Читать книгу Indonesian Gold - Kerry B Collison - Страница 10

May 1989

Kalimantan Timur (Indonesian East Borneo)

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

****

Baird’s survey party had left the provincial capital, Samarinda, a week before where he had made final arrangements for the expedition, sending Mardidi on errands to purchase supplies from the city’s well-stocked stores. They had flown from Jakarta to Balikpapan, and then traveled by minibus between these two coastal cities, which served as communications and business centers for the wealthy province.

Borneo ’s diverse cultures and local economies were well known to Eric Baird. East Kalimantan exports exceeded four billion American dollars annually, ninety percent of which being generated from oil and natural gas products. Huge plywood factories, owned and operated by presidential palace cronies, dotted the landscape, while diminishing forests were grave evidence of their success. Baird, who had conducted surveys across the greater part of Central and East Kalimantan, had trudged through snake-filled swamps, found Samarinda’s crossroads environment, a city where Chinese millionaires conducted business on mobile phones and carpetbaggers lined the streets, dull and uninviting.

Founded by Bugis warrior-merchants who had sailed their perahus across the straits from southern Sulawesi in the early 18th Century, Samarinda’s isolated population had since exploded as a result of oil and gas discoveries, exceeding a quarter of a million by the 1990s. As the point of departure for all river travel inland, the city’s merchants maintained a generous flow of goods, their small stores boasting the latest in electrical equipment smuggled from neighboring Singapore and Hong Kong. Here, where the Mahakam River Bridge splits the capital in half, huge log rafts heading for nearby mills exacerbate conditions amongst the dangerously congested river traffic as ships of all sizes maneuver their way through precarious lanes. Fiberglass, aluminum and timber speedboats crashed over each other’s wakes as they streaked across the brown, choppy waters, their overpowered outboard engines screaming warning of approach. Downstream, where the river opened into a wide delta before flowing into the strait of Makasar, smaller craft hauled huge, succulent river-shrimp from nets strung across the myriad of channels crisscrossing the delta area.

Baird has been sent out to reconnoiter an area identified by airborne geological surveys as promising, an area yet to be taken up by any mining interests. His mission was to walk over the target area taking samples for analysis, make a general assessment of the geology and attempt to establish dialogue with local tribesmen regarding their concessions. His brief included identifying properties with gold potential, both alluvial and hard rock deposits – areas that could easily be acquired from traditional owners, and would withstand an independent geological survey inspection. The expatriate geologist’s knowledge of Indonesia’s mineral opportunities was unique, having spent almost twenty years plodding across the country’s fields, valleys and swamps, checking terrain and examining deposits as a freelance geologist. With the surge in general exploration over recent years, his services had remained in demand, his fortunes improving beyond expectation until he had become involved with Alexander Kremenchug, a flamboyant expatriate would-be-mining entrepreneur. Now, as he approached his fortieth birthday, Baird was desperate to recover from his financial slump, determined now to rebuild the fortune lost through his association with Kremenchug.

Being au fait with the methodology devised by many of these investors, Baird had been closely associated in a number of speculative arrangements with Canadian and Australian interests. A plethora of less viable, foreign mining companies had swamped Indonesia over the past decade, eager to participate in the country’s growing mineral boom. Baird had acted as consulting geologist to a number of these entities many of which, he discovered, could barely pay for his services let alone establish a bona fide mining operation. Nevertheless, he needed to recover his losses, and accepted whatever work came his way.

His role as geologist often required his participation in negotiating with all levels of Indonesia’s mining fraternity, from village peasant to senior government bureaucrats. He would venture into relatively unknown areas believed to bear significant gold or other precious mineral deposits, conduct a general survey, and then submit his report to the client. Practice dictated that in the event Baird’s report was in any way promising, negotiations with the traditional rights’ owners would be concluded, followed by a formal application being processed with the Department of Mines. The foreign participant would then make announcements to their own Exchanges hoping that the Indonesian gold frenzy would drive their shares up and beyond par value. Depending on the viability of the find, Baird would often instruct his stockbroker to buy into the relevant miner’s stock before any announcement could be made, selling whenever he acquired advance information relating to drilling results.

In 1988, the year following his disastrous losses, desperate, Baird had agreed to support Alexander Kremenchug’s proposal to acquire a number of local, Kalimantan gold leases, and offer these as equity in future, Canadian public company floats. Apart from identifying prospects based on geological formations, Baird was also responsible for convincing the traditional owners to surrender their concessions in exchange for future payment, once mining had commenced.

Baird had set out, surveying available areas around Palangkaraya in Indonesian-Borneo’s southernmost province and, after some months, having secured a number of interesting sites for future investigation, moved around the east coast to the Mahakam River. He rested for two weeks in Samarinda, the sores on his arms and legs the result of mosquitoes, leeches and rashes that inevitably accompanied surveys into such remote parts, not yet healed from incessant scratching. When his companion and assistant, Mardidi, had suffered a reoccurring malaria attack, Baird had been tempted to postpone the Mahakam survey and return to Jakarta for a number of months, to recuperate. But the urgency in Kremenchug’s voice when Baird had phoned from Samarinda suggesting the delay had put an end to that.

****

The Australian geologist had taken a room in the river port’s Mesra Hotel, an oasis by Borneo standards and one that could never have survived without expatriates and Indonesia’s timber tycoons. In contrast, Mardidi’s accommodations in the local losmen were, however, far from luxurious. Although Baird insisted that they share his tent when out in the field, the geologist remained distant, even aloof towards the younger man when in the presence of other foreigners. Baird had explained the social parameters that required their relationship remain covert, and Mardidi abided by these.

After a number of days resting, Mardidi had been able to rejoin Baird. Provisions and equipment loaded, the two men had boarded a speedboat before sunrise and headed upstream at speed, the powerful outboard engines weaving through the perilous path, blocked at many points by half-submerged logs.

This first leg of their journey lasted until dusk, leaving the men with tired, and aching bodies. Their arrival at the Long Bagun, losmen-styled rest station had been expected, the staff there had been alerted by radio. Here, the river’s conditions required a change in carrier and, as it would have been foolhardy to attempt the rapids in darkness, the group remained overnight, retiring early in preparation of yet another pre-dawn start. The following morning the two men watched as their provisions and other precious cargo were loaded into a cigar shaped longboat, Baird satisfied that the two-hundredhorsepower outboards hanging over the stern, would get them to Tiong Ohang before nightfall.

Following the river’s meandering course throughout another monotonous day, they reached the river station and Mardidi suffered another relapse. Baird decided to leave him there to recuperate – electing to complete the survey alone, promising to return within the week. He left sufficient supplies and cash with the villagers to cover Mardidi’s needs, then addressed the problem of whether to retain the Modang boatmen, or call for others from further upstream.

He was now in a quandary. Changing crews, which also meant vessels, without his assistant to oversee the transition might result in equipment essential for the survey either being damaged, or even disappearing altogether. He decided to continue with the longboat-men already on hand, and offered them bonuses to transport him to where he intended establishing the isolated base camp. The Modang crewmen had reluctantly agreed. Baird spoke to the headman and, assured of their commitment to care for Mardidi, left his companion and his first aid kit, in their care. Now, alone with the disgruntled crew, his concerns grew as their mood became openly aggressive, and he regretted his hasty decision to move ahead without his Javanese assistant.

****

Leaving the Mahakam, they ventured deeper into the reaches of the secondary tributary system, and the Modang crew became increasingly agitated, as they were reminded of the Penehing-Dayak’s past penchant for taking heads. Many downstream-river dwellers maintained that the practice was still evident amongst the more isolated groups that dwelled in the Mount Batubrok foothills, not far from where Baird was determined to visit.

Needles of dancing sunlight pierced the heavy-foliaged jungle canopy whilst unfamiliar sounds tricked their ears. Swept with fear, the lead boatman whispered in his own dialect to the crewman aft, possibly suggesting they abandon the foreigner, and leave this dark place. Baird sensed a change in the air – a chill touched his spine as he caught a glimpse of the navigating crewman’s stony features when he turned and signaled his co-conspirator. The longboat’s engines were immediately stifled in response to the navigator’s gesture. Alarmed by the sudden quiet and the guide’s obvious concern, Eric Baird fought familiar bowel-tugging dread of the unknown, the jungle rushed to envelop their surrounds and his mind raced, and conjured up non-existent dangers. A shrill call permeated the choking stillness and all reared back as a low-flying, black, rhinoceros hornbill struck out from a nearby bank, startled by their presence. Baird heard a loud grunt followed by movement along the muddy riverbank as camouflaged predators rose in readiness, then something slid from the shadows into the water nearby.

‘Ada apa, sih?’ – ‘What is it?’ Baird asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, a raised palm in response, silencing him immediately. He tucked his arms inside the boat’s hull, and his nervousness grew when the forward crewman’s hand went to the sheathed, razor-sharp parang hanging at his waist.

‘Babi,’ the man announced, and turned with a wide grin across his face. A wild pig broke through the thick undergrowth, raised its snout, sniffed, then turned and fled.

The Australian’s eyes raced along the shadowy riverbank reaches, every log a frame in his mind depicting a crocodile waiting to feast on his carcass. He shivered, reached up to brush aside hanging vines partially blocking his vision and froze; a well-camouflaged but deadly poisonous snake coiled within inches of his outstretched fingers. Baird was momentarily lost in the screaming quiet that only a jungle environment can deliver; he recovered from his lapse once the danger had passed. Shaken, he reached for a cigarette, fumbled when he attempted to open the silver cigarette case which then slipped from his hands into the partially, water-filled, and now drifting longboat. Soon, he would be all out of cigarettes and he looked at the intimidating navigator, wondering where the man had secreted the dozen or more cartons that had so mysteriously disappeared during the previous night’s camp.

Mutely, Baird observed as both men extracted paddles, secured inside the hull, and guided the long, wooden vessel on a course parallel to the embankment, bending low to avoid being snared by the thick, clinging vines. Drawn by the current the longboat continued to drift, entering a much narrower flow, separated now from the larger stream by a series of broken mud banks. Less than ten meters to either side decaying jungle growth blanketed the forest floor. The dank surrounds were spotted with wild, and highly toxic mushrooms, spawned under intermittent sunlight, and offering instant death to the foolish. Baird checked his compass then squinted up through the canopy at the fading light, anxious to reach his destination and establish camp before nightfall.

Before he embarked on this expedition Baird had examined Mines Department data and Dutch records covering the Upper Mahakam reaches. He decided to survey a relatively un-charted area where a number of minor tributaries entered the main river system.

‘Start the engines,’ Baird ordered in Bahasa Indonesia, the national lingua franca. His voice carried more bravado than he felt. The boatmen glanced at each other, their unspoken words clearly understood.

‘Come on,’ he urged, ‘we need to find somewhere to camp, before dark.’

‘Tidak mau terus, Tuan,’ the man crouched forward announced, refusing to go on. ‘Kami mau pulang,’ he added, suggesting that they return to their village downstream.

They had been contracted to ferry the geologist upstream, clear a site for his base camp then return. Baird had originally planned on spending two weeks surveying the area and was counting on the local villagers to provide river transport back to the transit station. But now, with Mardidi not at his side, and having not seen any semblance of village life in over two hours, he accepted that his plan lay flawed.

‘Okay,’ Baird sighed, tapping the wallet they knew he kept in the jacket’s pocket. ‘I will pay you an extra five day’s charter if you continue for another day,’ but the men immediately started shaking their heads.

‘This is a bad place,Tuan.We don’t wish to continue,’ one complained.

‘Alright,’ Baird’s experience warned him that now was the time to be generous. ‘I’ll pay you for an additional ten days if you continue.’

While the two men discussed the situation, heatedly, Baird waited anxiously for the expected counter offer, annoyed that he could not understand the Modang dialect, his anxiety growing with each passing minute.

‘We could drown him in the river and take all his money,’ the more confident of the two suggested.

‘Why don’t we just leave him after making camp?’ the boatman aft responded.

‘No,’ the other argued, ‘if we take his money, we can’t leave him alive.’ They had observed the geologist’s billfold when advance payment had been made for the longboat. The local currency, Rupiah, was far too bulky. Baird was carrying American dollars which were easily exchanged even in the most remote corners of this vast country.

The second man appeared unconvinced. ‘It would be better that someone finds an empty camp,’ he insisted. ‘We will surely be questioned. If remains of a camp are found, we will be believed.We could say that he sent us back.’

Baird’s uneasiness increased. He knew they were discussing him; their furtive looks a clear signal that trouble lay ahead.

‘Start the engines!’ he demanded, concern now evident in his voice. ‘I will pay you an extra fourteen days and no more.’ He hesitated, looking over his shoulder first at the man aft, then forward to the more belligerent of the two. ‘Okay?’

The Modang boatmen exchanged glances, considering their options. If they were to throw the foreigner into the river, it would be unlikely that his body would be discovered. The suggestion of establishing camp before killing the man made sense. They could poison him, take his money, then return to their village. The Penehing Dayaks would be blamed. The boatman nodded slowly, Baird interpreted this as acceptance whilst, in reality, the other was contemplating how he would remove the foreigner’s head to lay blame on the local inhabitants.

‘Boleh juga!’ The boatman answered, feigning acceptance. The foreigner nodded, and the outboard engines roared into life.

An hour later Baird called for the longboat to slow when they came upon a clearing that reached down to the riverbank. Baird gave the setting a cursory inspection, before ordering the boatmen to land. The area was roughly half the size of a soccer field surrounded by thick forest and, to the geologist, the absence of tall timbers suggested that this site had been cleared at some earlier time. When he stepped ashore he could see that the strip was actually a small promontory, and decided that this would be a suitable location for his primary base. And, fearing creatures that crawled in the night, the men immediately set about having a grassy area cleared for the camp.

****

As Baird and his reluctant team unloaded the longboat, their efforts were hampered by slippery conditions, shoulder-high grass, and fading light. As they worked, they were keenly observed. The Penehing Dayak shaman remained motionless, his almost invisible form woven into the intricate, rain-forest imagery as he leaned against the towering ironwood tree, contempt for the shadows that moved before him staining his face. Directly above, orchids of rare and dazzling beauty stood scattered amongst clusters of staghorns clinging effortlessly to the giant tree, whilst crimson-breasted wood partridges courted amongst the highest branches.

Jonathan Dau scrutinized the trespassers’ movements as they established camp, more concerned with the white intruder and what his presence might mean, than the Modang boatmen with their Twin-Yamaha powered riverboat. The shaman was surprised that the Modang had accompanied the foreigner this deep into Penehing territory. A cruel smile crossed his lips – not so many years before these men would have been swiftly dealt with, their heads left as a warning to others.

There was no doubt in his mind that the white man and his two Modang companions were there to investigate gold deposit potential, within his community’s territory. Angered at the intrusion, the shaman’s jaw clenched as he continued to observe the men clear an area and establish their camp. Darkness threatened, and he observed closely as one of the boatmen slipped away from the others, momentarily disappearing from view. Then the shaman caught another glimpse of the man again, as he continued along the river’s edge – and suddenly he was gone.

Jonathan Dau moved closer to the camp where he could see that the foreigner would sleep alone in the erected tent. He watched the fair-headed man eat from cans whilst preparing for the rapidly approaching night. Then one of the boatmen reappeared, standing half-crouched, directly within the shaman’s view. In his right hand, grasped between thumb and forefinger, a krait, the highly venomous snake’s striking, black and white banded body coiled around the man’s arm. The shaman watched closely when Baird entered his tent and the boatman moved cautiously along the riverbank until reaching the longboat where he bagged the snake, then waited with his co-conspirator.

An eddy of air gently touched the shaman’s face mimicking the caress of a woman’s soft breath. Jonathan Dau sensed the spirit’s presence and became even more alert, his eyes searching through the dim jungle light for evidence of its intentions. He spotted the black hornbill perched, almost within reach, overlooking the campsite. And, as Dayaks firmly believed the hornbill transported souls to heaven, the shaman’s eyes narrowed, considering the scene before him – and contemplated which of the three men was about to die. Then, with measured patience the shaman settled down to wait, the green hue that concealed his presence turning to dark, confused shadows as the remaining sunlight blinked, before disappearing under the onset of night.

****

Eric Baird sprayed insect repellent over his hands, neck and face, then sealed the two-man tent before climbing into his sleeping bag. He reached up and adjusted the Petromax light, then settled down to record the events of the day as the jungle’s darkness swallowed the camp. The two Modang boatmen stretched out comfortably inside their longboat smoking the foreigner’s cigarettes, and waited impatiently for him to go to sleep.

Having completed his notes, Baird placed them in a waterproof case then opened a small bottle and spilled the contents into the palm of his hand, swallowing several pills in succession. He looked over at the empty space alongside, admitting that, had Mardidi been there, the sleeping pills may not have been necessary. He then turned the Petromax lamp down, permitting the light to fade into darkness, his body slowly relaxing as his system reacted to the drug. Soon, Baird had drifted away and, by the time the boatmen approached with their deadly gift, he was asleep, the sound of the tent’s zipper being carefully opened going unheard.

****

Overhead, a brilliant moon sent scattered, blinking messages of light, the ghostly effect surreal as the silhouetted figure lifted the deadly krait. His hand moved towards the half-opened flap, the air still as a tiny, poisonous, Dayak dart, hit his neck. Instinctively, his free hand reached to where he had been stung, his heart ceasing to pump before the boatman collapsed to the ground. Startled, his companion jumped back to avoid being bitten by the now released snake.

Jonathan Dau raised the blowpipe he carried when hunting wild boar and aimed at the second boatman. He drew deeply, poised but for a moment then blew, the escaping air lost as the would-be-killer’s eyes opened wide in shock, the deadly dart killing the man instantly.

****

With the arrival of morning Eric Baird rolled to one side, the sleeping bag restricting his movement. A cramp in his lower, right leg jerked him awake from some convoluted dream. He winced, raised his leg and massaged the calf muscle trying to restore circulation, his head still groggy from the sleeping pills. He turned to wake Mardidi, frowning when he discovered that he was alone. Slowly, Baird dragged his body into a sitting position, reached for a cigarette and lit the clove kretek, burning his fingers as he struck the match. He swore as blood rushed to his brain, and succeeded in lighting the cigarette the second time around. He drew heavily on the unfiltered Gudang Garam, filling his lungs with the clove-scented aroma, the smoke bringing tears to his eyes and he coughed, then went in search for coffee. Baird wrapped a sarong around his waist and climbed out of his tent, surprised to discover that he had not sealed the zip properly. He wandered down to the bank to pee, yawning as he overlooked the stream, casting an occasional glance towards the longboat, relieved that the crew had not abandoned him during the night.

The geologist strolled lazily back to his tent, changed into field clothes then went down to the longboat, mystified by the absence of the boatmen. Assuming they had wandered off in search of game, he prepared breakfast for himself, demolishing a can of corned beef whilst he waited. With coffee on his mind, he lit the portable primus then sat on his haunches waiting for the water to boil. Half an hour passed before Baird concluded, that for the boatmen to leave their vessel unattended this long, something had to be amiss. Aware that it would be foolhardy for him to leave the camp until they had returned, the invitation for them to steal everything in his absence too great, he strolled back down to the longboat, calling out as he approached. There was no answer. Annoyed, Baird climbed down into the boat and went searching for the missing cartons of cigarettes. He flicked the loose cover tarpaulin to one side and froze.

Both crewmen lay stretched out, their faces grim evidence of how they had died. Baird leapt backwards, stunned, and fell overboard. Desperate, he groped his way up the muddy bank tearing nails from flesh as he slipped and slid, finally making it to his feet and ran towards his tent, terrified that whoever had murdered these men might still be lurking close by. Realizing that was no place to hide Baird stopped in his tracks, and stared around. Fear gripped his heart; in moments he was shaking with shock.

****

The shaman had followed Eric Baird’s movements fascinated with the foreigner’s behavior. He had removed the deadly darts and placed his victims’ bodies in the vessel, expecting Baird would decamp immediately upon discovering the dead crewman. The Dayak chief had considered killing the foreigner, but reasoned that an expatriate death would only bring grave consequences, for all. That he had taken the lives of the two boatmen in no way troubled the chief; the Modang had brought the white man to a sacred site and desecrated the soil by establishing camp there. He was deeply distressed that the outsiders had selected this location, and his concern that others would follow and disturb ancestral spirits in their quest for gold, prompted his next step. The shaman removed his clothing and extracted his father’s golok from its leather sheath. With the machete raised in one hand and the blowpipe in the other for effect, he let forth a most terrifying call, and started running towards Baird.

The Australian heard the blood-curdling scream, and his jaw fell. When he realized that this savage looking creature meant danger, he snapped alert and ran back towards the river, slipping and sliding down the embankment. He scrambled on board the longboat, released the lines then climbed over the boatmen’s bodies in his haste to get to the engines. He hit the starter – dismayed when the engine coughed and died. He punched the button hard, again, with the palm of his hand, a wave of relief flooding through his body as the outboards caught, and roared into life.

Standing further along the riverbank Jonathan Dau continued with his show, dancing around like the proverbial wild man of Borneo, yelling and cursing in his native dialect, waving the intimidating machete in the most menacing manner until Baird disappeared from view. Satisfied that the intruders were done with, he strolled back to where he had disrobed, dressed quickly then commenced the two-hour journey back to his village, through the densely timbered forest.

****

The shaman moved with stealth along familiar paths, arriving at a point overlooking the most idyllic of river-island settings, where he took a moment to rest. From his vantage point on the ridge, he could clearly see across the waterfall-fed streams to his Longhouse village, a complex community building perched high on tall stilts, half-encircled by a limestone ridge. Spray rising from the waterfall on his left painted a welcoming rainbow across the sky, and the shaman offered a prayer of thanks to the mid-morning. Villagers tended fields towards the center of the island, while children played at their heels and, downstream, where the river rejoined to become one again, a pocket of thick forest remained, untouched. In the distance he could see a longboat approaching, carrying supplies to the isolated tribe.

The chief moved down the path to the river’s edge, passing through a naturally carved cavern hidden behind the waterfall, to emerge on the other side unseen. He crossed a rope and bamboo suspension bridge, acknowledging the guardian statues on either side. They had been placed there at the entrance to the longhouse by his forefathers to protect those inside against evil spirits. He stepped onto the boardwalk that followed the riverbank – the Perkins diesel’s steady thump, thump, thump drifting up the gorge informing him that the elders were watching television, inside.

Jonathan entered the long, carefully planned dwelling unbuckling the golok in his stride, and was greeted by a chorus of voices acknowledging his return. He smiled, and joined his extended family, taking the privileged position reserved for the shaman in the communal room. There, he sat, comfortably cross-legged on a tikar mat, with the others, watching a European soccer match final via satellite, the parabolic dish mounted conspicuously outside.

****

Eric Baird managed his way back to the transit station, but not before finding the courage to dump the two bodies overboard not far from where they had been murdered. Any investigation would not only complicate matters with respect to his client’s acquisition of the general exploration area, but might possibly require his returning to the site. With an image of the wild, screaming bushman fresh in his mind, Baird opted to disguise the truth. He would fabricate a story that would be credible.

The authorities accepted his well-rehearsed and convincing story of how the boatmen had died. He remained at the transit station until Mardidi was well enough to travel, taking advantage of the delay to prepare a fictitious report for survey work he did not complete.

The pair returned to Samarinda where Baird paid one thousand dollars compensation to the boatmen’s families, the money gratefully received, the widow of one kissing his right hand in gratitude as her oldest child looked on, in bewildered grief – the boy’s chest filling with pride when Baird explained that his father had died courageously, whilst attempting to save his drowning companion from the mighty Mahakam’s currents, when a overhanging branch had knocked the man into the river.

Baird never revealed the true events to anyone; not even to Mardidi. Upon his return to Jakarta the following week, he submitted a copy of his report to the Indonesian Mines Department with recommendations that the area further east might be deserving of further exploration activity. Baird had no wish to ever return to the scene of his wild encounter, deciding then, that in the event Alexander Kremenchug was successful in putting a deal together with the Canadians, he would find a reason not to return to this site. Baird had copied an earlier report from his files; the data compiled some years before during a survey of terrain, relatively similar to the target area. He understood that Kremenchug needed a positive result from this initial survey, and he was only too happy to provide one. Baird collected twenty-five thousand dollars for his efforts and an undertaking from Kremenchug that he would be included in any vendor’s share issues, once an investor had acquired the property.

By an accident of bureaucratic blunder and Baird’s misleading submission to the Mines Department, Jonathan Dau’s spiritual grounds remained untouched for another two years, when a group of Samarinda businessmen discovered that the stretch of river land had not been assigned to any of the mining companies. Nine months after these local entrepreneurs acquired the exploration rights, they, too, abandoned the prospect, when a number of calamitous survey expeditions earned the area a fierce reputation, and was then considered taboo.

And along the Upper Mahakam reaches identified as Longdamai, this isolated pocket of land became known as Longdamai Sial – a place cursed, even in tranquility.

****