What’s In The Basket?

Warrant Officer Class Two Dave Trill, 2nd Battalion, the Royal Australian Regiment, Timor

It was late October or early November 1999 and there where a steady trickle of Internationally Displaced People (IDPs) coming back to their home town of Balibo in East Timor from across the border where they were herded by the militia into Indonesia. I was sitting around at Fort Balibo not doing a lot, chatting to Corporal John “Gronk” Camiller who was the intelligence corporal for the 2nd Battalion, the Royal Australian Regiment (2RAR). We were both asked if we had enough time to supplement an armed escort party of two UNIMOGs (trucks) to the East Timor Indonesia border area to the south of Balibo. We headed off happy to alleviate some of the battalion headquarters boredom now that the routine was rolling along nicely. We were allocated a vehicle and established our positions in the back of the trucks with our weapons positioned for protection.

We arrived at the pick up point to find about 40 IDPs. They were all very happy to see the Australian soldiers, as well as the vehicles that would carry them and their worldly possessions back to Balibo. Before loading their “universe” onto the trucks, they performed their ritual of bowing, hand shaking and kissing our hands. One particular old bloke had been chewing on betel nut and was obviously fairly out of it; his charade of hand kissing and appreciation was a bit over the top. When he finally finished, Gronk and I looked at the backs of our hands and found a lather of saliva and dark red betel nut residue spread across our hands and shirt sleeves.

We finally got around to loading the UNIMOGs and Gronk had decided to co ordinate this. He was quickly corrected and pushed out of the way by the locals. Gronk’s idea had been ladies and kids then clothing… There would be none of that today. The men decided they would have the seats first (chivalry probably never existed in East Timor). From there they directed the women to start passing the possessions onto the truck, in a very specific order. First (after the men, of course) were the tightly rolled sheets of corrugated iron, which had been taken from the Balibo roof tops when they’d left. These were followed by the food, clothing, livestock, dogs, children and lastly – the women. And…God help the women if they stuffed it up. A roar of vernacular would come from the blokes and something was thrown from the truck at the woman responsible for getting the order wrong. There were times when Gronk and I had to step in if the blokes got over zealous. We gave them a stern warning that if there was any more of that they’d be on foot. This – strangely enough – they seemed to understand. Once we were finally loaded and settled down, we were on our way. Gronk was at the back of the truck covering the rear and I was at the front with my rifle resting on the truck cabin. Then the fun continued.

Gronk asked me if I could smell something dead or rotten. I could, but I had no idea what it was. He started opening cane baskets and searching to find what it was. Eventually he found the basket. All I saw was him contorting his face then dry retching out the back of the truck. I asked what it was. He stepped over all the crap in the back and moved to where I was. “Time to swap,” he said. I moved to the back and looked in the basket. There was an old pig’s head, fly blown and a strange shade of green, which had obviously been brought with them for food. I felt nauseous, almost instantaneously. I looked up to find Gronk laughing hysterically as I too dry retched over the tailgate of the truck. I could not stand the smell anymore so I threw the basket, complete with pig’s head off the truck. This sparked a commotion amongst the IDPs as to where their next meal would come from. We both assured them we’d get them food at Balibo, which we did.

Then a dog decided that the ride was not good for his travel sickness problem and he proceeded to vomit about a metre from where I was at the back of the truck. Again, I felt horribly nauseous, but this was multiplied when I looked down and saw that the dog’s previous meal had been a combination of rice and part of the pig’s head that I just dispatched from the rear of the truck. A woman who was breastfeeding had tried to lift her legs onto the UNIMOG’s bench seat to escape the effect of the dog vomit, but just then the truck hit a bump. She and her baby were lifted off the seat and she landed in the pile of vomit. Far from being disgusted, however, she broke into fits of laughter. The sight of her covered in regurgitated rice and rotten meat from the head of a pig was all I could take. It was time for me to move. I moved towards Gronk at the front of the truck and said, “Time to swap”. It was Gronk’s turn to feel crook again.

The last thing to happen before we arrived back into Balibo (after what seemed like an unusually long 10 km/h journey) was that the travel sick dog started frothing at the mouth. Recognising the signs and symptoms of rabies the locals on board became very alarmed. Women and children began screaming as the dog clambered around the back of the truck over their worldly belongings frothing at the mouth. Finally one of the men grabbed the dog and dispatched it over the side of the truck. Soon after it hit the ground the truck bounced as it ran over the dog. The vehicle made its way along the track and we could see the dog; it stiffened and rolled over – dead. Gronk was watching, aghast, from the back of the truck. Eventually he turned to me, still pointing in the direction of the dog, and said, “That’s supposed to be man’s best friend!” I laughed in amazement.

We finally got back to Balibo and unloaded. Gronk and I quickly went back up the short, steep entrance to Fort Balibo. It was then that he reminded me about what we were told at recruit training. “Never volunteer for anything!”

I couldn’t agree more.