Indonesian Gold by Kerry B. Collison Page B

‘Gela.’ Everyone from the Longhouse had gathered to farewell the chief’s daughter. A chorus of

children now spilled from the raised, wooden verandah overlooking the village jetty and called

her name. Angela had left many times before, but that was only for schooling downriver in

Samarinda. Now, she would be gone for an extended spell – and, to live amongst the

Javanese.
    For the women of this village, Angela’s success

represented a major breakthrough, providing hope for others who wished to further their

educations. Angela’s scholarship had been awarded based on political considerations, yet none

harbored animosity in any form towards the intelligent, attractive young woman whose achievements

were proudly perceived as a reflection on the entire female community. They expected that Angela

Dau would be the first of their number to achieve a degree.
    â€˜Send us photos,‘Gela!’ one teenager pleaded, then shrieked, turning to pinch her friend alongside for

pushing.
    â€˜Write, and tell us about the boys,’ another called, deliberately teasing the adolescent lads who idolized

Angela.
    â€˜Don’t fall in love over there!’ This, from one of her many admirers amongst the young village men, the hint

of sarcasm lost in the moment. Angela looked up into her father’s misty eyes.
    â€˜When we have re-installed the radio, you will be able

to send messages via the provincial affairs office, in Samarinda,’ Jonathan reminded her and, for the umpteenth time, ‘so don’t forget to telephone us

regularly.’
    â€˜I won’t, Papa,’ she

responded, looking around anxiously at the longboat as engines coughed into life, signaling the

boatmen’s impatience. Water levels had dropped over recent weeks and they wished to cross the

rapids while light permitted. Jonathan scowled at the men then released his grip and stepped back

with the broadest smile he could stage.
    â€˜Go,’ the chief

ordered, ‘and make us even prouder than we are today.’ Angela kissed her father’s hand

respectfully and turned before tears could flow. She stepped down from the raised boardwalk and

with one final wave stepped into the longboat and settled down for the long, monotonous voyage to

the provincial capital.
    Jonathan Dau looked on in silence as the boat gained

speed, the villagers still waving and shouting in festive mood until Angela disappeared from

view. Then, he returned to his office where he slumped into his grandfather’s rattan chair,

sighed heavily at the paperwork he’d neglected and attacked the pile of correspondence with

forced enthusiasm. The Central Government was to implement yet another of Jakarta’s grandiose

development schemes, designed to drag so-called primitive, tribal groups into their world.

Questionnaires, directives, communications relating to the general plans had inundated his office

over past weeks, Jonathan unwilling to address the outstanding correspondence, distracted by his

daughter’s departure. He let the pen slide from between his fingers, clasped his head between his

hands, leaned forward and stared vacantly into space.
    Ageing black and white photographs of a younger Jonathan

standing proudly amongst a group of graduating MiG pilots lined one wall of the leader’s inner

sanctum, amidst these, a much-cherished portrait of Angela. His eyes locked with hers and he

smiled, lovingly, the moment again filled his chest with pride. She had completed the dukun initiation ceremony – and he could now derive some comfort from the fact that she

was now better prepared to go out into the world alone. Excluding any visits Jonathan might now

make to Bandung, he accepted that it would be unlikely that he would see too much more of his

daughter whilst she was away, studying. It had been difficult enough, he admitted, even when she

had been