The Honeymoon

Payakumbuh, West Sumatra

One of the most inexplicable things I experienced in my South East Asian journeys happened in the Sumatran highlands town of Payakumbuh. A non-descript run down town of about 60,000 people (way back then in 1985) it lay to the north east of Padang in West Sumatra, not far from the better known hill station of Bukit Tinggi.

I spent a few mostly boring months posted to a meaningless agricultural project there in the early 1980s. For entertainment, I would go to the local coffee shops and warungs just to chat. Payakumbuh had TV, but Indonesian TV is a little like water: you only drink it if there is absolutely nothing else.

I had befriended a Chinese family, the Chews, who ran some trading shops and a couple of coffee shops in town. Not renowned for their sociability outside their own circle, Chinese traders often have little time for chitchat but one day I happened to comment on the cleanliness of their coffee shop and that pleased them. Mind you, cleanliness in Payakumbuh was relative!

The two sons who helped run the business and spent a lot of that time on the coffee shop were John and Dean. They had studied in Australia and that happenstance provided the link. They were nostalgic for their days studying in Brisbane, so we had something in common to brighten up that dull and lifeless town: memories and nostalgia.

I got to know them well and we became friends. To this day I occasionally get an email from John. I asked about the names John and Dean: they seemed to be a little less than Chinese.

John started life as Zhengzhong but that became John in Brisbane. Few Queenslanders could cope with Zhengzhong. Look at what Queenslanders did to a delightful little coastal village near Gympie. In the Aboriginal language, it is Tinquanba. The linguistic geniuses of Queensland only render it as Tin Can Bay. No wonder it remains unjustifiably undiscovered.

Mind you, there is a move to change the name back to its aboriginal form, but locals oppose the idea. After all, it would then become a more attractive place and maybe less bucolic?

Dean’s real name was Dingxhiang, but most Aussies found Dean more appropriate. Chang, which was suggested, made him sound too Chinese. Couldn’t have that. So they both adopted the new names and they stuck, even back in Payakumbuh.

Mind you they could not use their real names in Soeharto’s Indonesia. His own Chinese ancestry notwithstanding, all things Chinese, including writing, was banned. How many times did I have to pry open the pages of Newsweek because the censors had been through every copy plastering black sticky paint over any such characters: all in the name of keeping the place non-Communist? So 约翰 and 迪恩 stayed out of sight.

Ellen, their sister was q quitter girl. As was so often the case, education was only fort the men: it was the future of the girls to get married. Why waste money on their education. Ellen did not seem to mind. She was lovely and had studied to high school in Bukit Tinggi.

The family was looking forward to a big even. Ellen was to get married to her childhood sweetheart, Tommy. In common with most Chinese Indonesians, he had an Indonesian name: Budi. Few were brave enough to adopt Chinese monikers in those big brother days.

The family was delighted as the union linked two prosperous families: a good sign. I was invited to the wedding and it was an amazing affair. Lots of drinking. Lots of excessive shouting and singing. Lots of noise and food you could not jump over.

The newly weds had decided not to take a honeymoon straight away as Tommy—sorry, Budi—had too many responsibilities setting up his new enterprise: a chain of pirate cassette shops. Ellen kept pestering him. She insisted that she wanted some kind of celebration. Tommy was only too amenable; after all a few hours away would not ruin the business.

They made plans to go on a short honeymoon and take a longer honeymoon later. There would be plenty of time. They decided not to go too far away. Padang would be fine. Later their desire was to go to the Genting Highlands in Malaysia. I wondered if that meant they wanted to go for the mountain air, but apparently that was not the case. Gambling was in their blood!

We said goodbye to them late one evening after the shops had all closed. They left Payakumbuh soon after midnight to avoid the traffic, planning to get to Padang by sunrise.

We retired to bed. Around midday, I called in to the coffee shop. It was closed. Odd.

I was about to find somewhere else when a side door opened and John appeared. He looked distraught.

‘I have just been down to the police station,’ he muttered. ‘Ellen is being held there and Tommy is dead’.

‘What?’

‘Come in and sit down. I’ll tell you what I know.’

Here is what he told me.

‘Tommy and Ellen had reached the outskirts of Padang Panjang, about an hour from Payakumbuh at two in the morning. They stopped for a break at one of the warungs along the road’. 

They spent some time relaxing before continuing at about three in the morning for the last leg to Padang. They began to descend the hill to the coastal plains when the Kijang broke down’.

‘I’m not surprise,’ I said. ‘Tommy’s was an old car and it (along with many Kijangs) had not aged well’.

John nodded. ‘They got out of the car and looked around. They were on a stretch of the road where there seemed to be no houses. You probably know it, just past Padang Panjang’.

‘I do know that part of the road,’ I said. ‘On one side there is a steep drop to the rack railway that runs from Padang to the coalfields of Sawah Lunto in the east. On the other side, banana trees cover the slopes till they reach the forest’.

‘Apparently it was dark,’ continued John. ‘Ellen told me she could see nothing. The moon was hidden behind clouds. She said it was so dark that they could hardly see each other’s faces’.

‘So what did they do?’ I asked, not wanting to know.

‘They decided to flag down a passing car and drive back to Padang Panjang to find a mechanic,’ replied John.

‘According to Ellen, they waited, but no cars passed by. Tommy said to Ellen that he would walk back towards Padang Panjang. There were some houses on the roadside and maybe he could get help’.

‘That would have worried Ellen,’ I said. ’She is a little nervous’.

John said nothing. He just nodded.

‘Tommy told Ellen to stay in the car and lock herself in. She was not to open the door or the window for anyone until he got back’.

‘That would not help. Ellen would be terrified.’

‘She was,’ said John, ‘but what else could she do? She said goodbye and locked herself in the car for what she hoped would not be too long a wait. She said there were very few and none stopped to see if she was in trouble.’

I was puzzled. ‘But how did Tommy die?’

John looked at me. ‘I really do not know, and neither does Ellen’.

‘And why is Ellen being kept at the cop shop?’

John shrugged.

‘It is simple: they do not believe her story.’

‘Which is?’

‘She told me that she began to relax. At one stage she heard a cry and a thump. She looked round, but saw nothing.’

‘Strange sounds in the night in a forested area are not a surprise,’ I commented.

‘She dozed off and slept till she was awoken by someone rapping on the window of the car. She awoke with a start, thinking it was Tommy. Instead, a policeman stood outside bashing on the glass, so naturally she wound down the window.’

‘What did he want?’ I asked

‘He ordered her out of the car. He asked her to explain what she was doing, so she told him how they the car had broken down and how her husband had gone off to find help.’

‘And?’

‘Apparently the policeman looked at her as if she was lying. And this is where it gets really weird. He wanted to know how she had hit the man lying in front of the Kijang.’

I screwed up my face. This made no sense.

 ‘Understandably, Ellen was shocked. The policeman led her to the front of the car. Tommy’s body lay under the front of the car. At that point, Ellen collapsed in a faint. She woke up in the back of the police car returning to Padang Panjang.’

What could I say? This was incredible.

‘The police brought her back here and she is now locked up. Tommy’s body is at the hospital in Bukit Tinggi.’

‘But why are they keeping her in the jail? Surely there must be some other explanation?’ I asked.

‘What choice did she have? She has cried all morning. She has protested her innocence without ceasing. I think they are sick of her. She is Chinese. The police are not. Illogical things happen.’

‘So the police still think she was responsible?’ John nodded. I could not believe it.

‘My father is there now trying to sort things out,’ said John. ‘Dean went to Bukit TInggi with Tommy’s parents to find out what they could.’

‘And?’ I asked.

‘The doctor who examined Tommy told them that he found no marks on the body it to indicate that he had been run over by a car. All he could see were two puncture wounds on his neck.’

At that point, John stopped talking. His phone rang. He walked off and I could make out nothing of the conversation. 

He put the phone down and flopped into the chair opposite me. I looked at him.

‘Dad is bringing Ellen home,’ he said.

I frowned. ‘So the police believed her story?’

He grinned wryly and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. I understood: the price of justice in Indonesia. If you are well off, you never need to worry.

However, I know two things for sure: There was never a court case and Ellen never smiled again.