the explosion have dissipated, replaced by a much-needed clarity of thinking.

I open the door at the bottom of the stairwell to discover that the explosion has demolished the front entrance to the Chancery. Broken glass, twisted metal door frames and chunks of concrete lie scattered throughout the main lobby. The acrid stench of high-explosive smoke is heavy in the air, causing my eyes to sting and my chest to tighten as the smoke enters my lungs. My improving hearing picks up distant screams and cries for help. From the carnage, it’s evident the bomb was detonated right outside the front of the Embassy.

Covering my mouth and nose, I quickly walk over to the side door of the security office and give it a sharp bang. No response. Yelling Pete’s name, I bang the door again, but there’s still no response. I grab the door handle and turn it. The door’s unlocked, so I push it open and enter.

In front of me, Pete’s sitting, hunched over on the floor. He doesn’t appear injured, but from his wide-eyed, unblinking stare, he’s clearly deep in shock. Given what he must have witnessed just minutes before, as the explosion demolished the front of the Embassy, it’s hardly surprising.

I squat down in front of him. ‘Pete, are you okay?’

At first, my question, and even my presence, doesn’t appear to register. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I ask again, ‘Are you okay, mate?’

This time, Pete breaks his stare and looks up, straight into my eyes. But while my presence may have registered, from the blank look in his eyes, it’s clear his mind is a million miles away.

‘Beverly!’ he shouts, jumping up, before bolting out of the office in search of his wife.

‘Shit,’ I say under my breath, looking at the public-address system in the electrical cabinet next to me. All I can see is a confusing patchwork of switches, plugs and dials.

While I study the PA, pondering which switch to flick or dial to turn, I spy a large jar of Monte Carlo biscuits on the bench next to the cabinet. They are impossible to buy in Jakarta. Pete must have had them sent up from home.

He re-enters and I remember why I’m here in the first place. ‘Graeme wants everyone to evacuate to the basement. Can you make a broadcast over the PA?’ I ask through a mouthful of biscuit.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Pete responds, moving over to the electrical cabinet. He flicks a couple of switches before grabbing the microphone and broadcasting the requested message. As I listen to the sound of Pete’s voice echo throughout the building, I sight a couple of first-aid bags on the floor underneath the counter. I open the first bag to find a ventilator, oxygen mask and small oxygen bottle; the second holds an assortment of bandages.

As I rummage through the bags, I recall the anguished cries for help and screams I’d heard just a few minutes prior. Friends? Colleagues? Innocent bystanders?

I grab the bags and exit the security office. The thick smoke once again forces me to cover my mouth and nose as I slowly make my way through the tangled mess of broken glass, metal and concrete towards the Chancery’s front entrance.

At the entrance, a pile of debris where the glass doors once stood blocks my exit. I clamber over the twisted metal and concrete rubble, before tripping face down onto the ground, cutting my hand and dropping the first-aid bags. Carefully regaining my feet, I pick up the bags and stagger out into the large, curved portico area that covers the Chancery’s entrance.

What confronts me is a hellish scene of devastation and destruction. Thick, heavy, black smoke clouds the air, turning morning to surrealistic dusk. Through it, I can see a large hole in the steel fence that separates the Embassy from Jalan Rasuna Said. On the road itself, multiple fires burn fiercely. A large military truck is engulfed in flames and belching black smoke. Twisted pieces of green metal, shorn from the Embassy fence, lie scattered over the ground.

To my right sits a badly damaged Embassy vehicle, its front end and roof crushed by heavy steel window frames and chunks of concrete, blown out from the windows above. I quickly check inside the car for injured colleagues and am relieved to find it empty.

Then I hear a soft moaning. It appears to be coming from the garden area in front of the Chancery that separates the building from the front fence. I hurriedly dash down a set of stairs to my right, entering the garden. Where a pretty little tropical garden once existed, all that remains now is scarred earth and splintered tree trunks, the area denuded of its previous beauty and sanctuary.

Peering through the smoke, I discern a figure on the edge of the garden’s small pond. As I get closer, I recognise Johno, my DFAT colleague, fellow Bintang and all-round good guy. He is struggling to drag a limp figure from the pond’s water. Cautiously navigating my way through the tangled mess of vegetation, I arrive at Johno’s side.

‘Let me help you, mate.’ I place the first-aid bags on the ground and grab one arm of the motionless body.

Johno turns and looks at me but doesn’t say a word. His eyes have a blank stare.

Together we pull, dragging the limp body clear of the water. I’m shocked to discover it’s the Embassy gardener, also named Suryadi, a gentle soul with whom I often practised my limited Bahasa while Pak Jati took a smoko. Suryadi’s alive, just. A quick scan of his body doesn’t reveal any obvious injuries, but his heavy wheezing indicates he’s struggling to breathe. I grab the first-aid bag and pull out the face mask and small oxygen tank. Cradling his head, I place the mask on his face and turn on the tank.

Suddenly Suryadi starts convulsing in my arms, his oxygen mask full of foam. I rip off the mask, revealing a steady stream of foamy bubbles flowing from his mouth. He must have severe internal trauma, no doubt caused by the force of the blast. He’s in desperate need of proper medical attention.

As I cradle Suryadi, the anguished cries of others become clearly audible.

I start to panic. What do I do? Do I stay with Suryadi until help arrives? Or do I go and help the other injured victims in front of the Embassy? I’m so close, their tortured cries begin to haunt me.

A couple of guys from the Embassy’s Defence Section arrive. With their own medical kits, they are better prepared to care for Suryadi.

My mind made up, I give them my brief diagnosis of Suryadi’s injuries, before passing one of them his body to cradle. They assure me they will wait with Suryadi until an ambulance arrives. Picking up the first-aid bag containing the bandages, I start running towards the small security post at the front gate.

Entering the severely damaged security post via the back door, I find my way blocked by the wreckage of the bag X-ray machine and other debris. I clear a path and scramble through the front entrance onto the Embassy driveway.

Everywhere I look, I see the dead, the mutilated, the dying. My small bag of bandages is hopelessly inadequate.

A short distance in front of me, the mangled torsos of dead Indonesian security officers, some missing arms or legs or both, lie spread across the driveway, their bodies distorted into unnatural arrangements like crumpled rag dolls. On the road itself, a motorcycle is on fire, its rider trapped screaming and burning beneath. To the right of that is what appears to be a large bomb crater, and more charred bodies, some still smouldering.

A muffled moan at my feet snaps me out of my state of frightened paralysis. It’s a small girl, with a large gash bleeding profusely from her side. As I squat down and reach into my bag for a bandage, an Indonesian man appears out of nowhere, scoops her up in his arms and whisks her away, to the medical clinic just down the road, I hope.

The girl now gone, I see a woman, her face, naked torso and legs badly disfigured, lying about a foot away. I reach down to check her pulse, more for confirmation than hope. She’s dead. I cover her body with some metal sheeting; dignity in death is the most I can offer. I hear someone howling in pain from the direction of a shattered police security post, about ten metres away. Grabbing my bag, I stumble falteringly in that direction, my senses struggling to process the pandemonic whirlpool of information assailing them.

As I get close, I realise the anguished sound is emanating from the open drain behind the post. But before I reach it, another Indonesian man appears. Kneeling down, he lunges into the drain, as if to pick something up. He emerges holding a shorn-off arm, which he places on the ground next to him. He then reaches back in and pulls a critically injured policeman, minus an arm, over the lip of the drain and onto the footpath. Another two men suddenly appear, picking up the injured policeman and start carrying him away, trailed by the original rescuer bearing the detached arm.

As I watch them go, my vision widens to reveal a large crowd of onlookers gathered on Jalan Rasuna Said about twenty metres away. Just standing there, silently. Turning slowly to my right, I find I’m surrounded by hundreds of these silent, motionless sentinels. Adding to this surreal scene, the road is covered by a thick carpet of green leaves, blown clear from the towering trees that dominate the road’s streetscape.

Out the corner of my right eye, I again see the burning motorcycle, its rider still trapped. I grab some shredded tarpaulin from the shattered frame of the police post, hoping to douse the fire and pull the rider clear. But as I get close, the blistered and charred skin of the motionless rider indicates how futile this probably is. Undeterred, I cover the motorcycle with the tarpaulin, successfully smothering the fire, and then start a hopeful search for the rider’s pulse. First the neck and then his limp wrist. Nothing.

One of the bystanders approaches me, newspaper in hand. He unfolds it, handing me some sheets. Silently, we cover the rider’s scorched remains. As we do so, out of nowhere, an Indonesian policeman accosts me. Yelling and waving his arms, he’s obviously not happy. But I have no idea what he’s saying. Then he starts pointing at the Embassy, bellowing, ‘Go, go, go,’ in staccato English. I’m not sure if he’s concerned about my safety or just annoyed with my presence. But the message is clear: Go!

And it appears he may not be the only one who wants me to leave. The large and growing crowd of bystanders is starting to get edgy. Once deathly silent, a low rumble is now clearly audible and growing with intensity, interspersed with the odd angry shout. I’m not sure who the anger is directed at, but the tension in the air is palpable.

Suddenly I feel very vulnerable. Who’s to say some of the terrorists who perpetrated the bombing, or at least those sympathetic to their cause, are not dotted throughout the large crowd now surrounding me? The mere thought sets my pulse racing, triggering a quick dash back across the road towards the Embassy gate. Upon reaching the relative safety of the Embassy driveway, I stop and turn, my back pressed against the gate’s damaged green steel poles.

The crowd has now swelled into the hundreds, and the police are struggling to keep them under control. A shoving match erupts between a policeman and some onlookers as the former tries to force the crowd back away from the blast site. Another pulls out his pistol and starts waving it in the air, threatening to use it unless the crowd moves back as directed. The situation is volatile. Fortunately, the arrival of more police, some with automatic rifles, begins to quell the restless mob.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. I’m exhausted. The adrenaline that has sustained me in the aftermath of the blast is ebbing away. And then I cry. First softly, before descending into body-shaking sobs, my face buried deep in my hands. My emotions finally unlocked by the tragedy that surrounds me. Dead. They’re all bloody dead. I couldn’t save anyone. What was I thinking? Me and a small bag of bandages. What a failure. What a fucking failure.

Chapter 4 No Heroes, Just Survivors

‘Grant, are you okay, mate? Look at me. Are you okay?’ the voice repeats.

I recognise the voice, but don’t want to open my eyes. I want to stay here, safe in the nothingness of my own mind. I know what awaits as soon as I open my eyes. The chaos, the carnage, the dead; I don’t want to re-enter that world.

But I open my eyes; I must.

It’s big Mick, from the AFP.

‘I came to help… the injured… but they’re all dead,’ I stammer, shaking my head. ‘Nothing… nothing I could do.’

‘It’s fine, mate, but are you okay?’ He then pauses and looks up, above my head. ‘Okay, don’t look up,’ he pleads anxiously. ‘Just move over here,’ he says, placing his hands on my upper arms, attempting to shuffle me to my left.

Of course, the first thing I do is look up. And see a limb – a leg, I think – impaled on the gate above. It’s dripping blood, straight onto the back of my shoulder. Surprisingly, I don’t feel the need to move.

‘Whose do you think it is? The bomber?’ I ask, somewhat intrigued.

‘Possibly.’

‘Well, do you want my shirt for DNA?’

‘Not sure we’ll need that, mate. Think we have enough here.’ He points to the impaled limb.

‘Yeah, I dare say you do,’ I say, cracking a wry smile with the black humour of the moment.

‘Let’s take you inside, mate,’ Mick insists. ‘Best to get off this road until the area is secured.’

I nod and follow Mick back through the damaged security post into the Embassy grounds. Immediately in front of us is Suryadi the gardener, who I’m astonished to find is still alive. The Defence Section boys have done a wonderful job, but he is clearly still critical. Jon, the naval attaché, tells me an ambulance is on its way. On cue, I hear the sound of a siren in the distance, growing closer and closer. I just hope it’s not too late.

It feels like an eternity, but an ambulance gurney eventually arrives, along with a couple of orderlies. Because Suryadi’s breathing is so shallow, at first glance they think he’s dead. It’s only the presence of a faint pulse that confirms otherwise. Slowly they lift Suryadi’s limp, motionless body onto the gurney. With one orderly holding the oxygen bottle, Jon and I help the other lift the steel gurney across the muddied and tangled undergrowth, through the devastated security post and over the debris-strewn Embassy driveway to the waiting ambulance. As the orderlies place the gurney in the back of the ambulance, I have a sinking feeling that Suryadi won’t survive. Given his proximity to the explosion, the force of the blast and his likely internal injuries, it’s a miracle he’s still alive.

As I watch the ambulance depart, its siren blaring as it inches its way through the large crowd of onlookers, I hear someone to my right call out, ‘Grant!’ I turn and spot Tim Palmer, the resident ABC journalist, waving at me about fifteen metres away behind a taped police security cordon. Tim’s a sporadic Bintang and I’ve met him a few times, most recently at the Embassy Ball, where he was the MC.

‘Grant!’ he yells again, waving to me.

Keen to get off the road and back into the sanctuary of the Embassy grounds, I’m initially reluctant to engage. But, internally torn, I walk over to where Tim is standing. As I get closer, I notice he is lugging a large bag of broadcast equipment over one shoulder and holding a microphone.

Before he has a chance to ask a question, I jump in. ‘Look, mate, I’m not sure what the official line is yet. Best I get Liz,’ I say, referring to the tough-as-nails, straight-shooting Embassy media liaison officer.

But Tim’s hardly deterred. ‘Good to see you are okay, mate. Unbelievable. Did anyone in the Embassy get injured? Has anyone claimed responsibility?’

‘Mate, as I said, best I get Liz.’

‘Yeah, sure. I’ll wait here. But it would be great if I could get an official comment. I’m under a lot of pressure.’

‘Okay, I understand. I’ll be back with Liz as soon as I can.’

I hurry back across the road, through the security post and devastated little garden, up the small flight of stairs and into the Chancery. I head straight to Liz’s office, in the Public Affairs Section on the ground floor, where I find her in deep discussion with Penny, my new boss.

From Penny’s body language, it’s clear she doesn’t want to be interrupted. As I wait, I overhear that Foreign Minister Alexander Downer has decided to travel to Jakarta immediately and is scheduled to touch down later this afternoon. Given the next federal election is just over a month away, he will be accompanied by Kevin Rudd, the Opposition’s foreign affairs spokesperson.

Great, I think. Just what we need, a bunch of politicians to mollycoddle and flap after.

Finally, my patience runs out. ‘Excuse me, Penny,’ I interject. ‘Tim Palmer is out front and would like a comment.’

‘What?’ an exasperated Penny responds. ‘Tim Palmer? That’s all we need.’

‘That’s okay, Penny. I’ll look after Tim,’ Liz jumps in. ‘But is it safe to go outside?’

‘Well, I’ve just spent the last hour or so out there and I’m still alive,’ I respond a little too harshly, then, realising I might have been out of line, add, ‘Don’t worry, Liz. The police have secured the area, and I’ll be with you.’

This appears to calm Liz. She follows me out of the Public Affairs area and into the main lobby. As we step through the glass and debris of what remains of the front entrance, she utters an audible gasp and grabs my shirt sleeve. I’ve become nearly desensitised to this scene of devastation, but for someone seeing it for the first time, it’s just as impactful as when I stumbled through those blasted-out doors just over an hour ago.

‘It’s okay, Liz’, I again reassure her, before holding out my hand. She nods her head and firmly grasps my hand. Apart from a couple of stumbles as we navigate the garden’s shredded undergrowth, we manage to make our way safely through the mayhem and onto the Embassy driveway.

I struggle to locate Tim, as the police cordon has been expanded, pushing the large crowd back over the median strip that divides Jalan Rasuna Said. But it doesn’t take long for Tim to locate us.

‘Grant! Liz! Over here.’

I turn and see Tim waving to us about twenty metres away, hemmed in by the police tape and the surging crowd of onlookers behind it. He has set up what looks like a small satellite dish on the ground, no doubt hoping to go straight to air.

Said dish, however, soon draws the ire of a policeman tasked with pushing the crowd further back across the road. By the time we reach Tim, a heated shouting match has erupted. Fed up with debating, the angry policeman suddenly takes matters into his own hands, kicking the satellite dish about a metre down the road. Enraged, Tim ducks under the police tape to salvage his dish. The policeman moves to intercept Tim, reaching out to grab him by the arm. Luckily for Tim, Liz moves quicker, inserting herself between Tim and the irate officer. As Tim recovers the pieces of his damaged dish, Liz and the policeman enter into their own high-pitched quarrel, which quickly grabs the attention of other police nearby. More worryingly, the altercation also appears to have fired up the crowd of onlookers, who once again are growing vocal and restless.

Fortunately, a senior officer nearby senses the deteriorating situation and intercedes to broker a peace. Using her excellent Bahasa, Liz negotiates a short taped interview with Tim, who is to remain behind the police cordon. While still pissed at the demise of his sat dish, Tim, under the pressure of his deadline, reluctantly agrees.

After the shambolic lead-up, the interview lasts less than a minute. Liz really isn’t in a position to say much, other than to confirm the events and report that all A-based staff have been accounted for. But for Tim, it’s enough. He has his scoop.

Interview complete, we arrive back inside the Public Affairs area to a hive of activity. People are running everywhere, phones are ringing; you would be forgiven for thinking it was a normal workday, except for the broken ceiling panels, twisted metal frames and dangling overhead cables.

‘Grant! Good, you’re back. I have a job for you,’ Penny says as I enter the office. ‘Downer is flying up with Rudd and they’re expected to arrive later this evening. We’ve decided to book them rooms at the Borobudur, given the security situation. I need you to get over there and look after the logistics. We’ll need a couple of suites, a room for the Visit Office, plus a suitable space for a press conference. You got all that?’

‘Yep. I’ll head over there now.’ The Borobudur Hotel’s a good call. It’s locally owned and managed, so it makes a lot more sense to have the ministerial delegation stay there than some five-star Western hotel.

On Jalan Rasuna Said, police are everywhere, the large crowd now eerily quiet. For the first time, I notice the horrific damage to the surrounding buildings. The front of the building directly opposite, housing the Greek Embassy, has been devastated. Even the Russian Embassy, a hundred or so metres down the road, has suffered some superficial damage. But what is truly shocking is the damage inflicted on the building directly to the right of the Australian Embassy. It has been obliterated, its entire glass facade shredded. I shudder to think how many people have been killed or injured; many, I fear.

But I have a job to do and I need to find a taxi. Where am I going to find one? All I can see is a wall of people.

I cross the median strip, duck under the police tape and start to weave my way through the crowd. Fifty metres down the road, I’m still surrounded by people and there’s not a taxi in sight. Shit, how am I going to get there?

Suddenly, a young Indonesian ojek (owner-operated motorcycle taxi) rider bails me up.

‘Pak, ke mana?’ (Sir, where do you want to go?)

‘Saya mau ke Hotel Borobudur.’ (I want to go to the Borobudur Hotel.)

‘Okay, ikuti gue.’ (Okay, follow me.)

I follow the ojek rider through the crowd another twenty metres or so, to where his motorcycle is parked on the footpath. He hands me a battered old helmet to wear, which I don reluctantly, fearful of what might be hiding inside. He starts the bike and I jump on the back, grabbing hold of the handrails on each side of the seat.

I’ve never ridden an ojek, so have no idea what to expect. What follows is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. I hold on for dear life as the rider adroitly weaves the bike through the Jakarta macet at full throttle. One minute we’re on the road, the next the footpath, and then back again. I scream, ‘Pelan! Pelan!’ (Slow down!) But he either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore me. Either way, I start thinking how ironic it would be if I died on the back of an ojek after just surviving the bomb blast. I grip the handrails even harder.

One upside to the rider’s ‘need for speed’ is that the usual travel time to the hotel is slashed, from upwards of forty-five minutes to under twenty. But that’s the only upside, I decide, as we turn into the long driveway leading to the front entrance of the Borobudur.

At the bottom of the steps leading up to the front doors of the hotel lobby, the rider slams on the brakes and we stop with a jolt. I gingerly dismount, unsteady on my wobbly legs. I give the rider the agreed fare as well as a small tip for delivering me safely… The least I can do.

Regaining my composure, I walk up the flight of steps towards the body scanner machine at the lobby entrance. I empty my pockets and walk through the scanner, noticing a strange look on the security guard’s face as I collect my things on the other side. It’s a mixture of stunned amazement and wonder, and the guard standing next to him has it as well.

That’s a bit odd, I think as I walk across the lobby towards the reception desk, where I’m greeted by another strange look, this time of shocked concern.

Before I can introduce myself, the receptionist comes out from behind the counter. ‘Sir, please allow me,’ guiding me by my elbow across to a nearby sofa.

‘Oh, sure,’ I respond as we walk, somewhat confused by her behaviour. ‘My name’s Mr Dooley. I’m from the Australian Embassy. Can I see the hotel general manager, please?’

‘Yes, yes, I can see you’re from the Australian Embassy. Please take a seat here first while I get the general manager.’

‘Okay, no problem,’ I say, taking a seat. ‘But I really do need to see him quickly.’

A short time later, a tall, serious-faced European man approaches, holding a glass in one hand and what appears to be a face towel in the other.

‘Hello, Mr Dooley. I’m the general manager of the Borobudur Hotel,’ he introduces himself, sitting down opposite me. ‘I was so sad to hear the news about the bombing. Everyone here is shocked. Before we go and look at some suites, I think… umm, it would be best if you wiped your face,’ he says, passing me the lukewarm towel.

A bit surprised, I wipe my face clean, then look at the towel. It’s covered in a mixture of black grit and red blood. Shit! In my mind’s eye, I am wearing my business suit, but these are the same blood- and sweat-soaked clothes I was wearing when the bomb exploded. No wonder I’m getting strange looks.

‘Could I have one more towel, please?’

‘Sure. And this might help too,’ he says, offering me the glass, which contains a golden-brown liquid.

I take a sip… Scotch whisky… ‘Thanks.’ And take a big gulp. ‘I might need another one of these too.’

The next hour is spent running around the hotel inspecting suites and assessing suitable venues for this evening’s press conference, still in the same clothes but at least with a clean face.

By late afternoon, I am joined by several Embassy colleagues, along with loads of office equipment for the set-up of the Visit Office. I’ve identified a suitable room for the office on the same floor as the minister’s suite. It’s your standard hotel room, but I’ve had the beds and side tables removed to create enough space for the office equipment: desks, computers, printers, pens, highlighters, paper, staplers, tea, coffee. There’s even sufficient room for a heavy steel safe for the storing of confidential documents – a non-negotiable requirement. Everything you would need for a fully functioning office for the minister and his advisers, twenty-four hours a day… Such arrangements are standard DFAT protocol for any visiting portfolio minister.

After spending a bit of time helping with the office set-up, I silently slip away to a quiet corner of the hotel corridor outside to call my mum, Janet. I’m conscious I haven’t spoken to my family since this morning’s terrible event. I tried to call Mum in the immediate aftermath, but the mobile network had crashed. Such was the demand, I couldn’t even send a text. Not long after arriving at the Borobudur, I’d been relieved to receive a text from Kristan saying she had spoken to her mum, who was going to let my parents know we’re both safe and unharmed.

But I know my mum. She won’t feel a hundred per cent sure until she hears my voice.

It’s a tearful exchange. As soon as she hears me speaking, she breaks down in sobs of relief. After a minute or so, she is composed and reassured enough to pass the phone to my stepfather, Rex. Rex is also quite emotional, which takes me a bit by surprise. He’s not known for public signs of emotion, so the fact he also tears up illustrates the emotional roller-coaster my family has endured since news of the attack filtered back to Australia.

With that in mind, I also quickly call my ex-wife, Liz, the mother of my sons Sam and Callum. It’s a school day, so I’m not sure whether the boys are even aware of the bombing, but at some point they’ll hear the news.

By the time I get back to the Visit Office, it’s in full swing. It’s nearly 7pm, which leaves only three more hours before the scheduled touchdown of the RAAF VIP jet at Halim Air Force Base in East Jakarta. Apart from Rudd, Downer is travelling with AFP chief Mick Keelty and ASIO head Dennis Richardson, while a number of AFP bomb experts are also making their way to Jakarta separately.

It’s going to be a circus. Directly in front of me, I see several DFAT staff collating and stapling together the pages of the minister’s visit booklet, all bound and covered by a thin piece of beige-coloured cardboard emblazoned with the Australian coat of arms. Such booklets, which contain the visit itinerary, key contact points and other assorted visit information, are a time-honoured DFAT tradition. They’re a mark of a post’s professionalism, by which they are judged not just by visiting ministers and their staff, but by themselves.

I get it. But now? We’ve just been bombed. This is madness!

Sensing my blood boiling, I decide it’s probably best to exit stage right before I say something I live to regret. I’ve been allocated a room on the floor above. It’s been over eight hours now since the bombing, and I’ve hardly had a chance to catch my breath. I’m exhausted. My emotional response to the sight of colleagues putting together visit booklets says as much.

In my room, I collapse into a chair by the window. I’m desperate to take off my soiled clothes but have nothing to change into. As I ponder my options, there’s a knock on my door. I open it to find Kristan, who’s clutching a bag.

‘I thought you might need a change of clothes,’ she says with a big smile.

‘Darling, your timing is impeccable!’

Kristan has been asked to staff the Visit Office. She’d dashed home to change clothes and, fortunately for me, realised I would probably need a change of clothes too. Unlike me, however, she won’t be staying the night at the hotel, owing to the fact we have small children at home. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I feel, smell and look like a new man, to my and Kristan’s relief.

Feeling refreshed, we both head down to the hotel’s main restaurant to grab a bite before Downer arrives. It’s a moment of welcome respite from the day’s unrelenting chaos and exertion, and an opportunity to spend some time with Kristan before the long night ahead.

‘You’ve got to be joking. A bottle of Scotch?’ bellows Paul, the first secretary (Economic), down his mobile, right next to me. Downer and his party have just arrived at the hotel, and we are patiently awaiting their appearance in the makeshift press-conference room, surrounded by dozens of Australian and Indonesian journalists.

‘Yes, but this isn’t a normal visit. I’m not sure Downer was expecting a bottle of Scotch in his room!’ He’s becoming more agitated by the second.

Whoever Paul is talking to on the phone appears to be unhappy he forgot to place a bottle of whisky in the minister’s suite for his personal consumption, a request specific to Downer. He and his advisers are notoriously demanding of DFAT staff during ministerial visits. As some of my former and current colleagues have discovered, failing to meet expectations can have career-limiting implications.

‘Okay, okay. We’ll arrange to have one delivered to his room.’

Paul hangs up and turns to me. ‘I can’t believe it. Just got told off for not having a bottle of Scotch in the minister’s suite.’

‘Surely we’ve got bigger things to worry about,’ I sympathise. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after it.’

As if the day couldn’t get any weirder, I muse as I leave the press-conference room in search of the general manager. At least I know they definitely stock Scotch whisky!

Finally, time for sleep. With the press conference done and dusted, Downer, his advisers and some of my DFAT colleagues have retired to the minister’s suite to reflect on today’s events over a glass or three of Scotch. I have politely declined, preferencing sleep. But as physically and mentally tired as I am, I can’t seem to drift off.

I’ve been lying here in bed for what feels like an eternity, waiting for the onset of somnolence to dull my senses and calm my mind. Instead, all I feel is a heavy thumping in my chest as my pulse continues to race. I give it thirty minutes more and then give up. It’s nearly 3am.

‘This is fucking ridiculous!’ I scream.

If I’m going to be awake, I might as well do something useful. I get up and head back down to the Visit Office, spending the remainder of the night hanging out in the office, doing anything to keep myself occupied.

When Kristan turns up the next morning, she’s not impressed.

‘You mean you haven’t slept?’ She stares at me incredulously.

‘Not a wink.’

‘Well, you have to sleep. This is crazy.’

‘I know, darling, but I can’t seem to clear my mind. I feel exhausted, but when I lie down I just can’t seem to relax enough to fall asleep.’

‘Okay. Well, I think you need to see Colin Rigby. He might be able to give you something to help you sleep.’

Colin Rigby, the DFAT staff counsellor, arrived last night with Downer on the VIP aircraft. He is also staying at the Borobudur and, as if on cue, walks into the office. Before I can say anything, Kristan accosts him, rapidly retelling my sleeping woes.

Such a reaction, Colin explains, is quite normal, and not surprising given what I witnessed yesterday.

He prescribes Valium and by the time I reach my room, I’m feeling light-headed and drowsy and am out like a light as soon my head hits the pillow.

The sound of my ringing mobile wakes me. A quick glance at the bedside clock tells me it’s nearly 2pm. I’ve been out for close to six hours but feel as if I could easily do six more. I pick up the phone reluctantly.

‘Hi, Grant, it’s Liz. You okay to talk?’

‘Yep. What’s up?’

‘Sian Powell from The Australian wants to interview you about what you did yesterday. Sounds like they are looking for a hero and you’re it,’ Liz explains in her usual straight-to-the-point manner.

Mention of the media sharpens my focus.

‘Why me?’

‘Haven’t you seen today’s papers? You’re plastered all over them.’

A number of pictures have surfaced of me trying to help the injured in the immediate aftermath of the blast; some in print, some online. One picture, depicting the moment I, along with some Embassy colleagues, carried Suryadi out of the Embassy to the waiting ambulance, has featured prominently on the front page of The Australian, along with my name. How they got my name, nobody knows.

‘I’m not keen to speak to the media. And, really, there’s not much to talk about. Everyone I tried to help… died.’ As if I needed to be reminded. Even Suryadi, the gardener, I had been sadly informed. As I feared at the time, the impact of the explosion crushed his lungs and other vital organs. He later died in hospital.

‘Well, they’ve already interviewed your parents, so you might want to think about it. Regardless of whether you speak to them or not, they’ll be going to print tomorrow with a story about you.’

‘Bloody hell. Isn’t there a thing called privacy?’ I ask.

‘Not with something as big as this, I’m afraid. And the minister has okayed it. DFAT also thinks it’s good, positive press.’

‘Okay, I’ll speak to her then.’

‘Great. I’ll pass her your number. Expect a call in the next hour.’

Ten minutes later, my mobile rings. It’s Sian. Respectfully and sensitively, she asks a series of probing questions, attempting to elicit details about my traumatic experiences the day before. She keeps alluding to the fact I put my personal safety at risk in going to help the injured. But I’m loath to say much. In my mind, there’s not much to tell. There were no heroes yesterday, just survivors.

Like any good journo, however, she continues to press. In the end, I relent, agreeing to have something published. But, I stress, it must be factual, and not include the word ‘hero’ in the body of the article, or a photo of me. All three points are non-negotiable. After a pause, Sian reluctantly agrees. After all, she’s got her story.

Now fully awake, I decide to head back down to the Visit Office, to help with logistics where I can. Not long after I arrive, word comes through that the ambassador has decided to hold a function at his official residence later this afternoon. Downer has requested it so he can directly address the Embassy’s A-based staff before heading back to Australia. Attendance is compulsory.

Unsurprisingly, the function is largely a sombre affair. For many, it’s the first chance to reconnect with their Embassy friends and colleagues since the evacuation immediately after the bombing. While most appear to be coping, at least outwardly, it’s obvious some are struggling to process the fallout of yesterday’s deadly atrocity. And who can blame them? Each will have their own difficult journey to navigate over the days, weeks, months and possibly years ahead as we all seek to understand the senseless act of terror that has left so many dead and injured, colleagues and strangers alike.

Downer and Rudd mingle with Embassy staff for a short period, before the ambassador invites Downer to address the gathering. Downer delivers an eloquent, emotion-laden address, full of admiration for the courage and work of the Embassy staff in such trying circumstances. More importantly, he acknowledges the sacrifices of the Indonesian Embassy staff, some of whom paid the ultimate price in service to Australia. Towards the end, his emotions get the better of him. Wiping tears from his eyes, he concludes by committing the government to taking whatever steps necessary to protect the Embassy and its staff from any future terrorist attacks. Rudd follows with a shorter but equally cogent and compassionate speech, sans the tears.

And then, to everyone’s relief, both depart.

Formalities over and official guests departed, the tension in the air gives way. Steam is let off as the Embassy family share a drink and attempt to forget yesterday’s terrible events, for a moment at least. Regardless of our future destinies, we will forever be bonded by the shared trauma of the bombing.

Let the healing begin.

Chapter 5 Picking Up the Pieces

Eleven dead, including the suicide bomber, and over 200 injured, some critically, is the bombing’s grim tally.

Of the ten victims, two were Embassy workers, including, to my great distress, Suryadi. The other was Sujarwo, a twenty-three-year-old security guard stationed outside the Embassy’s front gate alongside his Indonesian police counterparts, of whom four died. Of the remaining four victims, innocent bystanders all, two were the young Indonesian mother whose body I covered on the Embassy driveway, and the Indonesian motorcycle rider whose body I also covered on the road out front. In a cruel twist of fate, both had literally been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The mother waiting in the visa line with her young daughter, and the motorcycle rider unlucky enough to be passing the Embassy when the truck bomb detonated.

As is often the case with such indiscriminate acts of terror, it was innocent souls who paid the ultimate price. And in a sad irony, all ten victims were Indonesian. If the terrorists’ murderous intent was to inflict pain and suffering on the Australian people via its Jakarta-based representatives, they failed dismally.

After Downer and Rudd’s departure, my life goes eerily back to normal. The Embassy resembles a war zone, and we’ve been instructed to keep clear until further notice, to allow the newly arrived AFP and Indonesian Police forensic teams to go to work collecting evidence. It’s the weekend, anyway, so I spend most of my time at home fielding calls from concerned relatives and friends back in Australia.

Kristan, on the other hand, is flat out. Australian staff have been quick to avail themselves of Colin Rigby’s expert counselling services, but no such internal resource exists to support our Indonesian colleagues. Moreover, while counselling is a widely accepted profession in Australia, cultural differences in managing complex personal issues has meant the field is still relatively underdeveloped in Indonesia. Kristan has been charged with the challenging task of not only sourcing an appropriately accredited Indonesian counsellor and/or psychologist, but also convincing our Indonesian colleagues to use one.

And Kristan’s not the only busy member of the Consular and Administration team. Rowland, her Consular Section offsider, has been working day and night since the bombing coordinating medical assistance to Asep Wahyudi, another of the Embassy’s Indonesian security guards critically injured in the blast. In the days following the attack, he and several other survivors were found languishing in local hospitals by Embassy staff. Asep sustained a severe head injury from flying shrapnel and needs urgent surgery to remove the metal. Given the life-threatening complexity of the surgery, the Australian Government has taken the morally correct decision to medevac Asep to Singapore for the operation, and to foot all the associated medical costs. Only time will tell if the operation is successful. But it will be touch and go.

Early Monday morning, the ambassador gives the ‘all clear’ for staff to return to the office. The news is well received, as I’m keen to get back into the office and provide assistance wherever possible. But before I can get out the door, I receive a text from Pak Jati asking when can we meet to continue my Bahasa lessons. I’m relieved to receive Pak Jati’s text, for in the chaos following the attack, I had forgotten all about him. He doesn’t have an office, so he suggests meeting at the Embassy at 2pm for an afternoon lesson. Talk about commitment to the cause.

I arrive at the Embassy to find the area surrounding ‘ground zero’ of the blast boarded up with plywood and guarded by a small detachment of armed police. Floral displays, large and small, and placards expressing sympathy have been placed against the plywood by ordinary Indonesians angry and embarrassed by the attack. Given the tense, if not slightly hostile, vibe that emanated from sections of the crowd in the bombing’s immediate aftermath, I find these overt shows of support comforting. They are also a timely reminder that while Islamic extremism might enjoy pockets of support in some sections of Indonesian society, a large portion of that same society finds it abhorrent. Local Jakartans are also no doubt furious that while the terrorists were targeting Australians, it was local Muslims who bore the brunt of their attack.

A temporary security checkpoint has been established on the road, to the right of the damaged front entrance, which I pass through on foot. It’s the first time I have been back to the Embassy since my quick departure for the Borobudur on the morning of the bombing. While the area has been largely cleared of debris, it’s still a confronting scene. The gaping hole torn in the perimeter fence and the mangled vegetation of the garden behind are stark reminders of the power of the explosive device.

As I stare at the ruined scene, my eyes start to well with tears. The bodies, the limbs, the blood, the senselessness of it all. I don’t want to dwell on what happened. I can’t dwell; it’s too painful. I want everything to be normal; I need everything to be normal. It’s the only way I can cope.

Wiping my eyes, I walk up the driveway and through the now doorless entrance of the Chancery to find Pak Jati sitting patiently on one of the damaged sofas. As he stands, his thin face breaks into a broad smile.

‘Insya’ Allah,’ he murmurs, touching his left breast with his right hand, to which I reciprocate.

As we make our way upstairs, Pak Jati recounts his story and it’s a fortunate one. Instead of having his smoke in the small garden at the front of the Embassy, as he often does, on this occasion he chose to have it in the Platypus Club, at the back of the Embassy. And the seat he chose was behind a concrete pillar, which protected him from the full force of the blast. The windows either side of the concrete pillar were blown to pieces. If he had sat anywhere else, he would have likely been shredded by shards of flying glass.

While Pak Jati’s survival and the overt compassion of local Jakartans are welcome positives in an otherwise gloomy post-bombing atmosphere, a cartoon published in The Age on the Tuesday following the bombing gives me short-term grief. The cartoon is a caricature of Downer yelling, ‘… And smarten yourself up,’ at a battered and bandaged man bringing him a bottle of Scotch and a box of cigars. While the bombed-out man doesn’t necessarily look like me, I’m horrified to learn I am identified by name in the short commentary accompanying the cartoon.

It appears a journalist overheard Paul’s phone call (and displeasure) about the bottle of Scotch at Downer’s press conference on the night of the bombing. And some poor bastard had to be the target of Downer’s purported ire. Who better than the Embassy guy pictured on the front page of The Australian helping the wounded, straight after the bombing?

The Minister’s Office is livid. First I have Liz on the phone demanding answers, followed by the Minister’s Office itself. Who leaked the story? Why? Who have you spoken to from the media? I plead my innocence, arguing mistaken identity and denying any contact with the media, outside of that previously agreed.

I fear this could be the end of my fledgling DFAT career, but thankfully the media cycle soon moves on, with the cartoon resigned to its place in satirical political history.

In any case, the cartoon fallout is the least of my worries. Jakarta remains a city on edge. Every day, rumours continue to surface, both officially and unofficially, of another terror attack. JI is believed to have stockpiled a cache of explosive devices and is planning a series of attacks. The US Embassy, Police Headquarters, various international five-star hotels and even some of the international schools have been identified as targets.

This is still the prevailing atmosphere a couple of weeks after the bombing when we attend an official function at the house of one of my DFAT colleagues from the Political Section. Halfway through the evening, Kristan approaches me looking white as a ghost.

‘What’s wrong, darling?’

‘I just got a call from Graeme. There’s been a bomb threat against Belimbing,’ she responds, visibly shaking.

‘What?’

‘Graeme said someone has rung the guard house saying they’re going to bomb Belimbing.’

‘Shit! We’d better go.’

Given our house is closest to the front entrance of the compound, I immediately phone our nanny, Kasni, instructing her to grab the kids and a mattress and shelter in a corner of the living room near the back door, as far away as possible from the front door.

It’s a gut-wrenching, hour-long drive through the Jakarta macet. Suryadi is keenly aware of the urgency, blasting his horn and mounting kerbs in a desperate effort to get us home as quickly as possible. But macet is macet, and we are forced to spend uncomfortable minutes stuck in traffic, unable to move. Kristan is nearly beside herself with worry. It’s only the reassuring sound of Kasni’s voice down the phone that keeps her panic in check.

When we finally arrive at Belimbing, police are everywhere. They have locked down the compound to search the grounds and won’t allow us entry. Kristan won’t take no for an answer and pushes past the guards, running towards our house, with several policemen and me in close pursuit. Fortunately, the police calm down upon seeing Kristan hugging the children.

Safely back inside the car with our kids, the dam wall holding back Kristan’s emotions is finally breached, with a flood of tears. The kids? Well, they are just bewildered; thankfully they’re too young to understand the potentially deadly threat they’ve just escaped.

The immediate problem is where to go. Who knows when we will be able to return home, if at all? Given the prevailing terror threat level, we aren’t permitted to stay at any Western hotels without express permission from the Embassy.

Our best chance is to stay with friends until the situation becomes clearer. I’m wondering who to impose on when Kristan’s phone rings. It’s Pam, the wife of Tony from the Defence Section, who has heard about the bomb threat and kindly offers us a place to stay, for as long as we need.

In the end, it’s only a couple of nights. A false alarm. A thorough police search of the compound buildings and gardens uncovers no bomb. Later, we find out it was a hoax. One perpetrated by the jilted ex-boyfriend of one of the young Indonesian helpers, a resident at Belimbing. Some revenge.

With a little trepidation, we move back into our house at Belimbing, but it is only for a short time. DFAT has offered us a couple of weeks’ ‘bomb leave’ back in Australia in early October. When we return, we will be able to move into our newly renovated house in Dukuh Patra Kuningan. In more good news, the Embassy has agreed to push back my start date to allow me to undertake three weeks of intense language training at the Wisma Bahasa language school in Yogyakarta, starting in late October.

By the time we head to Australia in early October, we desperately need the leave. While Kristan and I have borne the brunt of the trauma, anxiety and chaos of the past month, Brianna and Ryan aren’t immune to the edgy atmosphere. The sheltering under mattresses, mad late-night dashes across town, bunkering down with friends and constant car security checks have led to a string of never-ending questions and a general feeling of unease.

Australia’s peaceful streets, ease of movement and safe environment are just the tonic. Being around family and friends also helps. But I quickly discover there is no escaping constant reminders of the bombing. In every social gathering, in every personal interaction, it’s the elephant in the room, casting a large shadow of hesitancy over relationships and conversations that only a short few months before knew no such diffidence or limitations. Nobody is sure what to say. Shall we mention the bomb? Shall we not mention the bomb? Everyone tries their best to be sensitive to our plight, but I find it quite unsettling, and a tad exhausting.

By the time we arrive in Canberra, the second leg of our trip back home, my emotions are at tipping point. All I need is the right catalyst to send me over the edge. A catch-up dinner and drinks with a large group of old navy mates provides the perfect trigger.

Whether it’s the alcohol, the comfortable camaraderie of old friends or both, halfway through the evening I just burst into tears. It’s the first time I have really cried since standing sobbing with my back to the Embassy gate on the morning of the bombing. Once I start, I struggle to stop.

The boys are shocked.

A couple of the lads, JT and Mac, quickly move to comfort me, ushering me away from the larger group to a quiet bench nearby. Once seated, I start to regain my composure. A little embarrassed, I begin to apologise for the sudden outburst of tears, but am promptly cut off by both. What are friends for, they say.

Indeed. But, for me, it’s a wake-up call. Ever since that dreadful day in September, I’ve tried my best not to be a victim. To ‘soldier on’ in the time-honoured tradition of many a male ‘role model’ before me. The truth is, the bombing has scarred me. And scars don’t have to be visible to be permanent.

Back in Jakarta, I feel strangely at peace. No more stilted conversations or awkward, pregnant pauses as people search for what to say. Here, among a community of people with shared experiences, all battling the individual challenges and collective threats of life in the Big Durian, I feel at home.

Mind you, while I might feel at peace, the Embassy is anything but. And it has nothing to do with bombs or terrorism. Rather, the unlikely source of all the commotion is a beauty therapist from the Gold Coast, Schapelle Corby. I’m aware of the Corby case, as she was arrested at Denpasar’s Ngurah Rai International Airport on 8 October, while we were back in Australia. Allegedly, she had attempted to smuggle 4.2 kilograms of cannabis into Bali in her boogie-board bag. Corby has since claimed innocence, denying any knowledge of the drugs.

When I first heard the story, I thought it was a joke. The whole idea sounded so ludicrous. But a combination of her good looks, young age and avowed innocence makes the story perfect grist to the media mill. And, boy, have they run with it. Since her arrest, every minor development in the case has been front-page news and broadcast on primetime TV. And going by the results of some early polling, public opinion appears to be in her favour, with Australians believing her plea of innocence. The Consular team in Bali has been swamped. Reinforcements have been sent from Jakarta to assist, both with the consular aspects of the case and with the media management.

I find the whole thing perplexing, if not a little disheartening. Putting aside Corby’s guilt or innocence, her high-profile case has the potential to turn into yet another negative story about Indonesia, if it isn’t one already. Something the bilateral relationship needs like a hole in the head, particularly in the wake of the Embassy bombing.

In better news, we have a new house. A lovely, renovated, Bali-style open-plan villa with its own in-ground pool. Luxury! Everyone’s excited, and just a little relieved at not having to go back to Belimbing. We now have anonymity, the invisibility that comes with being tucked away in the suburbs, camouflaged by suburbia’s nondescript sameness. And it’s not as if the Embassy has abandoned us on the security front. Far from it. We will have four permanent Satpam guards providing 24/7 security. (Satpam is an abbreviation of Satuan Petugas Keamanan, roughly translated as Association of Security Officers.) Coupled with the new gardener and pool cleaner, and existing three staff, we are now the primary source of income for nine separate families. Our own little kampong.

Once we settle into our new home, I head off to Yogya for my three-week intensive Indonesian language training. I am super-excited, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I am keen to improve my Bahasa skills as quickly as possible, so I can hit the ground running in my new job. I don’t expect to become fluent, as with my Mandarin, but at the very least I’m aiming to develop good conversational Bahasa to enhance the efficacy of my interactions with Indonesian officials. Secondly, I am just as keen to explore Yogya, the cultural heart of the Indonesian nation. It’s home to the 18th-century royal complex, or Kraton, where the sultan of Yogyakarta still resides. On the outskirts of the city are the world-renowned Borobudur and Prambanan temples. Erected in the 9th century, Borobudur is the world’s largest Buddhist temple. Prambanan is the second-largest Hindu temple complex in South-East Asia, after Angkor Wat.

Talk about a different vibe. Yogya’s clear, blue skies and gentle pace of life are a far cry from Jakarta’s polluted environs and unrelenting macet. During the week, I spend the days totally immersed in my studies at Wisma Bahasa’s friendly, serene campus, while at night I explore Yogya’s lively markets, restaurants and bars along and off Jalan Malioboro, the city’s main thoroughfare. A couple of times, I hire a moped to reconnoitre the city’s outskirts, particularly the historic baths at Taman Sari and the area around Kotagede, the ancient capital of the Mataram Sultanate established in the 16th century. On the weekends, I venture further afield, exploring the slopes of Mount Merapi, the trails of the Kalibiru National Park and the timeless beauty and splendour of Borobudur and Prambanan. It’s equal parts captivating and intoxicating.

Sometimes I’m joined on these trips by my new friends, Alan and his wife, Cathy. Alan is a recently arrived DFAT colleague who will be joining the Political Section at the Embassy when he graduates from Wisma Bahasa. His language skills are already unbelievable, reflecting six months of training in Canberra and three months of intense study in Yogya.

By the time I’m due to return to Jakarta, I’m reluctant to leave. My Bahasa hasn’t been the only beneficiary of my three weeks in Yogya. For the first time since the bombing, I actually feel as if I’m on the mend, both physically and mentally. Until I arrived in Yogya, I hadn’t had the time, space or stress-free environment for our human recuperative powers to work their magic.

Stronger than my reluctance, though, is my desire to be back with my family. Jakarta remains a city under threat of another terror attack. I would never forgive myself if something happened in my absence.

It’s mid-November, and the relaxed environs of Wisma Bahasa are already a long-distant memory. I’ve started my new job as the first secretary (Economic) and been absolutely smashed. Rather than hitting the ground running, I feel like I’m wading through quicksand. Usually, a first secretary would have had a previous posting as a third or second secretary to learn and hone their basic diplomatic tradecraft. This is my first posting; I’m learning everything on the run. From cable writing to making small talk at cocktail functions. (A diplomatic cable is a confidential text-based message exchanged between a diplomatic mission, like an embassy or a consulate, and the country’s foreign ministry.) Not surprisingly, I’m finding the former much harder and less enjoyable than the latter.

And then there are the specifics of the job itself. Penny has given me responsibility for general reporting on the Indonesian economy, as well as developments in the mining, resources and agriculture sectors. Each of these are key trade and investment areas in Australia’s bilateral relationship with Indonesia.

In other words, I’ve got a lot to get my head around. We’ve also been informed we can’t go home for Christmas. As the most ‘newly arrived’ at post, we must stay to hold the fort. (In diplomatic language, ‘post’ is often used as a synonym for ‘embassy’.)

Kristan is upset we can’t get home, but I’m not. With just a skeleton crew, the Embassy will be nice and quiet. It’s the perfect opportunity to make a large dent in the mountain of information I must consume before things ramp up again in the new year.

My office is situated within the Chancery’s restricted area on the fourth floor. Apart from the windows of the ambassador’s office, which were punctured by flying pieces of the front fence, most of the offices on this floor, including mine, have escaped largely unscathed from the blast.

Major reconstruction works, however, are well underway to repair and secure those parts of the Embassy damaged by the bombing. The whole front fence is being replaced with a solid defensive wall of reinforced concrete. While no expense (or concrete) has been spared, aesthetics have definitely not been a high priority. And that’s not the only work going on. Efforts are being made to reinforce the facade of the Chancery. Every time the workers let rip with the jackhammer to remove pockmarked tiles, I get covered in cement dust from the ceiling above.

There’s nowhere else to go, so I take to wearing earmuffs at my desk and just get on with it.

While busy coming to grips with my new job, I hear some news that, for me, is a little unsettling. The Embassy, at the apparent instigation of senior members of the Defence and AFP sections, are pushing for some staff to be awarded bravery awards for their actions in the wake of the bombing.

My question is: on what basis? Nothing I witnessed on the road after the bombing was worthy of special recognition and, as far as I know, I was the only one out there. Sure, lots of good intentions, by lots of good people. But bravery?

Kristan has a more nuanced view. Her advice is to not make a fuss until it’s clear what exactly is being considered. What she says makes a lot of sense (not for the first time).

‘Gee, it’s quiet. Dead quiet,’ says Kristan.

‘I know. Isn’t it wonderful?’ I respond.

It’s the Friday before Christmas and we’re enjoying a couple of drinks at the Platypus Club after work. Normally the place would be packed full of Embassy staff, A-based and local, enjoying a cold drink and each other’s company after a long week. But, as expected, most of the A-based have cleared out back to Australia for Christmas and, it appears, most of the local team have decided it’s not much fun without them.

‘So, what have we got planned for Christmas? Apart from the Orphans Dinner, anything else?’

‘Yes, darling, church,’ Kristan responds, smiling. ‘I want to go to Christmas Eve Mass at Saint Theresia’s.’

Ah. Kristan’s a practising Catholic. Her faith is very important, even more so since the horrors of the bombing. It has been a refuge and a great source of strength in the days, weeks and months that have followed.

I personally don’t get it. How could a loving God allow such horrors to be perpetrated on His children? But I don’t have the answers either. In the end, we reach our own conclusions.

The fact we are free to do this in Australia, without fear of retribution or vilification, is something we take for granted. But we shouldn’t. It’s the essence of who we are, and needs to be protected, nurtured and allowed to flourish. It’s only when you come face to face with the myopic and destructive force of the alternative that you fully realise the importance of fundamental human rights. I might not get Kristan’s Catholicism, but I’d sure as hell die defending her right, and that of every other religious person in Australia, to practise their chosen faith.

In Jakarta on Christmas Eve 2004, though? It’s just too bloody dangerous.

‘Sorry, but I don’t think we should go to Mass. It’s too risky.’

‘But, darling…’

‘Every day,’ I continue, cutting her off, ‘we hear more and more reports about potential JI attacks in Jakarta. Churches are an attractive and easy target, particularly around Christmas.’

Indonesia has been in the grip of sectarian violence for several years now. No one religion occupies the moral high ground, with radical Muslims and Christians alike inflicting abhorrent atrocities on each other, all in the name of ‘defending’ their respective faiths. But given Muslims outnumber Christians nine to one in Indonesia, radical Islamist attacks against Christian churches and clergy tend to be more frequent and widespread across the archipelago. In Jakarta on Christmas Eve 2000, five Catholic and Protestant churches were bombed, killing three people and wounding many more.

The threat of a similar attack coinciding with Christmas is acute. I simply can’t agree with us attending Mass on Christmas Eve. It’s just too damn risky.

‘I know, but Christmas Mass is very important to me. You and the kids don’t have to come.’

‘I’m not letting you go by yourself!’ The desperation in my voice is starting to give way to anger.

‘Okay, fine. I wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened to the kids.’

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I say, now feeling somewhat guilty. ‘But it’s the right decision.’

Kristan nods, a resigned look on her face.

‘But we’ll have lots of fun hosting the Orphans Dinner on Christmas Day,’ I add quickly to cheer her up.

‘Yep, the dinner should be fun.’ Her annoyed look slowly fades to a smile. ‘And hopefully it will be a quiet Christmas break with everyone away. I’m looking forward to a bit of downtime.’

Christmas Day is indeed a hoot. The kids wake us early, eager to rip open their presents and play with their new toys. Both are chock-full of excitement. Brianna excitedly cooks make-believe cakes in her new plastic kitchen, while Ryan screams around the house on his new tricycle. Thankfully, their adrenaline starts to wane midmorning, allowing for a more serene, scrumptious lunch.

The afternoon is a bit busier as we prepare for our Orphans Dinner. Around forty guests are expected, comprising mostly Embassy colleagues and some Bintangs friends marooned in Jakarta for Christmas. The dinner is Kristan’s idea. In our nine months since arriving at post, so much has happened. One thing that has sustained us during the upheaval and uncertainty has been the strong sense of community that exists across the Embassy and the Bintangs. Without it, I doubt we would have coped.

Chapter 6 A Friend in Need Is a Friend Indeed

Hangovers. I hate ’em. Surely by now my memory muscle has worked out that at 2am I really don’t need one more beer.

Last night’s Orphans Dinner was a huge success, our hospitality well received by all. But as I lie on my back in bed, rubbing my eyes, my head feeling as if it’s under siege from a colony of bouncing king rabbits, I recall I’ve promised Pete I’ll come over to his place to watch the first day of the Boxing Day Test match between Australia and Pakistan. Just like Pete, I’m a sport tragic. Although my hangover has somewhat dimmed my fanaticism for the Aussie cricket team this particular morning.

But a promise is a promise. I stagger out of bed, get dressed, take a couple of Panadols, grab some beers and head over to Pete’s. I arrive to find a lovely breakfast spread and Pete plonked in front of the TV screaming, ‘How’s thaaaaaaat?’ He offers me a beer, which I reluctantly accept, before taking a seat and settling in for the day.

Throughout the course of the morning, others join us for a bit of cricket and a beer. It’s great being able to maintain my Boxing Day tradition of cricket and beers with friends, even when I’m thousands of kilometres from the MCG.

Then my mobile rings.

I pick it up to hear Kristan’s anxious voice. ‘I’ve just had a call from the Consular Emergency Centre in Canberra. They said there’s been a major earthquake somewhere off the coast of northern Sumatra. It’s triggered a tsunami, which has crashed into Phuket. They want to know if we have heard anything about a tsunami hitting the north coast of Sumatra.’

While I’m trying to process what Kristan has just told me, I hear others’ phones start to ring.

‘No, darling, haven’t heard a thing. Have you contacted the Indonesians?’

‘We’re trying, but it’s difficult getting hold of anyone. It’s a Sunday. I was hoping you might have heard something. If you do, can you let me know straightaway?’

‘Yeah, sure. Will do.’ I then turn to Pete and ask him to switch channels to BBC World News.

The BBC are reporting that a large tsunami has hit the popular tourist island of Phuket and other parts of Thailand’s south-west coast. While we watch, the newsreader suddenly breaks to mobile-phone footage of waves wreaking havoc on a tourist resort on Phuket’s west coast. People are running for their lives, some climbing palm trees to escape the rapidly rising sea level. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s terrifying.

Then it hits me. If this is happening in south-west Thailand, then surely the north-west coast of Sumatra has been impacted, particularly if the CEC is correct and the quake occurred just off the Indonesian coast.

Why aren’t we seeing any reports on the news? Or hearing anything from the Indonesians?

Everyone is asking the same puzzling questions. We continue to watch the BBC, but all we see is increasingly cataclysmic footage of the tsunami drowning the beaches of Phuket. Pete jumps on the internet to search Indonesian news websites for any information. Nothing.

And then a map suddenly appears on the BBC coverage, and the room goes deathly quiet. Pointing to the map, the reporter proceeds to pinpoint the supposed epicentre of the earthquake – just off the north-west coast of Aceh, in northern Sumatra. A sense of foreboding descends on the room. If the tsunami has washed away resorts in faraway Phuket, what destruction has it wrought on nearby Aceh? No wonder we haven’t heard anything. The area must be devastated, its communications infrastructure obliterated by the force of the earthquake and resultant tsunami.

Kristan confirms my worst fears when she rings me a short time later.

‘The Indonesians have just told us the earthquake and tsunami have struck large parts of the north Sumatran coast. Aceh appears to be worse hit. No idea of casualties yet, but Banda Aceh has been smashed and all comms are down.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yep, everyone has been asked to come into the Embassy for a briefing. It’s going to be a long night.’

‘Okay, I’ll come straight home.’

While I’m walking home, I remember it’s Sunday, so we don’t have any staff. Luckily, I recently got my Indonesian driver’s licence, so Suryadi’s absence won’t be a problem. But who will look after the kids? There’s only one solution; we’ll have to take them with us.

By the time we get to the Embassy for the briefing, the picture on the ground in Aceh, while still evolving, is a lot clearer. It’s truly shocking. As Peter Rowe, the deputy head of mission, describes the rapidly escalating disaster to the skeleton crew of DFAT, AusAID and Defence staff in attendance, you could nearly hear a pin drop, the silence only broken by the intermittent sounds of giggles and squeals originating from the corner of the boardroom where Brianna and Ryan are playing with toys.

Peter informs us the Australian Government has established an Inter-Departmental Emergency Task Force of senior officials from relevant departments in Canberra to coordinate Australia’s whole-of-government operational response to the disaster. The initial focus of the task force will be to decide the nature and scope of Australia’s disaster response and assistance to countries impacted by the earthquake and tsunami. This response will most likely have a heavy military component to begin with, given the Australian Defence Force (ADF) is best equipped to meet the immediate medical and sanitation needs of the affected populations. The Embassy, of course, will be required to facilitate and directly assist the ADF on the ground in Indonesia.

The task force’s other primary focus will be managing the large and complex consular response to the disaster. Indonesia and Thailand are both popular tourist destinations, as well as having resident expatriate Australian communities. Thailand is of particular concern, given the large number of Australian tourists who holiday in Phuket and surrounding beaches all year round.

The early signs aren’t good. Media reports are already flowing in from Phuket, detailing the plight of injured and trapped Australians on the island. While the province of Aceh itself is not a popular destination for Australian tourists, the islands off the north Sumatran coast, particularly Nias and the Mentawai Islands, are a surfing mecca, attracting young Aussie surfers on pilgrimage throughout the year. Kristan and the Consular team are going to be busy.

As the Australian Government’s operational response grows in proportion to the escalating scale of the unfolding disaster in Aceh, the skeleton crew at post is quickly under the pump.

The immediate problem is getting official Indonesian clearance for the Australian medical teams and emergency humanitarian supplies, and the RAAF C-130s transporting them, to enter Indonesia. It’s not as easy as it sounds. The Indonesian Government is an inefficient, byzantine labyrinth at the best of times. In the wake of this once-in-a-century natural disaster, it has become utterly gridlocked. This is hardly surprising as the apocalyptic scale of the devastation in northern Sumatra, particularly Aceh, becomes increasingly evident.

The Economic Section has established networks of close contacts in Indonesia’s two key economic and trade ministries: the Office of the Coordinating Minister for Economic Affairs and the Ministry of Trade. We are tasked with helping to secure the customs clearances and duties exemptions for the Australian medical supplies and other urgent humanitarian goods.

Like all countries, Indonesia has a strict regulatory regime in place for the importation and distribution of medicines. Our initial efforts with the Trade Ministry prove frustratingly ineffective. Fortunately, I’ve developed a close relationship in the Coordinating Minister’s Office: Mahendra Siregar, the special assistant to Aburizal Bakrie, the coordinating minister for Economic Affairs. An intelligent and thoughtful person, Mahendra is acutely aware of the urgency of the situation and steps in to facilitate the necessary clearances.

Just as well. Within days, RAAF C-130s start ferrying tonnes of humanitarian supplies into Aceh via Jakarta and Medan, the capital of North Sumatra, bringing out severely injured Indonesians for medical treatment in Jakarta and Medan on their return.

Officials in the Trade Ministry eventually adapt to the need for flexibility, thus ensuring this new, critically important lifeline of medical aid and essential supplies flows relatively smoothly.

By the end of the week, however, a new problem has emerged: logjam. It’s not just Australia rushing to assist their Indonesian friends; the rest of the world feels equally compelled. This outflowing of goodwill has resulted in severe congestion at key airfields across northern Sumatra and even Jakarta itself. Australia’s response is to position an army field hospital at the epicentre of the disaster, Banda Aceh, Aceh’s capital, and establish a headquarters in Medan to coordinate all ADF activity in northern Sumatra. The field hospital will be supported by a primary-care medical team embarked on HMAS Kanimbla, which is due to depart for Aceh on New Year’s Eve. Operation Sumatra Assist, as Australia’s tsunami relief effort is now officially known, is a huge commitment from the government and people of Australia. And, as I will soon find out, it’s just the tip of the iceberg.

While I’m busy running between the Trade Ministry, the Coordinating Minister’s Office and Halim Air Force Base, Kristan’s up to her neck in a tricky consular case. It involves Sam Green, a young Australian surfer from Adelaide, who was believed to be on Nias Island when the tsunami struck. Sam’s family haven’t heard from him and are, understandably, anxious about his whereabouts and safety. They have contacted Minister Downer’s Office expressing their concern and frustration at the Australian Government’s perceived lack of action in finding their son. A view has formed in Canberra that they may go to the media with their concerns; as a result, a cable has directed post to send someone ‘up to Sumatra to find him’.

As if it was that easy. The Embassy’s Consular team is being stretched to the limit, and reallocating one staff member for a singular consular case would appear to be a misallocation of scarce resources. But whatever Canberra wants, Canberra gets, so Kristan has dispatched one of her junior staff, Sean, to Padang to begin the search.

Good luck to Sean… He’ll need it. Sumatra is huge. That needle in the haystack would be comparatively easier.

Just to add to the escalating pressure, on Friday morning Michelle, my DFAT colleague and fellow skeleton crew member, bursts into my office: ‘Grant!’

Michelle is small and slight in stature, but inside that diminutive frame is a razor-sharp mind, coupled with a work ethic beyond compare. Michelle’s been at the Embassy for over two years and was recently promoted to minister-counsellor (Political & Economic).

‘Yudhoyono’s planning to hold an ASEAN leaders’ meeting next Thursday. Wants to raise funds from international donors and coordinate tsunami relief efforts. Australia’s been invited and Howard has accepted. Downer’s coming with him.’ (That’s President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and Prime Minister John Howard.)

‘Okay, sounds pretty big.’

‘Yep, and we want you to be the PM’s visit liaison officer. I know you are pretty busy, but this will have to take priority.’

Busy? I’m swamped. And now I’ve just been told my first VLO role at post will be for the PM! At least it’s not Downer. The cartoon saga is still too fresh in my mind.

‘Okay, but I can’t just drop everything.’

‘I know, I know. We’ll just have to cope.’ A veteran of many a PM’s and ministerial visit to Indonesia, I dare say Michelle knows full well how to ‘cope’. Unlike, say, me, who is growing more terrified by the second with the thought of being the PM’s VLO.

I can discern by the focused look in Michelle’s eyes that she’s already moved into execution mode. ‘Apart from the conference, Howard will want a separate bilat with Yudhoyono, so we’ll have to get a formal request into DEPLU asap.’ (A bilat is a bilateral meeting between two sides. DEPLU is the common abbreviation for the Departemen Luar Negeri Republik Indonesia, the Department of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Indonesia.)

‘Okay,’ I nod, grabbing a pen and paper.

‘We’ll also need to secure suitable accommodation as quickly as possible. Given the large number of foreign leaders coming, the best hotels will get booked up pretty quickly.’

And the list goes on. Bugger waiting for the planning meeting, the starter’s pistol has already fired.

‘We’ve found him!’ yells an excited Kristan down the phone.

‘Who?’

‘Sam Green. There’s been a reported sighting of him on Nias.’

It’s Sunday morning. For the past couple of days, I’ve been up to my neck in logistics for the PM’s visit. For Kristan and the Consular team, particularly Sean on the ground in Sumatra, it’s been consular chaos, including playing detective trying to track down the elusive Sam Green.

‘That’s great news, darling. But are you sure it’s him?’

‘The police in Padang are pretty certain. But, regardless, we’ve asked the police on Nias for a visual confirmation. We should get it soon.’

‘What about his family?’

‘Sean’s already told his brother, who’s in Padang. But we’ve told them nothing is certain until we’ve had visual confirmation.’

Over the course of the day, unfortunately, the initial euphoria of Sam’s supposed discovery slowly dissipates. Efforts to have him visually identified by the local authorities on Nias prove frustratingly ineffective. The first attempt at confirmation comes back disappointingly negative. However, this is quickly followed by a contradictory report confirming his identity. Everyone is confused, not least the distraught family, who aren’t taking kindly to the roller-coaster ride of false hope.

By the time Prime Minister Howard’s RAAF VIP jet touches down at Halim Air Force Base in East Jakarta on the afternoon of 5 January 2005, the horrific scale of the tsunami disaster is clearly discernible. Countries across the Indian Ocean have been impacted. From Indonesia to Thailand, India to Sri Lanka, millions of people across the region are either dead, injured, missing or homeless. It is turning out to be one of the deadliest natural disasters on record. In Indonesia alone, more than 150,000 people are believed dead and more than half a million displaced, primarily in Aceh.

If ever the global community needed to pull together as one, now is the time. Tomorrow’s tsunami donors’ conference – or, to use its official title, the Special ASEAN Leaders’ Meeting on Aftermath of Earthquake and Tsunami – is a good first step. It’s morphed into quite a gathering. Joining the ten ASEAN heads of state will be leaders or senior envoys from twelve other countries, including Japan’s Prime Minister Koizumi Junichiro, US Secretary of State Colin Powell and China’s Premier Wen Jiabao, and the heads of nine international organisations, including the UN secretary-general, Kofi Annan. It’s a fantastic response from the international community, reflective of the outpouring of global goodwill towards the affected countries and peoples since the humanitarian crisis started engulfing our TV screens just eleven days ago.

For Prime Minister Howard, the whereabouts of Sam Green and all the other Australians still missing in the wake of the tsunami are just one issue occupying his mind as he descends the steps to meet the official Indonesian reception party on the tarmac. After a brief but courteous welcome from the Indonesians, the PM is greeted by a small contingent of Australian soldiers working on the relief effort. The ambassador then steers him into his official vehicle for the trip to the Mulia Hotel, the accommodation we have secured for him and his party for their stay in Jakarta. The PM’s meeting with President Yudhoyono at the Istana Merdeka (Independence Palace) is scheduled for later this evening, leaving sufficient time for him to freshen up at the hotel.

The ambassador’s official car, an armoured, bombproof BMW sedan similar in weight and protection to a light tank, is the only vehicle the PM is permitted to travel in while in Indonesia. Actually, it’s the only vehicle the ambassador is allowed to travel in, and it transports him all over the archipelago, wherever his official or personal trips take him. In addition to the ambassador’s car, the Embassy has two bombproof BMW SUVs, used primarily by the heads of the Defence and AFP sections. These are also used as backups to the ambassador’s car, in case it needs to be serviced or transported to Bali in advance of an official visit.

The PM’s stay will be a short one, principally to meet President Yudhoyono and to attend tomorrow’s tsunami donors’ conference. In addition to the bilateral meeting with Yudhoyono, we’ve also secured bilateral meetings with several other ASEAN leaders and international envoys, including Powell, on the margins of tomorrow’s conference.

It’s going to be a whirlwind couple of days.

Wow. This is the way to beat Jakarta’s infamous macet – a blue-light police escort. The trip from the Mulia to the Istana Merdeka would take close to an hour on a good day! Today? A mere twenty minutes. If only the Embassy could procure some of those flashing blue lights.

My musings are cut short when our convoy sweeps into the lush green tropical grounds of the white Istana Merdeka. The thoughts are soon replaced by a tight, nervous knot in my stomach as we stop at the foot of the steps leading up to the main entrance of the grand, Dutch colonial-era palace. Of all the prime minister’s meetings over the next two days, there’s no doubt in my mind this meeting with President Yudhoyono is the most critical.

Tension hangs heavy in the air as I follow Howard and the ambassador up the steps and into the palace’s Ruang Kredensial (Credential Hall), the primary hall for receiving state guests. The hall is opulently decorated with large crystal chandeliers, a red and gold embroidered rug covering the wide expanse of the marble floor, gold-trimmed crimson velvet drapes framing the doors and windows, and large gold-framed full-length mirrors hanging from its walls. It’s all slightly garish.

A door opens to our left, through which President Yudhoyono enters, followed by a small retinue of officials. He strides purposefully across the velvet rug towards Prime Minister Howard. As Yudhoyono extends his hand in welcome, Howard grasps it, personally conveying to the president the heartfelt condolences of the Australian people for the devastating destruction and appalling loss of life inflicted on the Indonesian nation by the earthquake and tsunami. What’s more, he promises that Australia will stand by the Indonesian people on their long journey of reconstruction and recovery as a true friend and partner. In doing so, Australia will commit $1 billion to the reconstruction of Aceh – the largest single foreign aid commitment in Australia’s history.

Yudhoyono is visibly stunned. Speechless. Struggling to keep his emotions in check, he grabs Howard below the elbows on both arms and draws him closer. ‘I will never forget this, I will never forget the generosity of the Australian people,’ a visibly overwhelmed Yudhoyono declares.

As I stand, watching the interaction a few short metres away, I feel the hair on my arms stand on end and goosebumps cover my body as the historic gravity of this moment hits home. Howard has delivered a masterstroke, both morally and politically.

Morally, because it is just the right thing to do. The scale of destruction in Aceh is unprecedented. Indonesia will need all the help the international community can muster. As the old saying goes, ‘A friend in need is a friend indeed.’ Australia has just proven to be that friend.

Politically, because Howard’s pledge is the outstretched hand of friendship the bilateral relationship so sorely needs. Ever since the late-90s East Timor crisis, Australia and Indonesia have experienced a trust deficit as wide as the Timor Sea separating the two countries. While cooperation in tackling the Islamic terror threat imperilling Indonesia has helped bridge some of that gap, deep-rooted suspicions on both sides are not easily assuaged. By pledging such generosity and commitment in Indonesia’s darkest hour, Howard has recast the bilateral relationship in an instant. I feel truly privileged to be an eyewitness to it.

An Indonesian official then rushes forward, directing the two leaders to a separate room, just off to the side of the greeting hall, where the formal bilateral meeting will take place.

During the course of the meeting, Howard gives more detail on Australia’s billion-dollar aid pledge. He stresses from the outset that the focus is on partnership, Australia and Indonesia working together, hand in hand, to rebuild the shattered towns and villages of Aceh. In the spirit of cooperation, he suggests the aid program be administered by a joint commission overseen by the president and himself. However, he emphasises, the ultimate responsibility for the provision of the aid will naturally fall to the Indonesian Government. The aid itself will comprise $500 million in grants and $500 million in concessional loans. The grants will be used for short-term restorative projects, while the loans will be dedicated to longer-term reconstruction and development. Howard finishes by underscoring that the aid pledge represents the desire and will of the Australian people to pursue a close and cooperative relationship with Indonesia and its people. And, importantly, in a way that respects the sovereignty of Indonesia.

Yudhoyono, having regained his composure since Howard’s shock announcement, is no less effusive in his thanks. He repeats his pledge to never forget the generosity of the Australian people, but also notes that such a statement of support for Indonesia’s reconstruction and development will be extremely well received by the Indonesian people. On their behalf, he thanks Prime Minister Howard, his government and the Australian people for their kind generosity and friendship in Indonesia’s time of need.

The remainder of Howard’s visit passes in a blur of bilateral meetings, media doorstops and pull-aside conversations on the margins of the conference. It’s hectic, but also exhilarating. As a former member of DFAT’s Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) Branch, I attended numerous large-scale international leaders’ and ministers’ meetings, which are part and parcel of the yearlong APEC gabfest. But unlike APEC leaders’ meetings, usually characterised by long nights arguing over syntax in soon-to-be-forgotten Leaders’ Declarations, a strong spirit of unity, purpose and compassion permeates this conference.

Dare I say it, there is a realisation of the need to put past enmities and suspicions aside for the common good, for the benefit of all those impacted by this once-in-a-century human tragedy. ‘Exhilarated’ doesn’t do justice to the way I feel. ‘Honoured and truly blessed’ to be part of this historic event is more apt.

As the donors’ conference draws to a close, my phone beeps. It’s a text from Kristan in the Visit Office at the Mulia. Apparently, Ray Martin from A Current Affair wants to interview the prime minister, a difficult proposition given the lack of space in Howard’s remaining visit schedule. Once the conference concludes, it’s straight back to the hotel for a short press conference before a quick dash to the airport. Still, I’m sure Howard will be keen… He’s got a good story to tell.

I touch base with Howard’s media adviser, who confirms my suspicions. We agree to squeeze the Martin interview in before the press conference.

Arriving back at the hotel at the conclusion of the conference, I rush up to the Visit Office to see Kristan and to find out where the interview will take place. She directs me to the room opposite.

Crossing the corridor and pushing open the door, I find Ray Martin sitting at the meeting table, looking at me. I’m startled. For some reason, I’d thought Martin would be interviewing the PM from a studio back in Sydney, not live in Jakarta!

Sensing my hesitation, Martin gets up, extending his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Ray.’

‘Of course… you are,’ I stammer in return, blinking my eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Ray Martin has been a staple of my TV consumption since I was a kid watching 60 Minutes in the late 70s. And now here he is.

Panicking, I turn on my heel and retreat back to the Visit Office, forgetting even to shake his hand.

‘That’s Ray Martin in there.’

‘I know it is, darling,’ Kristan says. ‘He wants to interview the PM. That’s why he’s here.’

‘Yes. Yes, he does.’

Turning again, I cross the corridor, pause a second at the hotel room door to take a deep breath and, composure recovered, enter with a smile from ear to ear.

‘Hello, Mr Martin, apologies for that,’ I say, extending my hand. ‘The prime minister will be here shortly. Is there anything you need?’

Martin, still standing, grasps my hand, returning my smile with that famous gap-toothed smile of his own. ‘No, we’re good to go. Thanks for your help.’

‘Sure, well, if you need anything, I’m just across the corridor.’

And, with that, I depart, nearly bumping into the PM as I leave the meeting room. What a day, I think to myself, standing in the corridor. Powell, Annan, Koizumi, Wen… and now Martin. It doesn’t get much better than this.

Chapter 7 Yes, Minister

My mobile rings. It’s Kristan.

‘Hi, darl—’

‘We’ve found him!’ she hollers down the phone.

I assume she’s speaking about Sam Green. It’s now been exactly two weeks since the tsunami, so hopes of finding him have all but faded away.

‘You sure this time?’

‘Yes. Don’t be a smart-arse,’ she says, her voice betraying a hint of annoyance. ‘His mum has just called the CEC. His brother Ben found him on one of the Mentawai Islands.’

‘Wow. That’s fantastic news.’

‘Yep, but how’s this? He had no idea the tsunami even happened.’

‘How on earth could he not know? The Mentawais must have shook, so close to the epicentre.’

‘Nope. Totally oblivious,’ Kristan chuckles. It’s nice to hear her laugh again; it’s been a while.

With the PM out of my hair, and Sam Green out of Kristan’s, life starts to return to a kind of normal, though it’s a new ‘post-tsunami’ normal. The scale and scope of Australia’s tsunami recovery assistance to Indonesia is unparalleled. Due to the Jakarta Embassy’s critical role in supporting and, in some cases, facilitating this assistance, the relief effort quickly comes to dominate every aspect of my working life.

The official aid part is easy. It comprises targeted humanitarian assistance in areas of critical demand, such as medical supplies, food, water, shelter and emergency power equipment, and is, usually, specifically requested by the Indonesians.

The unofficial stuff is less easy. The tremendous outpouring of compassion from the Australian people has precipitated a deluge of donations to local and international charities in Australia. A lot of these charities, particularly the larger, more established ones, have been publicly imploring people to donate cash, rather than articles of clothing and other goods. While well-intentioned, donations of knitted jumpers, woollen coats and tinned spam aren’t essential living items in Muslim-dominated, tropical Aceh. Large quantities of such goods are now piling up on Indonesian wharves, creating stockpiles and hindering the broader relief effort.

Fortunately for me, in managing the ever-growing caseload of import clearance requests and custom duties exemptions, the cavalry has arrived. Ben, the tall, laconic third secretary (Economic), the other half of the Economic Section, had been holidaying in the Gili Islands just off the coast of Lombok when the tsunami struck. On hearing the news, he offered to come back straightaway. But like everyone following the bombing, he needed the time away to decompress, so I told him to finish his holidays.

If I had known the extent of the metaphorical tsunami of work that would be left in the wake of the real one, I might not have been so generous.

I hand over to Ben the critically important but tricky task of dealing with the Trade Ministry. They are driving me insane. The welcome flexibility shown during the initial emergency phase of the disaster response has largely vanished, replaced by the time-honoured weapon of the inefficient bureaucrat: red tape. I’m hoping Ben’s far superior Bahasa, coupled with his replenished wells of patience, will prove more effective.

Success! It’s not just his ability to communicate effectively that proves a boon; he also has his own network of useful contacts at the ministry to lean on. One in particular, a senior trade official with a penchant for Australian meat pies, can be encouraged with a couple of Four’N Twenties from the Embassy’s commissary, the little room in the Embassy basement stockpiled with Australian produce unable to be sourced in Jakarta. Ben reassures me the guy pays for them, so it’s all above board.

With Ben deploying his unique skills over the days and weeks that follow, we make substantial headway into the pile of import clearance requests.

Until, when my phone rings one day in early February, we hit an unexpected new challenge.

‘Hello, Grant Dooley.’

‘Hi, it’s Nicole here, from Australia Zoo.’ The nasally twang of an Australian accent greets me down the phone.

‘Sorry, who? From where?’

‘It’s Nicole from Australia Zoo,’ the nasally twang repeats.

The past few weeks have been a grind, leading to a few of my colleagues pulling pranks to keep sane. Nicole from Australia Zoo? Yeah, right.

‘Okay, who’s this? Is that you, Ali?’

‘No… It’s Nicole from Australia Zoo!’ The twang, greatly increased in volume, has gone to the next level of grating.

‘Yeah, okay, good one. Bye.’ I’m too busy for this bullshit and forgot to take my humour pills this morning.

About thirty minutes or so later, my phone rings again.

‘Hello, Grant Dooley speaking.’

‘Hi, Grant, it’s Brad from Minister Downer’s Office. You got a sec?’ I recognise the voice of one of Downer’s senior advisers, a good guy who accompanied the minister to Jakarta straight after the bombing.

‘Yes, Brad. How can I help?’

‘I understand you got a call from Australia Zoo about thirty minutes ago.’

‘Ah, yep,’ I answer, taking a gulp. ‘But it was a pretty crap line. Could hardly hear what the lady was saying.’ Totally in scramble mode.

‘Oh, okay. Well, Steve Irwin just called the minister asking for post’s assistance to deliver some aid to Sumatra. Minister told him post would do whatever it could to help.’

‘Yep… Got it,’ I say, my subdued response possibly betraying my lack of enthusiasm for the minister’s request. ‘Do you have the lady’s number?’

‘They’ll call you again. Look… I know you’re flat out, but the minister would greatly appreciate any help you could give them.’

‘Understand, Brad. Leave it with me.’

‘Cheers.’

I bang down the phone, screaming, ‘For fuck’s sake! You’ve gotta be kidding me!’

‘What’s wrong, mate?’ yells Ben from the office next door.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ I respond as Ben enters my office. I’m about to continue when my phone rings again. I put my right index finger to my mouth, motioning silence, before picking up the phone.

‘Hello, Grant Dooley speaking.’

‘Hi, Grant,’ responds the familiar nasally twang, ‘it’s Nicole here from Australia Zoo.’

‘Oh, hi, Nicole. Apologies for before. Had a terrible line and could hardly hear you. How can I help?’ I push the speaker phone button so Ben can listen in.

Nicole proceeds to explain that Steve and Terri Irwin have set up an appeal to help the people and wildlife of northern Sumatra impacted by the Boxing Day earthquake and tsunami. Australia Zoo has longstanding working relationships with wildlife conservation groups in the area, particularly Flora and Fauna International. FFI are primarily involved in anti-poaching work, protecting the critically endangered Sumatran tiger, as well as native elephants. The fifteen-member FFI team were badly impacted by the tsunami tragedy, losing family, belongings and crucial equipment, and urgently needs help if they are to continue their vital wildlife work.

‘Fortunately,’ Nicole continues excitedly, ‘the Irwins’ appeal has been quite successful, raising sufficient funds to send a small team of staff and critical veterinarian supplies to Aceh to help treat the injured animals.’ Moreover, several Queensland businesses have jumped on board, donating equipment such as a power generator to help the FFI anti-poaching team get back on their feet.

‘Steve and Terri have just one little favour to ask,’ Nicole concludes. ‘They would be grateful if the Embassy could liaise with the local customs people to make sure the goods land safely in North Sumatra.’

‘When is that likely to be?’ I ask apprehensively.

‘Well, the ship carrying all the goods and equipment is already on its way. I think it’s supposed to arrive in Sumatra in about a week.’

‘In about a week!’ I respond, struggling to contain myself. ‘Where?’

‘Oh, somewhere in North Sumatra. Is there a place called Bel-a-wan?’

‘Yep, that would be it. Belawan is the main port up there,’ I concur, trying to restrain my mounting frustration. ‘Do you have the ship’s name? As well as a manifest detailing the exact goods being transported? We don’t have much time, so I need…’

‘Okay, sure. Will see what I can do.’

‘… both asap. Just to be clear, Nicole,’ I say, pausing to emphasise the point, ‘without a detailed manifest, we have no hope of getting these goods off the boat.’

‘Okay, understood. Will get something to you straightaway. Thanks.’

I slam down the phone and turn to Ben, who has taken up residence on the armchair in the corner of my office. He’s wearing a grin from ear to ear.

‘What are you laughing at?’ I ask. ‘We haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting all this stuff cleared before it arrives in Belawan.’

‘I know, mate, I know,’ Ben chuckles. ‘It’s just… Steve Irwin. Downer. Elephants. You couldn’t script this.’

This is indeed crazy stuff. I firmly believe we shouldn’t be doing it. We’ve got tonnes of humanitarian aid, including critical medical supplies, either on Indonesian wharves waiting for clearance or on the water heading to Indonesia. Surely this life-saving aid has to take priority over non-humanitarian supplies, however well-intentioned?

Well, maybe in a normal world. But I’ve just had an explicit directive from the Minister’s Office to do whatever I can to help Australia Zoo, so I have little choice in the matter. But how are we going to secure all the necessary import clearances and duty exemptions in just over a week?

The degree of expected difficulty is multiplied upon receipt of the requested goods manifest.

‘Elephant suppositories! What the fuck?’

While the Australia Zoo donation does include some humanitarian aid, the vast bulk is veterinary supplies, such as animal vitamin supplements. There’s also an SUV. And trail bikes!

What had been Mission Inexplicable has just became Mission Impossible.

Ben is now furious but, to his credit, does what’s asked, throwing himself into the complex and challenging task of getting import clearances for Australia Zoo’s menagerie of goods.

As might have been suspected, the elephant suppositories and vitamin supplements have the Indonesians flummoxed. They point out that neither are critical humanitarian aid and, therefore, shouldn’t be prioritised for import clearance. It’s a hard point to argue against.

Ben’s response? Forget reason and go creative. He digs up a recent press article about Sumatran elephants playing an important role in helping to clear debris in Aceh and getting injured in the process. There you go, he tells his contact at the ministry: without the elephant suppositories and vitamin supplements, these wonderful animals wouldn’t be able to continue their critical work. It’s a flimsy argument, at best, but his attempt at heartstring pulling does move the dial a bit, from outright refusal to ‘We’ll consider it’.

As it turns out, the veterinarian aid is the least of our worries. Importing a motor vehicle into Indonesia is much, much more problematic.

Indonesia possesses its own car-manufacturing industry, which is a major employer of thousands of workers, especially across the main island of Java. It’s heavily protected by steep tariffs on imported vehicles, particularly larger, more powerful cars such as SUVs. When Ben first approaches the relevant area of the Trade Ministry about the prospect of Australia Zoo importing an SUV as a gift to the FFI to assist with the distribution of veterinarian aid and other supplies, he is met with a terse, unequivocal ‘No’.

All appears lost until one of his close contacts at the ministry suggests approaching the trade minister, Mari Pangestu, directly. Ministers in Indonesia, as in Australia, are vested with considerable discretionary powers. With the stroke of a pen, special dispensations can be granted, personal favours dispensed.

Having the power is one thing. Using it is another thing all together. I am aware Pangestu is quite well disposed towards Australia, having studied at the Australian National University in Canberra as a young woman, but I am loath to approach her. Going over the heads of trade officials directly to the minister isn’t going to win you many friends. It’s not a card that can be played often… Once or twice at most. But with the clock ticking louder and louder in our ears, I fear we don’t have much choice. As reluctant as I am, it’s time to play the Pangestu card.

Ben secures a meeting with Pangestu’s chief of staff, to whom we explain the importance of the Australia Zoo donation to the welfare of the Sumatran elephant, a critically endangered animal cherished by the Sumatran people. Moreover, while the people of Sumatra have suffered terribly at the hands of this natural disaster, the local wildlife has also been devastated. And, we stress, just delivering the elephant suppositories and vitamin supplements to Belawan won’t suffice, as the local FFI anti-poaching team have no way of transporting the medication to the animals, given all their vehicles have been damaged or lost in the disaster. Then we add the coup de grâce, a personal plea from Minister Downer to Minister Pangestu. Downer, we note, is personally following this issue with much interest and would greatly appreciate any assistance from Minister Pangestu to facilitate the entry into Indonesia of this very important donation of veterinarian supplies from the Australian people.

Whether it’s Downer’s personal interest in the issue or Pangestu is a closet member of the World Wildlife Fund, we’ll never know. Regardless, two days later, we receive by fax a signed ministerial letter approving the importation of the whole Australia Zoo consignment: lock, stock and elephant suppositories. An outcome we couldn’t dare dream of just a few days prior. And that’s not the end of it. With the importance of this donation from the Australian people, the minister advises she has directed the military command in North Sumatra to provide an armed escort for the Australia Zoo vehicles and supplies, to ensure their safe transport from Belawan to Aceh. Thank you indeed, Minister!

I quickly jump on the phone to tell the good news to the Australia Zoo people, who respond with a polite ‘Thanks’. It’s not like I was expecting a free subscription to Crikey! magazine, but their lack of appreciation grates and, for a split second, I consider ringing them straight back to convey that. But in the end I relent. Sure, I might feel better in the immediate afterglow of self-righteousness, but since Mr Irwin has a hotline to the Minister’s Office, any sense of smugness would likely be short-lived.

Best I let this one go through to the keeper; it’s not worth the career or the brain damage.

Freed from the shackles of the Australia Zoo distraction, Ben and I once again throw ourselves into the backlog of import clearance requests and custom duties exemptions piling up on our desks. It’s mind-numbing but necessary work. While Howard’s $1 billion aid commitment to the reconstruction of Aceh has rightly grabbed the media headlines, the generosity of the Australian people is equally inspiring. Australian private citizens, community groups and businesses have dipped deep into their compassionate pockets for their Asian neighbours, donating millions to local charities and NGOs for the tsunami relief effort.

By the middle of March, there is a discernible tapering off in requests for assistance. The initial wave of private donations, which largely comprised containers full of everything from food and medical supplies to personal clothing and blankets, has largely petered out. And while demand for some of these goods, namely medical supplies and reconstruction materials, is still high, the Indonesian Government has put in place systems and processes better equipped to identify shortages and facilitate imports to fill them.

Much to everyone’s relief.

The tapering off of tsunami-related work also frees up much-needed bandwidth for me to focus on other work priorities. Principal among these is Trade Minister Mark Vaile’s upcoming visit to Bali in mid-April to attend the annual Australia–Indonesia Trade Ministers’ Meeting. I’ve been appointed Minister Vaile’s VLO for the trip.

As it turns out, it’s a pretty simple visit. Apart from the one-on-one meeting with Indonesian Trade Minister Pangestu, the minister’s involvement in the meeting is relatively minimal. By the time both ministers arrive in Bali, officials from both sides have concluded most of the substantive discussions on the meeting’s agenda, ranging from efforts to expand commercial links to the growing problem of illegal fishing. What’s left to the ministers is to agree the syntax of the meeting’s final official statement. There’s even enough time for the ministers to partake in a friendly round of golf!

But, as with all ministerial visits, I can’t wait for the minister to depart. Even more so this time, as I’m in Bali and keen to enjoy some of the island’s famed nightlife before heading back to Jakarta. Once the minister has left, I join some of my Embassy colleagues, including one from the AFP Section, for a couple of beers in the hotel’s bar. It’s Saturday night, 16 April, and we have just started tossing around ideas on where to go next when my AFP colleague’s mobile starts to ring. He picks it up and walks outside. Returning a short while later, he proffers a quick goodbye and leaves.

From the serious look on his face and the speed of his departure, it’s obvious something’s up. A quick discussion ensues among those remaining. Is it terrorism-related? Has there been another bombing? One thing is for certain, it’s never a good sign when one of your AFP colleagues suddenly ups and leaves. Best we stay close to the hotel tonight.

The next morning, we have our answer, and it’s not a good one. Overnight, nine young Australians had been arrested in Bali for attempting to smuggle heroin out of Indonesia to Australia. As the day unfolds, more information comes to light. Four of the nine, Scott Rush, Michael Czugaj, Martin Stephens and Renae Lawrence, were arrested at Ngurah Rai International Airport with 8.3 kilograms of heroin in plastic bags. Another four, Myuran Sukumaran, Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen, Si Yi Chen and Matthew Norman, had been arrested at a hotel in Kuta with 300 grams of heroin, bundles of plastic wrapping and a set of scales. The final member, Andrew Chan, had been removed from a flight departing Bali for Australia.

My initial reaction is: why would they try this? Everyone knows Indonesia has a zero-tolerance approach to drugs. Just ask Schapelle Corby! Where have these guys been for the past six months as the Corby circus has played out nearly nightly on our TV screens? My second reaction is more one of dread. Shit. Eight kilograms of heroin. This is way worse than a boogie-board bag stuffed full of ganja. Indonesia has strict punishments for drug trafficking, including the death penalty. Moreover, Indonesia has a well-publicised drug problem, one the government has been vocal about combating. This is going to get nasty. Very, very nasty.

My final reaction is one of sadness. Nine young lives. At best, they are probably looking at life imprisonment. At worst, the death penalty. What a waste. What a godawful waste.

New bosses are one of DFAT’s recurring bugbears. As DFAT staff broadly work on three-year job cycles, just when you get used to working for someone, they get posted somewhere else or shifted to a new role in DFAT’s game of musical chairs. But the regularity of the changes doesn’t make them any less painful, particularly if a large difference in style, personality and approach exists between your incumbent boss and their successor.

Such is the situation I now find myself in. I had enjoyed working with Penny. Yes, she was a hard taskmaster and could be a nitpicky micro-manager at times, but she was extremely good at her job and I learned heaps. If the seas of red ink on my cable drafts in the early days were quite deflating, they were also illuminating and, in hindsight, necessary.

Business networking, collecting market intelligence, leveraging high-level government contacts, and eating and drinking for your country are the basic tools of diplomatic tradecraft needed to source the critical ingredients for a good cable. But it doesn’t matter how good the ingredients are if you can’t distil all that information into a concise and discerning analysis for the audience back in Canberra. I had found the cable writing part of the equation somewhat challenging. Penny’s response was old-school: lashings of red ink and redrafts. Lucky for me, I’m a relatively quick learner and by the time she left I was occasionally bestowed that rare unspoken Penny compliment of a returned draft sans red ink.

Penny’s replacement as counsellor (Economic), Bernard, on the other hand, appears to be quite a different kettle of fish. A thoughtful, quieter, more introverted type, he doesn’t bring Penny’s frantic energy to the job; nor does he bring her depth of background knowledge on Indonesia or her Indonesian language skills. Rather, he has a deep understanding of Islam and the Muslim world in general, stemming from his Middle Eastern studies and previous posting to Tehran.

One day, Bernard pops into my office and invites me to accompany him to the Jordanian National Day function at the InterContinental Hotel. Sensing an opportunity to get to know my new boss a little better, I gratefully accept. As I jump up to grab my suit jacket, he suggests we travel together in his car for ease of transport.

On the way to the hotel, we do a quick detour via Bernard’s place so he can drop off his bag. He vanishes inside to deposit his bag, re-emerging with two beers in each hand, much to my delight.

‘Well, it’s probably going to take about an hour to get there,’ he explains, jumping back into the car, ‘so I thought a couple of beers each should do the trick.’

‘Great idea. Cheers,’ I say, nodding thankfully as he passes me two bottles.

The hour-long road trip and cold beers turn out to be a great icebreaker. Apart from general discussions in the office about work, we’ve hardly had the chance to get to know each other since Bernard arrived a month ago. In the car, lubricated by a couple of coldies, we relax into a wide-ranging conversation, sharing information about our backgrounds, families and general interests. It only comes to a halt with the sudden realisation we have arrived at the hotel.

As the car pulls up at the front steps to the hotel lobby, I notice a large gathering of Arab diplomats and other guests, all milling about the entrance in traditional Arabic clothing, the men in flowing, long white Islamic gowns and patterned keffiyeh headscarfs, the women in colourful abayas and hijabs and even the odd burqa. Throw in the Indonesian guests in their multicoloured batik shirts and it’s quite a sight.

A hotel doorman moves forward to open Bernard’s door, and he alights. I take a final big gulp of my beer and then slide across the seat to follow. Before I get out, I place the empty beer bottle on the floor at my feet. As I exit the car, however, I accidentally kick the bottle, which flies into the air, hitting the car door. I try to catch the bottle before it hits the ground but, in the process, stumble flat on my face. The bottle skitters across the hotel driveway and smashes into pieces on the lobby steps. ‘And the Australian delegation has arrived,’ I think to myself as I lie prostrate, hoping the ground will open up and swallow me.

I slowly get up, dusting myself off, bright red with embarrassment. But Bernard walks over to me smiling, shaking his head. ‘That’s some entrance!’

Chapter 8 A Reminder of Life’s Impermanence

It’s early May and Michelle, the minister-counsellor (Political & Economic), has just informed me that I will be babysitting a parliamentary delegation to Banda Aceh at the beginning of June. It appears none of my colleagues over in the Political Section wants the job. I’m a bit surprised. While looking after a visiting multi-party parliamentary delegation can be a pain, with all their competing political egos and incessant sniping, I view the chance to travel to Aceh as fair compensation.

It’s not the opportunity to play disaster tourist that’s my main motivation, although it will be good to place into proper context the extent of the destruction inflicted on Aceh by the earthquake and tsunami. I have an inkling that the pictures of carnage and tales of devastation I have seen and heard fail to do it justice. But my overriding motive for wanting to go to Aceh is intellectual curiosity.

In a country known for its multitude of diverse cultures and peoples, Aceh holds a unique place as Indonesia’s gateway to Islam. Islam reached Aceh around the year 1250; from there, it spread throughout the remainder of the archipelago and into other parts of South-East Asia. Even today, it is popularly known by Indonesians as the ‘Veranda of Mecca’. Perhaps more controversially, it’s also known as the only province in Indonesia where Sharia Law is officially practised.

Along with its exalted place within Indonesia’s dominant faith, Aceh is equally well known for its history of fierce resistance to outside control. Throughout the long period of Dutch colonisation, Aceh was never subjugated. Not that the Dutch didn’t try. Various attempts and strategies, and the heavy expenditure they incurred, nearly bankrupted the Dutch colonial government in Batavia (now Jakarta), on the main island of Java.

The largely Java-centric, post-independence Indonesian central government, under its first president, Sukarno, didn’t have much luck with the Acehnese either. Soon after independence in 1949, Sukarno politically dismantled Aceh, incorporating it into the newly established province of North Sumatra. For the proud Acehnese, there was only one answer: open rebellion. And apart from sporadic attempts at reconciliation from the central government, involving greater and greater promises of autonomy, their resistance has largely continued unabated.

Until the tsunami.

The Boxing Day earthquake and tsunami, and the death and desolation it has wrought on Aceh, appears to have acted like a circuit breaker, bringing the two key antagonists, Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (Free Aceh Movement, or GAM as it is more commonly known) and the Indonesian Government, to the negotiation table. Discussions have been difficult, which is hardly surprising given the significant trust deficit that exists between both parties. However, recent signals out of Helsinki, where the negotiations are taking place, have been positive. It appears both sides are exhibiting the necessary flexibility to find a solution to end this decades-old conflict.

In short, I’m quite excited about the prospect of travelling to Aceh, even if I have to play chaperone to a delegation of federal MPs.

My initial excitement is slightly tempered when I discover the delegation’s composition. While I don’t know and haven’t had any interactions with the majority of those on the list, one name looms large: Bronwyn Bishop, the Member for Mackellar. Bishop has quite a public persona, stemming from her unsuccessful challenge for the Liberal Party leadership in the mid-90s. With her Thatcheresque hairdo, signature pearls and killer heels, she is the intimidating matriarch of the conservative side of politics. She also has a reputation in the media for being quite demanding and precious, two attributes that strike fear into the heart of any Embassy visit liaison officer.

I spend the month of May finalising arrangements for the parliamentary delegation’s visit to Jakarta and Banda Aceh. The Jakarta leg of the visit falls into place relatively smoothly. The only substantive interaction with Indonesian officials will be a meeting at DEPLU. I’m fairly certain the delegation will want to raise the Corby issue, given she was recently found guilty and sentenced to twenty years in prison by the Denpasar District Court.

For us sitting in Jakarta, we can’t quite get our heads around the Australian media’s pre-occupation with her plight. Even more perplexing has been the Federal Government’s response. When Downer visited Jakarta for the tsunami donors’ conference in early January, he appeared obsessed by the case, even attempting to solicit from Embassy staff their views as to her guilt or innocence.

It would appear Corby’s baggage-handler conspiracy theory, as far-fetched as it sounds, has found some believers in the halls of Parliament House. Unfortunately for her, she’s found no such believers in the teak-lined chambers of the Indonesian courts. All that being said, twenty years in prison would appear to be a dear price to pay.

Apart from the meeting at DEPLU, the majority of the short visit will comprise briefings from Embassy staff (DFAT, Defence and AusAID) on Australia’s continuing relief work in Aceh and progress on the Australia Indonesia Partnership for Reconstruction and Development, the official joint body established to oversee the administration of Australia’s $1 billion aid package pledged by PM Howard in January.

The visit to Banda Aceh is far more complicated. Firstly, notwithstanding the apparent warming of relations between Aceh’s warring parties in the wake of the tsunami, no peace agreement has yet been signed. Moreover, as they live in the Veranda of Mecca, a fair proportion of the Aceh populace is likely to be sympathetic to JI’s murderous approach to jihad, particularly the militant group’s attacks on Western interests in Indonesia. At first, DEPLU appears reluctant to grant the necessary permissions for the delegation’s visit. However, they relent once the objectives of the visit are agreed – to visit and inspect Australian-funded aid projects in Banda Aceh. But, they rightly stress, the visit will need to be managed carefully and with due consideration to the ‘on-the-ground’ security and logistics difficulties of travelling in the devastated city.

Secondly, the logistics are indeed a challenge. Getting to Banda Aceh won’t be an issue, as the delegation is travelling to Indonesia on one of the RAAF 737 VIP jets. While the tsunami obliterated Banda Aceh’s small port and significantly damaged its city centre, the airport escaped the worst of it.

Sourcing accommodation and ground transportation, though, is proving to be a nightmare. Banda Aceh has been swamped by a second tsunami of disaster relief aid and the small army of staff from international NGOs and aid agencies sent to oversee its distribution. These relief actors have made huge demands on local resources, taking up any available land, housing and office space, as well as vehicles and drivers.

The lack of suitable housing can’t be overcome, and it’s agreed with Canberra to limit our time in Banda Aceh to just one day. The matter of ground transport is not so easily fixed. My first and best bet is to lean on my AusAID colleagues. I’m aware they have a few people on the ground in Banda Aceh, as well as access to various types of vehicles.

But to say they are less than enthused when I raise the idea is an understatement. It doesn’t matter who I speak to from AusAID, the conversation is mostly the same.

Grant: ‘I have a parliamentary delegation going to Banda Aceh. Would you have a driver and minibus I can use for the day?’

AusAID colleague: ‘What? A driver and minibus to transport a bunch of pollies around Banda Aceh? You’ve got to be joking! Everyone and everything are tied up doing important humanitarian work.’

I have some sympathy with the argument, and vividly recall my recent Australia Zoo experience, but in the end, as with the elephant suppositories, what Canberra wants, Canberra gets; it’s just a matter of time.

To assist in this enlightenment process, I enlist the support of Michelle, who will be accompanying me and the delegation to Aceh. Michelle has been at post several years and is very adept at navigating the Machiavellian world of ‘Embassy politics’. When I tell her of my troubles, she says, ‘Leave it with me,’ which I am more than happy to do.

I’m not sure what she does or says, promises or possibly threatens, but a short time after telling her of my travails, I receive a phone call from the head of AusAID promising to make one of their small minibuses available for the delegation’s one day visit to Aceh.

Clearly there are dark arts of Embassy politics to be learned.

By the time the delegation’s RAAF 737 VIP jet touches down at Halim Air Force Base in Jakarta on 6 June, all the visit arrangements are in place. Not that I can relax. Experience has shown the propensity of Indonesian officials to alter plans at the last minute.

Except for the meeting with Indonesian government officials at DEPLU, the next day’s meetings take place at the delegation’s hotel, which means their schedule runs smoothly. The meeting at DEPLU, however, does have its awkward moments. As expected, the delegation’s leader, Bruce Billson, the parliamentary secretary for Foreign Affairs, does raise the Corby issue. But given she has just been found guilty, he raises it more in relation to the prospects of Australia and Indonesia negotiating a bilateral prisoner-transfer agreement. When advised the process would likely to take years rather than months, he’s not impressed.

After a long day of meetings and briefings, the delegation finally assembles in the hotel lobby bar for the last agenda item of the day: a briefing from me and Michelle on the arrangements for tomorrow’s trip to Banda Aceh. I start off by running through the logistics and itinerary for the visit. The day will begin with an early start, as it’s a three-hour flight. Upon arrival in Banda Aceh, we will immediately board a helicopter to survey the devastation caused by the earthquake and tsunami. After returning to the airport, the delegation will travel via minibus to the Acehnese governor’s residence for a meeting with the governor and the well-respected head of the newly established Aceh and Nias Rehabilitation and Reconstruction Agency, Kuntoro Mangkusubroto. Kuntoro will then escort the delegation on a visit to the Zainoel Abidin General Hospital, Aceh’s largest provincial hospital and a major recipient of Australian aid since the early days of the tsunami. Last stop will be Ulee Lheue Port, which was totally obliterated by the tsunami, and which Australia has committed to help rebuilding. From there, it’s back to the airport for the flight home. It’s going to be a long, exhausting and emotional day.

Michelle finishes the briefing with a few words about what to expect on the ground in Banda Aceh. ‘The city is still largely a disaster zone, with dead bodies being unearthed daily,’ she notes in a sombre voice. ‘The clean-up process has started but is going to take years to complete. As we will be visiting some severely damaged areas on foot, such as the port, I suggest everyone wear comfortable clothing.’

She concludes: ‘I’m not sure if you are aware, but Aceh has a strict Muslim dress code. I recommend that female members of the delegation wear pants and cover their hair while there.’ I start handing out headscarfs to the three female members of the delegation – Catherine King, Ruth Webber and Bronwyn Bishop. King and Webber thankfully accept, while Bishop declines, citing her ‘personal choice’ not to wear a head covering. When King politely suggests such a refusal is likely to cause offence to our Muslim Acehnese hosts, Bishop maintains it’s her right to choose.

The debate threatens to spiral out of hand when Webber joins the fray, imploring her political rival ‘not to be disrespectful and wear a headscarf’. Bishop refuses to budge, and Billson jumps in to call the briefing to a close.

As the delegation members scatter back to their rooms, I can’t help but think, ‘Maybe a trip to Aceh isn’t fair compensation after all.’

If anyone thought a good night’s sleep would herald a change in Bishop’s attitude, they are wrong. It isn’t her lack of a scarf that has everyone scratching their heads when she joins the rest of the delegation in the hotel lobby early the next morning, however. She has heeded Michelle’s advice to wear pants, though I’m not sure a bright-white pantsuit is quite what Michelle had in mind. Coupled with her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and matching gold jewellery, she looks more suited for a day at the Randwick races than a trek through Banda Aceh’s desolate streets. The contrast to the rest of the delegation is stark. Everyone else is dressed in comfortable, loose-fitting clothes and flat shoes – more Birdsville Cup than Sydney Cup. But this doesn’t seem to worry Bishop, who appears oblivious to how such displays might be perceived by people who have just lost everything. Even some of her Liberal colleagues are left shaking their heads.

It’s still early in the morning and most of the delegation doze or keep themselves busy by reading or doing paperwork as we commence our flight. Halfway through, the captain invites me up to the cockpit for the remainder of the flight and the landing in Banda Aceh. As I strap myself into the jump seat behind the pilots, I’m afforded an amazing view, not just of the myriad dials, switches and screens that crowd the cockpit, but also of the clouds and never-ending horizon. It’s beautiful. I spend the remainder of the flight alternating between watching the pilots expertly navigate the plane around pockets of air turbulence and staring out the window at the sky’s enveloping tranquillity.

Safely on the ground in Banda Aceh, we disembark the 737 and make our way across the tarmac to a waiting Australian military helicopter. The air is damp and thick with humidity. Lifting off and banking right, we head towards the city centre, the lush tropical undergrowth of the airport’s surrounds flashing beneath us. Deep-green jungle is soon replaced by the browns, greys and yellowish hues of landslides and collapsed buildings as we enter Banda Aceh’s outskirts. Soon, in every direction, as far as the eye can see, flattened palm trees, shattered buildings and endless piles of rubble paint a picture more reminiscent of a World War II Pacific Island battlefield than of the lush tropical tranquillity for which Aceh is known.

As we fly towards the port, my eyes are drawn to the incongruous sight of a large fishing trawler perched on the roof of a two-storey concrete house. My initial fascination quickly gives way to horror upon realising the coastline is over a kilometre away.

All that remains of Ulee Lheue Port itself are concrete foundations and building skeletons. Long bridges that once connected the port area to the mainland lie in ruins, their concrete pillars sticking up like lonely sentinels in the port’s now calm waters.

We bank sharply left and start heading south along the coastline. Landslides on the sides of mountains and large pools of water kilometres inland starkly illustrate the extent of the tsunami’s destructive path. In some areas just south of Banda Aceh, inland lakes now exist where small villages once stood. In others, the shattered remnants of small mosques are the only ghostly reminders of low-lying, small coastal settlements wiped from the map.

On board the helicopter, everyone is silent, lost in their own thoughts, struggling to process the endless mosaic of death and destruction below. Any lingering doubts about the overwhelming brute force of nature’s power have been vanquished forever. One can nearly hear a collective sigh of relief as the survey concludes and the helicopter begins to pick up speed for the return trip to the airport.

Aboard our minibus for the trip into Banda Aceh, the general mood is reflective. It’s manifestly obvious the harrowing scenes from the helicopter have had a deep and lasting impact on all. Bishop sheepishly asks me if I still have any headscarves. I don’t, but we are able to purchase one at a small store on the outskirts of town.

For the first part of the journey to the governor’s residence, the crowded roads and busy roadside stalls give a sense of everyday normality. It’s only as we enter town that the signs of the earthquake and tsunami become increasingly visible: homes have collapsed and buildings been shattered, while the road itself becomes progressively difficult to traverse, due to large cracks in the bitumen.

At the governor’s residence, the delegation is met on arrival by the man entrusted with overseeing the monumental task of rebuilding Aceh, Kuntoro Mangkusubroto. A former minister of mines and energy under President BJ Habibie, as well as ex-CEO of PLN, the state-run monopoly power company, Kuntoro is an experienced and well-regarded technocrat. Even more importantly, especially from the viewpoint of international donors, he is a cleanskin from a corruption perspective.

International aid organisations and foreign governments have pledged billions of dollars for the reconstruction of Aceh. The one thing they fear above all else is Indonesia’s infamous reputation for corruption. While in recent years the Indonesian Government has scored some victories against a few of the more egregious purveyors of corruption within the bureaucracy, it would be first to admit there’s still a long way to go before the war is won. For Indonesia’s international reputation, and even for the reputation of the donors themselves, it’s critical the billions in aid money are spent for the benefit of the Acehnese people, not taken by corrupt officials.

The Acehnese governor courteously asks Billson to pass on to the prime minister and the Australian people the Acehnese people’s sincere thanks for their compassionate support. The interaction with Kuntoro is more substantive. Delegation members bombard him with questions concerning the Indonesian Government’s plans for the reconstruction of Aceh and the role of Australia’s $1 billion of aid.

While Kuntoro ably responds to his guests’ queries, I strike up a side conversation with one of our Acehnese hosts. I’m curious to know if the tsunami’s waters flooded this far inland. He says they did indeed, flooding this historic residence and the surrounding areas. In his estimation, the water level reached about two metres high at its peak, before receding, drowning thousands in the surrounding neighbourhood. He then reveals, without a hint of emotion, his own loss of eleven family members. I’m left speechless, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of such a personal loss.

The uncomfortable silence is only broken by the sudden conclusion of the official proceedings. We make our way back on board the minibus, this time accompanied by Kuntoro, who plays disaster tour guide for the short trip to the Zainoel Abidin General Hospital. The hospital has been a major focus of Australian aid efforts. In the immediate aftermath of the tsunami, the Australian Army deployed a field hospital to the grounds of the Zainoel Abidin. At its fully functioning peak, the field hospital provided critically needed surgical, intensive-care, resuscitation, X-ray, pathology and environmental-health capabilities. Just as critical was the small water purification plant established by Australian Army engineers within days of the disaster. The plant supplied clean water 24/7 to thousands of survivors in surrounding areas. Their efforts, coupled with those of volunteers from other nations, played a significant role in averting a major outbreak of disease in the days and weeks following the tsunami. The Australian Government has since pledged $10 million to the reconstruction and restoration of the Zainoel Abidin’s facilities.

On the outside walls of the hospital’s main building, a muddy horizontal line is clearly visible, denoting the high-water mark of the flood. But it’s when we enter the Children’s Ward that the true horror of the tsunami’s sudden arrival is revealed.

‘On the day of the tsunami,’ Kuntoro begins, his voice flat, ‘this ward was full of forty-two bedridden children, hospitalised suffering various ailments. When the flooding waters arrived, the vast majority drowned in their beds, unable to move. Those able to get up quickly drowned, trapped in the ward, unable to escape. That dirty line you can see on the wall,’ he says, pointing to another smudgy horizontal line, ‘shows the height reached by the tsunami’s waters inside the hospital. It’s over a metre high. They didn’t have a chance.’

You don’t even need to close your eyes to imagine the terrified screams and unanswered cries for help of the trapped children, some destined to drown lying on their beds, others after struggling but failing to stay afloat in the flood’s rapidly rising, murky waters.

Emotions are clearly running high among members of the delegation as we follow Kuntoro around the remainder of the hospital. One hundred and fifty of the hospital’s 900 employees were victims of the earthquake and tsunami.

I’m slightly taken aback by the detached way in which Kuntoro delivers these horrendous statistics, but it soon dawns on me that, as with the emotionless Acehnese man at the governor’s residence, it’s a coping mechanism. How else could they deal with the day-to-day reminders of the tragedy that surrounds them?

The tour of the hospital complete, we clamber back aboard our minibus for the trip to Ulee Lheue Port – the tsunami’s ground zero. The trip to the port is a slow one. The closer we get to the coast, the more the road conditions deteriorate. Cratered roads and potholed tracks test our driver’s skills before he eventually comes to a halt.

We disembark to be confronted with a barren wasteland of rubble and flattened vegetation, interspersed with pockets of water and the odd ruined two-storey house standing precariously on shattered foundations. As bad as it looked from the air, it’s worse at ground level.

The scene of desolation is confronting, but more unnerving is the eerie silence. At what was once Banda Aceh’s thriving port, there’s now only the sound of wind whistling through a nearby wrecked house. No birds, not even a dog. The area is completely devoid of life. As I stare into the emptiness, I hear Kuntoro inform the delegation that scientists investigating the tsunami believe the largest wave to hit the Aceh coastline, including here at Ulee Lheue Port, was approximately twenty-five metres high.

I look up and out over the port’s calm waters, trying to envisage what it must have felt like for the locals seeing that terrifying wall of water bearing down on them across the ocean. I feel a slight chill as my skin tingles with goosebumps. Fear. That is what they would have felt. And then utter desperation as they turned and ran in a wretched race to save their lives, a race they were never destined to win.

Kuntoro then leads the delegation on a short walk of the area, pointing out where various pieces of port infrastructure once stood. The reconstruction of Ulee Lheue Port is a key priority for Australia’s aid. At the governor’s residence earlier in the day, Billson announced $2.5 million in funding towards the initial planning work on the port’s reconstruction. Hardly seems enough.

Making our way back to the minibus, we pass an old lady sitting on a small stool next to a tent. The tent is pitched in front of what appears to be the remains of a white-ceramic-tiled floor of a house. It’s an odd sight, this one lonely tent in this largely uninhabitable marshland. Bishop’s curiosity gets the better of her. She asks one of our Indonesian minders if he could ask the old lady why she is living in a small tent all the way out here, by herself. At first, the woman is reluctant to speak, but after a bit of gentle prodding from our Indonesian guide, she reveals her story.

She had been working in Jakarta as a domestic helper when the tsunami struck. Unable to make contact with her husband or any of her other relatives in the days following, she decided to travel back to Banda Aceh, fearful for their safety. The journey from Jakarta, a long and arduous one mainly by bus and ferry, took nearly two weeks. She arrived to discover that not only her immediate family, but also her extended family had perished in the disaster: her husband, children, mother, father, cousins, nieces and nephews, thirty-five in total, all gone. They only thing she has left is the block of land where her house once stood. When asked why she decided to pitch a tent here, rather than move into the temporary housing constructed as shelters for the other newly homeless, she answers: ‘This is my home. Why would I want to live anywhere else?’

Enough said.

Once again, we file back onto the minibus, the old lady’s tale weighing heavily on everyone’s minds; another horrific story in a day of many.

It’s a quiet trip back to the airport and an even quieter flight back to Jakarta. The day has taken its toll on everyone, but as I fall back into my seat and start to drift off, I don’t regret a second of it. Today has been a life-changing experience. You don’t hear those tragic stories and see such scenes of desolation without some indelible mark being imprinted on your psyche, if not your soul.

Chapter 9 For the Love of Gold

My blood’s boiling. I’ve just opened a letter from the Office of the Australian Governor-General informing me I’m to be presented a bravery award for my actions in the immediate aftermath of the Embassy bombing. Such an honour should engender feelings of pride. So why the angst?

I just can’t fathom the basis for such an award. I struggle to see how my actions on that fateful day can be defined as bravery. Well-intentioned? Yes. Humane? Yes. But brave?

As I read on, it only gets worse. The award is not an individual award, it’s a Group Bravery Citation. In other words, my terrible ordeal on that morning has somehow been lumped in with the experiences of a bunch of others, twenty in fact. I’m absolutely gobsmacked. Sure, I know everyone on that list; good people, one and all. And in fairness, I have no idea what they did or didn’t do that catastrophic day. But one thing’s for certain, I can’t remember seeing many of them on the road out front picking up body parts with me.

I shake my head in disbelief. The language criteria justifying the award is so broad you could drive a truck through it.

In the immediate aftermath of the explosion, when it was widely believed that there was still the possibility of further explosions and when the extent of damage to the building was unknown, a number of Embassy personnel, both Australian citizens on posting and locally engaged staff, put aside concerns for their own safety and acted to ensure the safety of others and to secure the site against further attack. Some who were on-site went immediately to the front of the Embassy compound and stayed there to help the injured; others who were off-site made a deliberate decision to go from a place of safety to the Embassy compound to provide assistance, and others stayed inside the potentially unstable building to evacuate others before themselves.

No wonder there are so many names on the list. But if that is the criteria for a person to be included in the award, why not others? For a fact, I know Kristan went floor by floor looking for injured people in the minutes following the bombing, helping one injured colleague to safety. Surely, that fits the last stated criteria: ‘and others stayed inside the potentially unstable building to evacuate others before themselves.’ Why is her name not on the list? Surely she’s just as worthy as someone who was actually at home (or ‘off-site’, to use the citation’s officialese) when the bomb exploded! If you’re going to make the criteria so all-encompassing, then the whole Embassy should have been included in the citation. What a joke.

And then a pattern in the names catches my eye. The list contains a preponderance of people from the Defence and AFP sections. More than half, in fact. Of course it does. Good to see some tried-and-tested military ‘traditions’ live on. One man’s tragedy is another man’s chest ribbon.

The letter concludes with an invitation to attend the presentation ceremony at the governor-general’s residence at Yarralumla in August. Not on your life. I’ve got a more important, fun and relaxing trip back to Australia locked in for next month. To Perth, in fact, to see Sam and Callum. I’ll take a break away with my boys over hobnobbing at Yarralumla any day.

I throw the letter on the table and pick up an A4-sized brown envelope that arrived with it. I open it to find another piece of official correspondence addressed to me, this time from Brigadier Ken Brownrigg, Australia’s defence attaché to Indonesia and the head of Australia’s Defence Section in Jakarta. I know Ken quite well. An experienced attaché and Indonesia specialist, he was a member of the UN mission in East Timor at the time of the violent independence referendum in 1999.

He’s written to thank me personally for my efforts on the day of the bombing. In the wake of the Group Bravery Citation, he wanted to let me know that, in his view, nobody deserves it more than me. Apparently, he witnessed me trying to help the gravely injured victims on the road in front of the Embassy. He notes that, in doing so, I had exposed myself to unknown dangers until the area was searched and secured by the police. He found my actions selfless, compassionate and inspirational.

Heady words from someone I respect and admire. And given the calibre of the author, ones that give me pause to reflect on my previous emotional assessment of the group bravery award. On reflection, maybe aspects of my and others’ actions could be defined as ‘brave’. JI’s modus operandi is to follow a first blast with a secondary one in the hope of killing and maiming first responders, as had occurred with the first Bali bombing.

Ken’s kind words aside, something still just doesn’t sit right. The thought that I may benefit from the tragic deaths of others makes me feel uneasy, if not slightly sick in the stomach.

Back in the office after my short but relaxing break with my sons, I’m revelling in the opportunity to finally play diplomat and sink my teeth into the issues for which I am responsible. Apart from general reporting on the state of the Indonesian economy and key events impacting it, two other issues fall within my bailiwick: mining and agriculture-related market access issues. It’s the former increasingly occupying my waking moments, specifically the new mining law currently being drafted by bureaucrats in the Indonesian Department of Energy and Mineral Resources.

Indonesia is one of the most mineral-rich countries in the world. This high geological prospectivity has made the country attractive to overseas mining interests, including several from Australia. Keen to unlock these bountiful resources, and the potential flow-on economic benefits, the Indonesian Government has been generally supportive of foreign investment, which it believes can augment the limited resources-development capital of local mining companies. But the relationship between the Indonesian Government and foreign miners has often been a tetchy one. Recently, the relationship has grown even more fractious as a result of growing local opposition to foreign miners from Indonesia’s nascent environmental movement and politically influential local mining operators, keen to secure some of the lucrative tenements of foreign-owned competitors.

On the environmental issue, some foreign miners have been their own worst enemy – Newmont Mining, the US global mining giant, being the most recent example. Last August, the Indonesian Government filed a US$133.6 million civil lawsuit against Newmont, claiming tailings from the company’s Minahasa Raya mine had polluted Buyat Bay in North Sulawesi, causing nearby villagers to become ill and contaminating local fish stocks. Newmont has denied the allegations, arguing that the illnesses had more to do with poor hygiene and poverty.

Notwithstanding these allegations, and others like it, Indonesia fully understands it needs foreign miners and their investment if the local mining industry is to reach full potential. In 2004, mining activities (local and foreign combined) contributed 2.8 per cent to Indonesia’s GDP. The contribution of mining to the gross regional domestic product of some of Indonesia’s less developed provinces, such as West Papua, East Kalimantan and West Nusa Tenggara, is even more critical. And the industry employs thousands of people across the archipelago and delivers significant tax revenue to the central and local government’s coffers alike.

Foreign mining companies are cognisant of the growing local opposition to their activities. Any mining company worth its salt (or lump of coal) understands that its mining licence comes hand in hand with a social licence to construct, operate and rehabilitate its mine in a manner that leaves the smallest possible imprint on the local environment.

Australian companies operating or looking to develop a mine in Indonesia are open to any new law that provides solid regulatory guidance for managing this increasingly sensitive and complex issue. What they are not so welcoming of is any new law that imposes greater restrictions on foreign ownership or changes the current licensing system. Both of which, according to rumour, are under active consideration by the mining bureaucrats.

Canberra, under intense lobbying from the Australian mining industry, has asked us to actively engage key officials in the Department of Energy and Mineral Resources, as well as influential parliamentarians in Komisi VII of the Indonesian Parliament, to ensure the miners’ views and concerns on the new draft mining law are heard and, if possible, acted upon. (Komisi VII, or Commission VII, is the commission within the Indonesian Parliament responsible for discussing matters and drafting bills relating to natural resources and the environment.)

As a boy who grew up by the water in Williamstown, Melbourne, and who spent most of his working career in the Royal Australian Navy, it’s fair to say I’ve had limited exposure to the mineral extraction industry. To assist in building my knowledge, I reach out to Tony Ainscough, a close contact at Newcrest Mining, to pick his brains on the draft mining law and see whether he has any non-confidential information on the company’s operations in Indonesia he can share.

To my utmost delight, Tony not only shares some useful info, but also offers to organise a trip to Newcrest’s goldmine at Gosowong, one of the largest goldmines in Indonesia. Gosowong is situated in far eastern Indonesia on the island of Halmahera in North Maluku. If it sounds exotic, it is.

The Maluku Islands have a fascinating, if somewhat bloody, place in the Indonesian archipelago’s long history. Once renowned globally as the Spice Islands, for the nutmeg, mace and cloves that grew extensively there, from the 16th to 19th centuries the islands became the battleground of the Spice Wars, a drawn-out military conflict fought between the Portuguese, Dutch, Spanish and British for monopolistic control of the islands’ lucrative spices.

In more recent times, it’s not spices precipitating bloody conflict in the region, but religion. Unlike other areas of Indonesia, where Muslims dominate, in the Malukus the population is split about sixty/forty between Muslims and Christians. The large population of Christians stems from the area’s long European colonial past.

In 1999, simmering tensions between the communities boiled over into outright sectarian conflict. The police, with the support of the Indonesian Army, eventually restored some semblance of peace between the warring parties, but the cost was high, with thousands of Muslims and Christians dying at the hands of their fellow Indonesians. Even six years later, sporadic bombings and other acts of intercommunal violence continue to occur, resulting in the Malukus remaining off-limits to Embassy staff.

But mining is a Canberra priority – a pretty influential one – so the ambassador agrees I can take up Tony’s kind offer, on the proviso I’m straight in and straight out.

A couple of weeks later, I find myself in Manado, the capital of North Sulawesi. It’s 7am and I’m on the tarmac at the local airport watching the ground crew prepare the helicopter I’ll be hitching to Gosowong. The mine is located high up on a mountain in a remote part of Halmahera, kilometres from any major towns, let alone an airstrip. Apart from a weekly barge, which transports heavy mining equipment and other essential supplies from nearby Ternate Island to a small wharf at the foot of the mountain, the only way in and out is via helicopter, the preferred mode of transport for most of the foreign mining engineers and staff employed at the mine.

While I watch the crew complete final checks on the helicopter, the cockpit door suddenly flings open and a tall, dark-haired fellow descends to the tarmac. He says something to one of the ground crew before turning and walking towards me. As he approaches, I can see from his height, stocky build and pale complexion that he’s a foreigner. And I’m left in no doubt as to his nationality as soon as he opens his mouth.

‘G’day, mate. I’m James,’ he announces in his broad Australian accent.

‘Hi, my name’s Grant,’ I reply, shaking his outstretched hand.

‘Nice to meet you, mate. We’re just about ready to go. Follow me.’

And with that, my eastern Indonesia adventure begins.

I clamber aboard the helicopter, taking the seat next to James in the cockpit. He passes me a set of headphones and fires up the engine. Soon he’s easing the helicopter off the tarmac and into the air. As James glides the helicopter up and around the many mountains that dominate the North Sulawesi peninsula east of Manado, I quickly surmise he’s a bit of a character. I can’t get a word in edgeways as he regales me with stories of his past exploits piloting helicopters around various parts of Indonesia and elsewhere.

Before I know it, we leave the North Sulawesi coastline behind and begin the long haul east across the Molucca Sea to Halmahera. ‘How long will it take us to get to Gosowong?’ I yell into my headset microphone.

‘Oh, about an hour, so sit back and enjoy the ride.’

As we skim across the ocean, flying a hundred metres or so above sea level, I begin to recall some of the information I had learned about Gosowong in preparation for the visit. From my research, I understand it to be not only one of the largest goldmines in Indonesia, but also one of the most lucrative in the world. Which, to me, begs an obvious question. ‘James, the gold that is extracted,’ I yell into my microphone, ‘where does it all go?’

‘What do you mean, mate? It’s sold into the global gold market and—’

‘No, I know that,’ I cut him off. ‘I mean… where does it go once it’s extracted? I know there is a small processing plant onsite which turns the mined ore into rough gold bars.’ I can see James nodding as I speak. ‘But what happens then? Is it stored onsite or taken somewhere else?’

It’s the one thing that’s intrigued me since I started researching the mine.

‘That’s a good question, mate,’ he says, a broad grin stretching across his face. ‘The answer is sitting right next to you. Me!’ he yells with melodramatic flourish. ‘Well, me and a couple of other pilots.’

He goes on to explain that Newcrest runs several flights out of Gosowong to Manado every day. And vice versa. Some of these flights carry staff, sometimes valuable equipment. And sometimes gold bars.

The trick is that nobody, especially not the pilots, knows which helicopter is carrying gold and which is carrying crates of concrete, except for a select few mining staff. Once the helicopter touches down in Manado, the gold is immediately transferred onto a SilkAir flight to Singapore. It’s a smooth and secure operation, purposely designed to keep everyone who doesn’t need to know in the dark.

Impressively, James says, with more than a touch of pride, that the whole operation has a nearly flawless track record. I pass up the temptation to get him to expand on the ‘nearly’ bit.

‘Wow, impressive indeed,’ I can’t help but think as I lean back into my seat. The remainder of the flight largely passes in silence, as the noise of the helicopter blades whirring overhead makes any free-flowing, two-way discourse difficult. I spend the time staring out of the cockpit window into the pea-soup-like mist that envelops us.

I’m starting to wonder if we will ever get there when all of a sudden the cloudy mist ahead parts, revealing the tall, cone-shaped sides of Mount Jailolo, a volcanic mountain on the west coast of Halmahera Island. As we skim across the sea through the mist with the early-morning sun dappling off the water below, it’s a dramatic sight. Think Jurassic Park’s ‘Journey to the Island’ scene, with a touch of the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ from Apocalypse Now. We hurtle low across the western coastline. I look across to James, who is obviously enjoying himself, with a big grin on his face. I have a sense this is one of his party tricks.

The sky is now a clear, radiant blue. Directly ahead I can see another mountain range, completely covered in a lush, deep-green tropical forest, its peaks shrouded in puffs of white cloud. We hurtle towards the range before James pulls back on the stick and starts climbing… and climbing… and climbing. And then we land. I understood Gosowong to be high up on the side of a mountain, but this is in the clouds!

I spend the next two days as an official guest of the mine’s operator, PT Nusa Halmahera Minerals (NHM), Newcrest’s local subsidiary. I’m introduced to NHM senior management, who give me a detailed briefing on every aspect of Gosowong’s extensive mining and processing operations. As an introduction to goldmining operations, it doesn’t get much better. By the time the briefing concludes, I’ve got a clear picture in my mind as to the complexities and challenges of running a major mining operation in the wilds of eastern Indonesia. From what I now know, getting the gold out of Gosowong is the easy part.

In the short Q&A session that follows, I ask whether the mine has encountered any friction with the local community. I’m aware other foreign-owned and -operated mines in Indonesia are frequently targets of local community protests, some of which turn violent. At first, none of the NHM staff appears willing to respond to what is evidently a tricky question. But after a couple of seconds of uncomfortable silence, one of the senior managers proffers a response.

On the whole, he explains, relations with the local community are quite cordial. But it’s complex. Sharp divisions exist between the area’s two dominant ethnic groups – the mostly Christian Kao and the Muslim Makian. The Kao are the original inhabitants of the area, while the Makians are migrants from Makian Island, south of Ternate, forced to relocate to the area in the mid-70s due to an impending volcanic eruption on their island.

Since the arrival of the Makians, several violent skirmishes have occurred, largely over land ownership and perceived slights stemming from cultural differences. From day one, the senior manager stresses, NHM has worked tirelessly to be seen as not favouring one group over the other, for fear of being drawn into their conflict. It has funded the construction of schools and health centres, in equal numbers in both Kao and Makian villages. Where possible, employment opportunities have been offered equally to both communities.

However, he quickly adds, when rising tensions boiled over into bloody sectarian violence, or open warfare, in October 1999, NHM had no choice but to intercede. The Kao had ransacked nearby Makian villages and were bearing down on the tiny hamlet of Tabobo, just down the road from the mine. Tabobo was home to a large number of Makian NHM staff, several of whom suddenly appeared at Gosowong’s main gate seeking help to evacuate families and friends from the village.

Given the humanitarian nature of the request, NHM staff had little choice but to assist. A fleet of big mine dump trucks was promptly dispatched down the road to rescue the imperilled villagers, who were ferried back up the hill to safety behind Gosowong’s wire perimeter fence. Typically used to transport precious metallic cargo, the trucks have arguably never carried cargo more priceless, he adds dryly.

He then concedes that interceding on behalf of the Muslim Makian was a risky strategy, but insists it was the right thing to do. ‘Hard to disagree,’ I concur. Fortunately, he concludes, the small squad of armed security guards stationed permanently onsite at Gosowong was sufficient to deter any attempt at entry by the rampaging Kao.

But providing refuge to the Makian did come at some cost to NHM’s relationship with the local Kao, so NHM worked hard to rebuild trust through its community outreach activities and local infrastructure funding programs. Micro-banking has been a critical focus, along with business-development initiatives in agriculture, fishing, handicrafts and carpentry. The current state of positive relations, with both the Kao and Makian communities, is testament to the success of these programs.

‘Wow,’ I think to myself. I’ve never been so happy to ask a tricky question. I know local community relations are critical to a mine’s commercial success and long-term viability, but I dare say the people at Newcrest couldn’t have envisaged the criticality and complexity of these relations when they first drew up plans for their exciting new gold venture at Gosowong in the mid-90s. The story is just as enlightening on a personal level. It’s another stark reminder, among many since I arrived in Indonesia a little over eighteen months ago, of the fragile ethnic, religious and cultural ties that bind modern-day Indonesia. The words of the old Javanese motto Bhinneka Tunggal Ika (Unity in Diversity), selected by Indonesia’s founding president, Sukarno, to adorn the newly independent nation’s coat of arms in 1950, were wisely chosen indeed.

The rest of my stay at Gosowong is spent touring various processing facilities and the site’s two primary mining projects: the Toguraci open-pit mine and the new Kencana underground mine.

The final activity is a helicopter tour of Gosowong and the surrounding area. It further reveals the breathtaking beauty of Gosowong’s mountainside location. Disturbing, though no less intriguing, is the illegal mining beyond the mine’s perimeter.

NHM management had mentioned the problem of illegal miners during the briefing yesterday afternoon, largely in the context of how illegal miners have impacted the mine’s operations in the past and continue to do so. In the most disastrous incident, in October 2003, thousands of illegal miners managed to invade and occupy Gosowong, resulting in mining operations being suspended for nearly two months. Even now, illegal miners regularly jump the security fence surrounding the mine to pilfer rocks and other debris.

As we depart the air over Gosowong and start following a small stream down the hillside towards a nearby hamlet, the extent of the problem outside the perimeter of the mine is starkly revealed. At first, I spot one or two small illegal mine sites, dotted along the banks of the stream. These are soon dwarfed by what appear to be quite sizeable operations with their own tailing ponds and big metal drums for processing the ore. I’m amazed at the scale and brazenness of the illegal operations.

‘Excuse me,’ I query my NHM guide over the internal comms. ‘How can the illegal miners get away with such large and visible illegal mining operations? Surely the police know they are there?’

‘Of course they do,’ he shouts nonchalantly in return. ‘They fund them… Well, some of them. The local military probably the rest. Where else would the money come from? A huge black market exists for illegal gold to feed the millions of small gold traders in the big cities. For policeman and soldiers on small government wages, it’s a very profitable business.’

The answer is unnerving, both in its simplicity and its outrageousness. That being said, I can’t say I’m completely shocked. I should be, except I’ve heard too many stories of, or witnessed firsthand, the pernicious nexus between corruption and authority in Indonesia to be shocked anymore. It’s endemic: a cancer that needs to be excised if the country is ever to reach its full potential.

What does properly shock me, however, is my NHM guide’s response to my follow-up question, this time about the big metal drums, ubiquitous at all the illegal mining sites. ‘Oh, you mean the trommels,’ he begins to explain. ‘Yeah, they’re used to separate the gold from the ore. Rock, water and mercury are poured in one end while the trommel is rotating. The mercury then leaches the gold away from the rock and falls into the tray below.’

‘Mercury?’ I ask, astounded.

‘Yep, it’s the cheapest and most effective leaching agent to separate the gold from the ore.’

‘And what happens to the mercury once the ore is processed?’

‘Well… it’s discarded at the trommel site. Probably into one of those small tailing ponds,’ he says, his answer confirming my worst fears.

‘Unbelievable,’ is all I can utter, shaking my head. You don’t have to be an environmental scientist to understand the obvious dangers of using mercury as a leaching agent and then dumping it into a tailing pond right on the bank of an open waterway. The disastrous impacts are obvious and many: soil and water contamination, as well as the resultant health implications for the local community. All the ingredients for a self-inflicted humanitarian tragedy, aided and abetted, apparently, by the very people charged with upholding the law and securing the safety of the local populace. The tragic irony of it all nearly makes me want to cry.

As I sit in ponderous silence, the helicopter begins a slow bank to the right for the return trip back up the mountain to Gosowong. It’s been a highly educational but long and draining day. All that’s left now is the slog back over the Molucca Sea to Manado.

We touch down back at the helipad to find James waiting patiently for my arrival, armed with his familiar broad grin and my backpack over his shoulder. I jump out of one helicopter and straight into the next, with just a short break in between to shake hands and proffer my heartfelt thanks to my generous NHM hosts.

As James expertly glides our helicopter off the Gosowong helipad, I take one last look at the sprawling mine site below. The visit has exceeded all my expectations. I now have a greater understanding of the many complex challenges facing Australian mining companies operating sites in isolated corners of the Indonesian archipelago. Such knowledge will prove invaluable as I seek to prosecute the interests of the Australian mining sector with Indonesian government officials in the months ahead.

Chapter 10 Bomb Season

Bomb season.

A curious, albeit chilling, epithet if ever there was one. A ghoulish piece of black humour soon to be normalised into the day-to-day lexicon of the Embassy community. I first hear it uttered by a colleague not long after arriving back from my adventures in Halmahera at the end of August. He’s talking about ‘getting back to Oz for this year’s bomb season’.

‘What do you mean by “bomb season”?’

He gives me one of those surely-you-know-what-I’m-talking-about looks, before responding, ‘You know… when all the bombs go off.’

‘All the bombs? What do you mean?’

‘Well, think about it. Bali in October 2002, JW Marriott in August 2003 and the Embassy in September last year. Can’t you see the trend?’

‘Surely it’s just a coincidence. Three incidents don’t make a trend.’

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I’m not hanging around to find out. I’m taking leave and heading back to Oz. The less time I’m in Jakarta for the bomb season, the better.’

And with that, he turns and walks off. As I watch him go, I shake my head from side to side. ‘Bomb season’? Huh. What a ludicrous idea.

New Embassy jargon isn’t the only thing to greet me upon arrival back from the wilds of Gosowong. The ambassador, David Ritchie, wants me to deliver a speech at the upcoming event commemorating the first anniversary of the Embassy bombing. The speech will be on behalf of the foreign minister, Mr Downer. I’m surprised at the request. I can only surmise David wants me to deliver the speech because I was one of the first responders. It will be a big event, with lots of Indonesian dignitaries as well as local and Australian media.

At first, I’m hesitant. The scars of that terrible day still run deep. If I had my way, I probably wouldn’t even attend. But that’s not an option; it would be disrespectful to those who died or were severely injured, particularly Suryadi and the Embassy security staff. The emotional strain of delivering the speech is another cause for concern. There’s a real possibility I’ll break down in tears halfway through, making a fool of myself in front of my colleagues and the media.

A quick chat with Kristan changes my mind. She rightly points out I can’t keep dodging or ignoring the bombing, as if it never happened. It did. And I need to start dealing with its lingering aftermath, however painful the memories. Paying due respect at the anniversary commemoration might be a helpful first step. As for the possibility of breaking down while delivering the speech, ‘Who cares?’ she argues. People would be more concerned if I showed no emotion at such an emotive event.

She’s right. I must do it.

Just because Kristan’s right, though, doesn’t mean I’m wrong. As the day of the event draws closer, I endure several restless nights, punctuated by bouts of nightmares.

The nightmares aren’t new. I’ve suffered more than the odd one since the bombing. But nothing like this. Each is different, although their plot lines and intensity are eerily the same. It’s like I’m playing the same script over and over in my head, night after night, just with a different ensemble of terrorists attempting ever more violent and inventive ways of killing me. Some nights I’m stabbed, others I have a gun held to my head. Sometimes I’m even tortured. Each time, I wake in a deep sweat just before the knife is twisted or the trigger pulled. I never die.

By the morning of the commemoration, I’m a sleep-deprived, emotional mess. Throw in a feeling of nausea-inducing anxiety, and I’m hardly in top shape to deliver an important address on behalf of the foreign minister to an audience of Indonesian dignitaries and Embassy colleagues. By the time I arrive outside the Platypus Club, the site for the event, my belief in my ability to deliver the speech is wavering, to say the least. Fortunately for me, Kristan’s isn’t. As we stand next to each other, to the side of the lectern, listening to the ambassador deliver the opening remarks, she whispers into my ear.

‘You’ll be okay, darling.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘You can do this, and there’s no shame in having to stop if you need to gather your thoughts.’

The wait is excruciating, but eventually the time arrives for me to take my place behind the lectern. As I unfold my speech notes, beads of sweat slowly crawl down the sides of my face, while my shirt and tie cling uncomfortably tight around my neck in the still, sticky humidity. What’s most disconcerting is the uncontrollable shaking in my left leg. I close my eyes, willing it to stop, but only succeed in transferring the shakes to my right leg. I open my eyes and look into the sea of faces before me, searching for the first snigger, smirk or sneer at my impending public embarrassment. I see none. In fact, it’s the opposite. All I see are solemn, sympathetic looks on the faces of colleagues and guests alike.

This calms my nerves, and I launch into my speech. The words flow quickly, and I struggle to rein in my instinct to get the whole damn exercise over as quickly as possible. Eventually, I settle into a rhythm, giving justice to the eloquence and compassion embodied in the minister’s gracious words. Its only towards the end, in the last paragraph, that my emotions get the better of me. Tears start to well in my eyes and my voice cracks as I stumble through the final lines. The end can’t come quickly enough, but end it does. And with my frail composure on the verge of unravelling, not a moment too soon.

My ordeal over, I pause and take a deep breath. I look up into the audience and see several colleagues wiping tears from their eyes. I glance over to Kristan, who gives me a nod, her own eyes moist with emotion. It appears my struggle wasn’t one borne alone.

Following my speech, an imam and priest recite Muslim and Christian prayers, followed by a minute’s silence in honour of those killed in the attack. The ambassador breaks the silence by announcing that the final act of the commemoration will be a wreath-laying ceremony at the site of the bombing. He then walks from behind the podium to where a young Indonesian man in police uniform is sitting, holding the hand of an elderly hijab-wearing lady next to him. David bends down and says something to the policeman, after which the young man struggles slowly to his feet. A wheelchair appears, into which the young man collapses. I don’t immediately recognise him, but as he is slowly wheeled past me, I catch a glimpse of the name badge on the front of his uniform. It’s Asep Wahyudi, one of the young policemen manning the police post at the front of the Embassy on the day of the bombing.

It’s a miracle Asep’s alive, let alone attending today’s commemoration. He sustained terrible injuries in the blast and was medevaced to Singapore for specialist treatment. After surgery to remove shrapnel embedded in his head, he fell into a long coma, only emerging nine months later. Kristan’s Consular Section colleague Rowland, who had taken a personal interest in Asep’s wellbeing and recovery, told me a couple of weeks ago that the young man had landed back in Jakarta. Given the loss of so many and my own guilt-ridden sense of failure, his appearance is a bright, burning light for me on a day laden with so much sorrow and trauma.

Eyes already moist, the dam breaks as Asep is wheeled past. Wiping away tears, I file in behind Asep, David and the other attendees as we make a silent and slow pilgrimage down the driveway towards the reconstructed Embassy front entrance. The whole occasion has the atmosphere of a funeral procession. But maybe that’s the point. We’ve hardly had a chance to catch our breath, let alone mourn, since the bombing. Today, for the first time since that terrible day changed our lives forever, we have come together as a community to reflect and mourn. No one is being buried, but hopefully some ghosts can be laid to rest.

On the footpath that runs along the front of the Embassy, ten or so metres from the site of the blast, David stops. He turns and, in a touching act, reaches down and takes Asep’s hand, slowly helping him to his feet. He then proceeds to lead Asep the remaining short distance to where the wreath will be laid. I’m not sure if David’s action was planned or just spur-of-the-moment, but the sight of the two, the Australian ambassador and the injured Indonesian policeman, walking haltingly, hand in hand, to the very spot the terrorists had perpetrated their barbarous and hate-filled attack on both nations is powerful and imbued with symbolic defiance.

If the primary aim of the terrorist bombing was to divide, it has failed dismally.

Coincidentally, while the bombing anniversary commemoration takes place, another event inextricably linked to the blast is happening in a South Jakarta courthouse – the final stages of the trial of Iwan Darmawan Munto, alias Rois. Rois was a key member of the JI team that planned, prepared and executed the Embassy bomb attack, under the direct guidance of Indonesia’s most wanted terrorist, Dr Azahari Husin. Azahari, a Malaysian, is believed to be the technical mastermind behind the JI-linked terrorist bombings that have rocked Indonesia, including the horrific 2002 Bali and 2003 JW Marriott attacks.

Rois was captured on 5 November last year by officers from Indonesia’s specialist counterterrorist unit, Detachment 88, while he was hiding out with three of his JI colleagues in a rented house in Kampung Kaum, Leuwiliang, near Bogor, south of Jakarta. Unfortunately, neither Azahari nor Noordin Mohammad Top, Azahari’s right-hand man and the second-most wanted Islamic extremist in Indonesia, were in the house at the time.

Detachment 88 is starting to build a strong reputation on the back of their recent successes in tracking down and capturing terror suspects. Rois is the most senior of six terrorists they have apprehended in relation to the Embassy bombing. Three of these have already been tried and received sentences of between three and a half and seven years.

Rois has been charged with buying the van and other materials used in the attack, as well as with recruiting and training its driver, the suicide bomber Heri Kurniawan (alias Heri Golun). Prosecutors allege Rois surveilled the Embassy three times in the week leading up to the attack. Over the course of the month’s long trial, Rois has consistently denied the charges levelled against him, much to the delight of his retinue of vocal supporters in the public gallery.

Notwithstanding his consistent denials and the vociferous support of his followers, on 13 September the chief judge of the South Jakarta District Court finds Rois ‘legally and convincingly’ guilty of all charges and sentences him to death, the first death sentence handed down in relation to the Embassy bombing. Rois appeals the verdict immediately, labelling the chief judge ‘stupid’ along the way. Not sure how much that will help in the appeal.

When I hear the news, I’m relieved, but also saddened. So many people have already lost their lives to this madness; looks like we’ll be able to add another to the tally.

While I was exploring the wilds of Halmahera and fretting over speeches, Kristan’s been hard at work on a special project of her own – my fortieth birthday party. We’ve decided to celebrate it back in Williamstown, the Melbourne seaside suburb of my birth and spiritual home. We haven’t been back to see our families since taking ‘bomb leave’ just on a year ago.

Though Kristan is a woman of many talents, I have always argued her project-management skills are peerless. When the evening of my birthday bash comes around, on Friday 30 September, this assessment is not only confirmed; it’s carved in stone. The venue she has chosen is stunning. The top floor of a restaurant on The Strand in Williamstown, with views across the bay to the glittering Melbourne evening skyline. It’s not just the venue, though. When I walk into the restaurant, I am greeted by over fifty family members and friends, a large portion of whom have travelled from interstate and overseas. A great mix of old navy mates, close friends from my time in Hong Kong in the mid-90s, a few colleagues from DFAT in Canberra and even a couple of new friends from Jakarta. What’s more, they’ve all embraced the 60s theme I have chosen for the night, making the restaurant feel like a backstage afterparty from Hair the musical.

Not to be outdone, Kristan has arranged our own special costumes, based on the two lead characters from my favourite 60s comedy hit, Get Smart – namely, the show’s bumbling secret agent, Maxwell Smart, and his unwavering love interest, Agent 99. In my 60s-style slim-cut dark suit, white shirt, pencil tie and black fedora hat, I look every inch the bungling spy from CONTROL. All I’m missing is the shoe phone! Kristan, in her knee-high black leather boots, psychedelic floral mini-skirt and black leather peaked cap, looks every inch the femme fatale.

As the night rolls on and the laughter gets louder, I feel myself becoming a tad nostalgic. I love everyone here – one and all – and miss them dearly. Which quickly begs the question, ‘Why am I still in Jakarta?’ For the first time since embarking on our grand adventure to Indonesia, serious doubts surface in my mind. Sure, I love the sense of being at the centre of everything, representing my country and prosecuting its interests in one of our most important bilateral relationships. But at what cost? Just over a month ago, I couldn’t buy a good night’s sleep for love nor money.

A cry of ‘Max, get over here’ snaps me out of my contemplative silence. It’s Paddy, one of my oldest navy mates, dressed up as Austin Powers – blue crushed-velvet suit, white frilly shirt, horn-rimmed glasses, brown curly wig and sparkling-white false teeth to boot. He wants me to join him and Cashy, another of my old navy shipmates, for a couple more beers. As I sit down with two of my oldest and closet friends, we are quickly joined by others, and I can’t help but think it’s going to be a very, very long night.

After the restaurant closes, a few of us venture on a pub crawl around Williamstown’s many watering holes, for which it is famous, and I wake the next morning to the mother of all hangovers. By the time I eventually struggle out of bed, it’s nearly midday. I’ve arranged to pop over and see my folks for lunch. Kristan wasn’t keen initially, but I insisted. What was I thinking? I can’t help but chastise myself as I crawl into the shower. A cracking hangover the day after my fortieth was as certain as death and taxes.

Feeling a little green around the gills throughout the lunch, I manage to muster up just enough conversation to battle through. In the end, I’m glad we made the effort. Mum, particularly, is quite anxious about us living in Jakarta. She understands it’s our job, and an important one at that, but struggles to reconcile how we can place ourselves and her grandchildren in such harm’s way.

Lunch is an opportunity to calm her nerves and quell her anxieties. I explain how the security situation is improving, not least because of the excellent counterterrorism cooperation between Australia and Indonesia. The apprehension of the Embassy bombers is a case in point. I acknowledge risks still exist, without a shadow of a doubt, but argue the terrorists are on the back foot.

Mum’s hardly swayed, and how can I blame her? If I’m honest, my claims do sound like government ‘talking points’ at best, propaganda at worst. Still, what choice do I have? I’ve got to believe we’re winning our own little ‘war on terror’ in Indonesia, otherwise it makes no sense to go back.

We head back to our serviced apartment after lunch, where I find Paddy and Cashy patiently awaiting my return. Nothing’s been planned for the evening except a relaxed dinner with friends who’ve stayed in Williamstown for the weekend. It’s only 4pm and I’m not that keen to hit the pub just yet. Paddy and Cashy, however, are pretty insistent. Eventually, and unsurprisingly, I relent. It’s funny how easily forty-year-old men succumb to peer-group pressure when beer is involved.

We head to the Yacht Club Hotel, one of the many late-19th-century public houses dotted along or around Williamstown’s picturesque Nelson Place, in the heart of this historic seafaring township. Soon after, we are joined by big Grizzly and Jenno, two old friends from my football-playing days at the HMAS Harman naval base in Canberra. If the warning lights are flashing amber by the time we start our sixth round of Coronas at around 6pm, they are positively blazing bright red by the time Kristan arrives for dinner at eight.

Sitting outside on the pavement in front of the historic pub drinking beers with my wife and friends, I don’t have a care in the world. The trials and tribulations of Jakarta feel like a lifetime ago. But as dusk turns into early evening, and early evening into the dark of night, I’m given a chilling reminder of the reality that awaits me back in Indonesia. While waiting for the barman to prepare my next shout of beers, I look up at a television perched high on the wall behind the bar. I can see from the Sky News logo in the corner of the screen that it’s tuned into Murdoch’s twenty-four-hour Australian news channel. It appears to be broadcasting some breaking news from overseas. Because the TV is on mute, I have no idea what it’s about until I read the news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen… There’s been another bombing in Bali.

The news nearly knocks me back into sobriety. I can’t believe it. As live footage of what appears to be injured tourists and locals dominates the screen, a sinking feeling takes hold in the pit of my stomach. Shit! Another bombing. When will this madness end?

I pay for the beers and return to Kristan and the boys. As I place the beers on the table, Kristan immediately picks up that something’s wrong from the ashen look on my face.

‘What is it, darling?’

‘There’s been another bombing in Bali.’

‘You’re joking!’ she says, a look of shocked disbelief instantly covering her face. ‘How do you know? Did someone call you?’

‘No, I just saw it on the TV. From the footage, it looks pretty bad.’

‘Any Australians dead or injured?’ Kristan’s consular hat already on.

‘Don’t know. The TV’s on mute.’

And with that, Kristan jumps up and rushes off to the bar. Watching her go, I think, ‘Bomb season. Bloody bomb season.’

The remainder of our visit to Melbourne is dominated by news of the Bali bombings. That’s right, bombings. We find out the next morning that terrorists have in fact struck three separate targets on the idyllic but tortured isle, killing twenty innocent people, including four Australians.

The next day, our last, is spent reassuring family and friends it is indeed safe to return to Jakarta. While some nod in polite agreement, Mum just thinks we’re plain bonkers.

As further detail of the destructive, murderous impact of the bombings comes to light, our words begin to sound increasingly hollow, even to us. The bombers targeted two sites on Jimbaran Beach, a popular tourist hangout, particularly for families, who like to dine while watching the sunset in one of the many warungs dotted along the beach. The third target is in Kuta, close to the site of the 2002 Bali bombings. Unlike the 2002 attack, though, which targeted nightclubs favoured by young party-going tourists, this time the terrorists targeted a restaurant in the Kuta Square Shopping Mall, another popular location for tourists, especially families. This horrifying expansion in the terrorist’s hit list to include the indiscriminate bombing of popular family dining spots is a terrifying development for those, like us, who regularly venture to Bali for a sanity break. Whether we openly admit it or not, living in Indonesia just got a whole lot more daunting… and dangerous.

Back in Jakarta after our trip to Melbourne, I arrive home from my first day in the office to find a large white envelope and a small square package, both addressed to me, on the dining-room table. The gold crown above a sprig of wattle adorning the top left-hand corner of the envelope clearly denotes its origin: Government House, Canberra. As I stand staring at the envelope, I hear Kristan’s voice from behind me.

‘Those were on my desk when I got in today. Must have arrived in the diplomatic bag while we were away.’

A short nod of the head is my only response.

‘Well, aren’t you going to open them?’

Reaching down to pick up the envelope with both hands. I slowly tear open the envelope’s seal, removing its contents. It’s a deep-blue velvet-covered folder emblazoned with a golden disk containing the governor-general’s crest at its centre. I slowly open the folder, revealing a certificate signed by the governor-general, officially announcing the awarding of a Group Bravery Citation to the twenty-two names on the certificate, of which mine is one. I feel nothing.

I put the folder down and pick up the small package. It contains a square navy-blue box, with the words ‘Group Bravery Citation’ stamped atop in gold lettering. I open its lid, revealing a rectangular silver badge adorned with a bronze sprig of wattle at its centre. I quickly close the lid and hand both to Kristan.

‘Why are you giving me these?’ says a slightly perplexed Kristan.

‘I don’t want them.’

‘Why? They’re yours. You should be proud. C’mon, darling.’ She offers them back to me.

‘Nope. Don’t want ’em,’ is my curt response.

‘Well, what am I going to do with them?’

‘I don’t know. You can throw them in the bin for all I care.’ And with a shrug of the shoulders, I turn and walk off.

Finally, they’ve got him.

I’ve just hung up on a call from my mate Marzio, who heads the AFP Section. I’d sent him a text seeking confirmation of sketchy Indonesian media reports claiming that Dr Azahari Husin, aka ‘The Demolition Man’, is dead. Yes, Marzio confirmed. Indonesia’s most wanted terrorist was killed in a firefight with Detachment 88 officers and local police when they raided his hideout in Batu, East Java, earlier in the day.

According to Marzio, it wasn’t an easy operation. Azahari had barricaded himself inside a safehouse with two other suspected terrorists. The trio put up a fierce resistance, throwing grenades and firing bullets at the police surrounding the house. Eventually, however, Azahari was shot by an Indonesian police sniper, prompting one of his lieutenants to detonate his suicide vest, thus bringing the resistance to an end.

This is a huge victory for the Indonesian authorities in their fight against JI. Hopefully, it may also bring some closure for the families of victims, Indonesian and foreign, killed and maimed by Azahari’s heinous attacks.

Good riddance.

‘Look… You like the guys… And you know how important the club is for my sanity. I just think it would be good if you got involved. That’s all!’

‘Okay, let me think about it.’ Which, I can’t help but think, doesn’t sound promising.

The catalyst for this tete-a-tete was my suggestion that Kristan should consider taking on the role of Bintangs treasurer at next week’s club AGM. ‘Donuts’, the current treasurer, is due to step down, as he is returning to Perth. With Kristan’s interest in accounting, I think she would be perfect for the role. Of course, there’s a bit of self-interest at play. Having her directly involved would make my life a lot easier when it comes to convincing her to attend yet another Bintangs social event.

As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. The next day, she pleasantly surprises me by announcing she is okay with the idea. The whole club exhales a sigh of relief when I announce it at training later that night. The treasurer gig is a difficult one to fill, and Kristan was the only ‘volunteer’.

Putting my self-interest aside, I genuinely believe Kristan has made the right call. She does like the guys and has also started playing netball for the Bintangs’ sister netball club, the Kangarudas, whose players are largely the wives and girlfriends of Bintangs footballers. She even joined her new teammates on a recent netball tour to Bangkok, becoming an ‘international’ sportswoman in her own right. Most of our friends outside the Embassy are tied up with the Tangs or the Rudas, or quite often both.

On the night of the AGM, I really find out just how much she has embraced the ‘if you can’t beat them, you might as well join them’ ethos. The Bintangs’ AGMs are legendary. Part theatre, part shambolic showmanship, they are the greatest example of self-aggrandising pocket-pissing masquerading as serious football formality I have ever seen. The bastard offspring of a union between the Logie Awards and the Melbourne Comedy Festival.

Tonight, the Bintangs faithful have done their best to honour the spirit of the club’s motto, Perpetuum Repraesentet in Fabula (Perpetuate the Myth). But it’s the next item on the agenda I’ve been really looking forward to: Kristan’s acceptance speech as the newly installed treasurer. All week she’s been a little coy about what she is going to say, so I suspect something’s up.

To a round of polite applause, she marches on stage carrying a cardboard box, which she places on the lectern. ‘Hello, everyone,’ she begins. ‘For those that don’t know me, my name is Kristan Dooley, your new treasurer. Before I present the treasurer’s report, I would just like to apologise to those in the front row. The aircon is quite high, and I’m not wearing a bra.’

Amid much laughter and applause, she continues. ‘Now, what I have here,’ she says, pointing to the cardboard box on the lectern, ‘is my handover from Donuts. Suffice to say, not quite what I expected.’ At that point, I get a nervous knot in my stomach. Kristan’s been pretty critical of Donuts for not leaving anything behind that resembled a handover.

She reaches into the box and pulls out a half-eaten donut. ‘Aha, now I know where he got his nickname from.’ She tosses it into the audience, triggering more howls of laughter.

Reaching back into the box, she pulls out a pair of black frilly women’s panties. ‘Now, I know he was a bit of a ladies’ man,’ she says, waving the knickers in the air, ‘but he really wasn’t my type.’ She then flings them into the crowd, creating a high-flying marking contest among the Bintangs players in the front row.

And the show goes on. As character assassinations go, it’s lighthearted fun; as acceptance speeches go, it’s priceless. Forget about the Bintangs beating Kristan; she has just conquered the club.

Chapter 11 It’s Always Bittersweet

‘Twins? You’ve got to be joking!’ I’m trying not to sound too terrified.

‘Yep, definitely. I can clearly see two heartbeats. Look here,’ says the doctor, pointing to two small, flickering spots on the screen of the ultrasound.

It’s the week before Christmas 2005 and we are in the consulting room of Kristan’s obstetrician in Melbourne. In early December, we received the exciting news she was pregnant. We had already made plans to come back to Australia for a month’s leave over Christmas, so thought it would be an opportune time to visit her obstetrician to check on the progress of what we thought was our third child. But twins?

‘Okay, well, that’ll change things up a bit.’ I put forward my nomination for the understatement of the year.

‘Yep, sure will,’ Kristan murmurs. From the dumbfounded look on her face, I think she is also struggling to get her head around the news.

‘Importantly,’ the doctor continues, ‘we have a couple of strong heartbeats, so everything looks okay.’

‘That’s a relief. Thanks once again for seeing me at such short notice,’ Kristan says, now smiling.

‘No problem at all. But you are going to need to take it easy. Having twins can take a lot out of you.’

And raising twins can take it out of you as well, I can’t help but think. Well, we always said we wanted a big family. It’s just coming a bit sooner than planned.

After celebrating Christmas with our family in Melbourne, we set off on a road trip up to Noosa, in Queensland, to visit my oldest friend, Paul, and his lovely wife, Liz. Along the way, we pick up Sam and Callum in Sydney. Just four days separate me and Paul in age, with Paul being the ‘elder’. We first ‘met’ when placed in cribs next to each other as newborns in the maternity ward at Williamstown Hospital, the start of a lifelong friendship that endures to this day.

We arrive at Paul and Liz’s quite late at night and after a couple of quick drinks head to bed. I wake the next morning to the sound of quiet sobbing. I open my eyes to see Kristan sitting on the edge of the bed, her fists full of tissues.

‘What’s wrong, darling?’

‘Sorry… I didn’t mean to wake you,’ she splutters between sobs.

‘That’s okay. What’s wrong?’ I’m now fully awake and growing increasingly worried.

‘I’m spotting some blood. I… I think I might have lost the babies.’ The look of anguish in her eyes betrays the pain of the unspoken truth now before us; we’ve seen this agonising script play out before. Many, many times before.

After the smooth births of our first two children, Brianna and Ryan, our desire for a third child has proved heartbreaking and, thus far, unsuccessful. Tragically, Kristan has suffered several miscarriages over the past couple of years. Only a couple of months ago, she endured a painful ectopic pregnancy, where a fertilised egg had implanted itself in one of her fallopian tubes instead of her womb. Such pregnancies can be fatal for the mother if continued. With barely a second to grieve yet another tragic loss, I had to escort a sick and distressed Kristan to Singapore for emergency surgery.

It was a traumatic experience and tested our determination to have a third child. So the news of Kristan’s most recent pregnancy was met with joyous relief tinged with a touch of trepidation. Since that day, just on a month ago, Kristan has been ultra-cautious, avoiding strenuous activity and late nights and refraining from alcohol.

‘Okay, let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ I say, trying my best to remain calm. ‘Best we get you in to see a doctor as soon as possible to find out exactly what’s going on.’

‘Yes, a doctor,’ Kristan nods, blowing her nose. ‘I’ll ask Liz if she has one she can recommend.’

‘How about you leave that to me, darling?’ I move across the bed, placing my arm around her. ‘I’ll just tell her you’re unwell and would like to see a doctor. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

I hug Kristan tight. ‘We are cursed!’ is my angry thought. I quietly ask Liz if she can recommend a doctor, which she does. Regardless of my protestations, Kristan insists on going to see the doctor by herself, so as not to alert the kids. Brianna and Ryan are too young to discern anything, but Sam, as a nearly fifteen-year-old teenager, is old enough to pick up on any negative vibes.

After seeing the doctor and then a gynaecologist, Kristan finally returns to Paul and Liz’s place. It’s now mid-afternoon and Paul, Liz and I are enjoying a drink on their patio. She’s been gone several hours, much longer than I expected. I tried to call a few times, without response, so I’ve got a sinking feeling in my stomach as she walks onto the patio to join us.

‘How did it go, darling?’ I ask. Kristan is visibly upset.

‘Can we just have a quick chat?’ is her curt response.

I follow her into the bedroom, the sinking feeling in my stomach replaced by a tight knot of anxiety. I reach out and grab her shoulder, slowly turning her around.

Face buried in the palms of her hands, she starts shaking uncontrollably. I pull her body close to mine, wrapping my arms tightly around her now shuddering torso.

‘Shhh. It’ll be okay, darling.’ I’m trying to calm her but fearing the worst. ‘Just tell me… what did the doctor say?’

Kristan takes a small step back, uncovers her face and looks at me through teary eyes. ‘I’ve lost a baby.’

‘A baby? I don’t understand.’

‘There was only one heartbeat on the ultrasound. I’ve lost one of the twins.’

‘But the other one is… okay?’

‘Yes, it appears so.’

‘Oh, darling. Come here,’ and I once again pull her close, resting her head on my chest. The news is undoubtedly devastating, though not quite as bad as I feared. ‘I know this is terrible news. But at least we haven’t lost both… That was my biggest fear… that we had lost both. I know it’s bad news, but let’s try and be positive, okay?’

Kristan’s response is a barely discernible nod, her head buried deep in my chest. The death of one of our twins casts a long, dark shadow over the remainder of our stay in Noosa. Paul and Liz, whom I later tell, do their best to cheer us up but to little avail. Kristan, in particular, struggles to come to grips with the heart-wrenching reality that she has lost yet another one of her babies.

By the time we get back to Jakarta, Kristan’s continuing struggles are becoming a significant cause for concern. She’s extremely fragile. The end of her first trimester, the last week of January, is the next critical date. It’s common, and reflected in our own personal experience, that the vast majority of miscarriages occur within the first three months of pregnancy.

Fortunately, back at work, things are unusually quiet. The security situation appears relatively calm, and there are no ministerial visits on the horizon. This benign work environment provides the opportunity for Kristan to skip home for a rest on the days she feels tired or just plain overwhelmed.

With much relief, we finally say good riddance to January, with Kristan and our unborn baby both intact. The change in her mental state and general demeanour is stark. Gone is the soul-sapping grief and despondency of the past month, replaced by a hopefulness and determination more innate to the woman I love.

I’m not the only one grateful that Kristan’s regained her mojo. Her staff are just as relieved. Her uncharacteristic lack of energy and semi-frequent absences from the office have not gone unnoticed. Apart from their genuine concern for Kristan’s health and wellbeing, they also have an important work-related issue desperately needing her input and leadership: how best to host the Embassy’s next Platypus Club social event.

The hosting of these monthly events, which have become a highlight on the Embassy social calendar, is rotated evenly between the various work units. A healthy competition has organically evolved as to which team can put on the best event. As it stands, Austrade Idol, the Austrade folk’s own take on the popular talent show Australian Idol, is the clear leader.

Kristan’s Consular and Administration team have responsibility for organising the next iteration in February. In her absence, nothing has been done, and nor have ideas been forthcoming. The pressure is on, and someone needs to take charge.

Luckily, Kristan loves nothing more than taking charge. She quickly decides on something that needs minimum preparation, except for a cohort of willing volunteers – an auction. The inspiration for her left-field – and one might say ‘brave’ – idea comes from a similar event she ran during her navy days back in Sydney in the 90s. A willing group of young volunteers were auctioned off for the provision of two hours of their free labour. That auction was a huge success, raising a significant sum of money for the designated charity.

‘We could do the same here,’ she proposes, ‘and donate whatever money we raise to a local orphanage.’

‘Okay,’ I quickly jump in, ‘but I think you should run this one by the ambassador first, just to make sure he’s okay with it.’

‘The ambassador? Yes! That’s a great idea. Imagine the money we’d get for him!’

‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ trying to temper her enthusiasm. ‘I just think you should flag the idea with him first. People can sometimes be a bit funny about these things.’

My primary reason for caution is that we have a new ambassador, Bill Farmer. Bill replaced David Ritchie late last year, and while my first impressions have been quite positive, it’s still early days. I’m also aware that his wife, Elaine, might have her own views on Kristan’s novel idea, notwithstanding the charitable component.

‘Okay, yep. Probably best to run it by him. But I hope he agrees to be auctioned.’

‘How about you just focus on getting his approval first, darling?’

‘Why would he say no? It’s all for charity.’

‘You never know, darling… You never know.’

The truth is, while I also think it is a good idea, this isn’t the navy of the 90s and the times are a-changing. I won’t be surprised if Bill knocks her auction idea on the head.

To my surprise, Bill not only says ‘Yes’, but he also agrees to being auctioned! What’s more, since word got out, Kristan’s been inundated with unsolicited requests from volunteers. So many, in fact, she’s been forced to put a cap on how many can be auctioned on the night. Fortunately for me, I make the cut.

Kristan, as the self-appointed ‘auctioneer’, leads the six ‘volunteers’ onto the low podium in front of the Platypus Club to the raucous applause of the assembled crowd of Embassy staff and friends. She’s dressed for the occasion in a black dress, high heels and a bright-pink sash, the latter tied around her waist as camouflage for the small tummy bump that’s now just discernible. (Her effort at camouflaging our little secret fails dismally, with several wise old ‘mother hens’ in the crowd seeing through the attempted ruse straightaway.)

Kristan navigates the auction process expertly. Most importantly, she manages to secure a higher price for me than for my Political Section colleague Steve, resulting in a handy windfall for yours truly, although I’m not sure how much I’m going to enjoy being a waiter for the evening for a couple of junior staff in the Public Affairs Section.

But if Steve was the hors d’oeuvre and I was the entree, the ambassador is definitely the main course. As Kristan introduces the last remaining ‘volunteer’ to the audience, the cheers and applause from the crowd are deafening. If his primary motivation for being ‘auctioned’ is to endear himself to his new colleagues, it’s an unmitigated success. The crowd’s loving it. Well, all but one. Bill’s wife, Elaine, is somewhat nervous about her husband becoming the plaything of some unscrupulous junior staff member or members. Just before Kristan took to the stage at the start of the night, Elaine pulled her aside to say, in no uncertain terms, that there would be only one winner for Bill’s services – her. Left in little doubt that failure to effect this result would have consequences, a concerned Kristan quickly relayed the message to me. I told her not to worry. Once people see Elaine is bidding, they’ll get the drift.

Call it wishful thinking or baseless optimism, either way, I’m quickly proven wrong. Unbeknown to me, a group of AusAID colleagues has banded together to form a cashed-up consortium with the sole purpose of winning two hours of Bill’s personalised services. The leader of the consortium, the rambunctious Tim, starts the bidding at Rp1 million (around $120), already double the highest successful bid for the evening. Elaine quickly fires back, raising the bid by Rp100,000. Not to be deterred, Tim fires straight back again, upping the price another Rp100,000. By this stage, the crowd is totally enthralled, heads swinging from bidder to bidder like a Centre Court crowd at Wimbledon.

It’s all great theatre and seriously amusing, except for Elaine, who is growing increasingly frustrated, and Kristan, who is growing increasingly nervous. Sensing both, I move over to stand next to Tim as the bidding war continues. My best hope is to somehow distract him to allow Kristan enough time to close the auction on Elaine’s next ‘winning’ bid.

‘Tim! Tim!’ I yell into his ear. ‘What are you going to do with Bill if you win?’

‘What, mate?’ He turns, distracted.

‘What are your plans for Bill if you win?’

A big smile breaks over his face. ‘I’m going to get him to mop my brow and pass me water bottles as I pedal away on my exercise bike.’

As Tim answers my question, I can see Kristan out of the corner of my eye raise her arm.

‘Two million rupiah, going once, twice, three times,’ she says in rapid succession. ‘Gone!’ She bangs the lectern. ‘Congratulations, Elaine. You’ve won two hours of personalised services from our esteemed ambassador.’

Hearing Kristan’s declaration, Tim spins around. ‘What? Wait… I’m not finished yet,’ he cries, arms flailing in the air.

‘Sorry, Tim, but Elaine’s won the auction,’ Kristan responds firmly. ‘Bad luck. Maybe next time.’

‘Next time? Yeah, right,’ yells a peeved Tim, before turning and trudging off towards the bar.

I make my way up onto the podium, where I give Kristan a big hug. As I look at her, I notice that the nervous, even strained, grin that dominated her face at the height of the auction has given way to a broad smile, possibly of relief as much as anything. But a smile, nonetheless.

Chapter 12 As If Life Wasn’t Complicated Enough

I’ve always found Valentine’s Day to be a bit of a bore. Yet another Christian day of celebration hijacked by soulless capitalist corporates as an annual money-spinner. Admittedly, when I was young, I used the odd Valentine’s Day or two to test my undeclared affections on some unsuspecting love interest. Usually, a card or box of chocolates, or even a dozen red roses when my finances allowed. On this journey of crushed expectations, I learned two important lessons: never take it personally, and virtually all women love being fluffed over.

Kristan is no exception. I’ve made a special effort this Valentine’s Day to make her feel loved. Not only have I booked us a romantic dinner for two at our favourite Thai restaurant, I’ve also just snuck into her office and placed a card on her desk containing some heartfelt words of love and affection.

Now back at my own desk, I answer my phone, smiling as I prepare for the glow of her appreciation.

‘Have you heard the news?’

‘No. What are you talking about?’ is my startled response.

‘They’ve been sentenced to death.’

It takes me a second to work out what she’s referring to. Then the penny drops. The Bali Nine. Since their arrest last April, they have become a major source of friction in the bilateral relationship. The Australian Government, through official statements and the Embassy’s numerous representations to various Indonesian authorities on the issue, official and unofficial alike, has left the Indonesian Government in no doubt as to its opposition to the death penalty. And the Australian Government’s position largely reflects the widely held view of the Australian people, a view amplified by the vocal Australian media throughout the trial of the Bali Nine and in the lead-up to their sentencing. For its part, the Indonesian Government has pushed back hard, calling for Australia not to interfere in its legal proceedings.

And it’s not only the Indonesians feeling the media’s opprobrium on this issue. The AFP has come under sustained criticism for its role in the group’s arrest, especially its decision to tip off the Indonesian authorities as to the group’s composition and likely intentions in Bali, instead of arresting the group when they landed back in Oz.

In January, all were found guilty as charged. Yesterday, Renae Lawrence and Scott Rush, the first of the nine to face sentencing, received life imprisonment. The remaining seven, including the two ringleaders, Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran, were due to be sentenced today or tomorrow.

‘No, really? How many?’

‘Just Chan and Sukumaran. The rest got life imprisonment.’

‘Bloody hell. The media’s going to have a field day.’

‘Yep, I dare say the talking points are being finalised as we speak.’

While death sentences were always on the cards, I’m still surprised by the verdict. Personally, I have genuine sympathy for Chan and Sukumaran. Nobody deserves to be executed, regardless of the egregiousness of their past misdemeanour. And if their past crime is so abhorrent, then I would rather see them rot in jail for the rest of their life as due punishment.

Putting aside the morality of the verdict, there’s also the undoubted political fallout. Australia has a perennially volatile relationship with Indonesia. The relative success of our joint police counterterrorism cooperation, coupled with Australia’s post-tsunami commitment to help rebuild Aceh, has seen the relationship scale new heights. However, it’s also taken a few hits recently as both sides try to navigate the ongoing media frenzy surrounding that other infamous Australian drug trafficker, Schapelle Corby. Such a high-profile and emotive issue as the death penalty is likely to create yet another unwelcome irritant.

‘Oh, before I forget,’ Kristan continues, ‘thanks for the card and the lovely words.’

Finally, some recognition! ‘Glad you liked it. I’m looking forward to our dinner tonight.’

‘So am I. I love you too, darling. Bye for now.’

One didn’t need to be Nostradamus to predict the death sentences would morph into a major issue in the bilateral relationship, but not even the famous French astrologer could’ve foreseen the extent of the media storm the Bali Nine’s sentencing unleashes in Australia. The initial focus of the outrage is the Indonesian judicial system. However, this quickly switches to the beleaguered AFP. Under headlines screaming ‘Blood on their hands’, the Australian media ramps up its attacks on the AFP for its role in the arrest of the Bali Nine.

But while the AFP is busily defending its decisions around the arrest of the Bali Nine, unbeknown to me its team on the ground in Jakarta has been dealing with a more immediate and pernicious terrorism-related issue, one as chilling and potentially devasting to the Embassy community as the bombing eighteen months ago. This is the discovery by Indonesian technical experts of a JI-linked website detailing ‘the best places to kill Australian diplomats in Jakarta’.

Ever since Azahari’s killing in November, we’ve been living under the illusion that his demise marked a major ‘turning point’ in the fight against JI. Fortunately, our AFP colleagues have been under no such illusions. Working hand in glove with their Indonesian police partners, Azahari’s death to them was just one hard-fought victory in the grinding, uncompromising war of attrition being waged against Islamic terrorism in Indonesia.

The announcement of the website’s discovery doesn’t just burst our glass bubble of blissful naivety; it shatters it into a million tiny shards. And if the disclosure of the website isn’t terrifying enough, and believe me it is, it’s the accompanying realisation that JI terrorists or their agents have been stalking us for weeks, if not months, that really strikes fear into my heart.

The list of places is exhaustive, indicating the extent of the surveillance operation. Traffic intersections, restaurants, bars, even the pedestrian overpass Embassy staff use to cross over busy Jalan Rasuna Said. The overpass is a personal favourite of mine and of my DFAT colleagues. We use it daily to pick up our lunches and coffees from the shops and cafes at the nearby Setiabudi One shopping centre across the road.

After delivering the devastating news, our AFP colleagues quickly seek to reassure us by adding that the website has been blocked, and no intelligence has been received indicating an imminent attack on any of the targets identified. That said, they are just as keen to stress that it would be prudent to avoid any of the more well-known venues and locations on the list. They also strongly advise all staff to vary, where possible, the vehicle, departure time and route taken to work each morning and back home in the evening.

Life in Jakarta just got a whole lot more complicated.

If there is one thing life in Jakarta doesn’t need, it’s more complication. Macet, pollution, overcrowding, cultural differences, not to mention the extant security concerns, already make Jakarta one of the most challenging cities in the world to live and work in. What little social life we have is largely centred around the Embassy and the various expat and sporting clubs that exist to provide the vital sanity breaks we all crave. Not surprisingly, the news of the website brings these cherished social interactions to a sudden halt as everyone at the Embassy bunkers down.

For me, the issue isn’t only my own personal safety. The thought of imperilling my Bintangs mates by going to training or watching AFL games at Aphrodite’s, which has made the terrorists’ target list, is too terrible to contemplate. Best to park the social life and stay close to home until the picture is clearer.

Cooped up in our Bali-style villa, encircled by a two-metre-high brick wall topped with barbed wire, our little oasis from the mayhem of the Big Durian soon begins to feel like a prison. The only respite is the daily trip into the office, a trip now just that little more nerve-jangling, as we must traverse several of the roads and traffic intersections identified on the JI website.

Initially, I feel as if I’m coping just fine. But as the days turn into weeks, my mind begins to play games. One night as I lie in bed, I hear sounds on the roof, as if someone or something is scampering across the roof tiles. Most likely one of those mangy cats I see scavenging through our waste bin at the front of the house, I think.

But when the same scratching, scurrying sounds wake me again a short time later, I wonder. Is it a cat? Or is it a terrorist trying to loosen some roof tiles to plant a bomb or attack us?

I sit up in a damp sweat of anxiety, then reach over and shake Kristan.

‘Darling, wake up,’ I plead, whispering.

She opens her eyes. ‘What?’

‘Do you hear that sound?’ I ask nervously. ‘On the roof. Or maybe it’s in the roof… I’m not sure. But do you hear it?’

‘No, darling. I can’t hear anything,’ a half-asleep, clearly annoyed Kristan responds. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘But… Just listen. I’m sure I can hear—’

‘Grant, you’re deaf!’ a now exasperated Kristan cuts me off. ‘We all know that. I’ve got better hearing than you, and I can’t hear a thing. Just go back to sleep.’

‘Okay… Okay.’

I lie back down, hardly convinced, listening intently for any strange sounds from the roof or ceiling above me. I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, listening. But the harder I strain, the more I hear… nothing. Maybe Kristan’s right, I eventually conclude. I do have shit hearing. Have had since I was a child, a condition undoubtedly made worse by last year’s bombing. If she can’t hear anything, and she’s a fairly light sleeper, then I must be hearing things. Finally, my anxiety recedes, replaced by a foggy drowsiness as I slowly drift off to sleep.

The next few nights largely follow the same script. I go to bed, stare at the ceiling for nearly an hour, listening intently for any strange new sounds, before eventually drifting off into a fitful sleep. For a person who once fell asleep standing in the customs queue at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport, this inability to ‘just fall asleep’ is a new and unwelcome phenomenon.

Kristan finally cracks it one night over my tossing and turning, kicking me into the spare bedroom. I fear my ejection might prove permanent, but a couple of days later our AFP colleagues formally advise that the likelihood of an imminent attack on a member or members of the Embassy staff has greatly diminished. Since the website was disabled, Indonesian counterterrorism police have picked up zero intelligence indicating a terrorist attack targeting Australian diplomats. Nor has a replica JI-linked website appeared anywhere.

While this is welcome news, the AFP stresses that the broader, ongoing terror threat remains, so everyone needs to stay cautious.

Not that we need any encouragement to remain vigilant. Jakarta’s volatile security environment has been front of mind ever since I arrived in the city, even more so since that fateful day two Septembers ago. It’s impossible to ignore, even if you wanted to. Everywhere you go, everywhere you look, there are reminders, some subtle, some not so much: from the car security checks and small army of Satpams guarding every major establishment, public and private alike, to the kilometres of barbed wire strewn along the top of every wall across the city. Even home offers little sanctuary. Apart from the high walls crowned in twirls of barbed wire, each diplomatic residence has a permanent Satpam detachment providing 24/7 personal protection. When you factor in the two-way radio sets installed in everyone’s master bedrooms, it’s not an exaggeration to say that the security threat permeates every aspect of life in Jakarta, from the moment you wake till… well, the moment you wake again.

No one complains. Sure, the constant security checks are annoying. But I view them like brussels sprouts: I mightn’t like them, but I know they’re good for me. We are in the midst of an insidious, shadowy war against an unrelenting, murderously motivated enemy. All we can do is suck it up in the hope such measures, as flimsy and futile as they may appear, provide some level of protection, or at the very least deterrence.

Inevitably, the tension and pressure begin to impact the thinking and behaviour of everyone in the Embassy community. For Kristan and me, that’s exactly the case with our new-found window phobia. Or, to be more precise, restaurant-window phobia. It’s so rare, the medical world hasn’t even coined a Greek name for it yet.

For some time, Kristan and I have both felt uncomfortable sitting near glass windows while dining at restaurants or cafes. Actually, not only do we not want to sit near any windows, but we also always explicitly request, when making a booking or entering a cafe, that our table be as far away from any windows as possible. We think nothing of this new-found aversion to sitting near restaurant windows. It’s just common sense, born of experience: if the bomb doesn’t get you, the shattered glass will. Like everyone unfortunate enough to bear witness to the Embassy bombing, our memories have been scarred indelibly by the sight of thousands of shattered and splintered windows in the surrounding buildings. Unlike us, safe behind the bombproof windows of the Chancery, hundreds of innocent office workers were seriously injured or permanently maimed by flying shards of glass when the bomb exploded.

And the window phobia is only the half of it.

We’ve also taken to sitting side by side in restaurants… with our backs to the wall… facing the main entrance. A curious seating arrangement completely at odds with our traditional and more romantic way of sitting facing each other. This new seating preference allows us to see who is coming into the restaurant. And, more importantly, what they are carrying or wearing. Backpacks, the terrorist’s favoured bomb delivery method, are of particular concern.

Taken together, these peculiar table preferences can lead to some quizzical looks and shakes of the head from restaurant maître d’s. ‘Forget the view from the lovely table near the window, the one tucked away in the back corner next to the wall will suit just fine, thank you.’

All of this is okay, of course, when you consider the security environment. Some would say, even prudent. But it makes no sense at all back in suburban Australia. More than once on our last trip home for Christmas, we found ourselves requesting seat or table changes while eating out with family and friends, much to their bemusement. When asking why, bemusement quickly turned to shock and concern.

Of course, for Kristan and me, normal rationality went out the window along with those flying shards of glass on that fateful day of the bombing.

Among Embassy staff, black humour has become a prevalent coping mechanism. Ever since debuting on JI’s infamous list of ‘best places to kill Australian diplomats’, the nondescript concrete pedestrian overpass traversing busy Jalan Rasuna Said has been christened the ‘Bridge of Death’ by colleagues in the Political Section.

In a nod to its new-found infamy, my DFAT colleagues, including me, agree to limit our access to the overpass – save for one trip a day by a designated person to pick up the team’s lunch. To facilitate this new arrangement, Justin, the head of the Political Section, has drawn up a ‘Bridge of Death Roster’, allocating daily slots to individual team members to brave the overpass.

What started as a simple piece of gallows humour has since morphed into some kind of macabre spectator sport. Every day around lunchtime, those of us in the office crowd the windows overlooking the pedestrian overpass seeking the best vantage point to watch our rostered co-worker make ‘the crossing’. While we all make like it’s lighthearted fun, the banter always stops abruptly when we catch sight of our colleague starting to ascend the steps leading to the top of the overpass. We’re aware the Embassy has stationed two plain-clothed security guards permanently on the bridge following the JI listing. But the knowledge does little to comfort our nerves as we watch our comrade slowly pick their way along the crowded walkway, before they make their way down the other side. When we eventually catch sight of our colleague safely on the road below, everyone exhales a nervous sigh of relief.

And twenty or so minutes later, we do it all again. The only difference this time is that we’re just as focused on the ‘priceless’ bounty in our colleague’s arms. Just as well the sandwiches are the best in Jakarta. You surely wouldn’t risk it, otherwise.

Suffice to say, in the wake of all the anxieties, pressures and troubled nights precipitated by the discovery of the JI website, I’m desperate for a change of scenery. Anything that will get me out of the suffocating and emotion-sapping tinderbox that is Jakarta.

So it’s with much delight that I receive an email invitation from the Indonesian NGO Satunama, to attend the commissioning ceremony for a small water project funded by the Embassy’s Direct Aid Program (DAP) in the village of Kisik, north-west of Yogyakarta. A kind of electronic answer to all my prayers. DAP is a small-grants program funded from Australia’s aid budget, with the aim of partnering with local communities and NGOs on poverty reduction and sustainable development projects. The maximum grant is $20,000.

I remember reading the original application for the project. I had only just joined DAP as chair, and it had caught my eye. The application, which had been submitted by Satunama, the project sponsor, requested a grant to fund the purchase of a diesel pump and a network of pipes to deliver running water to the village of Kisik from a nearby stream. The aim was laudable and ticked all the boxes as far as DAP criteria go. What really piqued my interest, though, was the cost… just Rp16 million. A little over $2000. It just seemed inconceivable that such a small grant could make such a big difference in people’s lives.

As chair, I regularly get asked to represent the Embassy at such events. Normally, I politely decline, citing my heavy work commitments. On this occasion, I jump at the chance. I’d love to see how this little project has turned out. And let’s face it, the timing couldn’t be better. A trip to picturesque Yogya and its surrounds sounds like just the tonic.

Sometimes all it takes is a change of scenery. And as the driver of my Toyota Kijang hire car navigates his way along the narrow, potholed road snaking its way through the lush green paddy fields north of Yogya, I can already feel my spirits starting to lift.

When you spend most of your waking days stuck in endless traffic, attempting to traverse the crowded roads and laneways of Jakarta, it’s easy to forget the vast natural wonder of this sprawling nation. I’ve already been fortunate enough to experience firsthand the abundances of Indonesia’s rich natural biodiversity through my personal and work-related travels across the archipelago. From the serenity of Bali’s world-famous rice terraces to the jaw-dropping beauty of Halmahera’s bountiful tropical forests, mangroves, sandy beaches and cone-shaped volcanic mountains. Even the Acehnese coastline and its parallel mountain ranges, ravaged by a once-in-a-century tsunami, still unfolded their intrinsic beauty as I flew low up the coast with the parliamentary delegation back in May last year.

And it’s that same feeling of wonder that’s now stimulating my senses as we wind our way along the patchwork of narrow roads connecting the small rural villages just north of Yogya. It’s like someone has flicked the switch on a new high-definition colour TV. Gone is the smog-induced dullness of Jakarta, replaced by a vivid, sun-filled vista of colours, nearly eye-watering in their clarity and richness. Vibrant-green paddy fields stretch as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road, interspersed with the odd market garden or small plantation of banana trees. In the distance, the deep-green forested slopes of Mount Merapi loom large.

We continue to traverse along various narrow roads for another hour. In addition to the bucolic rural setting with its palette of vibrant colours, we pass through several small villages full of roadside warungs selling everything from spiky durians and other fresh fruit to small handheld electric fans and water bottles. All run by smiling ladies in colourful hijabs who wave as we go by. In some of the larger villages, we drive past bright-green mosques (the colour of Islam) and small schools, the sound of laughter spilling from the playgrounds as uniformed schoolchildren play games between classes.

Another thing that catches my eye, somewhat more disturbingly, is the cigarette advertising, which dominates the open spaces and the sides of buildings in most, if not all, of these small hamlets. Sampoerna, Djarum, Gudang Garam, all the big indigenous kretek and tobacco cigarette brands are prominently advertised. Yet another reminder of the insidious grip smoking has on the local population. It’s no surprise. There’s none of the regulatory restrictions and consumer cold shoulder that Big Tobacco is increasingly facing in its Western markets; Indonesia is a large and consumer-friendly marketplace ripe for exploitation.

But the human toll is becoming difficult to ignore. Sadly, when travelling in Indonesia, it’s not uncommon to see groups of youth, and even young children, squatting on the side of the road partaking in the national ‘pastime’. And stories of children, some as young as four or five, addicted to kreteks are starting to appear in the media. Changing people’s attitudes is going to be difficult, however, particularly when you consider the strong political and financial power of the local tobacco companies. Moreover, kreteks are cheap and one of life’s few affordable pleasures for Indonesia’s working class and poor. Hopefully, sanity and good public health policy will prevail at some point, but it’s going to be a long and grinding fight.

Eventually, we turn off the narrow road onto a little dirt track, bounded by fertile green rice fields and coconut palms on either side. About a hundred metres ahead lies a small village, which I take to be Kisik. As we get closer, a large outdoor awning, covering rows of seats neatly lined side by side, comes into view.

The Kijang pulls up behind the awning. As I tentatively alight, a small group of men, resplendent in their traditional Javanese garb, emerge through the growing crowd and slowly make their way towards me. After a quick exchange of pleasantries, I’m led to a row of seats in front of a small makeshift stage, where I am greeted by the Kepala Desa (village head) of Kisik.

He motions me to take a seat next to him and then proceeds to explain just how important today is for the village and for him, personally. As the Kepala Desa, it has been a dream of his to see running water flow through the village. Every day, villagers – mostly women and young boys – must cart water from the nearby stream to their homes for use in cooking or washing. It’s a laborious task, which he hated as a child. Now, with the help of the Australian Embassy, villagers will finally have access to running water via four taps installed throughout the village. A dream, he stresses, beaming with pride, he never thought would be fulfilled.

A flurry of activity behind us cuts short the Kepala Desa’s heartwarming story. The catalyst is the arrival of the guest of honour, the Camat Minggir Kecamatan (the head of Minggir District – the district that governs Kisik).

After a brief introduction, we once again take our seats, and the formal commissioning ceremony begins. The first to speak is the Camat, who among other things kindly thanks the Australian Embassy for its role in funding the water project. After he finishes his short speech, I’m invited to the stage to say a few words. I’ve delivered several public addresses in my short diplomatic career, but never in a foreign language. A few butterflies make their presence known in my stomach as I mount the stage and take my place behind the microphone.

But I shouldn’t have worried. Judging by the smiles and warm applause of the crowd, it goes off without a hitch. Even better, it appears to have actually made sense! My old Bahasa teacher Pak Jati would be proud.

The speaking part of proceedings complete, I follow the Camat and Kepala Desa a short distance to where a shiny silver tap head has been carefully affixed to the wall of a house, above an open concrete trough. The tap head and trough have been cordoned off by a formal-looking chain of handmade bamboo loops, similar to the paper chains you see draped along the walls at a kid’s birthday party. A young boy steps forward to hand the Camat a small pair of scissors, which he uses to cut the bamboo chain to the polite applause of the assembled visitors.

Next, the Kepala Desa motions me forward, pointing to the silver tap head with his other hand. ‘Tolong, nyalakan kerannya.’ (Please, turn on the tap.) I’m absolutely chuffed. The Camat may be the guest of honour, but I get to turn on the first tap!

Feeling just a little cocky at the unexpected privilege, I reach forward and slowly turn the tap head… and nothing happens. I turn the head a little more… but still no water. By this point, my cocky smirk has vanished, replaced by an uncomfortable grimace as a sinking feeling starts to emerge in the pit of my stomach.

I give the tap head one big, final turn… and wait… anxiously.

A couple of seconds tick by, with the murmurs of the crowd behind me increasing. Finally, a mad gush of water spurts forth from the mouth of the faucet into the concrete trough below, signalling the welcome, albeit tardy, arrival of Kisik’s first running water. My overwhelming feeling is one of plain relief; for the villagers of Kisik, it’s unbridled joy. Cheers and applause erupt behind me. I turn to see villagers hugging, others wiping tears from their eyes. The Kepala Desa grabs my hand and starts shaking it furiously, his face radiating with pride.

Formalities over, the Camat announces he has to leave, and after a quick shake of hands, he vanishes into the crowd. The Camat’s departure provides an opportune time for my own. It’s already late afternoon, and I’ve made plans to catch up with some new friends later tonight in one of the many bars off Jalan Malioboro.

I met my new friends just over a week ago while undertaking a short Bahasa refresher course at Wisma Bahasa. Two of them, David and Karen, are newly arrived Embassy folk completing a short language course before David starts work at the Embassy in a few weeks, while a third, Morgan, is the newly arrived correspondent for the Australian Financial Review – a good bloke I’m keen to share a beer with.

Goodbyes complete, I turn and quickly make my way back through the crowd towards my Kijang. Picking my way through the heaving throng of excited villagers, a small, frail, elderly woman suddenly appears at my elbow, tugging at the sleeve of my shirt.

‘Pak, Pak… terima kasih, Pak… terima kasih,’ are her heartfelt words of thanks.

As I look down at her, a lump the size of a golf ball suddenly appears at the back of my throat. Her eyes are red and moist, tears gleaming on her ruddy and wrinkled cheeks. Of all the things I’ve seen and heard since arriving in Kisik earlier today, the sight of this lovely, emotional old lady crying at my elbow is the most heartwarmingly wonderful.

It may only be a $2000 project, but its long-term, enduring impact on the life of the Kisik villagers can’t be counted in dollars and cents. Throw in the overwhelmingly positive soft diplomacy outcome for Australia at a time of bubbling frictions in the bilateral relationship, and I think anybody would agree we’ve received a big bang for very few bucks.

Chapter 13 Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Finally, some good news. Well, of sorts.

Lembaga Survei Indonesia, the well-regarded Indonesian survey organisation, has just released the findings of its 2005 survey on the Indonesian people’s Support for Radical Religious Attitudes and Behaviour. It’s the fifth and largest iteration of the nationwide survey, first conducted in 2001. In the wake of the spate of Islamic terrorist attacks that has plagued Indonesia in recent years, the survey has become an important tool for understanding the depth of grassroots support for the radical Islamists, as well as for their violent and horrifying methods.

At first glance, it makes good reading. Dig a little deeper and a more disturbing picture emerges. Overall, the findings indicate that support for radical religious groups in Indonesia has declined over the past two years. Moreover, on the critical question of whether respondents would ‘support the use of violence for religious purposes’, 90 per cent answered they would not. But when you consider Indonesia’s population is some 220 million people, then around 22 million people, a number roughly equivalent to Australia’s total population, think it’s okay to employ violence in the name of religion.

Such a finding doesn’t compute with my own personal experience of day-to-day interactions with ordinary Indonesians. I get it – the answer is complex. Indonesian society is a vast melting pot of cultures, religions and ethnic groups, some of whom adhere to puritanical forms of Islam, such as the Sharia Law–abiding Acehnese. But one in ten?

One key agenda item for Kristan at the moment is getting through a whole day without ‘driving the porcelain bus’. As when she was pregnant with Brianna and Ryan, her morning sickness has lasted way beyond the initial trimester. At nearly five months, she’s still suffering from regular bouts of nausea. Thankfully, the persistent queasiness and vomiting have started to wane. They’re being replaced by constant fatigue and increasing irritability, as her growing belly brings a degree of unwelcome difficulty to even the simplest of everyday tasks. But, as she is wont to say, ‘It’s worth it, anything’s worth it, just as long as our “little bundle of love” stays healthy.’

I just feel plain helpless. Apart from being on hand to pass her a towel when needed, or to respond to some particular food craving, there’s not much else I can do. Well, except be in total awe of her perseverance and dogged determination.

Her secondary source of angst is a lot less personal but no less frustrating. Her job. Putting aside the daily skirmishes with her new boss, a big believer in the long… in fact, never-ending… lunch, she’s recently had to deal with a demanding consular case involving three young Australian male surfers.

Like thousands of their surfing brethren before them, the trio had made the pilgrimage from Australia to the Nias Islands in search of the island’s world-famous surf breaks. From all accounts, their crusade was a great success, hopping from island to island in pursuit of their skeghead obsession, along with the more nocturnal treasures the islands have to offer.

It was when they began their long trip home that it all fell apart. The Nias Islands aren’t the easiest place to reach. Transport links by air and sea are notoriously unreliable, the latter even more so since the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami smashed Sibolga, the primary port servicing Nias on the west Sumatran coast. Lacking the necessary financial resources to travel by air, the trio instead opted to catch one of the rickety ferries that ply the route. Problem was, this particular ferry was even ricketier than the norm and promptly sank. The trio were able to make their way safely to shore, but with only the clothes on their backs. Literally. Luggage, money, even their beloved surfboards were all either sitting on the bottom of the ocean or destined to wash up on some Sumatran beach.

While the loss of the surfboards was the focus of their grief, they had also lost something much harder to replace: their passports. When travelling overseas, a passport is – or should be – one’s most prized possession. Without it, (a) you can’t leave the country and (b) you possess no form of official identification. And while the former would appear to be the bigger problem, it is the latter that can cause the greater headache.

And so it was for our trio.

Without identification, they couldn’t access cash wired to local banks by family, or book plane tickets to get back to Jakarta for their return flight to Australia. In short, they were in a jam. But the ties that bind the surfing brotherhood and sisterhood are nothing if not strong. And in the trio’s hour of need, a disparate, multicultural diaspora of nomadic wave-riders came to the fore, scrounging enough cash to fund the three lads’ travel to Jakarta. Not by air, but by a far longer, more circuitous and cheaper route, combining various bus and ferry legs. By the time they made it to Jakarta, exhausted, penniless and still wearing the same clothes, they were in desperate need of the Embassy’s help.

How do I know? Because I’ve had Kristan in my office for the last thirty minutes describing their ordeal in intricate detail while venting her considerable frustrations. Why the frustrations? Because when they arrived at the Embassy yesterday afternoon, dishevelled and broke, Kristan had given each a small consular loan for food and new clothing, while their passports were being prepared. Oh, and that’s on top of organising accommodation for a couple of nights in a small budget hotel.

Such consular assistance is standard practice. What’s not standard practice is what this plucky young trio did with the generous consular assistance they received. They promptly blew it all on beer, burgers and an old-fashioned big night out! Before rocking up at the Embassy again this morning for more. Sans any new attire, I might add.

Their excuse? Apparently, they thought the original loan was for one day only.

As I listen to Kristan recount the story, her arms flailing in exasperation, a small chuckle escapes my mouth.

‘You think it’s funny, do you?’

It’s hard to defend the indefensible, but having fallen under South-East Asia’s mesmerising spell more than once as a young sailor, I do have some understanding, if not a tiny hint of sympathy, for the young lads.

‘No! No, of course not!’ I’m trying to look serious while battling to suppress a growing urge to break out in laughter. ‘But… what did you expect? Three young guys… Jakarta… money burning a hole in their pockets. Surely you’re not surprised they went out and blew it on a big night out?’

‘You’re unbelievable.’ Obviously peeved, she glares at me.

‘Sorry, darling. I definitely feel your frustration and think what the guys did was an outrageous misuse of taxpayers’ money. But…’ I chuckle. ‘I do have a little sympathy for them.’

Kristan stands there, arms crossed, staring at me with a look of bewilderment and disgust.

‘Men!’ is her sole utterance, as she turns and marches out of my office.

In an effort to lift Kristan’s spirits, I make the spur-of-the-moment decision to take her out to lunch, just down the road to the Four Seasons Hotel. The buffet there is a particular favourite of hers. When I spring the surprise on her, she is typically reluctant, citing the mountain of work she needs to complete by close of business. But it doesn’t take much to bend her arm, just a promise to have her back at her desk by 2.30pm at the latest.

Kristan’s not the only beneficiary of my charitable mood. I’ve already told Suryadi he doesn’t need to drive us. Lunch with his fellow drivers is one of the highlights of Suryadi’s day. They congregate downstairs in the basement car park and swap gossip about their various bosses’ indiscretions and other salacious misadventures. Suryadi is my greatest source of intel on the Embassy soap opera. At any rate, I have an Indonesian driver’s licence and the Four Seasons is only a short drive, about a kilometre north of the Embassy. Everyone’s a winner.

The Four Seasons buffet provides lashings of seafood, salads, cold cuts and various Indonesian delicacies, even carvings from a succulent chunk of roast beef. But it’s the dessert bar that truly impresses. There are enough small cakes, ice cream and sugar-infused delights to satisfy the sweetest of tooth. As the time ticks over 2pm, Kristan grabs a small doggie bag of goodies to spoil the kids later tonight.

Back in our car, I navigate carefully through the heaving, slowly moving sea of mopeds, Toyota Kijangs, MetroMini buses and various other carriages clogging the road, heading towards a break in the median strip. I need to do a U-turn to get back to the Embassy.

Eventually, we arrive safely at the break in the median strip. The traffic heading south is somewhat more free-flowing, allowing for a quick U-turn. Driving towards the Embassy, I flick on my blinker and check my rear-vision mirror before attempting to change lanes. What I see is a curious sight. About 200 metres behind us is a large bus. Atop the bus are several men, some standing, some sitting, but all waving large black or green flags and banners adorned with white Arabic script or Islamic symbols. They look like they are heading to a protest somewhere. And then my blood runs cold… Oh shit! The Embassy.

My first instinct is to hit the accelerator, an urge I resist for fear of burying the front end of my car into the tailgate of the goods van just a metre in front. Instead, I decide to head for the relative safety of the side road, about fifty metres to my left up ahead. I’ll need to get across a couple of lanes first. Blinker still flashing, I dive into a small space in the lane to my left, eliciting a sharp honk from the aggrieved driver I’ve just cut off.

My slightly erratic driving draws a worried rebuke from Kristan.

‘Take it easy, darling. No rush.’

‘Yes, rush. Look what’s behind us,’ I say bluntly, moving into the lane running adjacent to the side road.

Kristan turns and looks over her shoulder. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Yep, looks like an Islamic protest. Heading to the Embassy, I reckon… Best we get there before they do.’

I duck into a gap in the thin median strip separating the side road from Jalan Rasuna Said.

Safely on the side road, with lighter traffic, I’m able to pick up speed a little. Another quick glance in the rear-vision mirror reveals no sign of the protesters’ bus. It appears to have vanished. Maybe they’ll miss the small turn-off into the side road and won’t be able to stop outside the Embassy to demonstrate? I can’t help but wish.

Just as I’m starting to relax, traffic on the side road slows to a complete halt. An anxious glance in the rear-vision mirror again reveals no trace of the bus. By my reckoning, it’s still about 250 metres or so to the Embassy. Close, but not close enough. Stationary, silence envelops the car.

After an uncomfortable couple of minutes twitching in our seats, eyes glued to our rear-vision and side mirrors, the traffic starts edging forward again, barely cracking double figures on the car’s speedometer.

I continue to glance obsessively at the rear-vision mirror. ‘Still can’t see the bus,’ I note, hoping to soothe Kristan’s fraying nerves. ‘Maybe they didn’t make it into…’

My voice trails off as a man in a white Islamic jubah and matching skullcap runs past the car carrying a large white banner inscribed with black Arabic lettering. (A jubah is an ankle-length robe, usually with long sleeves, not very common in Indonesia but often worn by devout male Muslims.) He is followed closely by a growing number of similarly dressed men, who pour down both sides of the car, some running, some walking, but all carrying large green, white or black banners and flags, each inscribed with Arabic writing or Islamic symbols.

‘Where the fuck did they come from?’

A quick check of my rear-vision mirror still reveals no sign of the bus. I can only surmise the protesters got sick of waiting in traffic, disembarked and decided to advance to the Embassy on foot.

Kristan turns to me, a fearful look of uncertainty writ large across her face. ‘They look like protesters from the bus. What are we going to do?’

It’s a good question, not easily answered.

‘Well, there’s not much we can do.’ I reach over and grab her hand. ‘Just got to sit tight and stay calm until we make it to the Embassy. Just move away from the window and try not to make any eye contact. As long as they don’t realise we’re from the Embassy, we should be okay.’

The protesters continue to file past in increasing numbers, waving their flags and banners, some shaking their fists in the air aggressively and chanting. I squeeze Kristan’s hand tightly. ‘Don’t worry, darling. We’ll be okay.’ I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.

We’re still moving, just. Progress is excruciating, but every metre gained is one closer to the Embassy.

Bang! A loud thump to the side of the car startles us both. Fuck! They’ve worked out who we are.

A glance in my side mirror quickly soothes my nerves. The perpetrator is indeed a protester, one now slowly struggling to his feet. He appears to have fallen over, hitting the side of the car in the process. I sink back into my seat as he stumbles past my door, oblivious to the targets of his fury that lie within.

As my gaze follows the young Islamist’s path up the road, winding through the crawling traffic, I catch a glimpse of the Embassy.

‘Darling, I can see the Embassy. We’re nearly there.’

As we creep closer, my initial relief starts to dissipate. Scores of chanting, angry-looking demonstrators are clogging the side road and median strip directly in front of the Embassy. And the number of protesters is only increasing, as they continue to stream past our car.

The vehicle entrance to the Embassy is located at the southern end of the imposing newly built grey concrete and black steel front wall that protects the compound. To reach it, we will have to travel straight through the heart of the large group of agitated protesters.

As if that’s not enough to think about, I see something that sends a real chill up my spine. Less than ten metres ahead, two young men are holding a large black banner inscribed in white lettering with the words ‘Hizb ut-Tahrir’: the name of the infamous pan-Islamist and fundamentalist religious group. A proscribed terrorist group in Australia, Hizb ut-Tahrir is believed to have close ties to the extremist JI in Indonesia.

What to do? I rack my brain, but no amount of panicked thinking offers a solution. Hemmed in on all sides by the slow-moving macet, we have no option but to sit tight, be patient and let fate run its course.

Not much of an option.

I turn and look at Kristan. She hasn’t moved a muscle. Left hand on belly, she continues to sit silently, staring out the window straight ahead. At what? I have no idea. But from her calm demeanour, I doubt she has seen the Hizb ut-Tahrir banner. Confected or not, her calm exterior gives me strength. If she lost her shit, I’d likely join her in a heartbeat.

Sitting silently in our car, inching closer to the militants, I take heart from the fact that their attention (and anger!) appears to be fixed on the Embassy. A small contingent of police has arrived, although from their token attempt at crowd control, I’m not sure they’d have the heart for a real stoush if the radicals’ fury boiled over. For its part, the Embassy appears to have dispatched a small group of Satpam security staff to secure the footpath immediately in front of the pedestrian entrance. Dressed in black bulletproof vests, with steel military-style helmets atop their heads, they must be melting in Jakarta’s suffocating heat and humidity.

As we draw level with the Satpams, a nervous sigh of relief escapes my mouth. Their proximity affords some sense of comfort. And shortly afterwards, the black steel sliding gate of the vehicular entrance, no more than thirty metres ahead, brings real solace.

And then it dawns on me. It usually takes around twenty seconds for the heavy steel sliding gate to fully retract into its concrete recess, before you can enter the security holding pen just inside. If we have to wait patiently on the driveway while this occurs, metres away from the angry horde of demonstrators, things could get ugly.

‘Can you give security a call and tell them to get ready to open the gate?’ I ask Kristan hurriedly. ‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes, and I don’t want to be stuck on the driveway with all these protesters about.’

Kristan nods her head and reaches into her bag for her mobile.

‘Bob, it’s Kristan. Grant and I are just coming down Rasuna Said. We’ll be at the front gate in a couple of minutes. Can you give the Satpams a heads-up to open the gate in a couple of minutes? We don’t want—’

By the way Kristan’s voice suddenly cuts off, I assume Bob’s not amenable to our suggestion.

‘There’s no way in the world we can drive past and keep going, Bob,’ Kristan pleads down her mobile. ‘Yes, we are well aware of the protesters out the front of the Embassy. We’re right in the middle of them! The last thing we want is to be stuck on the road outside waiting for the gate to open.’

Whether it’s the shrill note of her voice or the blunt delivery, Bob finally accedes to her request.

‘Okay, thanks, Bob. Appreciate it. They’re going to open the gate,’ she says, turning to me, a relieved smile on her face. ‘But they can’t keep it open long, given the protest.’

‘Understood.’

A few seconds later, the large black steel gate, now less than twenty metres away, starts to slide open. The sudden opening of the Embassy’s main gate instantly distracts the protesters, quelling their incessant shouts and chanting.

But just as I’m starting to feel we might make it through the volatile situation unscathed, a young Muslim protester appears right alongside Kristan’s door. Chanting, fist waving in the air, his eyes suddenly swing around and he looks directly at Kristan.

Busted!

In a flash, he starts thumping the car window, centimetres from Kristan’s face. Kristan instantly recoils, gripping my left hand tightly in startled fright. Within seconds, our car is surrounded by incensed protesters, all joining their young comrade in banging and thumping the outside of our car. Some press their faces up against the windows, their hot breath and angry shouts leaving foggy moisture patches and sprays of spittle as unwelcome souvenirs.

My mind flashes to a memory of Belfast, 1988, and two British soldiers who had stumbled upon an IRA funeral. Pulled from their car by mourners, they were beaten with crowbars and hoisted bloodied and naked before the cheering crowd of onlookers. Their bullet-riddled bodies were later found in a nearby vacant lot.

‘Kristan, call Bob. We need help.’ An understatement bordering on the ridiculous.

As a clearly shaken Kristan fumbles with her mobile, our car starts rocking from side to side, the protesters’ fury escalating.

‘Bob!’ Kristan screams. ‘We need help! We’re right out front. We need help, Bob. Now!’

While Kristan’s screaming down the phone, I continue edging the car forward. ‘Gotta keep moving,’ I repeat to myself, over and over, acutely aware that if we come to a stop we may meet a fate just as horrific as the two British soldiers in Belfast.

Through the muffled din and incessant thumping, I clearly hear the dull thud of the car door handles as one protester after another tries his luck at opening the side doors. Next to me, Kristan starts to weep: gentle whimpers of someone resigned to her fate.

We are now right in the middle of the chanting, heaving mob of radical Hizb ut-Tahrir protesters, the still-open Embassy front gate a short ten or so metres in the distance. While only a stone’s throw away, the odds of us reaching the safety of the gate in one piece are narrowing quickly.

‘Move! Fucking move!’ I scream in despair at the car in front, palm slamming the horn in desperation. ‘For God’s sake, move!’

Suddenly a small squad of steel-helmeted, bulletproof-vest-wearing Embassy guards appears. Ripping the protesters off the sides of the car, the Satpam guards quickly form a protective ring around our vehicle. The militants launch successive assaults to penetrate our new-found shield, resulting in a rolling maul of skirmishes as we slowly, but now surely, creep our way towards the safety of the Embassy entrance.

With the Embassy guards’ effective and determined defence, and the encroaching proximity of the front gate, the protesters’ interest in our cream Suzuki Vitara recedes. Soon we are safely inside the security holding pen, the heavy steel gate sliding tightly closed behind.

Kristan and I sit in stunned silence. My pulse is racing, as no doubt Kristan’s is. My immediate emotion, though, is not one of tears, or thankful cries of ‘Hallelujah’. Rather, it’s one of resignation. Bombings, tsunamis, death threats, terrorist websites; nothing in Indonesia surprises me anymore. Nothing.

Chapter 14 The Gift of Life

It’s now the beginning of July 2006 and, thankfully, the fright outside the Embassy hasn’t resulted in any nasty repercussions for Kristan’s pregnancy. She is absolutely glowing and, apart from feeling generally fatigued, is in good health and spirits.

I think the thought of returning home in a couple of weeks’ time for the birth has given her a real lift. I’m also eager to escape sweaty Jakarta for a bit of fresh air in Melbourne. Apart from witnessing the birth of my fifth child, hopefully I’ll be able to squeeze in a couple of games of footy with some mates, even if my beloved Blues have been struggling a bit this season.

Front and centre in my mind, though, is the safe arrival of my fifth child. Let’s just say I’ve got a bit of a patchy track record when it comes to my performance around birth time. I absolutely nailed it with the births of Sam and Callum: I was the dutiful, caring husband to my then wife, Liz, close on hand.

But to put it in sporting terms, I peaked early.

I completely missed the birth of Brianna. She decided to arrive a week early, while I was still in Dalian, north-eastern China, attending an APEC meeting. I was due to fly back to Melbourne the following day but, to quote my alter ego Maxwell Smart, ‘I missed it by that much.’ And have been living with the consequences ever since.

I managed to recoup some lost ground with the birth of Ryan, in 2003. But it was hardly a convincing performance. Like Brianna, Ryan arrived early, on 1 April. On the day, Kristan appeared at my desk in DFAT, Canberra, around 5pm, to calmly inform me her contractions had started. Cue total panic on my behalf.

I rushed around the office opening and closing drawers, while she reminded me to lock my safe. By the time we pulled into the driveway at home, Kristan had correctly deduced I wasn’t going to be much use for the foreseeable future and promptly ordered me to make myself a G&T and water the garden. While I duly complied, Kristan fed and bathed Brianna, packed her suitcase and called our friend Cheryl to come over and babysit. By the time Cheryl arrived, I was on my second G&T. I think we all get the drift.

But I needn’t have worried. Kristan is nothing if not the master planner and was never going to allow a repeat of the Dalian fiasco. Flights were booked early, accommodation sorted, specialist appointments secured… all well in advance. By the time I fly into Melbourne, a couple of weeks out from the due date, all is prepared for the much-anticipated arrival.

It appears the star of the show, however, has failed to read the script. Unlike Brianna and Ryan, who rushed to join the big wide world, this little bundle of joy is proving to be far more patient. Kristan is growing increasingly irritated and just a little worried as the due date creeps closer. ‘I don’t understand it. Brianna and Ryan couldn’t wait to come out. This one?’ All I can do is offer comforting platitudes, the efficacy of which are rapidly diminishing as the days wear on.

Truthfully, it’s not only Kristan who is starting to feel the strain of waiting. I’ve only been able to take three weeks’ leave and need to be back at the Embassy in just over a week. I’ll be in a world of pain for years if I bolt back to Jakarta straight after the birth, regardless of extenuating circumstances.

When the due date arrives and passes with no hint of action on the baby’s part, we decide to approach the doctor. To our joint relief, he agrees to induce Kristan the next day.

Early the next morning, 10 August, Kristan checks into the maternity unit at St Vincent’s Private Hospital in Fitzroy. After a brief examination, the doctor administers a natural hormone to induce labour. It does the trick. In just over an hour, Kristan begins to experience contractions. Gradual at first, they quickly gain in frequency and intensity.

When the doctor arrives, he asks whether I would like to deliver my own child. Caught a bit off guard, I hesitantly move to the foot of Kristan’s bed and take up position next to the midwife. Not a moment too soon; the baby’s head is already showing. A couple more excruciatingly painful pushes from Kristan, and our second daughter and my fifth child, Caitlin, is finally delivered into my shaking hands. Wrinkly, covered in a creamy, greasy film and with the odd spot of blood dotting her pixie-like face, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

The midwife takes Caitlin from my hands and places her screaming onto Kristan’s chest. As Kristan cradles our precious gift against her bosom, tears start cascading down her cheeks. The grief, heartache and pain she has held for so long pour out in tears of unadulterated joy.

As I gaze at both my beautiful wife and angelic newborn daughter, a sense of release nearly overwhelms me. It’s been a difficult couple of years, but with the gift of life, let the healing process begin.

When I get back to Jakarta after Caitlin’s birth, the tension is high throughout August and September. It’s bomb season again. A nervous wait ensues, particularly for those long-timers still at post who have endured past bombing campaigns. But when October concludes without a bomb going off, not even a hoax, it’s as if the whole city expresses an inaudible sigh of relief.

None more so than the Bintangs faithful. The relative calm means the Bintangs Presentation Night can go ahead as planned. While not quite the club’s ‘Night of Nights’ (the AGM), it’s still one of the biggest events on the social calendar.

This has been a big year for the Tangs. Well, off the field at least. On the field, it’s been a bit of a struggle. The club’s playing stocks were decimated by the successive bombings that rocked Jakarta and Indonesia in 2002, 2003, 2004 and 2005. The steady inflow of expats to the Big Durian before the bombings – the lifeblood of the club – came to a sudden halt. When combined with the natural attrition of players returning to Australia at the end of their work assignments, the club’s playing numbers have been severely depleted.

But while we may have struggled on the pitch, sometimes to even field a team, the Tangs’ stellar off-field record has, at times, scaled new heights. Footy trips to Hanoi, Yogyakarta and Bali were the highlights of the past year, providing the boys ample opportunity to bond over football, beers and various other pursuits.

Hanoi in late March was memorable: the Tangs’ first big overseas tour in nearly two years. While a spirited effort on the pitch against a well-drilled Vietnam Swans outfit ultimately proved unsuccessful, the late-night sessions imbuing bia hơi beer on street corners and in the many small bars that dot the city quickly washed away any lingering disappointment.

Kristan and the kids joined me for this tour, and we had a wonderful time exploring the city’s many historical and cultural attractions, from the grand French colonial architecture of the Presidential Palace and Hanoi Opera House to the peaceful tranquillity of central Hanoi’s Hoàn Kiếm Lake. Where possible, our preferred mode of transport for these adventures was the inimitable Vietnamese cyclo, the tricycle taxis once popular across the city but now largely only found in the tourist areas.

For a proud club starved of recent on-field success, winning the hotly contested 2006 Bali Masters competition was definitely the football highlight. It was the first time the Bali Geckos – Bali’s resident AFL team and the Bintangs’ archrivals – had staged the nine-a-side, over-thirty-fives AFL competition. I had had a sneaky suspicion we would do okay, due to the nucleus of the Bintangs playing group, including me, being over thirty-five!

When we arrived at the ground to discover several bigger, fitter-looking teams had made the trip up from Australia, my heart sank. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Sure, they might have been bigger and possibly even more skilful, but as the day wore on and the stifling Bali heat and humidity took its toll, their skills and fitness began to wane. By the time the finals came around, it was clear our main challenger for the title would be the hometown heroes, the Geckos. And so they were.

Fortunately, after a hard-fought grand final that took players from both sides to the edge of exhaustion, we prevailed over our fierce rivals, winning our first trophy at a major tournament since the 2001 Asian Championships.

As is traditional for the Tangs at the end of a big competition, we headed straight back to the hotel after the trophy presentation, where we celebrated our success over a few beers in the pool, before heading out on the town.

Sometime after midnight, we found ourselves at Club 66, a sprawling nightclub that overlooks the Double Six Beach in Seminyak. The club, an institution in Bali, is well known for its techno music and the fifty-metre bungy-jump tower that hovers over it like a giant praying mantis. The latter is hard to miss and instantly caught my eye when we arrived.

‘Lads,’ I yelled out as we entered the club, ‘time for a team bungy jump!’

Far from a call to arms, it was more an off-the-cuff, throwaway line fuelled by Dutch courage. But the response from the boys was instant: ‘Yeah!’

Having come up with the crazy idea, it was beholden upon me to lead the team up the tower and take the first jump. Staring out from the top across the beach into the never-ending blackness, I remember thinking, ‘You’re too old for this. When are you going to grow up?’ A rhetorical question that more often emanates from Kristan’s mouth.

After a deep breath, and with legs shaking, I finally toppled off the platform in a kind of dead man’s roll. Rapidly approaching the pool’s water below, screaming my lungs out, I started to panic. I wasn’t slowing down. As I breached the pool’s water, still travelling at the same velocity, I was certain something was wrong and I was about to die.

Then, bang!

In a flash, I was snapped out of the pool and flying back up through the air, water streaming from my hair and shoulders, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Boy, was I pumped.

For the average soul peering up at the tower from the dancefloor down below, this alcohol-fuelled, death-defying act of stupidity must have appeared senseless. At best. To us, it was a celebration of life, of freedoms lost and freedoms regained. After more than two years of anxiety-filled daily coexistence with terrorism, this was finally the opportunity to not just taste the elixir of life, but guzzle it from a fire hose.

The memorable evening ended at 4am with a mad dash back through the jalan tikus of Seminyak to our hotel in Kuta, riding pillion on ojeks. If the first miracle of the day had been us lifting the Bali 9s trophy, the second was all of us making it back to the hotel in one piece.

As our Presentation Night unfolds, all these memories and more are brought to life as speaker after speaker relives the highlights of the year that was. Stevo, the MC, regales the audience with his witty anecdotes; Hak, the president-for-life, delivers a rousing speech, declaring the ‘Bintangs are back!’; and MJ, the club’s best player, sweeps the awards, including the coveted BJ Morgan Award for Best and Fairest.

I love this club. The Bintangs have been a great source of friendship and support to not only me, but the whole family since we arrived two and a half years ago. Throughout the roller-coaster ride of life in Jakarta, the Bintangs community has been one of the few constants, providing much-needed ‘normality’ when life has been anything but normal.

I’ve played a lot of footy and been involved in a lot of footy clubs over the years, but the Bintangs’ culture is unique. From my experience, most clubs have cliques. It’s only natural. Younger guys tend to hang out together, while older blokes with families usually find common cause. Often, it’s the gun players at the core, while the less skilful occupy the periphery. Not so the Tangs. Every individual, regardless of age, nationality or paucity of physical prowess, is embraced by the collective. If you also happen to be able to kick a Sherrin, that’s a bonus. As long as you contribute to the club, enjoy a beer and join in the friendly banter, you are welcomed by all with open arms. That’s the Bintangs way.

Football festivities aside, the relative calm has also induced a subterranean rift between the long-timers like us and those who have joined the Embassy in the last twelve months. Some of the ‘newbies’ have voiced their dislike of the security measures still in place. As Kristan has been charged with enforcing the rules, this non-compliance is really starting to grate on her nerves. The rest of us long-timers just roll our eyes.

In any case, this relatively benign security environment has given staff, including me, time to actually… think. Yep, that long-forgotten art of sitting back and pondering deeply about the big things in life: family, world peace, will the Blues ever win another flag, my career.

On the last point, one issue has recently come to dominate my thinking: I’ve only got a year left at post. Have I made a difference? What will be my legacy? After my nearly two and half years here, I fear all I’ll be remembered for is being in the wrong place at the wrong time, on multiple occasions.

So much to do and so little time. Best I put that thinking cap on.

‘I’ve got it!’ I shout as I walk into Ben’s office.

‘You’ve got it?’ a typically laid-back Ben responds, scarcely feigning interest.

‘I mean… I think I’ve worked out a way to influence the Indos on their new mining law.’

‘Yeah, well… good luck with that.’

The draft of Indonesia’s new mining law is still tied up in the Indonesian Parliament. Worryingly, intelligence gleaned from my parliamentary contacts in Komisi VII indicates the new draft law will do away with the current tried-and-tested system in favour of one that will require all foreign mining companies to divest their shares to local interests over a certain period of time.

Cue frantic calls by increasingly worried Australian mining companies to Canberra. All want the same thing – for the Embassy to pull out all the stops to ensure the new draft never becomes law or, at the very least, is amended to be more foreign investor–friendly.

For us, there’s currently no bigger issue.

For months, I’ve been dutifully banging my head against a brick wall imploring key members of Komisi VII to heed the concerns of Australian miners. But now…

‘We’ve been telling the Indonesians for ages that Australia has the best mining sector in the world. And if they had similar laws in place, it would unlock the potential of their own. Correct?’

Ben gives a short nod.

‘Well, how about we take them to see it? In person! There’s nothing better than seeing something with your own eyes.’

‘What? Take Komisi VII to Oz?’ Ben responds incredulously.

‘Yep! Well, at least to WA. That’d be easiest.’

‘You’re losing it.’

Sure. On the face of it, it sounds crazy… and in any case, who will fund it?

Initially, I flag my ‘groundbreaking’ idea with Canberra, but get short shrift. If the Australian mining sector wants to impress the Indonesians, Canberra argues, then let them fund it. It’s a valid argument. So I approach the Jakarta-based representatives of Australia’s two big miners, BHP and Rio Tinto. And get short shrift again.

But I am nothing if not persistent.

The next time I catch up with BHP’s Jakarta-based rep, I subtly drop into the conversation that Rio has warmed to my idea. So much so, they were thinking of hosting a visit to Paraburdoo, their mining base in the heart of the Pilbara. Within days, an email from BHP pops up in my inbox expressing the company’s support for the visit, on the proviso the ‘Big Australian’ can host the delegation at its Nickel West smelter, just south of Kalgoorlie.

I am more than happy to accept.

On the first day of my WA mining tour, I bounce out of the lift on the ground floor of the Perth Hyatt, ready for our 5.30am pickup arranged by Rio Tinto. As I make my way around the grand marble fountain that dominates the hotel lobby, I lay eyes on a large assembly of Indonesian gentlemen milling around the front entrance. Nearly all are decked out in Indonesian safari suits – standard attire for an Indonesian parliamentarian. What does raise an eyebrow, though, are the hats most are wearing – Crocodile Dundee Akubra hats – croc teeth and all! I can’t wait to see the looks on the faces of the Rio Tinto welcoming committee as this mob descends the stairs onto the tarmac at Paraburdoo.

A couple of hours later, as we cross the baking tarmac, shimmering under the hot mid-December sun, looks of polite bemusement are discernible on the faces of the Rio Tinto representatives waiting to greet us.

The Indonesians are not worried, not one iota. They are too busy struggling to take in their new surrounds. More accustomed to the lush green rainforests, rice fields or jungles of the archipelago, they are obviously bewildered by the sparse landscape and high-octane colours of the Pilbara, at which they stare in jaw-dropped amazement.

It’s not until the delegation visits the company’s nearby Paraburdoo, Eastern Range and Mount Channar iron-ore mines and associated processing facilities that the scale of the big Anglo-Australian mining giant’s operations in the region becomes apparent. Queries fly thick and fast as the inquisitive parliamentarians bombard the Rio staff with questions on everything from production outputs and processing techniques to just plain, ‘Where does it all go?’

During a short briefing on the Mount Channar operations, on the trip out to the mine site, one of the delegation interrupts the Rio Tinto guide. ‘Excuse me, Pak,’ he asks respectfully, ‘what’s that?’ He points out the window to a dusty white elevated tube of some sort running alongside the length of the road.

‘Oh, that,’ the guide answers nonchalantly. ‘It’s a conveyor belt.’

‘A conveyor belt?’ is the Indonesian’s perplexed response. I’m just as perplexed.

‘Yep, inside that thing is a conveyor belt. It carries ore from Mount Channar to Paraburdoo, where it is loaded onto trains for transport to the coast. Better and cheaper than using trucks.’

It must be the longest conveyor belt in the world. We are in the middle of nowhere, kilometres from Paraburdoo, barrelling down a long stretch of road, the end of which lies somewhere over the horizon.

‘Wow… Itu tidak bisa dipercaya,’ the parliamentarian stammers in wide-eyed amazement. (That’s unbelievable.) ‘But, Pak,’ he says, a serious frown now replacing his previous puzzled look, ‘someone could just break in and take it.’

‘Take it? And do what?’ the Rio Tinto guide smiles. ‘It’s not a lump of gold. And even if it was, we’re over four hundred kilometres from the coast.’

He’s got a point. Looking out the window, the sunbaked red-brown earth and low-lying scrub of the Pilbara stretches as far as the eye can see. The pan-flat desolate vista is only broken by the ridges of the Hamersley Ranges jutting up into the clear blue skies. Any would-be thief would need more than a dose of good luck to escape, or even survive, in such inhospitable environs.

The remainder of the day is spent touring Rio’s massive iron-ore processing and rail loading facility at its main Paraburdoo mine. Ore is loaded here and transported on its own dedicated rail line over 400 kilometres to the port of Dampier, for export to the world. And this is only one line of Rio’s sprawling Pilbara rail network. The whole operation spans over 1700 kilometres, crisscrossing the Pilbara with its web of spur lines and interconnecting junctions. The trains themselves are some of the longest on the planet, stretching kilometres.

The Indonesians shake their heads in disbelief.

By the time we board our plane for the flight back to Perth, I can tell from the smiles and excited natter that the visit has delivered in spades. I’ve also been blown away by the scale and sophistication of Rio’s Paraburdoo mining operations.

It’s one thing to hear about it, but quite another to see it in all its entrepreneurial glory.

BHP takes a more subtle approach. Their leg of the tour starts with a visit to the company’s impressive headquarters in Perth’s CBD, where a senior BHP representative gives a high-level but informative presentation detailing the company’s extensive iron-ore and other mining operations across the vast state.

We then fly west to visit BHP’s extensive nickel smelting and processing operation at Nickel West, just south of the famous old mining town of Kalgoorlie. The low-grade and high-grade nickel sulphide ores are mined, blended and concentrated at three different locations before being transported to Nickel West, where the facility’s flash furnace smelts the concentrate to produce nickel matte. This is then sent via rail to BHP’s nickel refinery at Kwinana, hundreds of kilometres away, south of Perth, where it is turned into premium nickel briquettes and powder for export to overseas customers.

No visit to Kalgoorlie would be complete without a quick stop at the town’s world-famous Fimiston Super Pit. The Super Pit is Australia’s largest open-cut goldmine and dominates the south-eastern edge of town. From the viewing platform high up on the rim of the mine, the jaws of the delegation drop at their first glimpse of the enormous, oblong-shaped trench: 3.5 kilometres long, 1.5 kilometres wide and over 600 metres deep. We make a quick sojourn into the pit itself for a briefing and tour of the mine’s operations delivered by representatives of Barrick Gold and Newmont Mining, the joint owners of the mine.

The day is completed with a quick tour of the historical town itself, accompanied by amusing and ribald stories of Kalgoorlie’s salacious past from the bus driver. An hour later, we are boarding our plane to Perth and I know I couldn’t have done more. Will it influence the thinking and deliberations of the Komisi VII members as they debate and finalise the draft of the new mining law? Only time will tell.

Chapter 15 Boys’ Own Adventure

Bloody hell, another ministerial visit!

It’s early January 2007 and I’ve just got off the phone with Karen, the minister-counsellor (Political & Economic), who replaced Michelle just over a year ago. She just rang to tell me that Downer is coming in early March to attend a counterterrorism conference in Jakarta. Downer was only here in November. How are we supposed to get on with our jobs if every couple of months one minister or another pops into Jakarta or Bali?

I get it. Ministerial visits are a natural part of big and complicated bilateral relationships. And as Australian bilateral relationships go, they don’t come much bigger or more complicated than with Indonesia. But the relentless succession of official visits is taxing. Moreover, this time Downer will be accompanied by the attorney-general, Philip Ruddock.

Without a doubt, Downer’s visits are the most trying. He and his advisers are seriously demanding, placing huge stresses on Embassy resources, both in the lead-up to and during his visits. As with all Downer visits, Karen said he will be tacking on a side visit while he is in Indonesia. But unlike previous visits, this time it will be two. One to JCLEC in Semarang before the conference, and one to Yogyakarta after. Karen wants me to look after the Yogya leg.

JCLEC is the Jakarta Centre for Law Enforcement Cooperation, based in Semarang, Central Java. It was established as an Australian Government–funded joint initiative between the Indonesian National Police and the AFP in 2004 to provide training to Indonesian and regional law-enforcement officers on combating terrorism and other transnational crimes.

But I refuse to let the unwelcome news ruin my day. Sam and Callum arrive tomorrow. A couple of days later, we’ll head to Bali for a holiday, along with Kristan’s parents, Gerry and Val, who have been staying with us since Christmas. I’ve booked a large serviced villa in Canggu for a week.

After Bali, the boys and I will head off on our own little adventure to Malang in East Java, via Surabaya.

The villa in Canggu proves to be the perfect base from which to explore Bali’s many treasures. Tucked away to the north of the overcrowded tourist areas of Kuta and Seminyak, it provides a convenient location for day trips to the layered rice fields and lush valleys of Ubud, as well as the mystical Hindu temples and soaring cliffs of Uluwatu. At night, it affords a relaxing and restful sanctuary for family meals and drinks by the pool. From my many trips to l’île des Dieux (the Isle of the Gods) over the past couple of years, I’ve come to appreciate the island’s many charms, as well as the undeniably magical vibe of the place. Oh, and the people are just wonderful.

I have another, more primal reason for loving my trips to Bali – bacon. As Indonesia is a largely Muslim country, pig products are extremely difficult to procure. They can only be found in Bali and majority-Christian areas of the country. For bacon lovers like me, this is an immense frustration. All we have to sate our cravings is ‘beef’ bacon. As pale imitations go, this one makes Chinese knock-off Gucci bags look like works of art. Every time I visit Bali, I make up for my bacon deficiency by gorging myself on lashings of the crispy, oily, fried strips of the stuff. And this trip has been, gratifyingly, no different.

The eight of us have a great time. The only blemish on what is otherwise a fantastic, relaxing holiday occurs on our second-last night. We wake to find a number of our electronic gadgets missing, including my personal laptop. A mad search of the villa fails to quell the growing sinking feeling in my stomach – we’ve been robbed. What’s worse, it happened while we were asleep. Being burgled is bad enough. The thought of a bunch of criminals wandering the house while my children slept rekindles past fears of Islamic Jihadists entering my Jakarta home through the roof.

My last night on the Isle of the Gods turns out to be a sleepless one.

The next day, Val and Gerry fly back to Melbourne. Kristan and the ‘little ones’ return to Jakarta. And the ‘big boys’ and I head off to Surabaya.

Surabaya is a large, bustling port city on the east coast of Java. A sprawling metropolis, it’s Indonesia’s second-largest city and a key financial, commercial, industrial and transportation hub. Notwithstanding its vibrancy and economic importance, after the idyllic serenity of Bali I can’t wait to get out of it.

Early the next morning, a pre-booked Kijang organised through our hotel in Malang picks us up at our hotel for the 140-kilometre journey through the winding back roads of East Java to Malang. It’s going to be a long and bumpy two-hour drive, something I usually wouldn’t relish. On this occasion, though, I’m a touch excited as we will be passing through the small town of Sidoarjo, just south of Surabaya.

Normally, the thought of passing through a small, nondescript Indonesian village wouldn’t arouse much interest. But Sidoarjo has recently become famous, for all the wrong reasons. In May last year, a mud volcano, the largest in the world, erupted on the outskirts of the town. At the height of its eruption, the volcano was spewing 180,000 cubic metres of mud per day. While the rate of flow has since subsided, every day mud continues to gush forth, and is expected to for the next twenty-five to thirty years. Already it has swamped the nearby village, destroying hundreds of homes and devouring hectares of agricultural land. In an effort to stem the mud tide, the local government hastily constructed levees, with some initial success. However, new levees are already needed.

What makes this disaster particularly wretched is that it appears it could have been avoided. Early reports sheeted home responsibility for the mud volcano to a blowout in a natural-gas well being drilled by PT Lapindo Brantas. While I’m definitely not an expert in the field of oil or gas drilling, my understanding is the drill operators didn’t provide sufficient steel casing to protect the well bore during the drilling process.

For their part, Lapindo Brantas officials blame an earthquake that occurred some 260 kilometres away in Yogyakarta province. The 6.4 magnitude earthquake was a disaster in itself, killing thousands of people and leaving hundreds of thousands homeless. While experts have largely dismissed the earthquake theory, it has gained one vocal supporter – Aburizal Bakrie, the billionaire businessman currently serving, ironically, as Indonesia’s coordinating minister for People’s Welfare. Why has Bakrie voiced support for the earthquake theory? Who am I to speculate? But the fact his family firm – the Bakrie Group – has a controlling stake in Lapindo Brantas does give food for thought.

It’s a surprisingly quick trip on the jalan tol (toll road) from our hotel in downtown Surabaya to the site of the mud volcano on the outskirts of Sidoarjo. A short detour and we arrive at the foot of a giant dirt levee. I climb to the top, boys in tow. Crowning the crest, I’m immediately stopped in my tracks by the scene of utter devastation laid out before me. As far as the eye can see, in all directions, is mud. A vast sea of the greyish-brown stuff. And it stinks… like pungent rotten eggs. Nearly enough to make me gag.

‘Shit!’ is the one-word expletive that explodes from Sam’s mouth as he joins me on the top of the levee, his eyes wide with disbelieving shock. Sam’s use of such language takes me a bit by surprise. But it’s hard to find a more apt exclamation to sum up the gut-wrenching view.

‘Aw, this stinks,’ is Callum’s less vulgar but equally accurate statement, as he joins us, covering his nose and mouth.

In a flash, they are scampering back down the levee to the road below. I’m rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the sheer scale of the disaster before me. The tops of leafless trees dot the landscape, their souls sucked dry by the life-sapping sludge. In the distance, I see the roofs of houses poking up through the mud like small islands of refuge in a vast wasteland of desolation. I slowly shake my head in disbelief as I imagine the horror inflicted on the villagers as the mud slowly but remorselessly submerged their life’s possessions. In the middle of the patchwork of roofs stands a white minaret and the dome-capped roof of what once was the village mosque, it too completely consumed by the sea of sediment.

What a catastrophe.

‘Dad! Dad!’ Callum impatiently calls from below. ‘Can we leave? This place really stinks!’

‘Yes, mate, coming now. Get in the car.’

With that, I take one last look. Twice now I have witnessed firsthand the unbridled, destructive power of nature’s wrath unleashed. First in Aceh, and now here in East Java. The former was unavoidable; the latter possibly not.

High up in the hills, with a mild climate, Malang was a popular holiday destination for the Dutch colonists seeking to escape the dank humidity of Surabaya. Their legacy is beautiful colonial buildings and wide tree-lined boulevards: perfect for becak racing!

We arrive at our hotel just after lunch, dump our gear and head out to explore the town. We hire becaks (tricycle rickshaws) and spend the afternoon racing each other from attraction to attraction.

By the time we get back to the hotel late in the afternoon, the boys are flagging. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow I have booked a sunrise tour of Mount Bromo. From all reports, the view of the active volcano as the sun breaks over the tip of the surrounding Tengger crater wall is absolutely stunning. The Tengger crater was formed around 45,000 years ago from the eruption of the ancient Tengger volcano. Four active volcanos have emerged inside the resulting caldera, of which Mount Seribu (3676 metres) is the tallest and Mount Bromo (2329 metres) the smallest.

The only downside is we have to leave our hotel by 3.30am to see it. It’d better not be cloudy.

As luck would have it, we wake next morning to a clear, star-filled night sky. The boys aren’t thrilled to leave their beds, but after a bit of coaxing and showers to wake them up, we eventually make it to the lobby to board our waiting jeep.

It’s a winding, bumpy three-hour-plus ride to the summit of Mount Penanjakan, a 2700-metre mountain on the edge of the Tengger crater. Penanjakan is widely regarded as providing the best sweeping views down into the caldera and of the active Mount Bromo volcano itself. Given its location, it’s also known for providing the best vista of the famous Bromo sunrise.

When we arrive, it’s still pitch-black. Ten minutes later, the black of night gradually starts yielding to the new day’s dawn. This sparks a flurry of activity and noise, as tourists jostle to occupy and hold the best vantage points to witness the first rays of sunshine brighten the sky over the eastern ridge of the crater.

The unfolding beauty of the sunrise quells the rowdier elements of the crowd. Within minutes, all are mesmerised as the day’s first light slowly unveils Java’s tallest peak, Mount Seribu, a small puff of smoke emanating from its cone.

But that is merely an entree. More light reveals the remarkable sight of mist flowing over the outer ridges of the caldera into the broad plain of the crater below, like water rushing over the edge of a waterfall. Soon the spherical cinder cone of the inactive Mount Batok bares itself, rising up through the fog shrouding the crater floor. And, finally, just behind Mount Batok, telltale wisps of smoke mark the location of its smaller but more famous active neighbour, Mount Bromo itself.

The whole show takes about ten minutes and is absolutely stunning.

A bunch of photos later, we pile back into our jeep for the short trip to Pura Luhur Poten, a Hindu temple on the floor of the Tengger caldera at the foot of Mount Bromo. The Pura Luhur Poten is a place of worship for the Tengger Hindus. The Tengger Hindu community follows a Hindu tradition stretching back to the Majapahit Empire. Strong similarities exist between the Hinduism of Bali and of the Tengger; both are called Hindu Dharma. For the Tengger, Mount Bromo is believed to be a holy mountain.

To reach the Pura Luhur Poten, we first must cross a sea of sand called the Laut Pasir Tengger (Tengger Sand Sea), which stretches for 5250 hectares across the length of the Tengger caldera. As we cross the Laut Pasir Tengger, all I can see is fog and grey sand. It’s other-worldly – more moonscape than tropical eastern Java. We traverse this unique natural phenomenon for fifteen minutes before the fog parts to reveal a large open space crowded with jeeps, four-wheel-drive minibuses, people and horses! An incongruous sight if ever I have seen one! As we get closer, I discern the outlines of a low-lying structure rising behind the hive of activity: the Hindu temple – a bit of Bali in eastern Java.

Our tour guide stops the jeep, tells us to wait, then jumps out of the car and sprints off. A short while later, he reappears with three Indonesian men, each with a horse in tow. Instantly my nerves start to jangle. While I’m no expert on equines, even I can tell this particular cohort are just a tad mangy. And I’m slightly allergic to animal hair. Sure, I’ve ridden horses in the past, but the look of these horses… hmm.

When we’re all safely aboard, the three elderly horse-owners start leading us towards the foot of the trail. It’s a bumpy, smelly, flea-ridden ride. By the time we reach a set of stairs rising the short distance to the top of the crater, I can’t wait to get off. The novelty has worn off for the boys too.

While the walk isn’t long, I’m absolutely gasping for air by the time we reach the top. As I suck in some much-needed oxygen, I take a quick look around the summit of the volcano. There’s just a short, metre-long iron railing, leading to a metre-wide dirt path that circles the sharp rim of the volcano. From our precarious vantage point, we can peer right into Bromo’s smouldering heart. The crater’s rock-strewn sides descend into a cracked, lava-encrusted mouth, billowing clouds of thick white steam. It’s all rather dramatic, and a tad nerve-racking. One slip and there’s no coming back. The lad in me is exhilarated; the father in me is terrified.

‘Boys, stay close to me,’ I nervously blurt, grabbing each by the hand.

Not that the boys seem to care. They are totally captivated. Several photos later, including a priceless one of the three of us sitting on the lip, and it’s time to head back down.

At the jeep, I settle into my seat for the long return trip to Malang. About thirty minutes into our trip, I feel a slight irritation in both eyes, like a bit of grit has found its way under my eyelids. I rub them both but, less than a minute later, the discomfort returns, this time with a stinging sensation. Soon my eyes are watering and I feel an increasing reluctance to blink.

And then it hits me. Fuck. Animal hair.

Through squinting, watery eyes, I start rummaging around in my backpack for the bottle of water I’ve been carrying. I frantically unscrew the lid, place the mouth of the bottle over my right eye and tilt my head back, eye blinking. Water gushes down my face, splashing all over the front of my shirt. Ignoring the mess, I repeat the dose for my left eye.

And so it goes… all the way back to Malang.

By the time we reach the hotel, the boys are freaking out. Despite my best efforts, my swollen red eyes have puffed up to the point where I can hardly see out of either. For the boys, it’s a terrifying sight. And I’m starting to feel anxious. I’ve started feeling a tightness in my chest, accompanied by a shortness of breath and wheezing. Not good.

Back in our room, I collapse on the bed, covering my face in a cold wet towel. Shortly after, I hear a knock on the door. It’s the hotel manager. My distress did not go unnoticed by the front-desk receptionist. The manager rushes off, returning shortly after with antihistamine tablets. I grab the tablets and wash them down with a big gulp of water.

When I feel no relief after ten minutes, I start to the fear the worst. Callum, with the utmost rationality, insists Sam immediately ring Kristan to arrange a helicopter medevac back to Jakarta! Sam, rightly, points out that such a feat would most likely be beyond even Kristan’s immense logistical superpowers.

The swelling starts to subside, along with the tightness in my chest, and after a good hour or so my eyes return to normal, save for a couple of big, droopy bags under my bottom eyelids. That was close, I can’t help but think. Sufficiently recovered, I go in search of the front receptionist and the hotel manager – both of whom I need to thank. Without them, a rather unpleasant outcome could have easily eventuated.

Chapter 16 Kismet

I stare into my monitor at work, struggling to summon the requisite energy to clear the emails clogging my inbox. My once boundless pools of patience and tolerance when it comes to ministerial visits have been drained dry. Snowed under at work, my recent adventures in eastern Java have already faded into distant memory.

The one saving grace is I’m only responsible for the Yogya leg of Downer’s visit. A short, half-day sojourn. My colleague Michael from the Political Section is responsible for coordinating the main Jakarta leg of Downer’s visit. By comparison, I’ve got off lightly.

That being said, while a fair chunk of the visit arrangements are locked in, a critical component remains up in the air – a requested meeting with Sri Sultan Hamengkubawono X, the governor of Yogyakarta. We’ve got a couple of days, so not quite panic stations… yet.

Arrangements for the centrepiece of the visit, the minister’s speech at the Muhammadiyah University of Yogyakarta (UMY), are proceeding smoothly. UMY is a private university, founded and affiliated with Muhammadiyah, the second-largest Islamic NGO in Indonesia. With over twenty-five million members, Muhammadiyah plays an extremely influential role in Indonesian politics and society.

UMY suffered extensive damage in the 6.4 magnitude earthquake that rocked Yogya last May. Over 5000 people died and over 600,000 lost their homes in the resultant devastation. As in the aftermath of the 2004 tsunami, Australia sent medical teams and pledged significant funds to assist in the reconstruction of critical infrastructure. A large portion of that aid money has been utilised in the reconstruction of buildings on the UMY campus.

Muhammadiyah has invited Downer to address UMY staff and students: an unexpected but warmly received gesture. Furthermore, in a bit of a coup, the chairman of Muhammadiyah, Dr Din Syamsuddin, is making a special trip to Yogya to meet Downer at UMY to express his own gratitude. Dr Syamsuddin is a sought-after man. The fact he’s taking time out of his busy schedule to fly to Yogya for a one-hour meeting with a visiting non-Muslim foreign dignitary is significant.

I’m looking forward to the whole palaver, likely my last ministerial visit, being over. A federal election is due to be called later this year. Domestic political imperatives will soon trump foreign ones, keeping politicians at home.

The cyclone that is Downer and his retinue of advisers has well and truly made landfall in Jakarta. Just to complicate things, he’s brought his wife. This means a separate visit program and a separate visit liaison officer. My good friend Fiona has drawn the short straw on this one.

It’s not just the unlucky visit liaison officer (or in this case, officers) who shoulder the burden of such visits. No, there is usually more than enough pain to go around. And this visit is no exception. Liz, my old friend from the Embassy Media Section and sister in arms from the day of the Embassy bombing, is also being smashed. The Sub-Regional Ministerial Conference on Counter-Terrorism (to use its official title) is a high-profile event. Foreign affairs and law-enforcement ministers from five South-East Asian countries (Indonesia, Thailand, Singapore, Malaysia and the Philippines) and Australia are attending. The purpose is to discuss ways to counter radicalism and prepare for mass-casualty attacks. Weighty and very newsworthy stuff indeed.

Given the size of the Australian delegation to the conference (which also includes Attorney-General Ruddock and AFP Deputy Commissioner John Lawler), and the complex visit itinerary with its side trips to Semarang and Yogya, even Kristan, who is still on maternity leave, has been roped in to coordinate visit logistics. As I said, more than enough pain to go around.

But I’m not thinking about the shared agony of my colleagues as I grab a quick cup of tea in the breakout area adjacent to the main ballroom of the Shangri-La Hotel, the conference venue. It’s early afternoon on the second and last day of the conference. Tomorrow morning, the Downer roadshow will decamp and move to Yogya. To my great relief, the meeting with the sultan has now been locked in, as have the arrangements for his trip to UMY. Why, then, the knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach?

Experience has taught me that you can never be quite sure what’s going to transpire in Indonesia. I’ve had long-planned ministerial meetings cancelled in the car on our way to said meeting with the minister! Fortunately, they were with more junior ministers. God forbid if the same was to occur with Downer. Anyway, you can never take things for granted when it comes to the mercurial unpredictability of this country.

I’ve decided to remain in Jakarta today to attend the conference, instead of flying to Yogya as originally planned. I’ve got a small, trusted team on the ground in Yogya ensuring all the visit arrangements remain on track. This is where all the excitement is, for the moment, and surely I’ll be okay flying in on the first flight tomorrow morning? It’s scheduled to land at 7am, a full two hours before Downer’s RAAF Challenger touches down at nine.

But that’s the thing. With Downer, even the smallest risk can have career-ending consequences. As a wise person once said, ‘It’s better to be safe than sorry.’

Reaching into my suit pocket for my mobile, I dial Kristan and inform her of my change of plans.

Best I adopt a risk-free policy on this one and head straight to Yogya on the first available flight. Fortunately, Kristan is able to get me on a plane departing later this afternoon. It’ll be a rush to get home, pack and then head to the airport, but I should be able to make it.

As I hang up with a grateful sigh, I feel a pat on my shoulder from behind. I turn to find Morgan, my journalist friend from the Australian Financial Review, who I first met in Yogya on language training early last year. Tall, with wavy sandy-coloured hair, Morgan is a good-looking fellow. He’s also eminently likeable – self-confident without being cocksure, quick-witted without being pretentious, an all-round good bloke.

Over the past year, we have caught up over a beer or two to swap insights on the Indonesian economy, among other Indo-related things. Diplomats and journalists are similar – they both chase reliable information to help interpret what’s going on in their neck of the woods.

‘Hey, Morgs, how are ya?’

‘Good, mate. How’s things?’ How many hearts has his handsome face, now breaking into an easy grin, broken? Countless, no doubt.

‘Ah, pretty busy. I’ve been caught up in the Downer visit. It’s a nightmare.’

‘What part are you looking after?’

‘The Yogya leg.’

‘Yogya? I’ve been trying to get on the first flight down tomorrow morning,’ he says, his face suddenly distorted by a worried frown, ‘but it’s all booked out.’

‘Really? Well, I’ve just changed my flight. I was on that one but changed my mind. Now heading down this afternoon. You should get your guys to check again. It’s business class. Not sure if that’s a problem…’

‘Nah, any seat will do.’ His face breaks back into a broad grin. ‘I can go business.’

‘Well, better be quick.’

‘Yeah, fingers crossed.’ He turns, reaching into his suit pocket for his mobile.

‘No worries, mate, let me know how you go,’ I shout as he walks off, phone to ear. ‘If you get a seat, the beers are on you tomorrow night.’

Ensconced in my Suzuki, heading to the airport, my mobile suddenly beeps. It’s a text from Morgan. He’s managed to secure himself a seat in business class on the first flight to Yogya tomorrow morning. Whether it’s my old seat, we’ll never know. Regardless, the beers are on him!

I glance at my watch. Shit! It’s going to be tight. Thankfully, Suryadi’s expert driving has me arriving at the airport in the nick of time. A quick dash through the terminal, coupled with the fact I only have carry-on luggage, means I arrive at the departure gate with a couple of minutes to spare, covered in sweat.

The flight to Yogya is a short one, lasting just over an hour. While it’s been uneventful, past experience has taught me the landing will be anything but. Yogya’s Adisucipto International Airport is infamous among air travellers in Indonesia for its relatively short, bumpy runway. More than once I’ve endured a white-knuckle moment upon landing as the pilot struggles to bring our plane to an improbably quick halt. And I’m a seasoned flyer.

From the shouts and muffled screams emanating around me as we hurtle shuddering down the runway, it appears we have a few ‘Yogya-landing virgins’ on board. Much to everyone’s relief, including the pilot’s, I secretly suspect, our torment is soon over as the plane’s flaps and brakes go to work, biting into the air and tarmac respectively.

Safely on the ground, a sharp beep from my mobile indicates its successful connection to the local telecommunications network. It’s a text from Jane, my Embassy colleague from the Political Section and Attorney-General Ruddock’s VLO. She’s at the Hyatt, our accommodation for the visit, and wants to know where I am. I’m a bit surprised to hear she’s already in Yogya, given Ruddock is still in Jakarta, but agree to catch up for a drink at the hotel bar when I get there.

As my taxi winds along the long driveway leading up to the main lobby of the hotel, I’m struck by how beautiful and tropical the surroundings are. It’s dusk, and the hotel’s exquisitely located landscaping lights are just starting to illuminate and cast their shadows over the lush, perfectly manicured gardens and trees that border the driveway and dot the hotel grounds. Nestled as it is on Yogya’s northern fringe, far from the city centre, we normally wouldn’t stay at the Hyatt for fear of getting stuck in macet while trying to get to meetings in the heart of town. But as Yogya’s airport is located on its outskirts, the Hyatt makes a lot of sense this time around. It should only be a relatively quick fifteen-minute-or-so ride to the airport tomorrow morning to meet our colleagues (and Morgan!) arriving on the first flight from Jakarta.

At the bar, I find Jane propped up, glass of wine in hand, with Kristina, our recently arrived DFAT colleague, who has been doing language training at Wisma Bahasa.

‘How did you manage to escape Jakarta so early?’ I lightheartedly enquire, taking a seat next to Jane at the bar.

‘Ruddock agreed to release me after his last official meeting of the day,’ Jane explains. ‘So I decided to fly down this afternoon to catch up with my best friend,’ she says, smiling at Kristina. ‘After three days running around after Ruddock, I think I deserve a drink.’

Hard to argue with that. ‘No doubt. And I think I deserve one as well.’

Tomorrow promises to be a long day. A couple of quick drinks tonight won’t hurt.

‘Ladies, can I get you anything?’

I wake to my mobile alarm buzzing away happily on the bedside table next to me. Ouch! The behind-the-eyes headache and general fogginess are ample proof of my lifelong inability to say ‘No’ to one more drink. I struggle out of bed, shower, get dressed and eventually look at my phone. There’s a text from Fiona, my Embassy colleague and Mrs Downer’s VLO. She’s missed the 6am flight out of Jakarta. Apparently, her driver didn’t turn up to take her to the airport. She is now trying to get a seat on the next available flight. Good luck with that. The consequences are likely to be dire if she can’t get to Yogya by the time the minister and Mrs Downer’s RAAF jet touches down at nine. Best she prays Mrs Downer is more forgiving than her husband when it comes to such hiccups.

I have a vague recollection of promising to meet Jane for breakfast at 7am, before heading to the airport to meet my Yogya visit team for a planned pre-visit briefing. As I descend the steep flight of stairs into the main bistro area, I can see Jane sitting at a table on the other side of the bistro next to a set of glass doors leading out to the patio dining area.

Walking over to her, I catch a glimpse of Alan, my old mate from Wisma Bahasa days, hovering over the pastry section of the breakfast buffet. I knew he was in town to help with the planned visit to UMY and the meeting with Dr Syamsuddin, but I didn’t realise he was also staying at the Hyatt.

I grab a plate and walk over to join him. ‘Spoiled for choice?’ I say, slapping him on the back.

‘Hi, Grant. Well, all I see is a sea of calories. Have you seen these glazed donuts?’

Plates fully laden, we start walking over to where Jane is sitting. But before we have a chance to take our seats, frantic calls of ‘Pak! Pak!’ pierce the convivial atmosphere. It’s Monica, one of the Embassy’s local staff, in Yogya to help with the visit logistics. She is flustered and panicky as she rapidly descends the stairs.

‘Pak! The plane. It’s crashed,’ she blurts out, a distant, shocked look in her eyes.

‘What?’

‘Yes, Pak. Frans called me. Said the plane has crashed.’

‘Bloody hell,’ I murmur in stunned disbelief. ‘Monica? Can you get one of the drivers to pick us up out front?’ I turn to Alan and Jane. ‘We’ve gotta go.’ Both respond with a short nod of the head.

They don’t need to say anything. I know what’s racing through their minds. The same thing that’s running through mine. Our colleagues.

By the time we reach the hotel’s front entrance, an Embassy vehicle is waiting for us.

‘Are you going to let the Embassy know?’ Jane asks as we jump into the back of the car.

‘Yep,’ I respond nervously. ‘I’ll give Karen a quick call.’

It’s difficult. Karen is perplexed and disbelieving when I tell her the news. She wants more information, which I don’t have. In her defence, she is with the ambassador and minister, preparing to head to the airport to fly to Yogya. When she breaks the news to them, they will demand answers.

Before I ring her back, I’ll need to find out more information.

I fall back into my seat. Crashed? Surely not. Maybe it’s just blown a tyre on landing? Or the plane’s belly-flopped? But I can’t ignore the queasiness building in the pit of my gut.

Indonesia has a terrible aviation safety record. Just a couple of months ago, an Adam Air 737 crashed into the Makassar Strait, killing all 102 passengers, the latest in a long list of air disasters.

‘Shit!’ Jane’s expletive jolts me back to the present. ‘Can’t get hold of either Liz or Brice.’ Her fearful look reflects my own unspoken fears. Liz O’Neill, the Embassy media liaison officer and my good friend, and Brice Steele, the recently arrived commander of the AFP contingent in Indonesia. They were both on the plane.

‘Berapa lama ke bandara, Pak?’ Alan asks the driver impatiently. (How long to the airport?)

‘Sekitar sepuluh, Pak.’ (About ten.)

‘Lebih cepat, Pak, lebih cepat!’ (Faster, faster!)

Whether it’s the early hour or the maniacal driving, we arrive at the airport well inside the ten-minute guesstimate. As we pull up at the entrance to the VIP reception area, to the left of the main terminal building, the place looks and feels calm. There are no ambulances, no police cars, just a large group of people milling about the entrance to the main terminal.

But as I alight from the car, I hear the unmistakable whines of sirens, far off in the distance. And there is a palpable sense of tension in the air. Airports generally have a festive, excited feel as loved ones are welcomed home or dear ones depart for far-off adventures. Not today. The general backdrop is one of nervous murmurings and muffled chatter, interspersed with the odd despairing wail.

A couple of Embassy colleagues, part of the logistics team supporting the Downer visit, push through the small crowd, anxious looks on their faces. The first to reach me is Frans, who initially called Monica to inform her of the crash.

‘Pak, it’s very bad,’ is his blunt assessment. ‘The plane crash at end of runway. Big crash.’

‘Okay, Frans, I know. Monica told me.’ My worst fears confirmed. ‘Can you show me where the plane is? Where is the plane, Frans?’

We rush past a couple of worried-looking female waitresses hovering near the concierge desk, cross the empty VIP reception area and then burst through a set of glass doors onto the tarmac. Immediately a fire truck, lights blazing and siren blaring, flashes past. My eyes follow the fire truck as it screams away into the distance.

And then I see it. About a kilometre away. In the direction the fire truck is travelling. Big, black billowing clouds of it. Smoke.

Chapter 17 Denial’s No Longer an Option

‘Fuck!’ I scream. ‘Deep breath. Suck ’em in. Deep breath,’ I say under my breath, head swimming. ‘Fuck!’ I scream again, part in anger, part in despair.

Just as I feel the urge to scream again, a feeling of calm washes over me. The fog of pain clouding my brain lifts, bringing a clarity of thought and much-needed reason.

I’ve got dear friends and colleagues on that plane. Who knows if they are dead, injured or have survived unscathed. Regardless, they need me. I have to get to that plane, asap.

I turn and head back into the VIP reception area, Frans trailing behind.

At the front entrance, we find chaos bordering on bedlam. In the short time we’ve been gone, all hell has broken lose. Outside the main terminal building, a few short metres away, a heaving, unruly mass of shocked, panicked humanity has gathered. Shrieks and howls of tortured grief emanate from small groups of women, their arms flailing in anguish. Uniformed men swarm the area, barking orders in a desperate attempt to exert some semblance of control.

I find my colleagues huddled in a tight group next to one of the Embassy Kijangs.

‘Okay, everyone. Listen up.’

I give them the cold, hard facts, and get cold, hard silence in return. I conclude by telling them I’m going to go to the plane to check on our colleagues, but they are to remain here until I return. This request is also greeted with stunned silence.

‘Alan,’ I say, looking my friend straight in the eyes, ‘mate, I need you to stay here to coordinate things.’ My mind has flipped into crisis-management mode. ‘Maybe find a room or something.’

I’ve no idea what awaits me at the end of the runway, but if my worst fears are confirmed, we’re going to need to set up some form of crisis control room to coordinate our on-ground response and manage the information flow.

Alan responds with a short nod of the head. ‘Yep, sure.’

I give Karen another quick call, confirming the plane does appear to have crashed but I’m unsure of the status of our colleagues. I advise her of my intention to head to the crash site to find out what’s going on. She asks that I keep her closely informed of developments as they unfold.

I take off my suit jacket and untie the knot of my tie, throwing both on the back seat of the Kijang. As I do so, I hear a voice call out, ‘Grant!’ It’s Jane. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘I’m not sure about that. Best you stay here.’

‘Maybe. But they are my friends too.’ From the firm tone of her voice, I sense there’s no use arguing.

At the glass doors leading onto the tarmac, I pause for a split second.

‘You okay?’ comes Jane’s voice from behind.

‘Yep, I’m okay.’ Truth is, I’m far from it. How could I be? The sense of deja vu is nearly overwhelming.

On the tarmac, the smoke in the distance is noticeably blacker and thicker, the sirens and lights noticeably louder and brighter. I start a slow jog down the taxiway adjacent to the runway, but soon find myself building to full stride. Part of me is absolutely shitting myself; the other part is being drawn towards the mayhem like a moth to a flame.

Heart pounding, full stride quickly turns into a flat-out sprint. A yelp from behind brings my dash to a sudden halt. I look and see Jane sprawled on the taxiway. I turn to offer some help, but she waves me away with a plea: ‘Keep going! Keep going!’

Quickly regaining my stride, my eyes are drawn to a tangled clump of metal in the grass a short distance away. At first, I can’t make out exactly what it is, but as I get closer I can discern two shredded tyres among the debris. The plane’s nose carriage! It must have collapsed on landing, sending its shattered remnants into the neighbouring grass field as the plane careened down the runway. For those on board, the sudden dive of the plane’s nose into the tarmac, coupled with the resultant violence, must have been terrifying.

I look towards the end of the runway, still some hundreds of metres in the distance, and continue my determined journey down the taxiway. My legs become heavy, the heat from the hot sun radiating off the tarmac, draining my energy. At regular intervals, military vehicles and ambulances flash past on the runway, lights flashing, sirens piercing the humid air.

Approaching the end of the taxiway, I catch a whiff of pungent, toxic smoke. Covering my nose, I slow to a walk and then stop at the tarmac’s edge. I’m exhausted and sweating profusely, my formerly crisp white business shirt clinging to my sweat-soaked body. Fifty metres away, fire trucks, ambulances and military vehicles have converged into a tight knot, with people running about in every direction. It’s one large, chaotic mess.

A sharp cry of ‘Grant! Grant!’ grabs my attention. I turn to see Jane clattering towards me in her stilettos. Her red, exhausted face displays quiet resolve, but the wide-eyed stare with which she greets me betrays another, barely contained emotion. Fear.

Side by side, we step off the tarmac onto the soft grass verge. Even with Jane’s stilettos, we make good progress and are soon engulfed by the chaotic melee. Most of the activity appears to be concentrated around a large hole in the perimeter fence, torn by the plane as it careened off the runway. We consider exiting through this gap ourselves but are quickly forced to reassess this option when we discover the opening is being used by rescue personnel as the primary delivery point for assistance to those at the crash site. I spot a small, partially collapsed section of the fence away from the main area of activity to my left. In less than a minute, we both scale the unstable wire fence, landing safely on the other side.

We now find ourselves confronted with a scene even more tumultuous. Below us, a twin-lane bitumen road separates the airport from the paddy fields beyond. It’s clogged with cars, ambulances, taxis, mopeds, military personnel, paramedics and bystanders – all mixed together in a leaderless mass. A couple of men in military uniform walk around, arms waving, shouting instructions ineffectually. Utter bedlam.

A medical triage area has been established on one portion of the road, where paramedics are busy tending to the wounds of several injured survivors. Heartbreakingly, the ambulances can’t reach it due to all the congestion. Adding to this general sense of pandemonium, the road is strewn with multiple fire hoses supplying precious foam to the firefighters desperately trying to extinguish the flames rapidly engulfing the plane in the paddy field beyond. Foamy water is leaking from holes in several of the hoses.

A loud explosion refocuses my attention. A huge plume of thick black smoke billows into the air from the wreckage of the plane. I scurry down the embankment to the road below, Jane closely behind. We pick our way through the vehicles, up a small slope, over the twisted remains of the wire fence and onto the bank of the paddy field. The long green leaves of the rice plants sway in the light breeze, providing a surreal backdrop to the violence and carnage that lies before us.

For the first time, I have a clear view of the burning, crumpled wreck of Garuda Flight 200. It lies about one hundred metres away, the right side of its damaged fuselage blazing uncontrollably. Airport firefighting units hopelessly spray fire-suppressing foam from their leaking, low-pressure hoses in forlorn attempts to contain the fire’s spread. To my left and right, I can see the plane’s damaged twin engines, shorn from their holdings as the plane cannoned over the embankment before coming to rest in the field. The most astonishing thing I see is the plane’s right wing lying inverted on top of the left wing. It appears to have been severed on impact and tossed over the fuselage as it came to a halt in the paddy field.

Not even covering my nose can prevent the acrid smell of burning fuel penetrating my nostrils.

‘How could anyone have survived?’ I wonder. But miraculously, some have. I just pray my friends and colleagues are among them.

With that thought in mind, I step into the field, instantly sinking up to my shin in sodden mud.

Plodding through the mud, I head towards an Indonesian Air Force officer, resplendent in sky-blue uniform and beret. He appears to hold some form of authority, directing the efforts of a couple of airport firefighting crews spraying foam onto the burning front and middle sections of the plane’s fuselage.

‘Pak! Pak!’ I scream, trying to gain his attention.

Eventually, he turns, clearly annoyed. I explain I’m from the Australian Embassy, which appears to mollify him. I then shout, ‘Adalah semua orang keluar dari pesawat?’ (Is everyone off the plane?)

‘Belum.’ (No.)

My heart sinks. I then ask desperately, ‘Orang asing? Melihat orang asing dari pesawat?’ (Foreigners? Seen any foreigners from the plane?)

‘Ada,’ he says, giving a short nod of the head. ‘Sudah dibawa ke rumah sakit.’ (Already been taken to hospital.) He then turns his back on me, more pressing issues understandably occupying his mind.

My heart has risen just as quickly as it fell. But who? How many?

‘Pak! Pak!’ I yell, trying to regain his attention. ‘Berapa, Pak? Berapa?’ (How many?) But to no avail.

Frustrated, I turn to Jane, who by now is standing right next to me. I tell her to try to ring Liz and Brice again, and also Allison, our Embassy colleague from AusAID, who I know to have been on the plane as well. And then it hits me. Maybe my colleagues weren’t the only foreigners on the plane. I know Morgan, for one, was on board. Maybe there were others? I need a manifest, posthaste.

I call Karen, who answers after one ring. Before I have a chance to say anything, she’s bombarding me with questions. ‘How bad is it? Has anyone been hurt? Have you seen them yet?’

As she pauses to take a breath, I quickly interject to advise the little I know. ‘It doesn’t look good. It’s likely some have been injured, if not worse.’

She says nothing and I break the uncomfortable pause with a request for a passenger manifest, asap, and the rationale for it. Apart from our colleagues, it’s quite possible other Australians were on the flight. ‘Yep, will get straight onto it,’ is her subdued response.

As I hang up from Karen, I receive a call from Alan. He’s also eager for an update. And it’s good timing, given my recent intel.

‘I’ve just been told injured foreigners from the plane have been taken to hospital. We don’t know who they are or which hospital.’ The sense of urgency in my voice betrays my growing feeling of desperation. ‘We need to get people out to all the hospitals to find out what’s going on. Start with the hospitals closest to the airport.’

‘Okay, will do. But there’s only a couple of us here, so it might take a while to get around to all the hospitals.’

‘Give Kristina a call. She’s around. And there might be others. AusAID have a bunch of people on the ground here as well.’

‘Yeah, okay. Leave it with me. Will buzz you as soon as I hear anything.’

It’s only early, and Alan’s hardly the cavalry, but already I feel a small weight lift from my shoulders.

A loud explosion makes me wince, sharply reminding me of the inherent danger here. And then, for the first time, I hear something else, something faint but unmistakable, bone-chilling. Screams. The agonised wails of passengers burning to death, trapped in their seats, unable to escape the hellish maelstrom of fire that has engulfed their plane.

I feel ill. A queasiness begins to build in my stomach as the chaos and swarming cacophony of noise threaten to overwhelm me. Heart pounding and stomach churning, I take a deep breath. Eyes closed, I take another. I start saying to myself, over and over, ‘You’ve been here before, you can do it again. You’ve been here before, you can do it again.’

People must still be alive. Maybe it’s Liz? Or Morgan? Maybe it’s both? Or one or more of my other friends trapped inside that burning wreck of the 737. Whoever; somehow people are still alive and need help.

I ask Jane to stay where she is.

The screams appear to be coming from somewhere on the other side of the plane. I know my colleagues were sitting in business class, so I slowly make my way towards the front of the aircraft. Fortunately, a light wind from the east is blowing the fire’s thick black smoke away from the blazing wreck, towards the airport, so I should be able to get close enough to have an unimpeded view into the front section of the aircraft.

The nose section has been obliterated. Nothing remains. The cockpit has been ripped upwards, like the lid of a newly opened steel can, and now lies upside down on top of the business class section. But my eyes aren’t my only sense revealing the full extent of the catastrophe. Interlaced with the smell of burning oil, I can detect something else, even more putrid. And the closer I get, the more intense it becomes.

As I round the destroyed front of the plane, a blast of heat impels me to take a couple of steps backwards. Eyes squinting, I peer into the inferno that once was business class. At first, I struggle to see anything through the tangled wreckage and flames, but slowly I start to discern the source of the putrid smell: the scorched remains of passengers, still strapped in their seats, some so charred it’s impossible to ascertain their sex, let alone their identity. Others, their skin and bones still smouldering. One thing’s for certain, they’re all dead.

Vomit, a long stream of it, erupts from my mouth. Until now, I had been able to quell the nausea swirling in my gut. Tears begin to flow in anguished sobs.

Panicked thoughts of ‘I can’t do this, I can’t do this anymore’ start swirling in my head. Fear’s black hand tightens its grip around my chest.

And I run.

As I come splashing back around the front of the aircraft, I see Jane. She hasn’t moved. ‘You okay?’ she yells frantically.

By the time I respond, I’m next to her. ‘Don’t… don’t go there,’ I plead, hands on knees, gasping for breath, trying to regain some level of composure.

‘What? Why?’

I look up. From Jane’s sunken and swollen eyes, it’s clear the still-audible screams are causing her great distress. She looks close to tears.

‘No use both of us being here.’ It makes no sense for anyone else to have their soul etched with the same scars.

‘Can you help with the hospital search?’ I say. ‘Check with Alan which hospitals still need to be searched? Can you do that?’

‘Yep.’ Jane nods, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘But are you going to be okay?’

‘Yeah, I’ll be right.’ I’m smiling unconvincingly, struggling to keep my emotions in check.

Looking sad but a touch relieved, Jane turns and starts trudging off through the field back towards the road. Watching her go, a strong urge to follow suddenly engulfs me. I take one step, then stop. As much as I want to leave this wretched place, someone’s got to remain. There’s still too much we don’t know about the fate of our colleagues and friends. I’m not going anywhere until everyone has been accounted for.

For the next ten minutes, I rush around asking any official I can find whether they have information on foreigners rescued from the plane. I start with those near the crash site, before plodding my way across the paddy field towards the road. As I do so, I recognise the silhouette of someone coming in the other direction. It’s Hotlan, one of the Embassy drivers sent to Yogya to support the visit logistics.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask as he approaches me.

Through a wry smile, he responds nonchalantly, ‘I thought you might need some help, Pak.’

‘Help? You bet. Terima kasih banyak, Pak.’ At the very least, his excellent bilingual language skills will come in very handy at some point.

And I don’t have to wait long. A newly arrived firefighting crew has been unfurling their hoses close by. From their uniforms, they appear to be from the city fire brigade. All set up, they turn their hoses on.

‘What the fuck are they doing?’ I scream, absolutely stunned. ‘Hotlan, tell them to turn their hoses off!’

‘I don’t understand, Pak,’ Hotlan responds.

‘They’re spraying water on the fire, for God’s sake,’ I say, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘You don’t spray water on an oil fire. All that does is spread the fire. They need foam. Where the fuck’s the foam?’

Yelling ‘Berhenti! Berhenti!’ and frantically waving my arms, I start splashing through the mud towards the firefighters. I am totally ignored.

Hotlan trudges through the mud ahead of me and is soon in heated debate with one of the firefighters. I have no hope of following the conversation, but from Hotlan’s shaking head I suspect it’s not going well.

Abruptly he turns and, shrugging his shoulders, gives me the gist. ‘Sorry, Pak, but they don’t have any foam. They understand and have requested some be sent.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense!’ I exclaim down the phone. Karen has rung to give me the names of the Australians on the flight. According to the manifest received from the Indonesian authorities, ten Australians were among the 140 passengers and crew. ‘Jane’s not on the plane. She’s here!’

‘Well, that’s what it says,’ an insistent Karen responds.

‘I can tell you, a hundred per cent, Jane’s not on the plane,’ I respond just as insistently. ‘She’s either back at the airport or helping with the hospital search.’

‘Okay. Thank God.’ Karen sighs in relief. ‘The others?’

‘Not sure. We know injured foreigners have been taken to hospital, so I have people searching the nearby hospitals. So far we have located four. Two at Sardjito and a couple at Bethesda. The two at Sardjito are…’ I pause to check the names scribbled on the back of my visit booklet. ‘Cynthia Banham and Roger Tallboys. Both have extensive burns. The couple at Bethesda… um, Kyle Quinlan and Michael Hatton… have minor injuries.’

‘Liz? The others?’ Asking the question I fear most.

I pause, a lump building in the back of my throat.

‘Nothing. Haven’t been able to locate them. I’m not giving up hope. But it doesn’t look good.’ As understatements go, they don’t get any bigger.

‘Grant… what are you not telling me?’

Another pause.

‘Grant?’

‘Okay, okay.’ I’m struggling to utter the unfathomable truth. ‘If they didn’t get off the plane then… they’re… they’re probably dead. That’s the reality. I had a look in business class and all I could see was burnt, dead bodies. Still in their seats.’

‘Oh, Grant…’

‘Yep…’ My voice is breaking up. ‘And I’m not going anywhere until their bodies have been recovered. I don’t care how long it takes.’

‘Okay, yep, I understand. I’ll let Bill and the minister know. But you look after yourself, you hear me?’

‘Yep, sure.’

Finally.

After nearly ninety minutes of watching helplessly as the plane burned largely unabated, it’s burned itself out. The Indonesian firefighters gave it their best shot, no doubt. But it was always going to be an uphill battle trying to extinguish such an oil-fuelled inferno with leaky hoses and little foam. At least the process of recovering the bodies can now begin.

Over the ninety minutes, I have received constant updates from the newly established Crisis Control Room back at the terminal on the progress of the hospital search.

It isn’t looking good. Notwithstanding the team’s painstaking, exhaustive search of all the surrounding hospitals, civilian and military alike, the list of injured Australians remains stuck frustratingly on four.

I know in my heart that my colleagues are dead. It’s hard to imagine anyone surviving the hellish carnage that is the front section of the plane. Regardless, I had clung to the hope that by some miracle they had managed to scramble off the flaming wreckage and to safety at one of the nearby hospitals. But as time has ticked by on the team’s search, that slim glimmer of hope has faded.

Of the injured Australians, Cynthia Banham – the renowned journalist – is the most critical. With first-degree burns to over 60 per cent of her body, her prognosis is dire. Her best chance of survival is to be evacuated to Australia as quickly as possible. Businessman Roger Tallboys has also suffered significant burns to large parts of his body but at least appears to be stable.

Given Banham’s precarious condition, I’d earlier sent Alan to Sardjito Hospital to monitor her situation, as well as that of Tallboys. Until a medevac flight can be arranged, she will need all the emotional support Alan can proffer, and a whole lot of luck. I’ve also sent Jane to Bethesda, where the other two injured Australians – Michael Hatton and Kyle Quinlan – are being treated. They have sustained relatively minor shoulder and chest injuries.

On arrival at Sardjito Hospital, Alan called me. What followed was a heart-wrenching wait as he scanned a large whiteboard out the front of the Emergency Department detailing the names and status of all the injured passengers being treated at the hospital. Unable to stand the silence as he looked at the board, I repeatedly asked him, name by name, if any of our colleagues were listed. To which I received the same dejected response: ‘No.’

When the Indonesian authorities begin recovering bodies from the plane, they are highly likely to find my Embassy colleagues – Liz O’Neill, Allison Sudradjat and Brice Steele – and my journalist friend Morgan Mellish. It also appears Mark Scott – another AFP Embassy colleague – can be added to that tragic toll.

Denial’s no longer an option.

Chapter 18 The Longest of Days

I can feel the frustration building inside me, yet again.

It’s been over thirty minutes since the fire was extinguished and still the Indonesian authorities can’t give an indication of when they will begin recovering the bodies still trapped on the plane. I swore I wouldn’t leave my colleagues until their bodies had been recovered, and I’m not one to break an oath, but who knows when that will be? I’ve had Hotlan ask anyone with a semblance of authority, but received kosong in return. Zero.

Adding to my frustration, I’ve just learned from Karen that Downer intends to travel to Yogya as soon as the airport is reopened to air traffic. Fingers crossed the airport stays closed for the foreseeable future.

In better news, Karen said that a Crisis Centre has been established at DFAT HQ back in Canberra to coordinate the consular response to the tragedy. Moreover, an emergency medical team has been mobilised and will soon be on its way to Indonesia to assist with the repatriation of injured Australians, and potentially others, back to Darwin.

Out of the blue, just as I’m about to go spare with the waiting, an AFP officer appears and tells me he is part of the AFP forward party sent to Yogya to support Ruddock’s visit.

After a short discussion, we both agree he is better qualified to coordinate with the Indonesian authorities the recovery of any Australian bodies, and to secure the crash site for later investigation by the appropriate air-crash investigators.

After more than two hours standing in the paddy field, under the burning sun, dehydrated and up to my ankles in mud and water, my time as sentinel is up.

The Crisis Control Room inside the VIP reception area is a bunch of whiteboards, reams of scattered paper and a couple of desks.

With Alan’s departure, Belynda, an AusAID colleague, has assumed responsibility for managing the room. Like the rest of us, she had been sent to Yogya to support the Downer visit. She gives me an update on the status of the four injured Australians, as well as other information she has gleaned from the local Indonesian authorities. As she does so, a sharp wail from behind brings proceedings to a sudden halt.

I turn to find, to my utmost amazement, a middle-aged Caucasian woman holding a distressed baby. ‘I think she needs a feed, Belynda,’ the woman says, clearly concerned for the infant rocking in her arms.

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Belynda responds, slightly annoyed. ‘Let me just finish briefing Grant and I’ll feed her.’

I’m speechless. For most of the morning, I’ve been surrounded by soul-corroding death and devastation. Sometimes hope presents itself in the most unlikely of forms.

‘Beautiful. She’s… beautiful, Belynda,’ I stutter.

‘Mia? Yes, we are very lucky.’ A look of motherly pride beams across her face.

This look, however, is quickly replaced by a more anguished one as she resumes her briefing. Her voice quavers when it comes to the status of the missing Australians. It’s manifestly obvious she’s struggling with the notion that her colleagues may be dead. And then it hits me. Allison. Allison Suradjat was the much-loved leader of the AusAID team in Indonesia, and a good friend of Belynda. Slightly built but fiercely determined, Allison was unflappably kind and considerate, regardless of the many stresses and challenges associated with managing a large team spread across the archipelago. She was also passionate about her job: improving the lot of everyday Indonesians.

Seeing the distraught look on Belynda’s face, I make a snap decision.

‘Belynda,’ I start, a lump forming in the back of my throat. ‘You know Allison’s most likely dead. We don’t know for sure. But if she didn’t make it off that plane… From what I saw, I think it’s pretty likely. I’m sorry.’

‘What do you mean?’ Belynda asks hesitantly.

‘I mean, you’ve got to prepare for the worst. I think it’s likely… actually, very likely… that Allison’s dead. I saw inside the plane, inside business class. And… and the bodies. All dead. I couldn’t tell who was who. Some were big, some were small. But they were all dead. I’m truly sorry.’

‘I booked her flight,’ is Belynda’s incredulous response, a look of shock covering her face. ‘I asked her if she wanted to go the Sunday night or the Monday morning. She said she had some family in town… So I booked her on the Monday-morning flight… It’s my fault.’

‘It’s not your fault, Belynda. None of this is. It is just what it is.’ And then I make a second snap decision. ‘But there is one thing I don’t want you, or anyone else, to do. Nobody is to go near that plane. Nobody. Not under any circumstances. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Well, you’re doing a great job here, so I’m going to head over to the Sardjito to check on Alan. You okay with that?’

‘Yep, I’ll be fine.’

Of course, she won’t. How could she be? But at least she has family. Right here in Yogya. Mum and daughter.

I’d kill to have Kristan here to support me. But would I want her here? Truly? To see all this?

Some horrors are best endured alone.

On my arrival at Sardjito Hospital, I’m confronted with more chaos.

Sardjito and the nearby Bethesda Hospital have received the bulk of the injured passengers from the doomed Garuda flight. The main lobby is mayhem – a mix of wailing, grief-stricken relatives, confused orderlies and overburdened administrative staff.

Wading through the maelstrom towards the front reception, I hear a shout: ‘Grant!’ It’s Alan. Dressed in a pink surgical smock and light-blue surgical face mask, he pushes through the crowd towards me.

‘Mate, so glad you are here.’

‘Yeah, thought I would see how you’re holding up.’

‘Not well, to be honest,’ a note of dejection tingeing his voice. ‘Things aren’t looking good for Cynthia.’

‘What about Tallboys?’

‘I think he’ll be okay. But we need to get Cynthia out of here and back to Oz as quickly as we can.’

‘We’re working on that. Show me where she is.’

I follow Alan up a couple of flights of stairs and down a long corridor. It’s quieter here, and noticeably calmer. Doctors and nursing staff rush by, but with an air of controlled purpose, not the unbridled panic I’ve been exposed to for most of this morning.

Alan passes through a set of doors into a small reception area. I struggle to keep up with him as he rushes past the unstaffed reception desk and into the closest hospital room.

Before I can follow Alan into Cynthia’s room, I’m stopped at the door by a nurse, who thrusts a face mask into my hand. Adequately masked, I enter. Cynthia is surprisingly lucid. From her red, blistered hands and arms, she’s no doubt in a lot of pain, and this just makes her general alertness more surprising.

I shake my head in wonder. The bigger surprise, though, is that she’s even here. From what I’ve seen this morning, it’s nigh on a miracle. How she survived that impact and the ensuing inferno is unfathomable.

Alan briefly explains who I am, before quickly ushering me back out of the room.

‘We need to get her out of here as soon as possible,’ he demands, repeating his earlier appeal.

‘I know, mate. A medical team will soon be on its way from Darwin. It might already be in the air.’

‘That’s too late,’ an increasingly strident, almost manic Alan, pleads. ‘The hospital is struggling to cope. She is in so much pain and all they can give her is Panadol. They’re worried about her becoming addicted to morphine! It’s fucking crazy. And the ants. I’ve been squashing ants crawling up the side of her bed. If we don’t get her out of here, she won’t make it.’

‘Okay, let me give Karen a call.’

Initially, Karen doesn’t appear convinced of the need for a special, one-off medevac for Cynthia. But after I explain the extent of her first-degree burns, the relative inadequacy of the available medical facilities and the dire prognosis of the doctor, she changes her mind. She agrees to consult with the Embassy doctor and look into the possibility of arranging a medevac through International SOS, the global medical-evacuation company.

The sense of victory I feel is short-lived.

‘Oh, while I’ve got you,’ Karen continues, ‘Downer will be heading to Yogya in under an hour. The Indonesians have given clearance for small aircraft landings.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Nup. He wants to visit the crash site and the Australians in hospital.’

‘For fuck’s sake…’

‘I know, I know, Grant,’ Karen quickly interjects. ‘Just do what you can, okay? We all understand it’s a difficult situation.’

Difficult? I can think of better words. ‘Sure, Karen. We’ll do our best.’

‘Hang in there, Grant. Hang in there. You’re doing a wonderful job.’

‘Yeah, sure. Will start working on the arrangements.’ It’s not Karen’s fault; she’s just the messenger. But boy, do I feel like kicking a cat.

I tell Alan the good and bad news. Naturally, he’s more focused on the former, but soon shares my anger on the latter. Like me, he can’t see any benefit in Downer and the associated circus visiting Yogya and the injured Australians.

‘Just make sure you get that medevac. That’s all I ask,’ he says, storming back into Cynthia’s room.

I take off my mask, pull out my mobile and call Belynda. She’s also dumbfounded by the news. I tell her to organise a meeting with the Indonesian airport authorities so we can start coordinating the logistics for the landing, disembarkation and trip to the crash site. As I talk and walk, it occurs to me the Indonesians might tell us to just fuck off. They would have every right to.

I finish my call with Belynda as I exit the front entrance of the hospital. My Embassy car and driver aren’t here yet, so I sit down on a nearby bench to wait. I look down at the bottoms of my mud-splattered suit pants, and then notice my mud-covered, water-damaged leather shoes. I’ve become very attached to these shoes. The bombing, Aceh, the Bridge of Death, the Hizb ut-Tahrir riot. We’ve been through a lot.

‘Well, old mates,’ I say softly to myself, ‘looks like that’s the end of you.’

‘Has anyone seen my suit jacket?’ I yell, looking desperately around the VIP reception area.

The minister’s RAAF Challenger jet has just landed and will soon be taxiing across the tarmac. I plan to greet Downer as he disembarks the jet, and then escort him into the Crisis Control Room for a briefing on the visit program we have hastily pulled together. But I look a shambles: red-faced with sunburn, my clothes caked in mud and sweat. I look nothing like my normal professional DFAT persona. I can’t have the minister and Bill the ambassador seeing me like this!

‘Where’s my coat?’ I bellow again. At least my coat is clean and will provide some level of camouflage. That’s the plan, anyway.

‘Here, Grant.’

It’s Belynda, wonderful Belynda, moving towards me, right arm outstretched holding my jacket. She’s been a tower of strength and calmness throughout the day.

I take the jacket with a quick thanks and hastily don it as I dash across the reception area. Bursting through the doors, I tuck my shirt into my trousers and straighten my collar as I rush across the tarmac towards the minister’s jet, parked some twenty metres away. As I approach it, a flight of stairs unfolds from the forward section of the aircraft. I take up my position at the foot of the stairs, next to a couple of Indonesian officials. We nod our silent hellos.

At the top of the stairs, a smart-looking woman, resplendent in her crisp, clean RAAF uniform, silently guards the exit. A few seconds later, she takes a step backwards into the aircraft and Downer appears. He walks down the short flight of stairs, the ambassador shadowing close behind.

One of the Indonesian officials moves forward to shake the minister’s hand. After a short exchange of pleasantries, Downer turns to me.

‘Welcome, Minister,’ I greet him. ‘My name is Grant Dooley, from the Embassy in Jakarta.’

‘Hello, Grant,’ he responds, hand outstretched. ‘The ambassador has kept me briefed on the wonderful job you and your team have been doing here, in very trying circumstances. I just wanted to say thank you.’

‘Well… thanks, Minister,’ I say, gratefully clenching Downer’s outstretched hand. ‘Yep, it’s been a long day… for everyone.’

‘Yes, I dare say it has. Tell me all about it.’

Talking as we walk, I first brief him on the status of the four hospitalised Australians, noting how critical it is to get Cynthia medevaced back to Australia as quickly as possible. To my surprised relief, he says that a private medevac is being arranged, with the plane scheduled to arrive later this evening. Alan’s going to be stoked.

I lead Downer into the VIP reception area and across to where a table and chairs have been prepared for the briefing. As we sit down, Bill takes a chair next to me. Placing his hand on my knee, he leans forward and whispers to me, ‘Well done, Grant, well done indeed.’

For the next ten minutes, I brief the minister, Bill and the accompanying delegation – nine in all – on the current status of the crash and its aftermath. I note it’s still uncertain what caused the crash but, according to Indonesian officials, unofficially at least, sabotage does not appear likely. Regardless, the aftermath has been catastrophic. While the situation is still fluid and we continue to receive conflicting reports as to the exact number of people on the flight, we understand twenty-two bodies have been recovered from the wreckage, none of which have been identified. What’s for certain is four Australians have been located in two nearby hospitals. While all have suffered injuries in the crash, only Cynthia’s are life-threatening at this stage. Of the five missing Australians, their fate remains uncertain, but the prognosis is bleak. We should prepare for the worst.

I wrap up by outlining the proposed program for the visit. From here, we will travel to the crash site. Access to the wreckage itself will not be possible, given the area has now been cordoned off by the police. The delegation will, however, be able to view the wreckage from the embankment by the side of the road. From the crash site, the delegation will be taken to visit the injured Australians receiving treatment at Bethesda and Sardjito hospitals, respectively. At this stage, it is hoped the sultan of Yogyakarta will join the minister for his visit to Sardjito. After Sardjito, the delegation will return to the airport for the return flight to Jakarta.

I conclude the briefing by asking, somewhat officiously, ‘Are there any questions?’

‘Thanks for the briefing, Grant,’ Downer responds, before pausing. The room is bathed in silence. ‘You and your team have done a wonderful job. But I do think you should return to Jakarta with us. On the jet, that is.’

The minister’s last comment takes me off guard. Home? The thought hasn’t even crossed my mind. There is still so much to do. But I’ve done my bit. And Kristan must be worried sick.

‘That would be great, Minister,’ I calmly reply. ‘I hope there’s enough room for some of my colleagues as well.’

‘Yep, I’m sure we can manage a few.’

‘But… what about my baby… and my mum?’ Belynda politely interjects, nursing Mia in her arms. ‘I mean, I really want to be on that plane. But what about Mia and my mum?’

Good question.

‘I’m sure there is enough space on the jet for you, your baby and your mum,’ Downer answers with a smile.

Good answer. Of course, there only was one answer.

‘Grant, you look exhausted. Are you okay?’ It’s Michelle, my old boss and former Embassy colleague. She left the Embassy just over a year ago and has returned to Indonesia as one of the retinue of staffers and departmental officials accompanying the minister. I hadn’t noticed her until I boarded the delegation’s minibus for the short trip to the crash site.

‘Thanks, Michelle,’ I say, cracking a wry smile as I take the seat next to her. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen better days.’

‘Bit worried about you. The bombing. Tsunami. Now this.’

‘I’m okay. Been a rough one. But I’m okay,’ I say, hoping to allay her worries. ‘How about you? Enjoying life back in Canberra?’ I’m desperate to change the subject.

‘Yes,’ Michelle, attuned to my reticence, responds, ‘we’ve settled in well.’

At the crash site, we file off the bus and join Downer and Bill on the roadside embankment overlooking the charred, twisted wreckage of Garuda Flight 200. Police, other uniformed men and Indonesian officials scurry about the cordoned-off site, some in deep conversation, some keeping onlookers at bay. A line of empty yellow body bags stretched out on the ground to our right indicates the possibility of further gruesome discoveries.

It’s a confronting scene. I stand ready to answer any questions, but none are forthcoming. The silence is deafening but also fitting. This land is sacred now, seeded with the blood and ashes of five fellow Australians and many Indonesians. Each of the dead is a much-loved son, daughter, wife, husband, father, mother, friend or colleague.

Finally, a clearly emotional Downer proffers some general queries about the crash and subsequent rescue effort. Before I have a chance to respond, the accompanying Indonesian officials jump in. I take a step back; it’s not a competition.

Pilgrimage complete, we make a silent retreat down the embankment to our vehicles on the road below. Back on board, the quietude continues, the delegation muted by the brutality of the melancholic scene they have just witnessed.

The sombre mood lasts the short trip to Bethesda Hospital. On arrival, Downer, who is travelling with Bill in one of the Embassy’s armoured BMW sedans, is met by Jane. And a marauding media pack. Microphones, cameramen and reporters all converge on Downer as he alights from his vehicle. As Jane escorts the minister past the jostling media scrum and into the hospital, he suddenly stops and gives her a big hug. It’s a touching gesture.

Given the commotion, I decide not to follow the delegation into the hospital. I’m tired; I’ve seen enough. Instead, I seek the sanctuary of the nearby kerb. Dusty and dirty just like me, it’s a haven of solitude.

Sitting, it occurs to me I haven’t spoken to Kristan for hours. Or maybe I haven’t spoken to her at all. The morning’s been a blur, an amorphous fog of rolling crises. I’ve been present but somehow apart, like in some out-of-body experience. I feel adrift and need my anchor.

I pull out my mobile to give her a call. Fuck! It’s dead.

Sometimes it’s the small things that tip you over the edge. The final tear in the fabric of your psyche that brings the whole world crashing down. I just didn’t think it would be my stone-dead Nokia 3310. But you don’t pick these moments; they pick you.

It’s not the first time I’ve cried today. But now the tears gush forth in body-shaking sobs. Sitting on the dusty kerb, my head buried deep in my palms, I bawl and bawl and bawl.

‘Pak, Pak.’ A gentle touch on my shoulder.

Wiping my eyes, I find Hotlan towering over me, a small plastic bottle of water in his hand.

‘Pak, drink this. Make you feel better.’

The noise of the returning media pack cuts short my respite. I catch sight of Downer and Bill, with the rest of the delegation in tow.

‘Thanks, Pak,’ I say, handing Hotlan back his bottle of water, now half-empty. ‘I needed that.’

Hotlan just nods, knowingly. We make our way back to our respective vehicles.

Taking my seat on the minibus, I’m not surprised to find that the previous sombre mood still prevails. I’m not sure what they’ve just seen, but if it was anything like what I witnessed at Sardjito, the chaos and relative inadequacy of the medical facilities will have come as a shock to those who are little versed in the developing world.

Given the mournful atmosphere, the short trip to Sardjito also passes largely in silence. On arrival, we are again greeted by a marauding pack of local media. But, curiously, no Alan. Fortunately, I know where to go, and I quickly escort the delegation through the hospital to Cynthia’s room.

Alan meets us at the door. I can see from his agitated appearance that he is barely keeping his disdain for the minister’s visit in check. To his credit, he composes himself sufficiently to usher Downer and Bill into the small room, where he introduces them to an amazingly lucid Cynthia.

Downer seeks to console her with the news that she’ll soon be medevaced back to Australia. He receives a quick nod in reply from the clearly pain-stricken journalist. It’s an emotional interaction. Downer obviously knows Cynthia from the Canberra parliamentary press gallery. The sight of her lying there, barely alive, on a hospital bed in far-off Yogya must be distressing – not least because the reason for her being in Yogya is him. It must weigh heavily.

Soon, a clearly shaken Downer bids farewell, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

From the look on others’ faces, it’s not just Downer feeling the toll. Seeing Cynthia has put a real face to a real tragedy. All are impacted. Some outwardly, some inwardly. But impacted all.

A short while later, we arrive back at the airport. As previously agreed, I’ve been offered a seat on the minister’s RAAF Challenger back to Jakarta. But I’ve had a change of heart. For me, the job’s not done. Cynthia is yet to be medevaced; bodies are yet to be identified. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.

‘C’mon, Grant. It’s time to go home,’ insists Michelle, becoming annoyed with my intransigence. ‘Nothing more you can do here.’

Then I hear a softly spoken ‘Grant’ from behind me. It’s Bill. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job. Should be proud. It’s time to go.’

Call it my many years in the navy or whatever, but hearing those words come from Bill, my ambassador, shatters my stubbornness.

‘Okay, Bill, okay.’

The curtain is finally drawn on this longest of days.

Chapter 19 It’s Time

‘Cold drink, sir?’

‘Sorry?’ We’ve been in the air about five minutes, and I’d just started drifting off.

‘Cold drink? We have beer, soft drink,’ says the young RAAF crew attendant.

‘Oh.’ The word ‘beer’ has instantly piqued my attention. ‘Yes, a beer would be great. Thanks.’

She hands me a cold can of Victoria Bitter. VB! I can’t believe it! ‘A hard-earned thirst needs a BIG cold beer, and the BEST cold beer is Vic. Victoria Bitter!’

The beer hardly touches the sides. A minute later, I’m waving the empty can in the air. ‘Could I grab another one, please?’

The crew attendant reappears, cold beer in hand, like an angel of mercy.

This time I sip the beer, closing my eyes, savouring its refreshing bitterness.

A hard-earned thirst… How right they are.

The jolt as the Challenger’s wheels touch down on the Halim airport tarmac snaps me awake. I open my eyes, blinking, but a sharp pain emanating in the middle of my forehead soon has me closing them again, grimacing. This headache is a cracker.

Looking out of my window as the plane comes to a halt, I can see a small group milling around the entrance of a single-storey terminal building. I recognise an old friend, Rob, among them. Last I heard, Rob was riding some DFAT desk back in Canberra. I can only guess he has made the trip up as part of the DFAT consular crisis team.

Struggling to my feet, still a tad dozy, I begin following the other passengers off the plane, led by the minister himself. By the time I reach the exit, Downer and Bill have already been whisked off in the ambassador’s armoured BMW.

I step down onto the first of the aircraft’s fold-out steps and immediately stumble the remaining six or so onto the tarmac. Luckily for me, Rob is there to catch me.

‘Grant, are you okay?’

‘No. Don’t feel well.’ My head is gripped in acute throbbing pain.

‘Yeah, you look pretty shit. Let’s sit you down over here for a sec.’ Rob guides me over to a bench near the side of the terminal building. ‘You look pretty dehydrated, with all that sunburn,’ Rob notes as I collapse onto the seat. ‘Wait here for a sec. I’ll get you some water.’

‘Thanks. Water would be good and… do you smoke? I’d kill for a cigarette.’

‘I’m sure I can find you one. This is Indonesia, after all.’ Rob scurries off in search of a cigarette and returns in a short time, water bottle in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. I relieve him of both and, a few gulps of water later, look hesitantly at the cigarette smouldering away between my thumb and forefinger.

Thankfully, it’s not a kretek but one of your run-of-the-mill cigarettes. Not sure why I feel the need for a durrie; haven’t had one in years. But as I inhale the bitter, slightly metallic-tasting smoke, I feel an instant calming of my nerves, followed by a slight head spin as I exhale. And then I break into a fit of coughs.

Yep, it’s been a while.

I catch a ride home in one of the Embassy vehicles, my mouth tasting as if I’ve just licked a dirty ashtray clean. At first, exhaustion seeks to lull me into a fitful sleep. But every time I close my eyes, I get flashbacks to the paddy field: the chaos, the mud, the smells, the screams, those fucking bloodcurdling screams. Soon I don’t want to close my eyes; I’m too scared to do so.

What transpires is a mini battle for control of my thoughts. My mind is racing. My previous lethargy is replaced by adrenaline-induced hyperactivity. By the time I walk through the front door at home, I’m bouncing off the walls like an oversized Energizer Bunny.

‘Darling, slow down. Slow… down,’ a clearly worried Kristan implores as she greets me at the doorway.

‘Okay, okay,’ I splutter.

‘How about you take a shower and change? Then we can talk.’

My shoes are destroyed; my suit pants and white business shirt aren’t much better. I step into the bathroom and take a quick look in the mirror. I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am. My face is red: bright cherry tomato. Best I keep the shower temperature lukewarm, at most.

A short while later, refreshed and considerably less maniacal, I re-emerge from the bedroom to find Kristan sitting on the couch, glass of wine in hand. Over a bottle of wine and a couple of beers, we talk. And cry. And hug. And talk again. And cry again. It’s going to be a long way back. A journey that promises pain and healing in equal measure. But at least that journey has begun.

‘Darling? Darling? Wake up.’

I open my eyes to find Kristan leaning over me, shaking my shoulder. The sense of urgency in her voice is reflected in her furrowed brow.

‘What?’ I croak through the fog of sleep. I’ve had a rough night. Sleep didn’t come easy. For the first few hours, I tossed and turned, struggling to slow my mind. And every time I drifted off, flashbacks to Yogya ensured a wakeful night.

‘Robyn just called. It’s Bill. He wants to see you.’ Robyn is Bill’s executive assistant. It must be important.

‘Okay. When? What does he want?’

‘She didn’t say. Just that he wants to see you.’ She looks at her watch, her brow not growing any less furrowed. ‘It’s… umm… ten past nine.’

‘Okay,’ I say, throwing back the sheets. ‘Best I get to work.’

I struggle out of bed, shower, throw on a pair of pants and a batik shirt, and grab a quick cup of Earl Grey. Sipping my warm cha, my curiosity starts to grow. Yesterday, as we boarded the plane for the trip back to Jakarta, Bill told me not to rush back to work. He insisted I take as many days as I need before coming into the office. Now he wants to see me. A bit odd.

From the instant I arrive at the Embassy, I feel a strange vibe too. Everyone’s a bit standoffish, a bit cold. Nobody wants to engage in conversation. I give a cheery ‘Hello’ to everyone I see and am taken slightly aback when I receive little response in return. What is it with everyone?

I catch the lift to the fourth floor, where I bump into Ben as I enter the secure area. From his startled appearance, he’s obviously surprised to see me.

‘Mate, what are you doing here?’

‘Bill’s asked to see me.’

‘Why?’

‘No idea.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘By the way, what’s with everyone?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Can’t get boo out of anyone. No one wants to talk.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ he asks incredulously. ‘After what happened yesterday?’

What was I thinking? I’ve been able to compartmentalise everything in my brain. Pack it all away into a nice square box to be opened at some later time, or maybe never at all. Stacked next to the bombing box. Or maybe on top of the tsunami box? Next to the riot box?

‘Yeah, you’re right. Should’ve realised.’

‘Mate, just go home,’ Ben softly implores. ‘Once you’ve seen Bill, just go home.’

‘Will do. I promise.’

I head to Bill’s office.

‘Grant, thanks for coming in,’ he says, extending his hand. ‘Take a seat.’

As I sit, my mind flashes back to the first time I sat in this office. I was here to convince David, the previous ambassador, to support my application for the position of first secretary (Economic). Feels like a lifetime ago.

Bill asks how I’m feeling. He thanks me for my efforts yesterday. He notes how difficult it was for him personally, and how he can only imagine the terrible anguish I must have felt watching the flames slowly consume the plane, knowing my colleagues were likely trapped inside.

I sense he wants to talk about yesterday’s events. All I can muster is a short, ‘Thank you.’ I just don’t feel able to discuss it further.

Bill then shares the welcome news that Cynthia Banham was safely medevaced to Perth late last night. She remains in a critical condition in Royal Perth Hospital but is stable. Finally, a piece of good news. And Alan will be relieved, I can’t help but think.

‘Grant, since arriving back from Yogya, I’ve been thinking…’ Bill’s voice has taken on a serious tone. ‘We all know, and appreciate, the tremendous job you and Kristan have done since arriving at post. Putting aside your day-to-day jobs, you’ve had to deal with the bombing, the tsunami, the constant security threats. Your resilience and sense of duty has been exemplary, but… but, given what’s just happened, I think you should consider going home.’

I’m completely stunned.

‘Sorry, Bill. Are you asking if I want to go home?’

‘Just think you should consider it.’

‘Okay. Well, I’m happy to consider it, but Kristan and I are pretty keen to see out the remaining six months of our posting.’

‘I understand, Grant.’ Bill’s genuine concern is reflected in his fatherly demeanour. ‘But you have been through a lot. More than a lot. You have nothing to prove. You’ve done a great job. Everyone acknowledges that. I’m not telling you to go home. But I think you should seriously think about it. That’s all.’

I take a deep breath. After all we’ve been through, I’m buggered if I’m going to quit now. ‘Thanks, Bill. Appreciate it. Yep, I’ll go home and talk it over with Kristan.’

‘Okay, great.’ His face breaks into a warm smile. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

‘Will do. Will do, Bill.’

Truth is, there’s nothing to discuss. I know how Kristan feels. The same as me. We aren’t going anywhere.

‘What?’ is Kristan’s similarly disbelieving response. ‘I hope you told him we’re keen to stay and see out the rest of our posting.’

‘Yes, darling. I did.’

But she does come at the question from a slightly different, less emotive angle to me. For Kristan, it’s not just about ‘quitting’ or ‘letting them win’, which are my primary motivations for staying. No, our daughter Caitlin is only six months old. In Jakarta, Kristan has no pressure to return to work. She can enjoy being a stay-at-home mum, without the financial pressures of rushing back to work. Moreover, we have domestic helpers to assist with the day-to-day heavy lifting of running a household, particularly one that contains three small children and a demanding husband.

Back in Canberra, Kristan will have no choice but to return to work.

We are determined to stay in Jakarta and see out the remaining six months of our posting. As if there was any doubt.

That night, I sleep like a baby, my body and mind finally succumbing to the relentlessness of exhaustion. It’s a dreamless sleep. No nightmares, no flashbacks to the carnage of Yogya. Just peace and rest.

Until my mobile rings. It wakes me with a start. From the rays of dappled sunlight penetrating the bedroom shutters, I can tell it’s morning. Through squinting eyes, I catch a glimpse of the alarm clock on my bedside table. It’s just after ten.

I reach over and grab my phone, which is still buzzing away on my bedside table. I’m surprised and happy to see the incoming call is from Lachie, an old DFAT friend back in Canberra. We worked together on China issues several years ago. What could he want?

‘Lachie, how are ya?’

‘I’m good. Question is: how are you?’

‘I’m okay,’ is my hardly convincing response.

‘Look, Grant, I hate to say it,’ he says, his voice suddenly adopting a serious, even slightly anxious, tone, ‘but this is the third time I’ve had to ring you to see if you’re okay. First time was the bombing, then the tsunami and now the crash.’

‘I know, Lachie, but…’

‘Just listen to me for a sec,’ he interjects. ‘You’ve got a strong sense of duty, perhaps a little too strong. You’ve done more than enough in Jakarta.’ And then he pauses. ‘Do you hear that? Do you hear that, mate? That’s the sound of home. It’s time you came back.’

And I can hear it, clearly. The sounds of Australia. Magpies warbling; children laughing and playing in the background. A parallel universe to the grind, uncertainty and heartache that has characterised my last three years in Jakarta.

Memories start flooding back. Our little house in Canberra. Friends. Family. The clean, fresh air. And the freedom. Yes, the freedom. No more bomb checks. The ability to sit anywhere, go anywhere, without fear of attack, terrorist or otherwise.

As I sit in bed listening to Lachie and the seductive sounds of Australia, I can feel my hitherto unflinchingly stubborn spirit start to wane. The bombing, the plane crash and everything in between, it’s taken its toll. In my heart of hearts, I know it has.

But it’s like that old fable about the frog in boiling water. In our minds, everything’s under control and we are coping just fine. In reality, however, we are slowly boiling to death. And the warning signs have been building for some time. I can’t even get into a car these days without thinking some random motorcyclist is trying to attach a bomb to it. And I know Kristan’s nerves are just as frayed, as evidenced by her recent panicked response to the ‘terrorist attack’ on Plaza Senayan.

Something has to give.

‘Yes, Lachie, I hear you, mate. You’re right. We’re done.’

I end the call and sit, staring into space. I’m in semi-shock. Shit! I can’t believe it. I just said we’re pulling the pin.

I walk out of the bedroom and into the living area, where I find Kristan sitting on the couch playing with Caitlin in her bouncer.

‘Darling, we need to talk.’

Whether it’s the tone of my voice, or the shell-shocked look on my face, Kristan immediately stands up and starts walking towards me.

‘Are you okay? Who was that on the phone?’

‘It was Lachie. He says we should come home.’

Kristan looks at me and nods, a tear appearing in the corner of her eye.

‘Yes,’ she says, nodding again. ‘It’s time to go.’

We hug. We kiss. We cry.

We’re going home.

Kristan with Ryan and Brianna shortly after our arrival in Jakarta in May 2004.

Me and Kristan at the Australian Embassy Ball on 4 September 2004. Five days later, the Embassy was bombed.

The Australian flag fluttering near the shattered facade of a building next to the Australian Embassy. (Dewira/AFP via Getty Images)

Me and other Embassy staff carrying the injured gardener, Suryadi, to a waiting ambulance. (Bay Ismoyo/AFP via Getty Images)

Me covering the charred body of an innocent motorcycle rider killed on the road outside the Australian Embassy. (Inoong/AFP via Getty Images)

An Indonesian policeman trying to secure the bombsite in front of the Australian Embassy (building on the right). (Inoong/AFP via Getty Images)

The devastated coastline and remains of a small village south of Banda Aceh, five months after the 2004 Boxing Day earthquake and tsunami.

A lone house remains standing in a sea of destruction on the outskirts of Banda Aceh.

Inside Banda Aceh’s Zainoel Abidin General Hospital. The muddy line denotes the tsunami’s high-water mark inside the hospital, which is approximately three kilometres from the coast.

An illegal goldmining camp on the bank of a small creek outside Gosowong, North Maluku.

The Dooley family reunited on a trip back to Perth in July 2005.

Ambassador David Ritchie (far right) leading Asep Wahyudi (front) to lay a wreath marking the first anniversary of the Embassy bombing. I (centre), Kristan (far left) and Brigadier Ken Brownrigg (third from right) participate. (Adek Berry/AFP via Getty Images)

The victorious Jakarta Bintangs celebrating their win at the 2006 Bali Masters.

Me and Kristan welcome Caitlin into the world on 10 August 2006.

The Camat cutting the ribbon to officially open the Australian Embassy–funded project to deliver running water to Kisik, a village north-west of Yogyakarta.

Firefighters struggling to extinguish the flames of the burning, crumpled wreck of Garuda Flight 200, not long after it crashed on 7 March 2007. (Tarko Sudiarno/AFP via Getty Images)

Author’s Note

The catalyst for Bomb Season in Jakarta was a book titled The Resilience Project, which I received from Callum as a Christmas present in December 2019. Callum was aware that I had suffered a panic attack a couple of months earlier and was struggling to cope with the resultant anxiety and sleep-loss issues. He had heard about the book while playing cricket with the Melbourne University Cricket Club, where the author – Hugh van Cuylenburg – was a past player.

It was a deeply thoughtful gift. And quite unexpected. At the time, I wasn’t aware that my mental health struggles had become a major issue of concern for my family. That statement sounds incongruous; of course they were concerned. But it highlights an uncomfortable truth: that I was in complete denial. To be sure, in the immediate aftermath of the terrible events detailed in this book, I had experienced semi-regular bouts of nightmares, but these had waned over time. To the point where I had convinced myself that, somehow, I had escaped the trauma of Jakarta unscathed.

A severe panic attack in October 2019 brought that little fallacy crashing down. And with the Band-Aid now ripped clean off, I had no choice but to confront the hard reality of my fragile mental state. Counselling and medication provided some immediate relief, but it was the messages and advice contained in The Resilience Project – particularly its focus on Gratitude, Empathy and Mindfulness (GEMs) – that gave me the framework and tools in which to tackle my ongoing anxiety issues.

One of these tools was journalling. Early in 2020, I started writing down my recollections of the bombing, the plane crash and other events in Jakarta. A bit like a compilation of short stories. Later, I shared some of these stories with Kristan, who encouraged me to stitch them together into a book. Pulling Bomb Season in Jakarta together was an at times painful process. Sometimes I would be laughing as I typed, other times crying. Either way, it was hugely cathartic. Through writing, and with the unconditional love and support of my family, I had finally found a way to tackle my underlying mental demons.

Writing about events that took place nearly two decades ago had its challenges. Principal among these had been ensuring the accuracy of the events depicted in this book. Memories fade over time. Fortunately, I was able to access a large selection of photographs from the period, both from my personal collection and online, which proved useful memory-joggers. Where possible, I also reconnected with old colleagues and friends from my time in Jakarta, particularly if they were mentioned in the book, to fact-check my recollections against their own. This was an invaluable exercise, not only in strengthening the accuracy of the narrative, but also in re-establishing some long-neglected friendships.

In the end, though, this book is primarily a compilation of my memories. I dare say some competing narratives might exist, where others’ memories differ. It is not unusual for two people to be present at the same event but to hold differing memories of what exactly transpired, particularly years later. I will always respect the viewpoints of others where they differ from my own. I just hope to receive the same respect in return.

Another challenge of writing was to impart on the reader a ‘real’ sense of the trauma I experienced, particularly in the aftermath of the bombing and the plane crash, and the emotions it unleashed. It was for this reason I chose to write the book in the present tense, rather than the traditional past tense of memoirs. I hope this has given the reader a more personal connection with the book, as if they are literally walking ‘in my shoes’.

Writing in the present tense, though, did require me to be brutally honest about how I felt at any particular time in the book. This meant being honest with the frustrations I often felt in relation to ministerial visits, and the anger I felt around the awarding of the Group Bravery Citation. On the former, facilitating the visits of ministers and other senior government officials is a core responsibility for a diplomat at post. The high volume of visits during my time in Jakarta reflected how critical Indonesia was to Australia’s interests, and the Australian Government’s desire to strengthen bilateral relations during an especially tumultuous time. On the latter, as I have noted, my anger at the time was largely fuelled by my guilt at having failed to save any of the victims on the morning of the bombing, and by the fact that Kristan was not recognised in the award. Time has assuaged that anger, and I would just like to clarify that I deeply respect all my Jakarta Embassy colleagues and am honoured to share in that award.

Finally, I hope my book can play a small part in recalibrating the Australian public’s view of those serving in Australia’s foreign service. Rightly or wrongly, a widely held perception exists that a diplomat’s life is largely champagne and canapes. While that can be true at times, the reality is more often a lot less glamorous. Every day, Australian diplomats tirelessly prosecute the country’s national interests in a multitude of challenging, and quite often dangerous, overseas locations. From Jakarta and Beijing to Lagos and Baghdad. This is important and difficult work, being undertaken by some of the bravest and smartest people Australia has to offer. They deserve our respect and admiration.

Acknowledgements

Writing Bomb Season in Jakarta has been a cathartic, emotional experience. It has literally changed my life. But I would never have been able to complete this journey of discovery, frustration, inspiration and perseverance without the support of my family – in particular, my wife, Kristan, whose love, honesty and unfailing belief in me made this book possible. For all those I have hassled for information, cajoled into reading various manuscripts, bounced ideas off or just basically bored to death on my book-writing journey, thank you. You know who you are, and I sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I would, however, like to give a personal shout-out to several people without whose support I’m pretty certain Bomb Season in Jakarta would never have seen the light of day. First, to Stuart Kells and Nathan Hollier. Stuart was a work colleague who penned his own stories at night. Over a couple of beers at our work Christmas party, I let slip that I was writing a book. Cue several pleas to read the manuscript when completed. When I finally relented and nervously handed him a printed copy of the text, he became the first person outside my immediate family to read it. Stuart’s positive feedback was instrumental in giving me the self-belief to have the book published. Just as importantly, he introduced me to Nathan Hollier, the ex-CEO of Melbourne University Publishing. Like Stuart, Nathan understood the historical importance of the events contained in my book and the personalised context in which they were portrayed. To my great relief, he agreed to undertake an initial edit of the manuscript and approach potential publishers on my behalf.

To my utmost surprise and delight, one of the publishers Nathan approached, the fantastic team at Affirm Press, agreed to take on my little project. For that decision, I must thank the then CEO, Martin Hughes. From my first discussion with Martin, he was passionate about the need to educate the Australian reader on the bombing and plane crash, which he believed, and I agreed, had largely been forgotten by the Australian public. He was equally passionate about broadening Australians’ understanding of Indonesia and our complex relationship with one of our closest neighbours. I am also particularly grateful to Martin for his structural edit of the book, which not only greatly enhanced its flow, but also dealt (fairly!) with the more verbose parts of the script. A special thanks also to Cate Blake for supporting Martin’s original vision for the book as the new publisher, and to David Golding, for understanding my story and providing insightful feedback. To Zoe Sorenson, for shepherding it through the publishing process and, along with Julian Welch, for proofreading the manuscript. And to Peter Long, for the inspirational cover of the Embassy blast. A final shout-out to Tace Kelly for her expert help on publicity, Alistair Trapnell for his marketing genius and Nashin Mahee for all her hard work behind the scenes on production.

I am particularly grateful to my Jakarta Embassy colleagues for their help in filling in the gaps of my memory and, where possible, ensuring the accuracy of the text. For some, revisiting these events was not easy. I would especially like to thank John Williams, Ben Clanchy, Justin Lee, Fiona Hoggart, Jane Wilkinson, Alan Foulkes, Penny Burtt, Michelle Chan, Karen Lanyon, Belynda McNaughton, Marzio Da Re and Ken Brownrigg. To all, I hope I have done justice and paid respect to our collective experiences. Thank you.

Enormous gratitude to Hotlan, for his assistance and kindness on that fateful day of the plane crash. And a big thanks to all my Indonesian colleagues at the Embassy, some of whom continue to serve to this day, for their steadfast support during those difficult times. Your commitment to your Australian Embassy colleagues, and to Australia more generally, is exemplary. We are in your debt.

To my Jakarta Bintangs teammates, in particular Matt Stephens, Tim Hakfoort, Rob Spurr, Matt Hegarty, Andrew Lobb, Craig Telfer, Ryan Wilson and Matt Jolly, thank you for keeping me sane through the chaos of Jakarta. Your welcome embrace and staunch camaraderie provided a welcome sanctuary of normality and respite during this difficult period. Never stop perpetuating the myth.

A special thanks to several DFAT colleagues: Lachlan Strahan, for proofreading the final manuscript and providing sage wisdom, and to Doug Trappett, Paul Griffiths and Gerald Thomson for the sanity breaks and lifelong friendship.

For the kindness of friends, I give my heartfelt thanks to Paul and Liz Malthouse, Paul Hart and Diane Powers, Ian Whitton and Liz Redfern, Matt Warren, Gerard Blood, Brett Mitsch, Michael Kenderes, Angus McDougall and Ray Wood. Your kind friendship and support has sustained me through some difficult times. To my old navy mates Paddy O’Rourke, John Cashman, Mark Dobson, Jon Thiele, Mark Pepper, Jamie McGinley, Darren Adams and Heath Blackberry – your friendship is something I cherish. And to the Glasford Gang of Sue and Wayne O’Rourke, Micheal and Lauren Heath and John and Lisa Boyle – the events in this book brought us together, and for that I am truly grateful.

For the kindness of strangers, I thank the staff at Muddy Murphy’s Irish Pub in Singapore. ‘Muddy’s’ provided the perfect refuge in which to write during the long years of COVID, as well as supplying copious pints of Heineken beer and bacon fries for sustenance. For the provision of the latter, a big shout-out to Sri and Don. I miss your smiles and friendly banter.

Finally, a huge loving thanks to my family. To my parents, Janet and Les, and stepfather, Rex, for the values and sense of community you instilled in me. To my sister, Merryl, brother, Craig, and children, Samuel, Callum, Brianna, Ryan and Caitlin, for your love and support during some of my darkest hours. I love you all.

About the Author

Grant Dooley had a distinguished career as a foreign affairs and trade official for the Australian Government, including two years as the Australian consul general in Guangzhou, China, and postings to Shanghai, China, and Jakarta, Indonesia. After leaving government, he has had a successful career in finance as a fund manager and private investor, working largely in Asia.

www.SimonandSchuster.com.au/Authors/Grant-Dooley

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First published in Australia in 2025 by Affirm Press, a Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited company

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Cover design by Peter Long

Cover photograph by Adhiwardhana Widjajanto/Australian Associated Press

Author photograph by Breakthrough Victoria