Australian History Party

My foremost abode North of Australia is a small village in Central Java an hours drive from the Northern City of Semarang.It was here during World War Two that the Jap's interned Dutch plantation owners and their families.The crumbling facades of Chinese Shops are filled with locally produced groceries and small goods characteristically appealing owing to Indonesian ingenuity and the favourable exchange rate in the Archipelago.The townsfolk are separated by a generation gap no where more apparent.Youngsters declare their allegiance to crap Heavy Metal Bands whilst their parents and Grand Parents stoically abide by the set of Ethics they inherited from the former colonialists however the rebelliousness of the former group has never disturbed my sensibilities as a cheap remark will be returned with any obscene rebuke.Years of periodic travel in Asia have built my esteem as a traveller and a potential violent outcome is no deterrent for this politically incorrect individual when confronted with spoilt peasants.This intolerance is calmly accepted by older Javanese because I always drop my shoulder when in their houses as a mark of respect.The erosion of traditional values with the onset of Westernisation eats like a cancer at the culture of these Islands and is also under threat from fundamentalist Islam.I hope that indeed the might of the United States answers Muslim Zeal with bloodshed because the kindness, fortitude and strength of virtuous humanity is mirrored in every line of the weather beaten faces of Javanese patriarchs and matriachs.The farmers I have met smoking their unprocessed tobacco do expect that when I live among them I adhere to indigenous mores and I know that if any out of town religious nutjob should attempt an assassination they will be met by the swords of veterans of many wars that still acquire poison for their blades and live in perfect harmony with Christians not to mention Animists.On my last visit I befriended an Ex-member of the re-emerging political left.At the time Australian infantry were patrolling Timor rice paddies I too was sweating it out in the middle of the Monsoon engaged in keeping up with this sixty-five year old whilst he threw seeds amongst the cobras and snakes in the volcanic mud.The present political climate is radically different from the period of 'Golkar' absolute rule.Reformation has been the catch cry of Political Parties vying for ascendancy in the secular Republic and yet no real gains for the lower classes have been realised.My rice farmer friend owns his own house but has few possessions.He struggles to support his young extended family and his dependent intellectually handicapped daughter.Despite the revulsion I felt at meal times as his fare was pungent in the extreme to my inexperienced palette I made sure I ate my meals staving off throwing up by drinking local water.Despite perceptions in Australia of ominous danger from rioting and Anti-Australian sentiment the relative calm of the lower classes despite their economic hardship rarely receives any mention in the Australian tabloids in part perhaps because of a tendency to report only the worst of the world.The moral stance of current affairs presenters salivating over details of atrocities only gives ammunition for urban Malays to retaliate by alleging Australian racism and in no way threatens the massive salaries
of plastic TV personalities but provides every inducement to
bear arms against lower class 'grunts' who just want to return to their families.It is inappropriate for The Commonwealth of Australia to arbitrarily alienate Indonesia on moral grounds if our only response is solely a military one.It is true that prior to the landing of 'Interfet' in 1999 Australian Police Officers in Timor failed to stave off the massacres of Independence supporters they had been sent there to protect. And I can't help but recall the somewhat prophetic words of my Father that in the end the people who will end up paying the price of of the standoff between John Howard and President Habibe would be the Timorese themselves.All of that said it was a huge adrenalin rush to see on Indonesian television our commandoes land on Indonesian soil.The fear was written on their faces as they shouldered their grenade launchers and far away to the West I was stupidly yelling "shoot first and ask questions later" whilst polishing my Blundstones, taking drugs, wearing my akubra and pretending to be that reckless character in Apocalypse Now whose name escapes me.It's embarrassing that all of that could be in this prick's head when everyone else around me including Ex-patriots couldn't care less.I guess it's the fault of the women in my family who have told me during my upbringing that my Grandfather was a coward in World War Two even though he enlisted.I admit this however under certain circumstances the line between a mere tourist and an intelligence gatherer can become a fine one as the Japanese proved here in 1942 and locals regard their occupation as being worse than the entire duration of Dutch bondage.In years gone by co-workers in my Father's furniture factory had told me that their grandparents were forced to eat leaves, that the Japanese would frequently press into whoredom any good looking woman whether they were married or not.My loyal friend Herang Asturias who on one occasion came between me and death from total dehydration derides the suggestion that the Indonesian War Of Independence was an organised military campaign but merely an uprising of starving people en-masse.
Obviously race is an issue there but to we peace loving bores who were brought up on National Geographic the news isn't all bad as Islamic extremists are relatively ideological allies with the world's right wing groups because of their mutual hatred of Israelis.Next time you're in Bali check out the local motor bike riders and you're sure to see the occasional plastic helmet moulded in the style of Wehmact and SS infantry.I wouldn't go so far to say the inverted swastikas you can see on cars even in Java are meant to be in the same spirit but are merely Hindu Holy Symbols.In the poor foothills of Merapi volcano where I was warned not to walk alone in the jungle due to the danger of tiger attack evidence of Hindu beliefs exist as village folk law.An artist friend of mine named Ares, which is typically avante-garde owing to his profession took me to the house of his beautiful wife's Father and despite my poor Bahasa Indonesian it was explained to me that the man had previously dressed in a white Caftan and like Seihks let his hair grow down to his knees.It was on occasions like these that I picked up a habit which has sometimes caused the breakdown of some of my friendships in Australia.I call it 'Slow Walk' which leads to 'Road Walking'.Put simply I was encouraged by these perambulators to walk with them for miles at a snail pace putting only the smallest of footsteps before us but in areas of high population and urban development it leads me to unhesitatingly run directly into the path of oncoming traffic.During our conversations it was revealed to me that this man had totally abstained from all food and water whilst in a meditative state in a cave known simply as 'The Bat Cave' for twelve years and that if required he could summon a tiger spirit to protect his household.That Indonesians actually have sympathy with the aims of Adolf Hitler their Government banned 'Schindler's List' is totally ignorant but although in
Ex-pat bars I've often met with entrepreneurs glad to see a white face I wouldn't go so far to say they are stupid in a Eugenic sense.On the contrary Indonesians in a work environment will fain a mortifying dullness because they oppose Multi-Nationals and it represents quiet resistance to Co-operation.
Like an epileptic fit business ventures drive me and inspire me to research possibilities...importing cooking implements to Darwin; filling shipping containers with budget priced paper and bricks; manufacturing cleaning products, furniture,Gothic Calligraphic Books, Reproduction paintings; acquiring Dutch Colonial Antiques, Chinese coins; Reconditioning Vesper Motor Scooters; Restoring Colonial Mansions; Converting homes into Guest Houses; Arranging marriages between Indonesian women and Australians; Becoming an Indonesian Martial Art's Expert; Selling Potplants to Westerners made of tyres; becoming an Indonesian Film star or personalising thongs with Australian names on the straps for tasteless Australians.Maybe all that is a disease like my schizophrenia and scrub typhus.The treatment of tropical disease in Sydney is woeful.After three two-week sessions of cold sweats, dysentery, continual lethargy and headaches followed by treatment by Indonesian Doctors with Antibiotics and Valium it is maddening to here Doctors tell me there's nothing wrong with me.I don't give a fuck if I pass it on to other Australians.The real problem is when you mention it to family they nod sympathetically but you know they really think you're insane.I make a point of keeping my medical certificates and satisfying further desire to resume forays into the tropics with liberal doses of SBS and Foreign Language Courses.Still my infatuation with Batavia I hope mitigates the decrepitness of a twenty nine year old.
It is the awkwardness of friends who magically stumble on a topic of conversation more interesting than any history or political science.The prophets were right, wealth or power has nothing to do with beauty and souls are served just as well by drawing water from a well or gathering firewood as they are by applying expensive face creams.Mysteries that she tells you local men disbelieve that it may be secret; the greatness behind these Patriachies.I am white Bima at least in our missals.I break with tradition by providing a groom's dowry.I break with my precious manual on the do's and don'ts of ''who's paying for dinner'.Their eyes betray mischief with the slightest hint of ambition that .inflames your desire because you know that loving you is at odds with the oppression and approbation of chaperones who would commit every lewd sin if there was money involved.I used to say in a lovers' arms "let me die now" but with these women a man can die, is dieing and is not afraid to die.Like the angel in that Hollywood Movie I have forsaken immortality but those wings were made of greenbacks for buying hamburgers and kicks when around the corner the same old death awaits except instead of a respite home I can expect a Sultan's retinue.Before I married I had fled a disastrous marriage in Australia and arrived in Indonesia completely broken.My dignity was completely non-existent in terms of moving forwards.In my vanity I had constructed a mythology regarding how I might retrieve the irretreavable.I was black Orpheus leading his dead wife out of Hades.Being a Classical lie in the true sense of the word .There was a pantheon of mystical identity for everyone I met from work associates to complete strangers.I willingly killed humankind and replaced it with an obnoxious anthropology of Elves and Spirits inhabiting the darkness all of whom had to be tamed so that the weak faggot I was could have his way with this trollop.I rang this woman unceasingly but she flatly refused to take me back.She informed me she had taken another lover but instead of indignation I merely asked her to describe to me their sexual intercourse which she did in graphic detail.My Co-workers and my family reassured me that I would get over it but I could see no other possibility than resuming my relationship.I drank till I fell down in the gutter and abused myself both physically and sexually.I had contributed to the relationship's demise but placed an inordinate amount of blame on myself.After about two weeks of my so called hardship I was introduced to a Javanese girl called Merah who was clearly well proportioned, friendly and warm.My depression was such that I no longer went out or to work.But every night like clockwork she popped in just to talk and cook for me, encouraging me to wash and take excursions with her to the various parks and temples in the vicinity.I raved to her in A Nietszean way about self worth and even more lecherously about love.I had never before met with the rejection that I had left behind in Australia and I was out to prove I was a man.I failed to go on any visits with her.When I did she began to realise that there was something wrong with my behaviour.She was used to boyfriends who would pay her every courtesy but beside me when I said jump she had to reply in her broken English" how high".As I had absolutely no confidence she was rapidly entering into a co-dependent relationship.I had eaten the desert which life had offered but now turned the meal away drinking instead Bintang beer until the preservative in it poisoned me.Before I started to become intimate with this woman I could be found dancing around the house screaming to CD's I had bought.But how could we be married?She was a Muslim girl and I was and still am an infidel.Despite her virginal caresses I would range through Javanese villages in search of my un-holy grail.At night I had terrifying visions of the underworld.
Surely physical punishment was a sacrifice that would return to me my ex-lover although to this day I am the last person on Earth she ever wants to set eyes on.When it became time to return to Australia I promised this kind girl I would return to marry her.I haven't seen her since.You will never have to tell me that what I am doing is wrong.

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