Blue Buddha

That morning, Ian Bradley, the Jakarta branch manager, was on the phone when I walked into his office. He motioned me to a chair in front of his desk and continued talking with the Southeast Asian Regional Vice President in Singapore about a series of back-to-back letters of credit.

Ian put his hand over the phone, “Better things to do?”

“No.”

After a few minutes, Ian asked, “Good news or bad?”

“Uniquely bad, the Conway house has disappeared.”

“Stay here.”

Brian and Mary Conway had lived in what became known as the Conway house for several years before Brian was transferred to Tokyo. The bank owned the property as the result of a bad loan. The house was white-plastered cinder block with a red-tile roof and rambled over three thousand square feet in a junglely area that eventually would become an upscale suburb. The dilapidated home looked worse every time I passed it.

Ian finished the call and said, “Okay, tell me.”

“Last night Emily and I had supper with friends who live up the road from the Conway house. Pouring rain, we couldn’t see the house, but something wasn’t right. We went back; the house was gone.”

“Who? How?”

“Numerous men with heavy trucks and tracked equipment.”

“Let’s go see,” Ian said, “Ask Tommi to come with us.” Tommi Suwargo was the bank’s ranking Indonesian officer.

In the car, we sat according to rank; being the junior officer, I sat in front next to the driver; Tommi, an Assistant Vice President, sat with Ian in the back seat. I explained the previous evening and asked Tommi, “What do you think?”

“I don’t like this.”

“Maybe we should have asked one of the Indonesian officers to join us?” Ian said.

“I am an Indonesian,” Tommi said.

Ian said. “Of course, I was thinking a Javanese could deal better with the Javanese we might encounter.”

Tommi shrugged.

“Sorry,” Ian mumbled. “How long has your family lived here?”

“About five hundred years.”

“And remained Chinese for that long?” I asked.

“We didn’t wish to become Javanese” Tommi said. “We had to protect ourselves.”

“From whom?”

“The Javanese,” Tommi said.

“Chinese still speak Chinese after five centuries?” I said.

“I speak the Hokkien dialect, Indonesian, Dutch and English — going with the flow, so to speak.”

“But after five hundred years…”

“Your forefathers wanted to become Americans and did so quickly,” Tommi said. “But Indonesia is…”

Ian interrupted, “Tommi, what did your family do?”

“My father came from a family of compradors — middle men between the Chinese merchants and the Dutch banks.”

Tommi was a slender handsome man who moved with a dancer’s grace — shoulders back, head held high. I first thought he was somewhat mannered. Later I realized that Tommi was as wary as his forefathers who lived in a volatile society that resented their presence and business prowess.

When Ian had promoted Tommi to an Assistant Vice President (the highest rank an Indonesian had reached at the time), Tommi wanted the promotion rescinded. Tommi said that a Javanese reporting to a Chinese wouldn’t work. An arrangement was struck: a Chinese worker in operations wanted to become a loan officer and was made Tommi’s assistant; later a Chinese university graduate joined Tommi’s team.

Chinese-Indonesian businessmen preferred dealing with fellow Chinese; and Tommi’s team became a significant profit center. But Tommi and his men didn’t attend parties, weddings or outings; whether they weren’t invited or chose not to attend, I didn’t know. I did know that many Indonesians considered Tommi a Chinaman with all the old slur’s implications.

The driver parked at the front gate; the three of us walked into the yard. A bridled horse in the front yard was grazing on what was left of the lawn while a man dozed under a tree. When we approached, the man woke with a start and ran to the horse. Tommi followed asking questions; the man mounted the horse and galloped back to the kampong (small village).

Tommi said, “Waking up to find two orang putis (white men) and a cina (Chinese) in suits and ties staring down at him will be his new worst nightmare.” Tommi looked at the road, “Something’s going on.”

“The people in the kampong must have seen what happened,” Ian said.

“They won’t talk to me,” Tommi said.

“Who could have organized this operation?” Ian asked.

Still looking at the road, Tommi said, “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No,” I said.

“An army general decided to save on the cinder blocks and roofing tiles for his new home.”

“They can do that?” I said.

“Who’ll stop them?” Tommi said and looked at the road. “I’ve seen that car driving back and forth. Now they’re watching us.”

Ian looked at the three men watching us from the road. “Those punks aren’t going to run me off of bank property.”

“They’re army punks. We should go. Don’t look frightened.”

“Let’s go,” Ian said.

In the car, Tommi said, “Ian, you’ve worked in countries — Thailand, Vietnam and Pakistan — where the military’s presence was significant. What did you do?”

“Stayed out of their way.”

“I don’t have that luxury,” Tommi said. “They know where we live; if we report this to the police…”

Ian interrupted, “But the insurance company will require that we file a complaint with the police.”

“They’ll toss the report. There may be retribution. Oh, don’t worry; Americans won’t be touched. But my family…”

“What do you mean?” Ian said.

“I have a wife and two daughters,” Tommi said.

“They’d be harassed?”

“Maybe worse. Today they’ll be on the first available flight to Singapore and will stay with relatives until this blows over.”

Back at the bank, Ian sent a telex describing the situation to Singapore. As we waited for the phone call, Ian said, “From my experience, the Overseas Chinese fear the natives much like European Jews feared Christians and for many of the same reasons. Despite their fear, the Chinese hold the natives in contempt. And they had allied themselves with the colonial powers…” The phone rang.

Around the speaker phone in Singapore were the Regional Vice President and the bank’s lawyer. Ian and I described the situation; Ian added that Tommi was sending his wife and daughters to Singapore. The Regional Vice President, a Dutchman who grew up in colonial Indonesia, suggested that Tommi follow his family and temporarily work at the Regional Office; Ian agreed.

The lawyer asked, “The house was insured?”

“Not against theft of the house itself,” Ian said.

Late that day, I filed a report with the Jakarta police. A few days later, an insurance company representative came down from Singapore; after inspecting the property, he told us that the army did the bank a favor: the property could only be sold after the house had been removed. After a few weeks, Tommi and his family returned from Singapore; his home had not been touched; his wife and daughters wouldn’t be bothered.

Chinese-Indonesians comprised just over one percent of the population, but physically they stood out and grouped in Chinatowns. Many were merchants; during colonial times, the Dutch used Chinese merchants to finance the agricultural sector and facilitate the flow of produce to the cities. The Chinese association with the Dutch served them badly after independence in 1949.

The post-colonial politicians mined the anti-Chinese sentiment and questioned their loyalty; the masses supported the politicians. Chinese schools were closed; their language, religious and cultural expressions were banned. The ultimate degradation was the government’s encouraging Chinese to take Indonesian surnames. Many acceded while maintaining their Chinese surnames: Halim (Lim), Somali (Lee) and Suwargo (Goh).

China supported the 1965 communist coup that targeted the Indonesian army’s high command. Surviving generals put down the coup and declared open season on communists as well as Chinese. Estimates are that several million alleged communists and their sympathizers were eliminated along with an unknown number of Chinese. Six years later when I arrived in Jakarta, the army ruled and most Chinese refused to speak of the coup’s repercussions.

Tommi and I got along; we were on different career tracks with expectations that didn’t conflict. He had helped me with my Indonesian; I edited and proofed his team’s credit reports. A year after the Conway house incident, I was transferred to Singapore, and Tommi’s team invited me to a going-away supper. I said, “You’ll be invited to my going-away at Ian’s.”

Tommi said, “Come on, you know how it goes.”

“Can’t be seen sucking up to the Americans?”

“Right. What’s it going to be? Slightly drunk with wives or really drunk without them?”

“How about fairly relaxed with wives.”

“Thought so. Drinks and supper at my home?” Chinese-Indonesians seldom entertained at home.

“Tommi, that’s quite a compliment.”

“You’re catching on.”

●●●

Years after I returned to the States, I learned that Tommi had moved to Singapore and was working for the Overseas Chinese Banking Corporation, aka OCBC. In 2000, my wife and I returned to Asia on a vacation that included Singapore. I asked for Tommi at OCBC and was told that Goh Hong Hoe, (Tommi’s Chinese name) had established a boutique merchant bank. I phoned, and Tommi asked me to meet him at his offices followed by lunch at his club.

I was heavier than in my Jakarta days, but Tommi had become fat. His demeanor had changed: his eyes were merry.

Tommi patted his tummy, “My wife calls me Blue Buddha. My tailor says that navy-blue suits slim my profile.” Tommi stood up and pirouetted, “Diets and blue suits don’t work…” He laughed and looked like the statues of laughing Buddha, but in a banker’s blue suit.

“You didn’t laugh much in Jakarta,” I said.

“Always tense; waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it always did. Enough of that; off to lunch.”

It was a Friday, and Tommi was through for the week. We talked about the old days in Jakarta; the people we liked and didn’t; the loans that paid as agreed and those that didn’t. After a lunch of Peking duck, we were sitting on the terrace dinking brandy and sodas when I said, “Remember the Conway house?”

“That day, I decided to get my family out of Indonesia for good. My eldest daughter married an architect; the younger — a natural — works with me; I have three granddaughters.” Tommi beamed.

“Congratulations. You spoil them?”

“Was Mao Zedong a communist?”

“What exactly do you do?”

“I’ve been called a bagman, a hot money artist, the laundry man, the good shepherd and the names go on. Actually, I’m a comprador. I find homes for Chinese flight capital looking to leave Indonesia, Thailand and Malaysia. Two years ago anti-Chinese riots swept through Indonesia: over a thousand were killed, more were raped. Many fled.”

“Taking their money with them?”

“About 25 billion US dollars that won’t return.”

“You had a hand in that?” I said.

“Both hands, up to my elbows.”

“In its own way, Indonesia has been good to you?”

“It’s about time,” Tommi said. “There’s a new Shanghainese restaurant; why don’t you and Emily join us for supper?”

I was full of Peking duck but couldn’t refuse, “Old friends celebrating?”

“My life in Singapore is a celebration!”