Unable to cope with the massive turnout, the police had summoned the military for assistance, but before their presence could influence the outcome, the rioting crowd had left a trail of destruction throughout the garden city. The students withdrew, realizing that they had lost control of the demonstration, anticipating swift retribution from the soldiers as these poured from their trucks onto the streets, brandishing batons, kicking, punching, and firing their weapons into the air. As some looters scrambled to safety, in their panic discarding television sets and VCRs to avoid capture, others continued on their rampage smashing vehicles and shop windows in the ensuing melee.
Mary Jo arrived four hours after the army had taken control of the city and, although most of the rioting mobs had been brutally dispersed, parts of the city remained under siege. Accompanied by her assistant, the American journalist hurried through the devastated city, stopping to take photos of the carnage whilst avoiding antagonizing the over-zealous soldiers.
‘Annie, down there!’ she called to her assistant, not waiting to see if the younger woman had heard. Mary Jo broke into a run as she attempted to catch up with a number of soldiers dragging a badly beaten looter towards a waiting truck.
‘Jo, come back!’ Annie cried, expecting that as a foreigner, Mary Jo would not appreciate the dangers of the moment. Ignored, she had no choice but to follow, fearful that her boss’s actions might just get both of them killed.
‘Get away from here!’ a soldier screamed threateningly, immediately bringing the Indonesian assistant to an abrupt halt.
‘Jo! Jo! Please come back,’ she called, terrified as Mary Jo continued to advance, her cumbersome Nikon F90 recording the moment the soldiers dropped their captive, and commenced kicking him brutally around the head.
‘Jo!’ she screamed again, warning the woman of an approaching soldier whose raised weapon was aimed directly at the American photographer.
‘Stop!’ the soldier ordered, reaching for the expensive equipment just as Mary Jo captured the final shot she wanted, and turned, lowering the camera immediately. Suddenly, she froze in her tracks, recognizing her stupidity as the soldier pointed his machine-pistol directly at her face. For a few, brief, agonizing seconds, Mary Jo believed she would die. Then, cursing under his breath, the soldier turned away, yelling at Anne to get the foreigner away before she was harmed. Their hearts pounding, they moved away from the scene quickly, unable to find shelter anywhere amongst the smoldering buildings.
They hurried back along the main thoroughfares, avoiding the determined army teams sweeping the city centre for remnants of the rioting mobs which had all but destroyed the central shopping district. Finally, scrambling over the well-protected blockade surrounding the landmark Savoy Homann hotel, they found refuge inside. They stood, facing each other in the lobby, trembling from the excitement.
‘I’m sorry, that was very stupid,’ Mary Jo apologized to her assistant, realizing how she had jeopardized their lives.
‘I thought he was going to shoot you, Jo,’ Anne said, taking the other woman by the wrist and shaking it, admonishingly. ‘The soldiers despise us, Jo. You must remember that in future, please?’ she pleaded, her small frame starting to shake, suddenly overcome by the gravity of what had occurred. Mary Jo moved quickly to comfort her assistant, placing her arm firmly around the smaller woman’s shoulders.
‘It’s okay, Anne. It’s okay,’ she offered, encouraging her to follow. Anne permitted the American to steer her across the marble floor through to the Garden Atrium, where they dropped into the comfortable batik cushioned rattan chairs, relieved to be out of harm’s way.
While waiting for her assistant to regain her composure, Mary Jo looked around, admiring the art deco design, absorbing the surrounding atmosphere of timeless elegance and grace which so totally contradicted the situation outside. A waiter approached, and she ordered coffees.
She placed her hand on Anne’s, and asked, ‘Are you okay now?’
The Indonesian journalist smiled weakly, then nodded.
‘Will we return to Jakarta now?’ Anne was anxious to get back before dark. She had never enjoyed driving along country roads at night, particularly during times of civil unrest. Also, there had been stories of villagers whose land had been appropriated by the government for roads, who sought revenge by rolling coconuts out onto the expressways, turning speeding vehicles into mutilated, twisted wrecks as they speared off the highways into the night.
‘Yes. I have a date,’ she teased. ‘Finish up, then we’ll get underway.’
Mary Jo knew it would be unwise to delay their departure. Besides, she had a deadline to meet. She looked at her assistant and smiled. ‘You okay now?’
‘Okay, terima kasih,’ she replied, thanking the other woman. Mary Jo searched Anne’s eyes, deciding that she was fortunate to have her as an assistant. Anne had become invaluable from the outset, and Mary Jo had found comfort knowing that she was also dependable. The job paid well, and the two of them had hit it off immediately three weeks before, when Anne had started as Jo’s assistant, cum interpreter and gopher.
Often, when they appeared together in the most unlikely places, local children would follow closely, giggling and whispering, the pale-skinned American’s corn-colored hair, her height, and soft blue eyes the object of their interest. Mary Jo had laughed when Anne commented on her nose, explaining as she touched the flattened bridge of her own, that most Indonesian girls would die to have such bone structure.
As they sat together, her assistant’s eyes remained locked on her own.
Mary Jo returned the smile, Anne immediately becoming embarrassed.
Staring at another was considered extremely rude, even confrontational in most parts of Asia. Observing the sudden change in her expression, Jo placed ten thousand Rupiah on top of the check, and rose to leave before realizing that this most probably would not cover the coffees. Annoyed with the escalating exchange rate as the currency continued its incredible dive, she dropped another five thousand Rupiah alongside the first, and then placed her arm on Anne’s shoulder, leading her back to where they had left their driver. Half an hour passed before they located their vehicle and managed to make their way through the city’s barricaded streets, leaving Bandung behind with its smoke-filled sky, evidence of the day’s violence.
Neither spoke as they commenced the two hundred kilometer drive, Anne falling asleep as the car’s tires hummed monotonously, providing Mary Jo with the opportunity to finish writing the story she would file with her office in New York before attending her dinner engagement. She removed her laptop from its protective case, and went to work. As the car sped along the Cikampek-Jakarta highway, she observed a number of army convoys also heading for the capital. The driver slowed, waiting directly behind the last vehicle for the signal to overtake and Mary Jo looked directly up at the young, expressionless faces belonging to the well-armed soldiers standing in the rear truck, the scene reminiscent of others she had witnessed in former Soviet satellite republics and other distant places.
Momentarily, Mary Jo ignored her notes, her thoughts captured by recollections of other events she had covered during her career, as the names of cities and places flooded her mind. Bosnia, Chechnya, Baghdad, Beirut, the list seemed endless and, she confessed silently, had left her with a seemingly inescapable, haunting emptiness. Mary Jo’s brilliant coverage of these wars had established her credentials amongst her peers which, in turn, had resulted in her being permanently assigned to the South East Asian Bureau, a posting she had sought since first joining the news agency.
Memories of her first months as a novice in Asia, came flooding back.