Pubdate: Sun, 16 Jan 2005
Source: Jakarta Post (Indonesia)
Copyright: The Jakarta Post
Contact:  http://www.thejakartapost.com
Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/645
Author: Laine Berman
Bookmark: http://www.mapinc.org/pot.htm (Cannabis)

Part 1 Of 2

AS DARKNESS FALLS

Darkness falls quickly in Indonesia. Crisp cerulean skies turn grey, then 
green. The green lingers for a bit, turns the color of aged bronze, then 
the blackness drops in, enveloping everything. The sky was just turning 
green on Thursday june 10th when the phone rang. It was Agus.

"Laine, Gus here. How are things?"

"Good, what's up? Have you delivered the computer to the studio yet?"

"No. I tried to earlier but something was going on."

"Oh yeah? what?"

"I'm not sure. But I have a bad feeling."

"What do you mean Gus?"

"Well, there are lots of people there."

"People like who?"

"Don't know."

"You don't know them? Are they police?"

"Don't know."

"Is Anton in trouble?"

"Don't know, but I have a bad feeling."

"OK, I'll go right over."

"No! Don't! You'll get caught up in it, Agus, tell me what you saw."

"I can't."

"Goodbye."

When disasters strike in Java, people don't want to tell you. Over and over 
I tried calling Anton and Adi on their cell phones but no answer. I 
imagined the worst and grabbed my scooter keys and ran out the door.

The ride to Anton's studio was long, dark, and in the best of conditions, 
scary. I am thoroughly convinced that everyone in this country but me has 
cat's eyes and can see clearly in the dark. I can't see a thing so I take 
the back streets with less traffic. I race down Jalan Kaliurang and cut 
left to the road that runs parallel to Ring Road. At Condong Catur terminal 
I turn right and cross over south to Gejayan. Past what is left of the 
Mataram Canal, I turn round and then make a left on to the new road where 
my husband's tattoo studio is located.

My heart hasn't stopped racing since the phone call. I am panting and 
sweating as if I just ran 5 miles despite the cool night. The gates in 
front of the studio were locked but all the lights were on. I ran round the 
back entrance and into the shop veranda. The door was open. Inside the 
place was a wreck.

Everything open, thrown about, on the floor. All Anton's tattoo 
paraphernalia were out as if he were just taking a break from a job not yet 
finished. His books were all over the floor. I ran upstairs and found the 
same thing. Everything open, thrown about, no one around. Try calling 
again, I thought. Hallelujah, it's ringing. Anton answered.

"Where are you?"

"I'm on my way home with the fuzz."

"You don't have the key. Wait out front. I'm on my way."

The ride out was bad enough. Back was just terrifying. I knew it was a drug 
charge. That at least was clear. But what, how much, how bad? I never ride 
fast, especially at night. Yet I must admit, seeing the speedometer reach 
80 along the ring road, I felt a thrill that momentarily eclipsed my 
anxiety. Thoughts swam through my head. Yet again, I am right. I warned him 
how many times to stop his pathetic drug dealings. But no. He said over and 
over to me, the police know me. I will never be arrested.

To his friends who would come and leave their putauw and shabu supplies 
with him to look after, I always responded sinisterly, Oh yea, leave it all 
with Anton. He is invulnerable to arrest. He's too big a celebrity to get 
in trouble.

To Anton, I gave up pleading. Anton, WHY? You make no money out of this. 
You rarely use the stuff yourself. WHY???? The more I tried to reason with 
him, the more he would reject me. If I tried to forbid him, he just stayed 
away from home and spent more and more time in the studio and hanging out 
in clubs where he would supply his friends. Ok, have it your way.

But NEVER bring that stuff home. And take this as a warning. WHEN you are 
arrested, do not count on me to wait for you. Do NOT count on me to pay 
your fines. Do NOT count on me to visit you in prison and bring you what 
you need. I even had a plan, that I told him: WHEN you are arrested, I will 
call your dad to handle it. DON'T count on me. I don't want to know. Here 
it all was -- unfolding in front of me on the cold ride home. Now what?

I turned the corner into the street and raced over the drunk bumps, flying 
home. PLEASE don't let the police knock the door in before I arrive. What 
would I do if I had to stay in that huge house all alone with no front 
door??? As I approached the house, I saw a dark van parked in front of the 
gate and some 10 people milling about. There was Anton. He looked OK. 
Shaken, a bit of a swollen lip, but intact. No bullet wounds. I stopped in 
front of the gate and reached into my purse for the keys.

"You should warn me if you come home with so many friends. Who's in charge 
here?"

I casually tossed Anton the keys thinking twice about my pistol key-ring. 
Nah they won't think it's a real gun. Anton caught the keys and unlocked 
the gates.

Please come in I said on formal Javanese. We reached the front door and the 
questioning began -- I wanted to know what the charges were, they wanted to 
know what I knew. I figured all is best if I keep calm and make things 
friendly. That's easy. People here never met a foreigner before who speaks 
Javanese so it is always easy to leave a very positive impression on people.

As they came into the light of the house, I examined all their faces. 
Nothing familiar. They didn't really look like cops. They looked like 
normal people with a slightly rough edge to them. Yea, they'd easily pass 
for drug buyers. Clever. We stood in the living room and I asked what 
happened. The leader, Joko explained Anton was nicked on a drug possession 
charge.

"Possessing exactly what?"

"Ganja (marijuana), putauw (low grade heroin) and shabu-shabu (crystal 
methampethamine)."

"You're joking."

"No. We caught him in a sting selling it to one of my men."

"Excuse me. You haven't beaten him enough. May I take over and smash him?"

Nooooooo. That isn't necessary.

"Excuse me. Yes it is. They came closer to me as if to protect Anton, in 
case I was to make good on my words. My arms were far too weak to lift."

I felt the tears well up in my eyes and wondered for a second if crying 
would help or hinder. Either way, nothing came out. The pressure alone 
ached, but no release. Now what?

The police asked my permission to search the house. Monggo (please do), I 
said in polite Javanese. But I had to observe them to assure nothing went 
missing. I gave them a tour of the house and pointed out everything that 
was Anton's.

We all gathered in the back room to sit and chat like old friends. Did 
anyone want some tea? No, that wasn't necessary.

They asked me over and over what I knew. I told them the truth. Sure I knew 
he had ganja. How many times had I asked him to rethink his activities. No, 
I had no idea he had now because just last week I begged him to rethink yet 
again why he was so fixed on dealing ganja. I knew he made no money. So 
what, yet again, I asked, was the point? I also knew he and his friends 
gathered at the studio and smoked very openly on the front veranda as if no 
law in the land could touch them. That was precisely why I never came to 
the studio any more.

Yogyakarta, June 14 2004