Back in 1963-65 period, during the Confrontation ( e Indonesia/Malaysia confrontation began in early 1963 following Indonesia’s opposition to the creation of Malaysia) – the sounds of ghter jets ‘Javelin’ and ‘Hunter’ underlined the hectic and anxious moments in Saratok and other areas in then Sarawak’s Second Division headquartered in Simanggang.
They were solid proofs that the Malaysian-Indonesia border situations were in turmoil, attributed to regular fire exchange between Sukarno’s led Indonesian army and Malaysia’s tough jungle fighters the Sarawak Rangers as well as the Border Scouts, whose members were mostly Iban, easily identified by their traditional throat tatoos that many refer these as ‘the Sarawak flag’. Later the Gurkhas and other Commonwealth forces led by the British also came to provide reinforcement for the new Malaysian army.
Sukarno was said to have declared dur ing Indonesian National Day that the year as ‘Year of Dangerous Living’ whereby Indonesian forces were said to have begun a campaign of airborne and seaborne infiltrations of Malaysian territories, including Sarawak.
Then, little did we know about this being just in Primary Four added with the absence of newspapers – provided one could read – except for the weekly Iban newsletter ‘Pemberita’ by Information Department. Somehow or rather the few of us in the backward rural school were aware of the border situations though we were hundreds of miles away and without any road access – the trunk Kuching-Sibu Road only passed by us at Nanga Assam School in mid 1966. Sounds made by the two British Royal Airforce (RAF) jets were only heard many seconds after their appearance, meaning they were faster than sounds, thus giving the enemy no time to get prepared.
Nevertheless, from my limited scope of knowledge and information then, there was no known combat that these two were involved in, though ground combats were a daily occurrence at the Lubok Antu as well as elsewhere along the border with Kalimantan. It was understood that Sukarno was limited in his options for opposing Malaysia. Although equipped with modern Soviet weapons, the Indonesian armed forces were not capable of fighting a war against the British. Instead, Sukarno decided to encourage and support subversive movements already existing in Borneo.
If a major insurgency could be fomented, the British might eventually be persuaded to abandon the goal of greater Malaysia. By the end of 1963, this strategy increasingly involved Indonesian army regulars, posing as guerrillas, crossing the border from Kalimantan to attack the security forces in Borneo before quickly returning to Indonesian territory. One big catch by the Malaysian Border Scout s was Untung Soergandy, who was said to be a guerilla officer with a rank equivalent to a TNI colonel. He was killed during a combat with the Sarawak Rangers/Border Scouts troop at Lubok Antu border. At that time most of us at Nanga Assam shivered at the mention of Untung as his very name symbolised Indonesian aggression eventhough his worldly time was up.
It was during this time, perhaps circa 1965, during a school break that a group of soldiers led by two whitemen stopped by our longhouse at Kedap, downriver Nanga Assam School. Others in the group, if I recall correctly, were three locals, two being Iban. I found out later, their leader was a British whose rank was a Captain. The other white officer was a Lieutenant. A big group of us were just talking and laughing during an idle gathering outside the traditional longhouse when the soldiers made their appearance around 5.30pm and nearing nightfall by the jungle edge.
It was my first time speaking English, albeit a ‘broken’ one in response to the question from their white leader, “Any family without small kids here?” “My family sir,” I said, proud that I was the only one (that was what I thought then) that understood his language or question. Now more than five decades later, I am thinking the locals among them were probably keeping quiet out of respect and strict army discipline not to interrupt their officers unless given permission. In any case, there was no reason why the two Iban among them were not tasked to ask the question knowing very well they were talking to Iban longhouse residents.
“How old are you?” “I am 11 years old sir!” So they let me lead them to our ‘bilik’ in the 23-door longhouse, catching my parents – both ears were ‘non comprende’ to English – unprepared but immediately warmed up to our five visitors. Others in the family then were my elder brother Jon, also in Primary Four but only spoke ‘more broken’ English than mine and my maternal grandma who spoke zero English but readily smiled at our visitors apart from offering them her betel and areca nut set that they respectfully declined.
They were immediately allocated a corner in our humble room and prepared in lightning speed their army sleeping accessories, though it was just only getting dark outside the longhouse. Mom was just starting to prepare dinner whereas apai was outside the longhouse, probably preparing to slaughter chickens for dinner. The two Iban soldiers were now talking, telling apai not to bother with the chicken slaughter as they brought a lot of canned food plus other items with them which the old man – well he was only 55 then – appeared not to hear. Their fifth member was a Bidayuh but spoke fluent Iban. After a hearty meal of rice, chicken mixed with ‘daun ubi’ (tapioca leaves) and one or two other simple dishes, their leader, the ‘orang putih’ took out his cigar collection and handed a good number of them to apai which he happily accepted.
They also took out some liquor and at least a dozen of canned items as gifts for our family. A few other longhouse residents also came over to our room hoping to get latest information on the Confrontation; especially after being informed that three of the visitors could speak Iban. Of course the news of the abundant liquor added extra magnetic pull for their turnout. Out of respect for our visitors’ obvious exhaustion, apai suggested that they be allowed to rest early. Nevertheless, the last two of our longhouse residents only left after finishing the second bottle of ‘Vat 69’, then perhaps planet’s tastiest liquor (to longhouse residents). The next day, a sunny day, our visitors asked me to go with them along the open gallery ‘ruai’ of the longhouse and came across my first cousin Buma Ampoi, aged about five or six, who suffered burns on his arms and body as a result of a fire incident that razed their farm hut to the ground just a few weeks earlier. They had to put him under a specially woven basket cover to hide him from the flies.
His father Ampoi, my father’s younger brother reportedly forgot about him initially during the fire. He was rescued only after a few minutes and by then he had already suffered severe burns on his back and arms. Upon seeing him in such pitiable condition, the soldiers decided to ‘wireless’ Sri Aman to send helicopter to Saratok and to wait for Buma to be brought down to the town using a longboat manned by 10hp engine that was capable to reaching Saratok town within three hours. So our five visitors left at noon together with Buma and Uncle Ampoi. Later we found out upon reaching Sri Aman Hospital, Buma was given proper treatment after requring his father to donate a large portion of his thigh flesh to replace the son’s badly burnt back. We heard that in the children ward six-year-old Buma was attended to by a British nurse who was willing to adopt him, with his parents’ permission. But as fate had it, no consent was given and though he was initially cured, his right arm returned to being partially stuck with his body and as such has been categorised as ‘OKU’ or handicapped since the term became official decades ago.
Buma, now still a bachelor at 59, is among the clients of the State Welfare Department. “Why don’t you join the para athletes to train for swimming event bro,” I suggested to him in jest many years ago. “I am too old lah brother apart from only being familiar with swimming against the river currents and not in the swimming pool,” he replied.
We just laughed it off. Actually he always reminds me of my late brother Tambi who was also born in 1959 but lived only for 40 days. He said something like he was grateful to me but too young to remember being flown by helicopter from Saratok to Sri Aman. His parents or others must have told him about the two British soldiers who initiated his treatment plan and my little part in getting their attention. It is never too late to thank someone if one thinks he or she deserves such appreciation, I told him. He nodded with teary eyes and hugged me.
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