Chapter 3

At last …

Time had moved on for Wally Flannagan. His Tompop was gone, having lived to a ripe old age of eighty. Tompop’s wife, Wally’s beautiful grandma, Muriel, had died the year before. Wally’s mum now lived in the comfortable house his grandparents had shared down near the dairy. Wally ran the farm with the help of his family. He was married, had adult children and young grandchildren, and he would retire on his next birthday.

On reaching that milestone, he had only one birthday present or wish in mind. After all these years, he still hadn’t fulfilled that promise to himself — to watch that special Indonesian flower unfold. Now, all that was about to change. He had hired a reputable local to help on the farm, and his trip to Indonesia was only two weeks away. By good fortune, the family had a connection in Jakarta: a relation, a cousin by marriage, Steven.

The plan was that, after a week spent with Steven, Wally would travel across Java on a tourist train and tourist bus to finally witness the rare event. To see one of those huge plants flower. Yes, locals had kept diaries on past flowerings — and over the years, it had become a tourist attraction, the dates well-advertised, if you knew where to look.

These last twelve months for Wally had involved endless planning and familiarising himself with Indonesia. Of an evening, after tea on the farm, it became an obsession. The computer was his aid in researching air tickets, accommodation, tourist attractions, and dates. But the family connection in Jakarta would help, too. There, he would gather tips on local habits, manners, and greetings in Bahasa. (Further, he believed he needed at least a week to adjust to the humid climate. It had been fifty years since he had experienced the tropics.)

Typically, Wally studied the island of Java thoroughly. The more he researched, the more he thrilled in anticipation. He shared this potential adventure with his family and mates, whether they were interested or not. To be honest, his close mates were delighted for him, even envious — let’s clarify that statement: they envied Wally behind his back. To his face, these same mates would yawn, telling him to change the subject. The sooner he left for bloody Jack Arthur (Jakarta), the better, they told him.

Yet including these mates in his updates on his travels had unexpected results. The first — Wally had stared, totally flabbergasted, arms in the air, when a mate suggested he set up a Facebook page to keep in touch during his travels. ‘You are kidding me,’ was his verbal response. However, between his mates and his children, Wally was given little choice. Begrudgingly, he signed up for an account.

Checking in via Facebook tested his opinions of modern socialising on ‘media’, though his computer literacy was excellent. When he’d purchased his first iPad, his grandson Fraser had complained bitterly that it was the only iPad in the world without games. Generally, Wally’s time on a computer was not spent playing games, gambling, viewing smut, or even reading the news (he preferred a physical newspaper). He used the internet to research science and similar topics. He enrolled in online courses and joined special-interest groups, where his knowledge and opinions became valued by many.

His son John organised private groups for Wally’s Facebook account. He believed it would suit his dad best. One for family, the other for mates. Both totally private. After accepting a few mates as members of his Wally’s Bucket group on his Facebook page, to his own great surprise, Wally suddenly became interested. There were old photos from mates he hadn’t seen for years, and updates on just what they were up to — such a great idea, this page. Wally copped a lot of crap from those same mates about his original canning of Facebook. After two weeks, he had fourteen mates on his page. He posted at least twice a week.

Most importantly, he realised he could keep everyone up to date with his grand adventure to Indonesia via Facebook. He’d be able to post photos, report on day-to-day activities, and share his experiences.

Almost time …

Wally relaxed. He’d arranged vaccinations, a full medical report, a passport, rupiah, and a bank card. To the smallest detail, Wally and his travel agent had planned this trip. Transport, accommodation — all supported by local phone numbers. What not to eat or drink — the list was very long, very thorough.

For Wally to do this trip on his own would be a remarkable feat. It took what seemed like forever just to convince his wife and mates that it was all organised. Yet when he showed his plan to his doubters, it eliminated all concerns and was hard to fault. He’d ticked every box.

He had a full itinerary. Travelling by train from Stratford to Melbourne, then by plane to Jakarta. Visiting Steven, his wife, and their two children. Seeing so many significant buildings and magnificent mountains, jungle walks and waterways, dancing ceremonies and traditional-costume displays, rituals put on for tourists and many small diversions. Then the true adventure would begin. To travel across the rugged countryside of Java …

He’d thought carefully about what he was going to pack.

Apart from the occasional three-hour trip from Stratford to Melbourne to catch up with his mates, Wally spent most of his time locally. Working on the farm, every morning, every afternoon. When he wasn’t working, he liked attending cattle sales, agricultural shows, the library, the computer club at U3A, birdwatching and wildlife clubs, footy games, and the shire swimming pool. Which was a very demanding agenda for this busy dairy farmer.

When going to see those mates in Melbourne, he caught the train. He checked his old wristwatch was correct, carried his phone and wallet in his coat pocket, and took a book to read.

He was going to take a little more with him to Indonesia.

One week to go …

Monday morning, milking finished, a cuppa. Same old routine? No, Wally would never forget this morning. For Meredith, his wife, while chatting about Wally’s upcoming holiday, simply stunned him when she said, ‘We should drive down to town, check out the shops, and get you a decent handbag, Wally.’

That word (a secret women’s word) pierced Wally’s eardrums like a well-aimed arrow.

‘What did you just say?’

Meredith, half reading the local paper, hadn’t noticed the shocked look on Wally’s face. ‘A handbag. You know, travel-bag thing. You’ve got a lot of stuff to carry that needs to be handy. I’m told you can get ones that people can’t pickpocket, apparently.’

Wally stared at Meredith. ‘Did you just say handbag? Should I get some stockings as well?’

Meredith laughed.

Wally didn’t; he frowned, rubbed his nose, and scratched his thinning hair. Choosing his words carefully, he said, ‘You’re serious? Me carry a bloody handbag? For God’s sake, Meredith, my mates will wet their pants laughing. I’ll just shove it all in a small suitcase or something like the bag I carry all my farm fencing tools in, yes, something like that’ll be perfect. Leave it to me, mate.’

Two hours later, he and Meredith returned from their impromptu shopping spree, Wally carrying a shopping bag from a men’s accessory shop so carefully that one would assume it held a tiger snake inside. No. Wally now owned a medium-sized grey man bag. It was impressive, or so the shopkeeper had said:

‘The strap that goes around your neck contains an inserted steel wire, making it almost impossible to cut or slash apart by some would-be thief. Every zip has a tamper-proof fastener. The bag is made of a special super-tough material that no razor-sharp knife or similar tool could cut open. A brilliant design and a very safe place for money, passport, tickets, phone, umbrella, camera, and much more.’

Meredith was pleased. Wally looked as if his manhood had been removed in one fell swoop by an efficient cattleman in the nearby cattle yard. Possibly with a ‘razor-sharp knife or similar tool’. His biggest problem — how could he face his mates, those fair-dinkum Aussie blokes, with a bloody handbag hanging around his neck?

Had Meredith not been coming to the airport the day of his departure, he would have stuffed it in the rubbish bin on the train on the way down. Yep, then he could have bought a cheap footy bag or canvas tool bag, and met his mates bragging about his wise choice.

Sorry, Wally, you’re stuck with your man bag, mate!

The trip of a lifetime

Have you ever considered travelling overseas? Like Wally, you know it takes a lot of planning. As an Australian, or, for that matter, as any person with a healthy bank account, you are aware that travelling overseas has many exciting moments — and risks. You will nod and say, ‘Yep, get your passport and injections up to date, check for any currency issues.’ Regardless, further advice will come from family, friends, and others who offer comments. The first negative advice is usually about pickpockets and dodgy RFID-scanning of your credit card. A good travel agent will pass on such information. These warnings apply to most travellers. Maybe not the Queen, the President of the USA, or multibillionaires.

But are you going on a holiday that has three- or four-star accommodation or tourist-class train travel? Are you travelling alone? Then add to the risks listed above: becoming innocently involved in drug smuggling, having your drinks spiked at a bar, and kidnapping. Yes, you read that correctly. In several countries, kidnapping is a routine criminal enterprise, often very successful, and the victims involved in these terrifying schemes rarely speak out after the ordeal is concluded via a sizeable financial transaction.

Wally Flannagan wasn’t a retired surgeon, a gold-medal winner, famous, or rich. Just your average older Australian. This trip to Indonesia was eating up a quarter of his savings.

He had planned this adventure for two years. There was no way anything would go wrong.

Sure, Wally …