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Your purchase has been completed. Your documents are now available to view. Purchase chapter. Cite this Share this. Showing a limited preview of this publication:. Cite this chapter. Bunck, J. Bunck J, Fowler M. Copied to clipboard. Copy to clipboard. Share this chapter. Supplementary Materials. Please login or register with De Gruyter to order this product. Register Log in. Bribes, Bullets, and Intimidation. Chapters in this book 17 Frontmatter. List of Illustrations. List of Abbreviations. Selected Bibliography. Index of Cases. Index of Names. General Index. Downloaded on

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On our farewell tour of Indonesia, we aimed to reach the Togean Islands, a paradise off the coast of Sulawesi. But before we got there, a series of obstacles awaited. Not in the least the local traffic. We sat in the cargo bed of a pickup truck in Sulawesi, on our way to the Togean Islands. The noodles Anete had consumed with relish the night before disappeared into a plastic bag of Indomaret. I looked paler than Steve Buscemi after several hours of soaking in a bath filled with bleach. My stomach explored the space between my ribs. A day earlier, guide Nicolas had told us about the peculiar rituals of the Toraja people. Each August, for instance, they take the deceased out of their coffins. They wash and polish them and dress them in nice clothes. Then they parade them around their villages. Yesterday, we had frowned at this. But now we feared being mistaken for mummies ourselves. Our drivers were enjoying themselves. They drove like lunatics on the narrow, winding mountain roads, laughed like hyenas and lit one cigarette after another. Put a local in a car in Sulawesi and he imagines himself a racing pilot, combining a lead foot with the steering skills of Stevie Wonder. We braced ourselves every time our driver took a turn in the oncoming lane, like a mobile variation on Russian roulette. After two hours of shaking and trembling — literally and figuratively — the gentlemen dropped us off in Paloppo. While I tried to convince a driver to take us, a local pint-sized rascal struck up a conversation with Anete. My inner Usain Bolt awoke. I dashed towards him, intending to use a few well-aimed pedagogical touches to rid him of some baby teeth. Alas: seeing my seven-mile boots, he jumped on his motorbike and rushed off. I saw the futility of my attempt and chugged back. Meanwhile, the whole village had crowded around Anete. There were more motorbikes than during the Harley Davidson Days. I swallowed hard. That was the end of me. After our detour through the Christian lands of Toraja, we had ended up in Muslim territory again. I had probably affronted one of their sons with my manoeuvre. I signalled to Anete. And indeed, the wrath of the village was directed at the little devil. I got to keep my family jewels. When things cooled off, and pitchforks and machetes were safely stowed away again, only a small chubby lady remained behind, the only villager who spoke English. She introduced herself as Maya. Ecstasy pills can be bought for as little as 1, rupiah 0,06 euro. They add those to a bottle of wine. See that guy over there? Why were drugs precisely here a problem, in this Allah-forsaken hole? She presented herself as a true crusader against religion. Maya pointed at her sister, Heema. She taught herself to heal when she was five. To cure our junkies, we only use plants and herbs. Anete mentioned she had a toothache. Heema tipped some table salt into a glass of water, clamped it between her palms and looked at it as she read the future. Then she made a few wrist movements above the glass and slid it towards Anete. My bullshit meter was going into overdrive. But as we were guests, I bit my tongue. Meanwhile, Maya invited us to sit around the table. And stuffing themselves with sugars and fats. These are cravings we must suppress. Because, yes, the uncrowned queen of suppressed cravings would easily beat any moustachioed Turkish truck driver in a cigarette-smoking competition. I rubbed my hands together, all this gabbling had made me hungry. But then the pot revealed its secrets. Dry noodles! Served on a bed of nothing! For all that diligent do-gooding: kudos. With the necessary Valium pills, I could just about tolerate all the preaching and esoteric rambling. But to eat so poorly? And this on the eve of Idul Fitri, the end of Ramadan and pretty much Christmas Eve for Muslims — who are eating themselves an indigestion at this very moment? On to Tentena! Sulawesi is wild and underdeveloped — especially compared to Java, where we lived for almost a year. Java is the most densely populated area in the world, million people on an island the size of Greece. The Javanese drank tea in industrial amounts, usually served with large, hammer-chopped chunks of ice and quantities of sugar that would give any dietician a heart attack. In Sulawesi, on the other hand, you needed to be Sherlock Holmes to find a chilled drink, let alone a decent meal. I had just pointed at a yellow curry with bamboo shoots. In this restaurant in Tentena, Bibles and Jesus statues adorned shelves, bats figured on the menu. I pointed at another dish. When the next bowl contained goldfish, we ordered a portion of dry rice. Cute, whitewashed fences, charming churches whose bells reverberated every morning, a lovely deep-blue river flowing into a lake: postcards have been printed for less. Appearances are deceptive. For the previous twenty years, heads had been rolling over the streets with the regularity of said church bells. Mostly heads with headscarves or with a cross dangling from a chain around their necks. Muslims and Christians had lived side by side for years, the mosque next to the church without any problems. Until the central government started encouraging Muslims from Java to settle in Sulawesi. Those waves of immigration upset the balance. The situation got out of hand, and hundreds of people died. In the following years, peace never truly returned in the region. They battled each other, sometimes with traditional spears, bows and arrows, catapults and homemade bombs and guns. The dominoes of violence kept falling, unstoppably. Christians killed Muslims and threw their mutilated bodies in the river, Muslims retaliated by brutally beheading teenage girls on their way to school. And so on. Eventually, the government intervened, manu militari. But that peace remained shaky was proven by the events of a year earlier. When a simple farmer, on the way to his fields, witnessed a shootout between police and Muslim extremists, the latter finished him off in front of his family. The goal of our trip, the Togean Islands, got closer and closer, paradisical islands with no mobile connection or internet. The perfect place to escape the hustle and bustle of Java. To reach our eldorado, we needed to take a ferry. As it only sailed in the morning, we were condemned to spend the night in Ampana, a grim port town where ugliness blew in our faces like a Jeff Koons artwork. Lonely Planet recommended staying in Hotel Oasis and we followed that advice. All the more so because upon checking out another hostel, we found a cockroach corpse on the floor. So be it, Oasis would have to do. At a quarter to 11, we brushed our teeth and put on our nighties. At three in the morning, we were still vibrating to bad dangdut. I appeared at the breakfast table with eyes betraying ten days without sleep. We received the next piece of bad news on a sober stomach: the ferry would exceptionally not leave from the terminal within walking distance, but from the port 15 kilometres away. And so we had to take an angkot first. The adventure started with crawling in — and you can take that literally. We squeezed ourselves between a man with a body odour the UN would label a biological weapon of war, and a crooked old lady coming back from the early market. Judging from the live chicken, the bag of rice and the large plastic bags bursting with fish and wilted vegetables, she possibly assumed war was imminent in the next 24 hours and took precautions. There were six people in the minibus, but we were under no illusions: that number was bound to be multiplied. The rule of thumb seemed to be that as long as everyone was still breathing normally, at least one more small Indonesian could be added. We were lucky to have a handkerchief-sized spot to ourselves. Pinned between shopping bags, the bus shook us harder than a theme park ride. Was that the fish that started leaking on our shoes? Did that stinky guy manage to fall asleep, saliva dripping from his mouth? Three schoolgirls next to the road signalled that they wanted to join the van. If they fit, I thought, then Mark Zuckerberg qualified as a sex god. But as everyone was still breathing more or less normally, wooden benches suddenly appeared from under the seats, plastic bags were pushed onto our laps and the miracle happened. Indonesia reinvents the concept clown car. Lekker weertje, toch? Nice weather, right? En die Bintang smaakt heerlijk. Prima pilsje! And that Bintang tastes great. Great lager! This is what would have happened if everything had continued in the same line of expectations. Instead, something else happened. Togean forms a mini archipelago of 56 islands within the giant archipelago called Indonesia. There are 37 villages, some of them found by Bajau people, semi-nomadic sea gypsies that spend large parts of their lives on the sea, in small, wooden boats. Unlike the bulk of Indonesians, Bajau people feel — well, yes — like fish in the water. According to legend, however, they used to live in a kingdom on the land. The king had a daughter, at least until a fateful storm dragged her into the sea. The distraught monarch ordered his people to track down the apple of his eye. The Bajau searched and searched, turned over every sea drop three times, but to no avail. This loyalty to the sea goes a long way. When a Bajau couple gets married, the family pushes them out to sea on a canoe. They have to find their own place. Fathers dive with their year-old children to get them used to the water as quickly as possible. To get better at diving, some Bajau deliberately destroy their eardrums. Many older Bajau therefore are hard of hearing. At its peak, their sailing area extended far beyond East Timor. They searched for sea cucumbers, pearls and shark fins. Occasionally, the Bajau also put a black patch on their right eye and boarded a merchant boat. But they always lived mainly from fishing. Gradually, they started losing out to better-equipped fishermen from the mainland. Their sailing area shrunk. An ecological disaster, but you could hardly blame the Bajau people for wanting to feed their families. When the government clamped down on dynamite fishing, many Bajau people gave up their lifestyle. Now they shack up in shabby stilt houses on the coasts of the islands. Some families have changed trade, opened resorts and now fish for tourists. She nods. On the quay of Wakai — the only town in the Togean Islands worthy of that name — we met the owner of Pondok Lestari by chance. After we raised our voices to Gordon Ramsay levels, he finally understood our search for a place to sleep. And tomorrow, another ten will arrive. Maybe we can put a mattress in the restaurant. With less courage than despair, we engaged a local fisherman to take us to Sunset Beach. Upon arrival, a blonde angel came running out to meet us in the sea. Irina took over the resort only a month before and was still waiting for an influx of Robinsons. We plonked ourselves down on the picture-perfect beach and no longer thought about the hurdles to get here. All of a sudden, life was dead easy. To flush the toilet, we ran to the sea to fill a bucket of water. Occasionally, we had to chase away a spider with the diameter of a large tennis ball. We made coffee and tea with water from a freshwater stream nearby. Shopping was possible in Bajau village-on-stilts Tobil. It was within walking distance distance, but only at low tide. Tobil permanently smelled like Christmas, thanks to the cloves drying in the sun. It takes quite a lot of that stuff to supply an entire nation with kreteks, the crackling clove cigarettes that every male Indonesian from 8 to 88 is addicted to. In the morning, afternoon and evening, we joined Irina at her table. An all-in for 11 euros per person, what a deal! The rare times we managed to hoist ourselves out of our hammocks, we made snorkelling excursions. We swam with non-toxic jellyfish in a lake and discovered a magical underwater world in the sea. The coral of Togean seemed to have recovered from all that dynamite fishing. What a life! But alas, all good things come to an end. After six days on the Togean Islands, we ran out of cash. And there was no ATM around. Just when we were about to throw our backpacks into a fishing boat and return to reality, Irina stopped us. I am still looking for someone to take over things here temporarily. How about becoming managers of the Sunset Beach? Your email address will not be published. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. Secondary Menu Facebook Instagram Twitter. These people only want to help us. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website.

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