Indonesian Poker with General Jimmy
Emily and I were married in 1970; many friends were newly married and/or finishing degrees and starting careers. We were beginning bridge players, short of money, and spent Saturday evening playing cards. Wives prepared hors d’oeuvres; husbands brought cheap Gallo Burgundy from Fresno.
A year later, the Bank of America sent us to Jakarta. I was busy; Emily taught music at the American school and gave piano lessons in the afternoon. Emily joined a madrigals singing group comprised of British and Australians — Emily was the only American.
I tagged along with Emily, and we became part of the madrigals’ social gatherings that included: singing, anagrams, charades, identifying people in old photographs, and poetry reading. I recited Casey at the Bat. Baseball poetry bored the British and Australians; cricket always put me to sleep.
Oil people stationed in Arab countries played excellent bridge; given our limited ability, we avoided their invitations. Chuck Graham lived next door with his family and was looking for players for his monthly poker game on the last Friday evening. Players started with 100 US dollars, about 40,000 Indonesian rupiah. The hosts provided drinks and wives provided snacks.
I met a British banker, Martin Evans, at a reception. We chatted about poker evenings, and the participants were among our peers. Martin was anxious to host the following Friday and gave me written directions to his home. At the time, Indonesian cities did not have street signs and numbers were not posted on homes. I drove Chuck and three of his friends in my car. None of us knew the area well; and my sense of direction was (and still is) pitiful. After searching, we concluded that we had located Martin’s home. When I knocked, a servant opened the door. I said in Indonesian, “Martin Evans here? We’re late.”
The servant bowed and disappeared. We looked around: no card table, no drinks, no food, and no other men. We heard a muffled and tense conversation from a nearby room. We were about to leave when an Indonesian man appeared in a sarong, a US army T-shirt, and a cocked 45 automatic pistol that he aimed at us. “Hands up,” he shouted in English. Our hands went up. “Americans?” We nodded. “Why here?”
I said, “We were invited to play poker at Martin Evans’s this evening. You know him?”
“He lives across the street. Hands down.” He put the pistol in his sarong. We introduced ourselves; he said, “In the States, where I learned poker, I was called Jimmy, my last name is Bandjar, Javanese. I was trained at the 101Airborne Division, the Screaming Eagles. Then I was trained as a staff officer at the Pentagon.”
I asked, “Your rank now?”
Jimmy was outgoing and handsome with a tough physique. “Brigadier General — I’m the youngest Indonesian general.”
I said, “Why don’t you join us at Martin’s?”
“Sure, in about an hour; important work to finish.”
After discussing our hands up in the mistaken home, our poker game settled down. During the first hour, I did well. When Jimmy arrived, he immediately ran out of his 10,000 rupiah (US$ 25.00 then); I loaned him the 40,000 rupiah that I had won earlier. Winning at the start was a bad sign; by the end of the game, I was losing. Jimmy had lost all the money that I loaned him. Several months later, Jimmy hadn’t repaid me.
The Indonesian Army headquarters was a block away from the bank. I thought of going to Jimmy’s office, but confronting Indonesian generals was unwise and perilous. I decided to forego bothering General Jimmy. On the other hand, the obligation was annoying.
A few times passing each other in cars, Jimmy smiled and we waved. One afternoon at a stop light, I recognized a voice in a car beside me, “Hey, Steve, hands up,” Jimmy laughed. I put my hands up. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay you,” Jimmy said as the light turned green and he left.
I was transferred to Singapore, and one morning a year later an envelope was on my desk from Major General Jimmy — a promotion from Brigadier General. Enclosed was a dollar cashier’s check for the money he owed me plus interest. The note apologized for the long delay; when next in Singapore, he promised lunch at the Raffles Hotel. I didn’t mention the slow payment, but my thank-you letter closed with the salutation: “Jimmy, how about the Raffles?”
About a year later, I was on a prolonged phone conversation when Jimmy approached, wearing civilian clothes. My conversation ended; we shook hands, “Jimmy, what a surprise. What brings you here?”
“Our alliance with Singapore is growing: political, trade, and military. We’re close with the Singapore military. Oh, two things: now I’m a lieutenant general, three stars.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“And the Raffles?”
“Do you miss American?”
Jimmy smiled, “Medium-rare steaks with red wine.”
“Off to the American Club. I’ll expense this.”
“It took time to pay you. After our poker game, my wife gave birth to our daughter. There was a problem with her heart; no specialist in Indonesia could fix it. We have a Chinese doctor to look after our senior officers, and he has a cousin here, a heart specialist. We got her to the doctor. So I borrowed, extended my payments, begged. Every time I passed your office, I wanted to pay you, but I kept you waiting, even for the small amount. Quite pathetic.”
“I understand — and could have helped.”
“Borrowing from a foreign bank was out of the question. My debt is repaid; we are a happy family.”
We kept in touch when Jimmy was in Singapore. Years after, Emily and I moved a great deal, and I worked in London and Africa. My bridge playing never really improved. But I will never forget that unusual poker game with General Jimmy — the only high ranking general I have ever met.
