Expatriates (15 page)

“When all is said and done, Civilizations do not fall because of the barbarians at the gates. Nor does a great city fall from the death wish of bored and morally bankrupt stewards presumably sworn to its defense. Civilizations fall only because each citizen of the city comes to accept that nothing can be done to rally and rebuild broken walls; that ground lost may never be recovered.”

—Bill Whittle, “The Undefended City”

O
n four more occasions, they spotted the lights of small boats in the distance. After determining their courses, they would steer away and bring the engine to full throttle. This brought
Tiburon
up to twelve knots, which was a respectable speed. It wouldn't outrun many boats, but it could outrun some.

They assumed that Palau was already in the hands of the Indonesians, so they avoided making landfall there. Far on the westward horizon, they could see smoke rising from fires in East Timor. Apparently the Indonesians were mopping up the last of the resistance there.

Rhiannon was suffering less often from seasickness, but the frequent bouts of diarrhea had taken their toll. She started their voyage weighing 135 pounds, but she was down to around 120 pounds—they had no way to be sure. Peter had never seen her look so slim, even when they had first met.

Not wanting to attract a lot of attention from customs and immigration officials—since neither Joseph nor his grandfather had passports—they set their course toward Wyndham, a small town 275 kilometers southwest of Darwin.

As Peter was piloting, Tatang Navarro sat next to the wheel. “I don't want us to get deported. You know, we can wait and come in at night to drop you off, and then I can take
Tiburon
back out into deep water and scuttle her if we have to,” Tatang suggested.

Jeffords shook his head, and said reassuringly, “I really doubt that will be necessary. Just pray that we'll be well received by the immigration authorities.”

Their fuel was running low. The good news was that, after burning most of
Tiburon
's fuel and after having consumed nearly all their drinking water, the boat was now five thousand pounds lighter than when they left Samar and sitting much higher in the water. They were now making ten knots at three-quarter throttle instead of the seven to eight knots that they had averaged for the first half of the voyage. It had been thirty-two days since they left Quinapondan.

Tatang left Peter at the wheel while he went to repack his gear. He first snatched his laundry off the clothesline and then went below. There, he disassembled his M1 Garand rifle and wrapped the three components in his spare blue jeans, tucking them in his large duffel bag along with the flare gun and all of the remaining .30-06 ammunition and the flares. He had Joseph stow his Ruger .22, ammo, and magazines in a similar way.

As Tatang took the wheel again, he said to Peter, “Joey and I just hid the guns in our luggage. I sure hope we don't have to go through any customs
tae ng bull
.”

Jeffords shook his head. “Probably not. That's one reason we picked such a small port.”

Rhiannon cleared the rest of the clothes from the line and started to spruce up the boat. The realization that they would soon be under public gaze spurred her to do some long-neglected cleaning—even scrubbing the spot on the foredeck where Joseph usually cleaned the fish.

As they entered the bay, Rhiannon poured the very last of the palm oil and the last quart of corn oil into the main fuel tank. It looked less than a quarter full. She said resignedly, “After this, that's all she wrote.” They also had less than one gallon of water and enough food to last perhaps two more days—just a few dried fish and a couple of cups of dried rice that was starting to go green. The propane for their cookstove had run out two days before.

Commenting on their scant fuel and food, Peter said, “Is that cutting it close, or what? Thank you, Lord!” Looking at the chart and comparing it to the GPS readings, Joseph said, “We should be at the port of Wyndham in less than two hours, Lord willing.”

Tatang throttled back to five knots and they picked their way into the inland waters. The waterway was broad and sheltered, but unfamiliar. They consulted the chart, GPS, and depth finder frequently as they worked their way toward the Cambridge Gulf, and then south along to Wyndham. Much of the shoreline was flanked with mud flats and salt ponds. The portions of the shore with vegetation were dotted with oddly shaped boab trees.

“How's the fuel, exactly?” Tatang asked.

Rhiannon uncapped the tank and lowered the bamboo dipstick with practiced precision. Pulling it up, it showed less than an inch of coconut oil clinging to the end. She said, “Not a lot—maybe three or four gallons—but we don't have far to go now. If for some reason we have to divert to Darwin, there is no way we could make it there without refueling. It's all or nothing now.”

Peter Jeffords attributed the timing of the food, fuel, and water supplies to Divine Providence. During the last few hours of their journey, he and Rhiannon hummed and sang the church chorus
Jehovah Jireh
several times. Tatang and Joseph weren't familiar with it, so they taught them the words:

“Jehovah Jireh, my provider,

His grace is sufficient for me

For me, for me.

Jehovah Jireh, my provider,

His grace is sufficient for me.

“The Lord shall provide all my needs

According to His riches in Glory,

The Lord shall provide Himself a lamb for sacrifice,

Jehovah Jireh takes care of me

Of me, of me.”

Peter generally liked older Baptist hymns, preferring them to most modern praise choruses. He found the latter largely vain and repetitious. As he often put it, “Most praise choruses have a shortage of good doctrine and a surplus of personal pronouns.” But “Jehovah Jireh”
was one chorus that he
did
like, and he couldn't get it out of his mind in the last few hours of their voyage.

Finally, the sleepy port of Wyndham came into view. The town had less than seven hundred residents and most of them lived inland in the new development of Wyndham East—also known as Wyndham Three Mile—rather than in Old Wyndham. As they pulled up to the town's looping commercial pier, it was just after three
P.M.
local time. The elevated pier had a paved roadway with several cranes dotted along it and a fuel terminal tower at the south end. There was an empty barge tied up at the center of the pier. Just two yachts were tied up, both at the north end. Nine others—small coastal yachts—were anchored offshore, strung out to the south. Jeffords assumed that their owners were using free anchorage. A row of pallets with shining zinc ingots stood near the center of the pier, being readied for shipment.

The sight of their large distinctive outrigger boat caused a bit of a stir. Tatang expertly maneuvered
Tiburon
to nose her into the pier, just beyond the prow of one of the yachts. Because of the projecting carags, the boat was limited to docking at either the fore or aft.

As Joseph tossed up a mooring line, an aboriginal man on the pier shouted to them, “Where have you lot come from?”

“Samar Island, in the Philippines,” Peter replied. “There's a world of Muslim jihad hurt going on up there.”

“Yeah, so we've heard. You must be a Yank.”

Peter answered. “Yes, I'm from New Hampshire. My wife is originally from Western Canada. We're missionaries.”

Another man from the crowd asked, “Is it true the Indonesians are invading the Philippines?”

“I haven't seen that firsthand, but they are definitely using the ILF guerillas as their surrogates. One thing is for certain: The ILF guerillas are killing every Christian they can find in the Philippines.”

The crowd was growing on the north end of the pier, gawking at
Tiburon
and listening attentively. About half of them were aboriginal dockworkers and fuel terminal workers.

Peter announced to the crowd, “I'm here to warn you, folks. In less than a year, or perhaps less than that, you can expect to see the Indonesian Navy in these waters, planning an invasion.” This sparked a loud murmur in the crowd.

Peter and Rhiannon felt nervous to have the crowd gazing at them, but their anxiety was overshadowed by immense relief to be in port and among English-speaking people. At last they were safe.

“Never forget, even for an instant, that the one and only reason anybody has for taking your gun away is to make you weaker than he is, so he can do something to you that you wouldn't let him do if you were equipped to prevent it. This goes for burglars, muggers, and rapists, and even more so for policemen, bureaucrats, and politicians.”

—Aaron Zelman and L. Neil Smith,
Hope
, 2001

P
eter and Joseph snugged up the mooring lines at the pier while Tatang shut down the engine. They began unloading the suitcases from
Tiburon
, carrying them up a ribbed aluminum gangway ramp, which had rollers at the end to adjust for the tide. A woman from the crowd stepped up to Rhiannon and said, “My name is Vivian and you're all welcome to stay at our house in Wyndham East while you get things sorted out.”

“God bless you, ma'am,” Rhiannon replied.

They were told that the pier was primarily used for exports of live cattle, cattle hides, lead, and zinc. The barge nearby was laden with zinc ingots nominally bound for South Korea, but the shipment was delayed by the international financial turmoil. The pier operator offered them three nights of free anchorage at the pier or indefinite free anchorage amid the larger group of yachts farther out, where a skiff would be required to reach them. Tatang opted for the latter.

After they had unloaded the baggage and their two GPS receivers, they borrowed a skiff from the harbormaster and anchored
Tiburon
using a permanent buoy at the fore end and a concrete anchor at the aft.

With the engine still hot, Tatang gingerly removed the Mitsubishi engine's fuel pump and wrapped it in rags and then a pair of bread bags. The pump went into his duffel bag. He told Jeffords, “Nobody is starting her motor without this.”

Vivian soon had them and their bags loaded in her Toyota Estima minivan. Rhiannon was impressed with how quickly and with such wordless economy of motion the woman attached the baggage to the car's roof rack with bungee cords. She looked like she had a lot of experience doing it. Her full name, she said, was Vivian Edwards. Her husband, Alvis Edwards, was a broker in both salt and exotic hardwoods.

In just a few minutes, they were at Vivian's home in Wyndham East. It was a large house and one of the few in town that had a swimming pool. The great room was lined with taxidermied trophy heads from three continents—mostly from Africa. A childless couple, the Edwards' passion was big game hunting. Vivian told them that they had taken many hunting trips to Africa, Canada, the United States, and even Argentina. The floor was mostly covered with tanned hides of everything from bears to zebras. The backs of the couches were draped with gazelle hides. Joseph spent a long time examining the trophy mounts. Neither he nor the Jeffords had ever seen a private trophy mount collection of such magnitude before and they were fascinated. Tatang observed that it was like walking into a museum. To Rhiannon, it was reminiscent of the living room of the house near Bella Coola where she had grown up, though her old house had a much smaller number of deer, elk, and caribou mounts.

Vivian phoned her husband to summon him home early from work. Alvis arrived a half hour later, eagerly looking forward to meeting his new house guests and hearing about their voyage.

For dinner, Alvis barbequed some large kudu steaks. The steaks had been in their freezer since before the Crunch from their most recent safari in Botswana, sent by air freight to Australia packed in dry ice at considerable expense. After several years of big game hunting abroad, Alvis learned a way—through a friendly local veterinarian—to get around Australia's labyrinthine quarantine laws. Hides and horns were not particularly difficult, but importing frozen meat required including some key phrases in the paperwork and one additional form.

Over the steaks, Alvis commented, “I get a laugh when I hear tourists say they ‘went on safari' but all they took were pictures. A camera safari is not a
real
safari.”

They were all served water with dinner. Sarah asked for milk, but since the Edwards didn't keep any in their refrigerator, she received a small glass of cream. “We do drink a
little
wine from time to time, but we are careful,” Vivian explained. “You know what the Good Book says. ‘Wine is a mocker.' It often takes us three or even four dinners for the two of us to use up one bottle.”

Both Alvis and Vivian had their speech peppered with foreign words and turns of phrase that they'd picked up on their many overseas hunting trips. For example, they used the Afrikaans word
braai
instead of “barbeque,” the Shona word
chirairo
for “dinner,” and the Swahili words
karibu
for “welcome” and
samahani
to say “excuse me.”

Most of the afternoon and evening was spent with Peter Jeffords providing a detailed account of their journey. The Edwards listened with rapt attention. Their many questions kept Peter so occupied that he was last to finish eating his meal.

After dinner, Sarah was invited to open up the old steamer trunk that served as a toy box. The Edwards kept the box on hand to entertain their nieces and nephews when they came to visit. The toys kept Sarah busy and quiet while Peter and Rhiannon carried on with their tales of adventure. They moved to the living room, where Vivian served coffee and lamingtons—a chocolate-covered cube of sponge cake rolled in dried coconut.

When Peter got to the part of their tale where they had their first shooting encounter with the Indonesians, Alvis couldn't help but interject.

“What were you shooting with?” he asked.

“Tatang's rifle, an M1 Garand. It's an American service rifle that shoots the big .30-06 cartridge,” Peter replied.

“Oh, you don't have to explain what an M1 is to me. I used to own one of them, made by International Harvester, it was. But I had to turn it in back in 1996, along with all of my other semiautomatics and pumps after the Port Arthur shootings. That was one of the most heartbreaking days of my life. I turned in five guns for the smelter. That ban is still a very sore point with me. I've switched to all bolt actions, double guns, and few single shots.”

Alvis cleared his throat and continued, “I was already cheesed off by the ban, and now that I hear that the Indos may be coming to invade us, I'm even angrier. All of our citizenry's really
effective
guns have been melted down and turned into jaff irons. Those do-gooder socialist Labor dimwits in Canberra have set us up to take a shellacking.”

After a pause, Alvis looked at Tatang. “Do you still have that rifle with you, or did you drop it into the drink before you came into port?”

Tatang laughed and pointed to their pile of luggage in the front hall. “No, sir. That rifle, she is disassembled there in my duffel bag. Am I gonna get arrested for that?” he asked with a wry smile.

Alvis shook his head. “Those were banned for many years, but that ban was just repealed. However, I don't know precisely what the legalities are for someone who isn't a citizen. You'd best keep very quiet about it.” Then he leaned forward and in an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper said, “Our lips are sealed.”

“What about getting entry visas?” Rhiannon asked. “Tatang and Joseph don't have passports. Can you make any recommendations?”

“No worries at all,” Alvis answered. “My brother-in-law is with the post office—they handle passports around here and he knows all the Border Protection Service people. Rest assured that I'll have him dummy up your Department of Foreign Affairs or BPS paperwork and also put in a good word for you with the Department of Immigration and Citizenship. After what you've been through, you certainly don't deserve any bureaucratic aggro. You've got a strong case for claiming religious persecution.”

“Yes, I suppose that those thousands of summary decapitations
might
qualify as a form of persecution,” Rhiannon said drily.

When Peter mentioned that Tatang had been teaching them Pekiti-Tirsia Kali, Alvis interrupted Peter. “Can you show me a bit of that, here and now?”

“Well, we barely have our land legs, but I'm willing. How about you, Paul Timbancaya?”

Tatang half shouted, “Sure!”

They quickly moved a coffee table out from between the couches, and the two men demonstrated strikes and parries. Then, using two rolled-up
SAFARI
magazines, they demonstrated knife fighting and disarming techniques. The last one ended with Tatang twisting Peter's arm and driving him down to the floor with an elbow strike. Peter lay on a sable hide gasping, while Tatang simulated slitting his throat with three slashes of the coiled magazine. Everyone cheered and clapped.

Alvis stood up and exclaimed, “That was a corker! Could we pay you to teach us lessons as well?”

Tatang frowned and then gave a hesitant nod. “I suppose so.”

Their conversation went on until ten
P.M.
An hour earlier, Sarah had already curled up on the couch with a stuffed wallaby from the toy trunk—a
real
taxidermied wallaby—and fallen asleep.