Indonesian Travels

Indonesian Travels The Village by James MacMannis

• • • • Warning * * * *

If you are under the age of 18 or if it is illegal to read stories of a

homosexual nature where you live please do not read further. This is a fictional story, based on my life experiences. This is part of a series of stories about my travels in Indonesia. I hope you enjoy the journey.

Copyright by James MacMannis.

*** NOTE FROM Kyron C MacMannis ***

On Wednesday 7th March 2007 at around 7 am a Garuda Airlines Boeing 737-400, flight GA200, jet burst into flames when it overshot the runway on landing at Yogyakarta Airport in Indonesia on a routine 440 kilometre flight from Jakarta. There were 133 passengers and 7 crew on that plane, 22 were reportedly killed in the crash, later revised to 21, and another 91 were hospitalised with severe burns, many subsequently evacuated to Australia for intensive care.

James MacMannis was one of those killed.

Apparently the aircraft was swaying as it approached the airport and many passengers reported that it was travelling too fast for a normal landing. Passengers had been warned the flight would be turbulent. Survivors said the plane was slammed to the ground and skidded forward and slammed once again before it ploughed across the end of the runway, across a road, hit a bank and a culvert and went into a paddy field. When it hit the bank and the culvert, it exploded.

The plane was manufactured in 1992, had its last major inspection just a month before the accident and had logged 34,960 flight hours.

The inquest into the aircraft accident in Yogyakarta was held in October 2007 and, among other things, it was discovered that the pilot, Marwoto Komar, and his co-pilot Gagam Rachman, had ignored more than 15 major alarms about his approach speed and the landing in general.

Yet he went ahead and landed the aircraft. The result was a disaster.

We three have lost a father, friend and the greatest man you could ever know.

A number of readers of the original postscipt (above) went to the trouble of trying to identify James from the passenger manifests of Flight GA200. There were five Australians reported to have been killed, James was not among them. They were Australian Financial Review journalist Morgan Mellish, Federal police agents Brice Steel and Mark Scott, AusAid employee Allison Sudradjat and Jakarta embassy spokeswoman Liz O'Neill.

James had for many years worked with the Indonesian government on sensitive and difficult tasks, earning for himself the right to carry an Indonesian passport. That is the reason why he did not show up as an Australian or foreign citizen, but instead is listed among the 16 (originally there were 22 deaths attributed to the crash but that number was later revised to 21) other passengers. I am not at liberty to tell you the name on his passsport.

We brought James back to Perth, Western Australia, with some of his senior staff. The funeral was held in his home church with hundreds of his close friends in attendance. My brothers and I became the successors to his business interests and we have been well occupied learning how to deal with the complexities of his enterprises.

James left a lot of notes on his writing because his intention had always been to complete the stories he started. I will try to put his notes together in a contiguious form, but I am not an eloquent writer as he was and I doubt I could convey the emotion he was able to.

He had not completed this particular story and I cannot do so for him because I was not there. However what is presented here will probably give you an idea of how this story would have continued.

I was in Indonesia for the inquest and, while I was there, landed also at the same airport where James died. It was an eerie experience inasmuch as I did not feel great sorrow or despair, simply the loss of a great man. He lives on in my brothers and I and the many friends and workmates he fostered in one way or another during his life.

You may like to read other stories by James MacMannis and view photographs and other material he collected. I have re-constructed the Yahoo Group with whatever I can find and you will find it at this address: http://asia.groups.yahoo.com/group/aborigindonesian/

Should you wish to contact me or my brothers, please do so on my email: kyroncameron (at) yahoo (dot) com

Love to you all Kyron C MacMannis (Nick) and on behalf of my brothers Connie and Chris.

I want to thank the many who have written in response to my first two stories. One comment that has been

raised a number of time is in relation to circumcision among Moslems. I hope that parts of this story will enlighten the reader and answer the questions.

The story recommences from The Bank.

The telephone interrupted us; it was reception advising that a Mister Abdul was waiting to see me. I remembered that I had asked the bank guard around, and guessed it was he, so I raced downstairs to meet

him. It was the bank guard, but he, too, was in comfortable clothing rather than his uniform, and I had trouble recognising him as the same person. We shook hands and he told me his name was Abdul Wahabin. Showing him the way, I led him up to our room. Introductions were made to the boys who were sitting out on the shady balcony smoking. I asked Abdul what he would like to drink and got beer for him and myself

and cokes for the two boys. He offered me a smoke as we sat down with the boys on the balcony.

The humid evening was gathering its dark folds around us as we got to know each other a little better. Abdul, it turned out, was originally from Surabaya and had been in Samarinda for only 6 months. The bank had transferred him here on the retirement of an older guard. He had not enjoyed his time in Samarinda because he had few friends and had found life in a back-water somewhat different to the bustle of his home town. The opportunity to meet us was a welcome break in his otherwise tedious existence here.

We walked down town to find a warung (caf) for the evening meal. Samarinda has a lot of eating places in the streets that run back from the riverbank, and it was not long before we found something suitable. Abdul had already drunk two or three beers from my minibar before we left the hotel, and as soon as we arrived at the warung he ordered more. The boys decided to have beer as well. By time our meal was ready we were all comfortably mellowed by the cool ale, more so the boys who were not accustomed to drinking

alcoholic drinks.

It was late when we left the warung and staggered back towards the hotel. Abdul left us along the way to go to his place, leaving the three of us to negotiate the remaining few metres to our hotel. The cool air conditioning was a shock after the oppressive heat outdoors, and we quickly scrubbed out feet, stripped off and headed straight to bed. Adi and Put hugged me as we fell into a deep sleep.

Once again the early morning prayer call woke us. The boys were feeling heavy from the drinking session last night and did not want to get up. The need to piss was the only thing they moved for and, when finished, climbed back into bed. I did the same thing.

An hour later I stirred when I felt a stiff penis grinding slowly into my leg. Adi was feeling back in form, and his gyrations brought me quickly to life. His hand sought out my dick and he began to masturbate me to the same rhythm as his own humping. Put stirred on the other side and rolled over to hug me as he awoke. He, too, was rock hard and, feeling the movement on Adi's side of the bed, joined in the sensuous assault of my leg. I held on to both boys as they shared their love with me.

Neither Adi nor Put were embarrassed or reluctant to demonstrate their sex in front of each other or to share it with me. I recalled Adi saying that he had slept with his cousins since they were all very young, so I guessed that included all the normal inquisitiveness boys have with each other. As they would have gown to puberty and beyond, the already familiar relationship would have deepened with the flowering of

sexuality. These boys had nothing but openness in their relationship and I felt deeply touched to share it with them.

My musings were interrupted by Adi gasping as his orgasm hit. I felt it, too, because he was still pumping me at the same pace as his increased tempo. I erupted with him, sending Put over the edge of his sexual plateau. I could feel the juices of the boys spraying on my legs and my own juices squirting on my bare stomach. If heaven were like this, I could very much enjoy it.

Coffee, smokes, showers and breakfast behind us, we were back at the bank before opening time. Abdul waved from his guard post as we went in with the Manager and on up to the computer room. I had just a few more components to change out before the boys would be free to go about their business for the day. They had planned to go back to the village once my work with them was done. When the time came, to his great surprise I paid Put a full tradesmans wage for his work. As generous as it may seem, he had done a sterling job and I would have been at a loss to complete the job if it were not for him.

The boys left me to continue fine tuning the system and bring the network fully back to functionality. All the ATM links were repaired by midday and by 1500 I felt that the job was complete. The Manager checked everything was to his satisfaction and I put the left over and replacement components and spares away in the computer room.

I had already found a local electrician who ran a new GPO to the tearoom and a plasterer who made good the hole in the wall. I hoped this would stop anyone from trying to unplug the surge protectors again. Final checks done, I headed down to the guard room and said goodbye to Abdul, then picked up my tools and headed back to the hotel. Adi was not back, so I rang Surabaya to see if any other jobs were waiting for me. Just at that time there were none, so I said I would get back there as soon as I could arrange transport.

I was weary from the long days and nights, so I decided to strip off and have a catch up sleep till Adi returned. When I awoke it was already very dark outside and my clock showed the time to be 2000. Suddenly I remembered that I was waiting for Adi and he hadn't shown up. I hoped he was ok.

A cool shower freshened me up no end and I dressed ready to go downstairs for dinner. I was eating when Adi drove in. He apologised for being late, but said he had stopped to help his uncle at the farm and the time got away from him. He had already eaten with his family, but he happily joined me for a coffee.

We went up to the room and took Cokes out to the balcony to sit and smoke. Tonight was not anywhere as oppressive as the night before had been, so it was pleasant to catch a gentle breeze. We had stripped to trousers to

maximise the coolness. I explained that my work was now finished. Adi asked me if I had to rush back to Surabaya or would it be possible to go out to his village for a night before I left. I wanted to see the place where Adi came from, and to meet his uncle and other cousin, so I agreed we would go out there in the morning.

Adi was excited about being able to show me off to his family and also to show me his home. "It is very rough compared to this, and I hope it will not be any problem for you," he explained. I told Adi some of my childhood experiences from the Australian bush and how that for some time my parents could not have a nice home, so it was not a problem for me to adapt to different surroundings.

Putting his Coke down, Adi stood and butted out his cigarette then came over to my seat and stood in front of me. He knelt down with his head between my legs and gently sucked at my soft penis through the fabric. "Can I try to take you in my mouth, James? Please show me how to do that." He unzipped my jeans and my now hard dick sprung out into the evening air, responding eagerly to Adi's ministrations. I talked Adi through a few simple techniques so he would not gag too much, but found that he was quite capable of his own methods. Adi's tongue flicked around the inside of my foreskin, sending electric shocks through my system each time he ran over the sensitive parts.

Easing himself down the length of my rod, Adi soon had my pubic hairs in his nose as he sucked me in to him. He could not take the whole length, and I was not going to force myself in to his throat, but the sensations he was giving me were delightful even so. So slowly and softly Adi work away at my needy tool, bringing me to the edge several time, but always stopping before I could topple into the depths of gushing orgasm. It was as though he wanted to make me remember this night more than any other. I could not read his mind, not could I understand fully his motivation, but he was giving to me of his heart and mine responded in unison.

There came a time when no matter what Adi did or didn't

do, I had to let out my pent up and agitated juices. Adi did not stop sucking till I was dry. I gave him the biggest load I can ever remember producing, and he greedily drank it all in. Still he nursed my steely member, and still I was throbbing with the joyful pain of orgasm. For the first and only time in my life I could feel the juices boiling again, and it was only a few minutes before Adi took in a second, although somewhat diminished, load of my sperm.

Adi released me and I sagged back in the chair. Adi had somehow removed his jeans and he turned and sat naked on my lap, his still unreleased tool waving attention to itself. Our balcony was quite secluded unless we happened to be at the front railing, so it was not a problem for us to be naked there. I went to grab Adi's tool, but he restrained

me. "Let me just sit here and do it myself, please James. I need to be very close to you tonight." He grabbed his throbbing pole and began long-stroking, his firm grip obvious by his whitened knuckles. I loved to watch as his foreskin slid up and down, never fully uncovering the thick head of his penis. I could feel his clenching bottom muscles as his climax built, and he leaned back into my chest as he finaly

let go of a stream of white liquid. There are times when an orgasm transcends the usual experience, and this was one of those time for Adi and it had been for me. He just poured our his nectar in ropes, splattering all over his chest and on to mine. On and on it came ^ I could not count the number of times he shot out his load ^ and all the time I held his spasming body close to mine. Finally he was spent and he relaxed in my arms.

We sat together for a long time, fully enjoying the closeness of each other, the coolness of the soft breeze, and the rememberance of the experience we had shares so recently. Adi stirred enough to reach his cigarettes and he lit one, passing it to me. Lighting another for himself, we sat in this closest of embraces and smoked contentedly.

Leaving the tight cluster of Samarinda, we headed out of town across the huge bridge over the bustling ships and eddying current of the mighty Mahakam River. On the southern side we turned westwards on the road marked to Tenggarong. The cluttered roads soon gave way to a less busy stretch of dense jungle, punctuated occasionally by wayside stall. Always the breadth and power of one of the world's

greatest rivers made it's presence felts somewhere off to our right, often seen, often heard, sometimes invisible, but nonetheless always there.

After a while the road turned northwards and it was not long before the gigantic frame of a huge suspension bridge poked through the foliage and soared across the river. We had arrived at Tenggarong. Once a kingly city, now a modest town, I was intrigued by the wooden walkways between shops and houses along the riverbank. Adi stopped at one of the warungs and we made our way into the establishment after navigating the rather dodgy footpath strung over the surging river. The Mahkam is wide at Tenggarong, but no less overwhelming in the sheer volume of water passing along it. In the deeper parts of the river trees and debris competed with boats and barges. Here along the edge, where the warung was located under shady trees,

it was not fierce, but gave the impression of a gentle giant flexing its significant muscles.

We drank strong local coffee and ate some sticky cakes that resembled lamingtons with molasses poured over, followed by the local delicacy, udang galah, a gigantic fresh water prawn. More coffe and cigarettes completed the meal. Refreshed by the food and the short break from driving, Adi took to the road again, heading back the way we had already come to enter the onramp for the massive bridge. The view from this bridge was amazing ^ the river appearing sluggish as we drove over it at a great height, the jungle never ending except for clearings where a sawmill or other factory had been pushed into its bulk. Descending into the humid forest again, we slid along a muddy track for a short time until we came to a stop in a cleared area at the middle of a small village.

Dinner was an impromptu event in the village. I was treated as an honoured guest, although, in fact, it was I who had been honoured by being allowed to come to this jungle paradise. The village was set on a plateau or headland, almost like a promontory jutting out into the small river flowing around three sides of the village many metres below. The village area was dry and dusty, small gibber rocks and an accumulation of other debris was scattered on the ground. Someone said a few words that I could not grasp and Adi darted out the doorway of the hut we were accommodated in. I looked out and saw him darting here and there between the other huts, his bare feet not registering either the late heat of the ground or the sharp rocks and pointy stones as he ran. It dawned on me that he was

chasing a chicken, which he eventually cornered and caught, and that the chicken was going to be a major ingredient in our evening meal.

Later, after having enjoyed the marvellous roasted meat and platters of local fresh vegetables, some steamed and others boiled, we sat back with the men to enjoy the cool evening breeze. Coffee and sweet cakes accompanied the strong black tobacco that was offered, and we chatted and smoked for some time. Eventually Adi called a halt to the discussion, realising that it had been a long day with no opportunity to rest and that we would need to be refreshed for the coming day of celebration and festivity.

At the back of the house stood a small woven enclosure and Adi led me to this place for a mandi (shower) before we would retire for the night. I had not realised that water was already collected for us to use, meaning

that someone had carried several plastic jerry cans from the river up to the hut for our use. Adi undressed me and himself and then poured cool water into a smaller container which he then tipped over us. We soaped up and then rinsed the lather off, leaving us both feeling fresh and free from the dust and sweat of the day. Both of us were erect, but Adi whispered to me that too many other people would see us if we did anything in this exposed place, so we dried off and wrapped towels around us to go back into the hut.

Adi took my towel and his and hung them to air for the night and held back the folds of a copious mosquito net for me to climb into bed. The bed was hard ^ probably a kapok mattress on wood planking ^ but roomy and comfortable. Blowing out the oil lamp, the room plunged into an oily darkness and Adi crept into the bed beside me. Encircling me with his strong arms, he held me tightly in a loving embrace, punctuated by the thrusting of his stiff member as it tried to find a comfortable part of me to lie against. His mouth found mine and we kissed deeply and longingly. My penis was achingly needing release and I pushed into Adi's hand when he reached down to hold me there. My precum quickly lubricated his hand and I could slide into his grip easily.

At the same time,

Adi was moving faster in his thrusting against my hip. Neither of us would last very long at this rate, so I took hold of his pumping hand to stop his ministration of me and slid down the bed to take him in my mouth. Adi's wet tool jumped as it found the caress of my lips. I tasted his juices as he pushed in to me, the tang of salt and his maleness pleasant to my tongue. I gripped his buttocks and pulled him further in to my oral cavity, his penis quickly

engorging to that final swelling to indicate his imminent orgasm. As his head touched the deepest recess of my throat I felt the pumping begin as his semen spurted strongly into me. The joy of his orgasm transferred itself to me and I pushed myself towards him, making contact with his feet. Adi felt my hardness and gripped me between his tough soles, bringing me to a overwhelming orgasm. I pushed and he clasped me tightly as my semen spilt over his feet, giving me the lubrication I needed to continue enjoying the leathery feeling of his tough skin while I pumped in time with his still pulsing penis.

It is true that many Moslem men are cut. In Indonesia, this practice is referred to as sunat Arab, or the Arabian circumcision, and it appears to be

carried out mainly in Java. I have only ever met one other Muslim from other parts of Indonesia who was cut. Every other Muslim I have met, which represents a small portion of the millions of them, is not cut.

In Adi's village, as with many thousands of others, at the coming of age ceremony the physical cutting is replaced by a symbolic enactment, but nothing actually gets cut off the foreskin. The initiates, Adi's cousins from what I could make of a rather convoluted relationship web, were about 13 years of age. These beautiful healthy boys had been scrubbed clean in the river and the grandmothers and older relatives had been hard at work all morning preparing them for the ceremony. Their black hair gleamed with a deep iridescence that continual brushing and washing had endowed. Their faces had been made up with rice powder to blush their normally dark skin and a

stylish moustache had been pencilled on each boy as, it seemed, some kind of maturity mark that they had yet to achieve.

Their bodies were adorned with gaily coloured gold-threaded cloth that was wrapped around them, making them look like toy dolls. The cloth covered them down to the knees. Their feet, as would be expected, were bare and I immediately noticed they were broad and tough like Adi's. We arrived at the house about an hour before the ceremony was due to begin, and we were immediately given strong coffee and offered cigarettes. After a while the ladies had completed their ministrations with the boys and left to attend to their own ritual dressing. Both the boys came over and sat with us, careful not to disturb any of the make-up, adornments or clothing that had been so lovingly applied to them. They lit the cigarettes Adi offered them and sat back to

relax, drawing the smoke deeply into their lungs.

Around midday there was a general movement in the village as people began assembling at the Mesjid (Mosque). We escorted the two boys from our family and I was surprised to see that they were not the only ones to be initiated this day. Several families brought other lads to the centre of the gathering and, by time the ritual commenced, there were fifteen boys

present, all brightly bedecked and all nervously awaiting their part in the proceedings.

I cannot speak Arabic, and Islamic rituals are conducted in that language, so I stood quietly in the crowd and observed the goings on with interest. I had heard of some other places where a small nick is made to draw blood, and wondered if this would be the case here. Adi, I knew, had no scarring on his penis but I did not know if he had been initiated in this village or elsewhere. The various prayers and readings from the Koran were intoned and the ceremony progressed, but, to my immense pleasure, the foreskins remained intact.

Later, when everything was done and we had gone home, the boys needed to wash the cosmetics off their bodies. They asked me and Adi to come with them to the river where we could all refresh ourselves from the intense afternoon heat and humidity. Thunder storms in the distance promised rain and coolness, but at this stage they were still distant and the weather was oppressive. I needed little encouragement to go for a swim.

At the river, not the main course of the Mahkam but a smaller tributary, other boys from the ceremony were already in the water, their naked bodies darting through the muddy water. Adi's cousins stripped off the shorts they had worn from home (the fine cloths had been taken off by the old ladies and stored for the next family members to be initiated) and turned to me, urging me to do the same. I pulled my clothes off and hung them over a tree branch. The boys took my hands and led me down the slippery bank, showing me where to hold and where to place my feet so I did not tumble unexpectedly into the water. I could not help but notice their little penises with their complete covering sheath. Indonesia, by the way, is not alone in this adaptation of the circumcision ruling that is preached as Islamic Law but, in fact, is nothing more than an established tradition among Moslems. Current research at leading universities in Java may lead to a change in understanding the traditional approach to bodily mutilation and, hopefully, many more Indonesian foreskins will remain intact.

In the morning we drove out of the village after bidding everyone a fond farewell. Many of the villagers had bought gifts for me, to my extreme embarrassment as I had nothing to offer in return, as a kind of symbol of honour. Adi's little taxi was full of potatos and carrots, cabbages and eggs, sweet dripping sugar cane stalks and every other kind of produce you could

imagine. We must have looked like a travelling vendor as we found our way through the jungle, over the broad span of the suspension bridge and off towards Samarinda. We did not turn left to the city we had come from, but continued on towards Balikpapan.

Kyron Cameron MacMannis Yahoo Group Aboriginal and Indonesian The stories and photos of James MacMannis http://asia.groups.yahoo.com/group/aborigindonesian