Corruption-The Poison in Societies Everywhere
by Martin Ough Dealy
The Sickening Sweet Smell of Corruption
The very word evokes images of putrefying meat, very long dead fish, maggoty food, decaying corpses, bloated carcasses, rotting vegetables and all similar else that generates objectionable odoriferous effluvia, or just plain bad smells.
Corruption like this is natural and acceptable. Whilst many of our species cannot tolerate it, others find it attractive, a delectable source of food. How else would vultures, flies and other eaters of carrion survive?
But there is another kind of corruption that is not natural. It is solely a product of our species. No other animal stoops so low. It is the all pervasive entirely reprehensible kind that only living people produce. It is the result of general moral turpitude most especially in high places. It is common everywhere, but especially in tyrannies, dictatorships, failed states, authoritarian organisations, closed and secretive societies. It is manifest in overt and covert conspiracies to defraud, bullying police, grasping officialdom, greedy businesses, con artists, general dishonesty, and just plain theft.
Wherever there is corruption in human society there is also denial and rampant hypocrisy. There are thousands of common excuses and euphemisms to deny and disguise pervasive corruption including:
• “La Mordida”
• The “little bite”
• Backhanders
• Enabling Fee
• Dosh
• Dash
• Under the table payment
• On the side
• Tipping the wink
• Tipping
• Lining the palm
• Greasing the palm
• Sticky Fingers
• Hands in the till
• Skimming
• My share
• Fair share
• Marketing expenses
• Administrative expenses
• Contract expenses
• Need to know
• None of your business
• Back scratching
• Old boy networks
• Bribes
• Sweeteners
• Baksheesh
• Hand warmers
Nearly all corruption is caused by the nastier sides of human nature especially where it occurs at the higher levels. Greed is probably the most powerful; the urge for always wanting more, never being satisfied. To satisfy greed power is essential, power over others and the power of too much money…or the lack of it. The concentration of power and wealth in the hands of a small section of society always condemns the majority to poverty and that itself is a common generator of corruption.
Necessity Knows No Law
Poverty stricken countries commonly cannot afford to pay their civil servants or police a living wage and so these representatives of officialdom squeeze the remainder of the population in whatever way they can to obtain the wherewithal to survive.
When the wage consists of one sack of rice ( or the equivalent) per month and nothing else, it is no wonder that the local constable will find ways of fining the locals and pocketing the proceeds at every opportunity. Were he to be honest he and his family would starve.
The devices and practices of gaining by corruption range from the simple to the very clever.
Sleight of Hand
In Mexico it has been customary to place a $50 note in one’s license. This is an insurance against the inevitable when the local policeman stops one for a genuine or trumped up infringement.
When this happens the process is straight forward. The copper will signal you to stop. He then walks over and demands to see your license papers. He may or may not accuse you of doing something wrong. Whatever, the amazing thing is the speed with which the note disappears from your papers once they are in his hands. If the note is found the policeman will grudgingly let you go with no more than a “ticking off” and you will get your papers back. Sometimes there might even be the smile of one professional recognizing another. But woe betide you if the note is not there. You will be lucky to get away at double the going rate and even then only after a lot of argument. The practice is one of the may sources of the term “La Mordida” or the little bite.
The Over Weight Airliner
Before the jet age luggage weight allowances were restricted. The cost of over weight baggage was prohibitive if it was allowed on board at all. In well regulated countries the rules were strictly enforced. It was a matter of luck whether they were adhered to elsewhere.
I turned up once at Mexico City’s airport with luggage overweight. The airline official demanded $US250 as the official payment for overweight baggage. But with quick exchange of signals he quickly pocketed my $50 note and let my baggage through as being within the limit.
Following this exchange I proceeded to the old DC4 airliner thinking I had been very clever to save $200. After all this was Mexico and that is the way things were done to “get round a local difficulty”.
Then as the old piston engines pulled us down the runway I looked around at my fellow passengers and wondered how many had also bribed their overweight bags on board.
For the remainder of that lumbering takeoff I sweated with fear. The only hope was that the pilots were in on the scam, otherwise there could be no certainty that the baggage on board was within the overall limits for a safe take off..
The Crooked Customs
The Dutch taught the Indonesians well or ill depending on your point of view. The procedure for clearing imported personal baggage into Jakarta through Customs at Halim Airport was a particularly fine example of bureaucratic pedantic procedure. It required over 30 different steps. Each step was in strict sequence.
Introduced by the Dutch years before Indonesian independence in 1948 the process was designed, when administered by honest men, to ensure that no contraband passed into the country and that the Government was paid the duties it imposed.
By 1980, long after independence, the system was still in use, but it was no longer administered by honest men.
Indeed it had been transformed into a major industry through which the Government still received its dues. But there were now, as result of Government “make work” schemes an official employed to act as gate keeper for each of the many steps in the procedure. Inevitably the paperwork also proliferated. There were separate forms required (and copies therefore) for nearly every step each requiring an official seal of approval or “chop”
A separate contingent of “Immigration and Customs Consultants” had also materialized to make the most of the opportunities available through the morass of officialdom.. These worthies offered their services to help anyone new to Indonesia through the intricacies of the now completely corrupted system.
In my innocence I made the mistake of refusing the services of one of these consultants.
Instead, as and independent, proud and strong minded Kiwi, I would clear my baggage without their help. I simply could not see why I had to pay a typical fee of 30000 Rupiah plus expenses of a further 30000 rupiah plus normal customs duties on specified goods. I thought I would just have to pay the Government duties. In any case, I did not have much in my baggage to declare as all the items were second hand personal things I was brining in to set up home.
Well, I was quickly disabused. The first thing was to get the right forms on which to declare what I was bringing in to Indonesia. My knowledge of Bahasa was limited and I certainly did not know the procedure for clearing customs in any detail.
The problem of where to start was in itself proving almost impossible to solve. That is until I was directed to the first office wherein I discovered that I could not get any further unless I paid an enabling “fee”.
My dilemma was further complicated by my having no idea of what would be a reasonable amount to offer for a right of passage past this obdurate official. Anyhow after many misunderstandings and much haggling we settled on an amount that I am sure was much beyond what was normal to just get past the first step of the process.
I was given a sheaf of paper and asked detail the contents of the few packing cases I wanted to clear. Fortunately the form contained translations of the printed instructions in Bahasa. Although the English translations were far from clear I could at least get the gist of what was required..
After an hour of frustrating endeavour I returned to the first official with my completed forms. Surprisingly without further ado he stamped the forms and sent me onto the next office where I joined a queue of people awaiting the attention of the man within. Eventually I got into the sanctum and faced another uniformed official. His job was to go through the form wherein I had detailed the contents of each of my packing cases and indicate with a tick the items that I would have to take out of the each case as proof of the contents. His choice was random and included from memory a pair of socks out of one case, a reading lamp from another and a sheet and towel from the third..
Having performed this laborious job, my official friend then indicated he too required a an enabling fee before he could return my paperwork and tell me where next to go. I again had great difficulty in determining how much to pay to get past this obstacle, but in the end, having learnt something from my previous encounter, I got away with about half the previous fee.
So I proceeded to the warehouse to find my packing cases.. Here I faced a bizarre scene. There were people wandering around to discover where their baggage was. Others had actually discovered their belongings and had opened them to get the items required by the officials. Their open boxes were on the floor with items scattered around as they searched for the specified samples. Yet others were walking back in somewhat bemused almost embarrassed shame faced fashion carrying an odd assortment of things including underwear, bits of other personal items including in one case a child’s teddy bear.
But my problem was still to find where my cases were. It was not until I had greased the palm of yet another official that I was taken rack where they had been stored. I was then allowed to open them and fish out the four items demanded by the man at step 2.
To cut a long story short, I found my pair of socks, the small table lamp and the sheets and towel and eventually found my way from the warehouse into the maze of offices and passageways from whence I had come. Thinking that it was official number two who had to be satisfied -.remember he it was who had selected the items in the first place, I eventually found my way back to his office and once again joined the queue.. When I finally got to see him he waved away with an impatient frown and told to go to yet another office with my offerings and the sheaf of paperwork.
I need not bore you with the details of the remainder of my day. I am sure you have the picture by now. Suffice to say that I followed each of the next many steps paying an enabling fee at practically each one and spending much time in queues or simply wandering around to find the appropriate office. At the end of a long day, - yes the process did take me that long., I eventually got home with my packing cases and a wallet now much lighter than when I had first set out.
I had learnt several lessons during the course of that frustrating day.
One lesson was the virtue of patience, the need to retain my temper and to persist., Another was that officialdom remained pleased and ready to smile as long as the appropriate fee was paid. I also ended with a better idea of what the enabling fee should have been for each step
But the most important lesson was that next time I would accept the offer of one of the so called consultants. I think it must have cost me in total four times the consultant’s original offer to complete the customs clearance procedures on my own!
In the end I went back to Halim another three times to clear the baggage of others in my team. I used the enabling consultants twice and paid their fees and expenses.
But on the last occasion I went through on my own. But this time I was armed with a good knowledge of the process and, most importantly, what the minimum enabling fees were for each step . As a consequence, I saved the consultant’s fee of 30000 rupiah and half of the expenses. That Is I saved 15000 rupiah on what the consultants charged me for the bribes they said they’d have to pay as expenses. The blighters ,like most everybody in that crooked place were also on the take. The game certainly was not for beginners!
The Licensing Game
When I bought 4 cars for a project in Indonesia I discovered a licensing system of extraordinary complexity. The cars could only be licensed on a month by month basis for the first six months. For each renewal for each month, for each car, the licensing authority issued a complete new set of papers and a new pair of license plates. The license plates alternated between red letters on a white background or white letters on a red background and the number letter combination on the plates was changed for each month.
Once the licensing sequence for the first six months had been completed I had to apply for a new license for each car, but this would last six months. Of course for that extended period there would be a new set of papers for each car as well as new plates this time with white letters on a black background.
Finally at the end of the first complete 12 months and 28 pairs of plates and documents later I would be able to apply for a full 12 month license, again with a new set of papers and plates for each car. The plates this time had black letters on a white background.
Fortunately one of the local drivers engaged for the project was an intelligent , hard working man who knew what the licensing system involved. So I gave him the job of getting the licenses for the first month and enough money to pay the official license tax.
He came back at the end of the day smiling with success. He went on to install the new license plates on our brand new project cars and put the relevant documents in the glove box of each. So we were then all set to make a start next day with the real work of the project….or, in my innocence, so I thought.
I must say I detected a lack of similar optimism in the body language of my driver, but I suspected nothing and discounted it.
Next day he and I and a colleague set off for an appointment in the centre of the city. Our route took us along Jalan Thamrin, the main thoroughfare. We accessed a side road by going through an under-bridge beneath the main street and emerged to see near the bend in the road ahead a representative of the local civil police.
He was checking the license plates as the traffic went passed him. As soon as he spotted our shiny new red on white plates he flagged us to turn aside into a small park where there were a number of other vehicles stopped and undergoing inspection. There must have been at least 20 civil police there going about the business of checking paper work, license plates and generally harassing the drivers and passengers. The whole activity was being supervised and orchestrated by a large Military Policeman. His presence was symptomatic of an Indonesia that at that time that was ruled by a dictator whose main power base was the military.
Anyhow, it was not long before one of the policeman demanded to see our car documents. With the speed acquired of much practice and prior knowledge he quickly found that the chassis number recorded on the license documents was not the same as that stamped on the car itself. In a number that consisted of a combination of more than 12 numbers and letters, the difference was just one digit.
Of course the irregularity was our fault and the policeman indicated that there was no way we could be allowed to proceed until the matter was sorted out. He then turned and walked away with the license documents leaving us stranded, wondering what was expected of us next. Idrus (our driver) said that the matter could be resolved with the offer of a 10000 rupiah note in the appropriate way. I thought that this was too much so I gave him a note for half that sum and saw him walk off to the man who had taken our papers. He was in deep conversation with the Military honcho and at first neither took any notice of Idrus. Eventually the Military man turned his attention to Idrus who proffered a book in which he had hidden the 5000 Rupiah note. Idrus was immediately shouted at and waved away. He, returned to say that the going rate was what he had suggested in the first place….10000Rp.
I swallowed my pride and learnt again the valuable lesson then that it was better to rely on the knowledge and expertise of the locals in these matters.
Idrus returned to the policeman with his book and this time the amount required. Quick as a flash the money disappeared, our documents were returned and we were waved on our way with a toothy grin from the civil policeman. His Military Chief remained quite impassive. Our instructions were to return as soon as possible to the licensing people to sort out the mistake.
Well, I am sure you have guessed what followed next. On returning to our office at the end of the day, we checked the paperwork for the other three vehicles. Sure enough in every case the details of the engine or chassis numbers recorded in the documents had at least one digit that did not match what was on the car.
So Idrus returned next day to sort matters out with the licensing people.
Of course it was not so easy as the first visit for the original licenses. Idrus initially had to identify and then gain access to the appropriate official with authority to correct the errors.
There was a scrum of people waiting for service in a room outside the man’s office. No such thing as an orderly queue and waiting politely for your turn in this place. But Idrus knew the score and eventually fought his way in to see the man responsible and stated his problem.
The official of course said he could not do anything straight away. This was a clear signal that a pay off was required and so Idrus negotiated an appropriate amount. Whereupon the money exchange occurred like a flash, but the official then said that the paper work would take the office staff time to complete and that Idrus would have “ to come back next week”. This was yet another signal that other palms had to be greased. So Idrus negotiated and paid the necessary enabling fee and was told to wait outside.
Idrus returned later that day, brandishing the revised paperwork for the four cars. He was much happier now being secure in the knowledge that no policeman would be able to squeeze us for another bribe for faulty papers.
But this assurance lasted only to the end of the first month. He had to go through the whole process again within the next four weeks for the next set of plates.
It is pretty obvious what happened then. He applied for and got the papers and plates for the next month, but this time he thought he would beat the system by checking for accuracy before leaving the licensing office. Of course the new documents contained errors and these errors could only be sorted out by going back to the same man as before!
Poor Idrus had to repeat this performance 6 more times that first year before we were finally able to get the full 12 month license plates with correct documents. But at least the police were never able again to squeeze us again for inadequate documentation whenever they stopped us.
However, that is not to say that there were not other ways for squeezing us. As “Orang Asing” ( foreigners) we were always obvious targets for the application of a little bite.….
A Matter of Having the Correct Documents
Dad lived all his working life in Mexico. In fact he was there for over 55 years and so quite justifiably considered himself an old hand . He had lived and coped with the endemic corruption for so long that it was second nature to deal with grasping officials and hungry policemen and every other kind – or so he thought.
That is not to say that he was corrupt or enriched himself by taking advantage of his various positions of authority in the mining world where he lived. Far from it…he was English by birth and education and one of the most honest men I have ever known. No, he dealt with local corruption mainly to smooth the way forward through the labyrinth that was part of everyday life in Mexico. He knew the way things were done and how to cope……at least for most of the time.
In 1939 Dad bought a second hand Chevrolet from his boss Alan Probert. It was modern for its time having a radio, a radiator that looked vaguely like the snout of a tiger shark, independent coil spring front suspension and vacuum windscreen wipers that never worked when they were most needed. The car was his pride and joy for nearly 22 years. It had been assembled in Mexico when Alan had bought it new and was therefore of local manufacture.
Dad was happily confident that the paper work for the car was correct at the time of transfer.
12 years later in 1951, Dad drove north to Houston in Texas. The journey took several days following the Pan American Highway north to cross the border at Laredo on the Rio Grande. The main reason for the journey was to collect me from a flight that had brought me to Houston from Jamaica. Please don’t ask why my return home for school holidays was by such a complicated route….that is another story. Suffice to say that in addition to collecting me he was also on a shopping expedition for himself and several of his pals back in Mexico.
Anyhow, a day was spent in Houston to buy items that included sleeping bags, hunting jackets and boots. His pals liked to hunt ducks and the kind of gear they wanted was just not available in Mexico. We then faced the problem of getting these brand new items back across the border. Dad went to a lot of trouble to make the new things look second hand so he could declare them as his personal property and avoid import duty. We took everything out of the new wrappings and spread the things around the car….the sleeping bags were put on the seats to look as if they had been well used and pressed into service as cushions for the journey . We scuffed the boots and covered them with mud and so on.
Dad decided to return via the same border crossing into Mexico via Laredo. Ever the eternal optimist he reckoned that having crossed there coming north without any problems from either the American or Mexican customs and immigrations people his chances of a problem free return were good.
We got through the American side without a hitch, but the Mexican side was a very different story. At first all seemed well, The Customs people took a look at Dad’s declaration listing all his purchases as personal property, Surprisingly no objection was raised. They did look with some suspicion at the things we had stuffed in the car but waived us through to the check point for the car.
Here a tougher looking hombre demanded to see the car documents. He took these into his hut and after a very short while came out to say that the papers were not up to scratch as there was no record of any payment of an import duty for the car. Dad would have to pay it before they would allow the car through.
Of course the Old Man protested saying that the car had been assembled in Mexico and was therefore not liable for the tax. But the official remained adamant…he simply would not allow us to proceed until the tax was paid. In any case there was a fine to be paid as the car also had been taken out of Mexico illegally in the first place! So the barrier gate remained closed whilst Dad was invited into the official’s office to decide what he wanted to do.
Dad eventually emerged with the car documents and a rather grim expression. He had paid the tax and the fine as well as a fee to facilitate the transaction and speed things up. He had been given a receipt for the tax but of course nothing for the fine or the fee.
So we were allowed through and proceeded down the highway into Mexico.
However, our problems were not over yet. Some 10 kilometres into Mexico we passed a sign saying “Caseta de Aduana National Adelante” (Customs Check Ahead). Sure enough there was another barrier across the road. Next to it was a scruffy wooden building with some soldiers lounging about and one or two equally scruffily uniformed officials of the Customs.
One of the latter immediately sprang action as soon as he spotted us. He had been obviously forewarned as he demanded to see the vehicle documents. He showed no interest in any of the things we had in the car. Dad was quick to point out that he had a receipt for the tax, but was defeated when the man asked him for the receipt for the fine that should have been paid. Dad almost exploded when he was told this and maintained that he had paid it at the border post and demanded that the official phone them to confirm that.
This was a mistake. Our tormenter simply shrugged his shoulders and said that the fine had to be paid if we wanted to go any further..
There was no easy exit from the problem. Dad paid the fine making sure tjis time that got a receipt. But he was also forced to pay another enabling fee to compensate the officials for all the trouble he had caused and to save further delays. Needless to say there was no receipt for the latter.
Some hours later the Old Man had cooled down sufficiently to become philosophical about the whole affair. He decided in the end that the total cost of about $300 (as I recall) was probably cheap at the price and he did now have all the papers needed for the car so there would not be any further trouble on that score.
He also felt confirmed in his status as an old hand who knew his way around. He reckoned he had struck a pretty good bargain.
Some days later after we reached home he was telling some friends what had happened. I think he was looking for confirmation that he had actually got a good bargain, especially as he had escaped import duty on all the items we had purchased in Houston for his pals and that his car records were now regularized.
Then his lawyer friend, Fernando Gil asked how old the Chevvy was. When Dad told him the year was 1939 Fernando’s response was deflating.
He said “ Walterio…you have been had! The legislation requiring import duty on cars came into force in 1943. It only applied to cars produced after that date. Your car had been exempt all the time! You have wasted your money!”
Military Service Balls
When I was growing up in Mexico in the 1940’s the local armed forces consisted mainly of conscripts. All lads aged over 17 were liable for a minimum of one year. Unlike the UK there were no reserved occupations. Officially no one was exempt..
But, and there is always a but, the system allowed for two types of service. The less onerous one involved turning up at the local barracks at weekends for basic training. The other required full time service for the prescribed 12 months.
The weekend option was really easy. The military did not take it very seriously. As I recall it only involved, turning up at the barracks in the morning to be marched about for an hour or two and attending lectures. There was no question of being issued with a uniform or any weapons. You were even allowed to go home. The important thing was to get your service book stamped to show that you had turned up.
Full time service was quite a different matter. Conscripts were required to live in, were uniformed and trained in the use of weapons and all the basic military skills.. After training they served anywhere in the country and generally were given a fairly hard time.
The selection of conscripts took place at the beginning of each year. The system involved a sort of lottery that ensured that 1 in every five conscripts was given the easier option. In theory the selection was to be purely random. It was a matter of luck whether you got the easier option or had to take on the more demanding one.
Two separate drums were used. In one drum were slips of paper for each recruit due for service. In the second drum there was an equivalent number of plastic balls. One in five of these balls was white, the remainder were black. The drums were rotated on axles to ensure that the contents were thoroughly mixed. Then a name was drawn out of the first drum and a ball from the second. The process was repeated until every name had been paired with a ball. Needless to say, happy were the lads whose names were paired with a white ball!
.Whilst I was lucky enough to escape the system by leaving Mexico, my cousin had to do his service. But he only had to do the weekend service. Long after he admitted that his selection had not been random. It had been a simple matter of bribing an official who ensured that his name was recorded as having been drawn with a white ball. It was curious though how it was that in the event most of the boys from families like his of standing or wealth in the community were the ones who did weekend service.
Atang and Son
Atang was a professional servant. We had been lucky to find him. He had been trained in the traditions of service through previous employments with other foreign and local families..
Invariably he would turn up each day at the flat with a cheerful smile. When guests were to be entertained he’d wear a neat white uniform and his “Sungkok” – the pill box shaped hat traditionally worn by Indonesian men on special occasions..
Always neat and tidy, he managed to remain unobtrusive as he padded about the flat performing his duties and chores with quiet efficiency.
He did this for, what seemed to me, very little pay. From memory I paid him the going rate expected of a foreign family which was about $US 50 per week.. For us this was a very good bargain and seemed much too little. But in Indonesian terms it was a respectable salary and he was regarded as lucky especially as the job was part time. His wife, also a professional servant, worked full time for an Indonesian family, but was paid considerably less.
Atang had several children, but only the youngest was still at home. His son was very much the apple of his father’s eye. Atang and his boy used to spend a lot of time together in their free time. It was obvious that there was a special bond between them. Occasionally the boy would meet his father at the flats after school and they’d go home together. Once I happened to be in the courtyard when Atang appeared with his lad. He introduced him to me and it was done with such simple grace and pride that the memory has stuck with me ever since. Atang clearly loved his boy and the feeling was mutual.
Sometimes Atang would ask me for a small loan. Generally this was to cover some unforeseen expense like a doctor’s bill or to pay for some traditional religious holiday or family celebration. Scrupulously honest, Atang repaid these infrequent loans through deductions agreed beforehand from his salary.
About two years after he started with us Atang turned up one day. He was not his usual cheerful self. In fact he was distraught . It was not clear what the problem was at first, but he said that he needed money and asked for another loan. This time it was for a fairly significant amount. It was obvious that t the matter was serious. I had no qualms in giving him the money, but I wondered what it was that had upset him so much. His English was not very good but it was much better than my Indonesian, and so it took a while to get to the bottom of the problem
It turned out that his son had drowned the previous day. Atang needed the money not just for the funeral. He had to pay the police a fee for investigating the drowning and for the release of the boy’s body for burial. It seems that this was common practice and yet another way for the police to augment there own meagre pay. The fact .that Atang was one of their own people and a poor man in considerable personal strife was simply not relevant..
Mugging in Manila
On a short assignment with the ADB in Manila I was staying at the Hyatt Hotel on Roxas Boulevard. This was in the 1990’s before the ADB had moved to its new buildings in Pasig City.
Tired of the hotel food I decided to go into the old part of Manila for supper. I left in a “hotel” taxi knowing that these could be relied on for a fair price and a trouble free journey by a direct route.
Supper in a Pizza Hut restaurant was uneventful. I emerged from the Hut to look for a taxi from the same firm employed by the hotel, but could not find one.. Being impatient I took a risk and flagged down a car from another firm. Its battered dirty yellow appearance should have served as a warning, but I was in a hurry. The driver proved hard to bargain with and refused to use the meter. We finally agreed a price and the promise that the route would be direct.
But no sooner had I got into the backseat of the ramshackle vehicle than I realized I had made a serious mistake. The driver slammed the car into gear and rushed into the traffic. We were not heading in the right direction. We were in fact driving into quite a slummy area of Old Manila. As we approached a cross roads the driver slammed on the brakes and drew up along side the curb where two men were standing. We were obviously expected. One man immediately dived into the front passenger seat, and the other jumped in beside me through the rear door. The latter was carrying a knife using it to threaten me as the driver got the car going again and shot it into the main road.
All this took only a few seconds but it seemed an eternity. The intention of the men was clear….they wanted my money and anything else they could rob me of. I knew not where or how the matter would end, even if I did give them what they wanted.
My wallet was in my back pocket and hard to get at, so I was able to stall things for a moment. The man beside me thought I was going to defend myself and became even more threatening, but he seemed to understand my English and accepted my explanation that I had to get at my wallet if he was to get my cash. Feeling that my one chance of surviving was to keep talking, I told them that I was a New Zealander and that I was only in Manila for a short time . They could have whatever cash I had on me , but would they please leave my credit cards alone as these would be no use to them and I needed them to get home.
Both of the new passengers were actually quite well dressed, in fact there was a smartness about them that made their alliance with the villainous driver odd indeed. He was definitely cast in a different mould; unshaven, unwashed with filthy teeth and rather mad eyes. I must have been insane to have engaged him!
I continued to try to talk my way out of the situation. But it wasn’t long before the driver lost his temper and steered into a narrow street. Bringing the car to a violent stop he dug down under his seat, produced a revolver and started to rant and rave all the while waving it about. If he pulled the trigger he was just as likely to hit one of his pals as me.
This brought things to a head The man with the knife grabbed my wallet, tore money out of it and threw it on the floor. He tried unsuccessfully to tear my wedding ring off my finger. The struggle only succeeded in enraging the driver even more. Fearing for his own life the front seat passenger did his best to calm things down. Eventually after a lot of shouting and arguing and with the help of his companion, he succeeded in persuading the gun man to put the weapon away. After more heated discussion they decided that there was no more to be taken from me, so we set off again for another 10 minutes of frenetic driving.
Finally we stopped in a street bounded by several empty development sites. Without further ado I was told to get out. Needless to say I did so with great alacrity and managed to retrieve my wallet as I jumped. The taxi then roared off into the night leaving me bewildered, dishevelled and wondering what to do next . Clearly the sooner I thanked my lucky stars and got out of this deserted and this silent threatening street the better.
After wandering on foot in a rather aimless way, rather like a stunned mullet I imagine, I eventually found my way back to inhabited streets and another taxi. This time my choice was luckier and the cab driver quickly drove me back to the Hyatt. He was willing to wait whilst I dashed in to get some money to pay him.
The relief of getting back with a whole skin can be imagined. By then I had recovered sufficiently to get quite angry and seek some sort of retribution. I sought out the hotel manager and told him what had happened and said I’d like to report the matter to the police. He laughed at that and said the two men who had joined in the heist were more than likely to have come from the military or were policemen themselves! Best thing was to thank whatever gods that protected me that night and go to bed.
And so I did.
The Russian Spy
Riots, murders, protest marches, political rallies that turned violent were common place in the Jakarta’ of the 1980’s. Whilst we were there even an old ammunition dump exploded creating mayhem and making every one think that another revolution had started.
It was an exciting place, but there was also a feeling of vibrancy and progress.
Everywhere new buildings were going up, new highways were being constructed, new enterprises and industries created and a modern well designed airport replaced Halim as the internatonal gateway to the country. Government policy under military dictator President Suharto was for wholesale breakneck development or “Pembangunan”. Much of this was in Jakarta.
In this climate of frenetic activity there were plenty of opportunities for business - honest and corrupt. The President was promoted as an honest man, a patriot whose sole interest was the betterment of Indonesia and its people. He was seen as above the sordid side of business. As father of the nation he was seen as untouchable and so was his family.
AKA 'Pak Harto' (Father Harto), AKA 'The Smiling General', AKA 'Bapak Pembangunan' (Father of Development).
But his wife, Ibu Tien Suharto was irreverently and of course unofficially, labelled by those in the know as “Madam Ten Percent”. 10% was the cut that she was rumoured to insist on for her support and involvement in business. Several of her children were also into questionable activities and acquired fortunes and notoriety on their own account. Their connections to the President and his cronies as family provided cast iron protection and for years they were able to do pretty much as they pleased.
Despite the huge development and progress achieved under Suharto he and his family perpetrated and further embedded the corruption that was everywhere in that unfortunate country, especially at the highest levels in Government and the military. They set an example that many followed. Corruption was frowned on officially, but little was done to stem let alone eliminate it. In fact the Indonesian word “korupsi” was politically dangerous to use in those days. Few in Government were prepared to acknowledge let alone to speak out against or do anything about the poison.
Yet despite the many and enormous problems of this vast country, there was a growing sense amongst its many diverse people of identity and pride of being Indonesian. There was particular pride in the Armed Forces, especially as they played a crucial part in the maintenance of stability and the promotion of development in that turbulent place. The Army was the main force, but Indonesia had a significant navy and a growing air force to be proud of.
Whilst happy to quarrel amongst themselves, woes betide any outsider who had the temerity to criticize or offer advice. The reaction was almost always to gang together and to deny, refute or shout down anything that put Indonesia in a negative light especially if it came from a foreign source. Communism, anything to do with the Chinese and their culture, or anything that was likely to erode the influence of Islam and public morality were particularly targeted and attacked by the national propaganda of that time.
Censorship was a major weapon in the Government’s arsenal and much used in the battle to contain the media and control what the public was told. It was often taken to extremes including the inking in of bathing costumes on pictures of women deemed as overly erotic in imported papers and magazines. They even inked out Chinese characters in various, quite innocent apolitical publications.
In this climate of paranoia and suspicion all hell broke loose in February 1982. The following report appeared later in The Lakeland Ledger News paper in the US
“Indonesia announced that it had expelled a Soviet diplomat and an Aeroflot executive on charges of espionage. A Foreign Ministry spokes man said the Government had declared that Soviet assistant Military attaché S.P. Egorov persona non grata as of Friday. He was ordered to leave the country within 24 hours.Informed sources said that Egorov had been arrested at a Jakarta restaurant Thursday night while receiving an important document from an Indonesian military official. The military official was not identified.”
The Wall Street Journal in June 1982 reported ( slightly differently):
“The expulsion of a Russian diplomat from Indonesia last February turned messy when the expulsion of the official resulted in an airport brawl between Russian diplomats and Indonesian security men.”
The Assistant Military Attache Lt Col S.P. Egorov was caught handing over a camera and film to an Indonesian military officer in a Jakarta Restaurant. Trying to handle the matter quietly, the Indonesian Government gave Egorov 48 hours to clear out. But when he arrived at Halim airport with his wife and two aides, Alexander Finenko an Aeroflot official and a known GRU agent and G.M.Odiaruk a political attaché at the embassy, a fracas broke out.”
“When Mr Finenko tried to accompany Colonel Egorov to the plane, Indonesian officials stopped him. A scuffle broke out during which Indonesian officials claim Egorov punched a security guard while his wife bit, scratched and kicked another.
The brawl resulted in the Indonesians asking Messrs Finenko and Odiaruk to join with their colleagues in returning to Moscow.”
Our experience of the episode was mainly gained at arm’s length. Our contact was our friend Tony, at the time the British Military Attache in Jakarta. He had got hold of a unexpurgated edition of a newspaper from Singapore.
Work in Progress
Taxi “Meter Rusak”
Village Road Blocks
Government Connections
Telephone Tap (Tony Fuller)
Wet and Dry Jobs
Marketing Expenses (PPKI)
The Contract Rake Off
The Examination Scam
Immigration Roulette
Stumpage Fees