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TAG MT 3: B3 Kisah Agen Perjalanan By Michael Winchester 22/1/2001 9:56 pm Mon |
TAG 003 (sambungan akhir) [Ramai terjebak dalam sindiket ini kerana itu sajalah nyawa untuk mengongkos hidup
yang semakin tertekan kini. Kegawatan ekonomi menyebabkan peluang yang ada sudah semakin
tertutup kerana telah disapu oleh pihak tertentu. Terpaksalah mereka mencari peluang di dalam
gelap untuk mencari rezeki. Sindiket penyeludupan menjanjikan pendapatan yang begitu lumayan walaupun risikonya amat
tinggi. Sudah banyak kali mereka dikesan sehingga terpaksa mengubah beberapa strategi.
Namun demikian, selagi ada pihak yang sanggup menerima, memang akan ada ada pihak yang
sanggup memberi. Ia berlaku di mana-mana, termasuk di bumi Malaysia sendiri. Ia adalah
sebahagian dari underground economy (ekonomi bawah-tanah) yang hidup akibat pemimpin yang
sudah tidak boleh diharapkan lagi. Kisah Agen Perjalanan Oleh: Michael Winchester Asiaweek; January 19, 2001 Vol. 27 No.2
(Bahagian 3)
Jakarta ialah sebuah bandaraya yang hingar-bangar. Inilah pusat industri penyeludupan
manusia yang besar. Kebesaran aktibi industri itu tertumpu kepada satu kawasan satu batu
persegi di sekeliling Jalan Jaksa. Satu ketika dulu, jalan ini merupakan satu jalan
yang sibuk sekali. Ia sungguh popular laksana Khaosan Road di Bangkok yang dianggap
sebagai taman firdausi kumpulan hippi. Di sini terdapat satu lorong sepanjang 500 meter
yang dipenuhi dengan rumah pelacuran murahan, restoren, bar, dan kafe internet. Semua ini
merupakan tumpuan kumpulan pelancong yang menggalas beg pakaian di belakang badannya.
Kini, dua tahun selepas Indonesia dihenyak himpitan ekonomi dan krisis politik, Jalan
Jaksa bertukar menjadi satu lorong yang dihuni oleh kumpulan pelacur murahan yang
mudah memaparkan wajah keletihan. Benny ialah seorang agen perjalanan yang bertauliah. Dia masih mampu menjual sekeping
tiket ke Bali ataupun Bangkok dengan harga yang murah. Tetapi, ketika menikmati Cola di
sebuah gerai, bekas professional yang berkacamata itu masih mampu bercerita mengenai
bisnesnya yang semakin tergugat. "Dua tahun yang lalu anda tidak mudah mendapat tempat
duduk di tempat ini. Hari ini?" dia menunjuk ke arah kerusi meja yang serba kosong.
"percayalah, 90% perniagaan ini sudah lama mati. Bukannya kami mengungkit hal keuntungan
lagi. Kami hanya mahu terus bernyawa." Dia terdiam sebelum menyambungnya semula. "Itu
sebabnya kami terpaksa melakukan kerja-kerja haram sekali-sekala."
Desas desus yang kenang bertiup di Jakarta mengatakan adanya satu sindiket yang teratur
dan berjaya yang diuruskan oleh seorang rakyat tempatan yang mempunyai hubungan baik
dengan kerajaan dan orang ini dikenali oleh para pelanggannya dengan panggilan 'Ahmad
Indonesia'. Dia pernah menguruskan satu pengiriman terbesar setakat ini dengan
menggunakan sebuah kapal yang sarat dengan penumpang seramai 352 orang kebanyakannya
orang Iraq yang mendarat di Ashmore Reef pada November 1999.
Rencana Asal: GOOD OLD DAYS Jakarta, chaotic, teeming, is the heart of the people trade. To the extent it's visible, the traffic is
concentrated in the square mile around Jalan Jaksa. In its heyday, the street was once Jakarta's
answer to Bangkok's hippy haven, Khaosan Road - a vibrant 500-meter-long stretch of guest
houses, restaurants, bars and Inter-net-cafes, the mecca of back-pack travellers. Today, two
years into Indonesia's economic and political crisis, it's a near-empty strip peopled by surly touts
and tired-looking hookers. Benny is a local "travel agent" - of the sort that once didn't require inverted commas. He can still
sell you a cut-price ticket to Bali or Bangkok. But sipping a Pepsi in a street-side bar, the
bespectacled former professional is surveying the ruins of his business. "Two years ago you couldn't
get a seat in this place. Now?" He gestures round at empty tables. "Believe me, 90% of the trade is
dead. We're not talking making a profit here. We're talking surviving." A pause, a shrug. "So
sometimes we do illegal business." Benny ran his first boat to Australia in early '97 on the Christmas Island route - his "speciality," he
says with a grin. The advantages are obvious: Christmas Is-land is Aussie territory, but it's closer
to Indonesia than to mainland Australia, and the fishing villages of south Java are handy. The
disadvantage is that Christmas Island is a very small dot on a large ocean, and if bad weather blows
you off course . . . . On the two-day run to Christmas Island, he and his crew of three carried 15 illegals - Iraqis
including, he recalls, a former atomic scientist, plus an Iranian lady doctor and three Afghans. It
wasn't long before they ran into trouble. "When we set out at night the water was calm, then on
the first day we ran into a storm. This was my first time at sea! These waves were big, I tell you I
was so scared, man, I was close to shitting myself. I wanted to turn back." Then the engine gave
out. "For two hours we didn't have any power, I thought hell we're all going to die."
Thanks to the experience of the captain, they did reach Christmas Island, where their boat was
im-pounded as a crime tool. Benny - now claiming to be ship's cook and speaking no English -
and the crew were separated from the asylum seekers and flown to Port Hedland in Western
Australia. There they spent three months detained in what for the fishermen amounted to hotel
accommodation. "The food was good and they brought us new videos every day. We'd go down to
the beach for a swim in the afternoon and one day they took us for a tour of the town," smiles
Benny. "These were really good people. When we left they gave us a party!"
Those were the days. As the numbers of boat people surged into the thousands, Australia has cut
back on the room service. Undocumented arrivals now face months of detention as their asylum
claims are processed, and Canberra is promising Indonesian fishermen caught ferrying them stiff
sentences - up to $150,000 in fines and 20 years in jail. But the boats keep coming, and it's not
difficult to see why. After the cost of purchasing a boat and paying off Indonesian police, one
vessel laden with 100 people can translate into a $100,000 profit. And, as Benny notes, "These
fishermen made more money on one trip for me than they could have in years of fishing."
The trade has shifted in favor of larger loads of people than fishing boats can accommodate.
Organizers are also diversifying points of departure from the usual Java and West Timor. Favored
now are Lombok, Bali and Flores. From there vessels hop eastwards to Roti Island, off West Timor,
and then embark on the 30-hour crossing to Australia's Ashmore Reef, located 600 km north of
the country's mainland. Sayed Omid shipped Bashir's group that way. From Jakarta they moved to
a hotel in Surabaya for two weeks. Then, having paid a further $1,000 to $2,000 per head, his
group was driven from Java to Lombok in a chartered bus. Finally, now 61-strong, they embarked
one night from a fishing village on the island's south coast. The ship ran into a storm south of Roti
and had to turn back. Betrayed to local police, they ended up in a camp in West Timor.
"IT'S GOING TO GET WORSE" Word on the street in Jakarta suggests that the best organised syndicate is run by a
well-connected, Arabic-speaking local with government contacts known to his clients as "Ahmed
the Indonesian." He organized what is believed to be the largest single shipment to date, a vessel
with 352 mostly Iraqis aboard that reached Ashmore Reef in November 1999. The trade in
Afghans, however, has been largely cornered by businessmen with connections in Pakistan. At the
center of the largest syndicate is a man we'll call "Akbar." A slightly built, almost frail man, he runs a
carpet shop in a Jakarta shopping mall. That's where I met him. "As many as 60% of the expatriates
who used to live here have now gone," Akbar sighs as he rolls out yet another rug for my
inspection. "Business has suffered badly."
No hint of it drops from Akbar's mouth, but sources say he has been more than compensated for
the collapse of the carpet trade by the imposition of Taliban rule in Afghanistan and the exodus of
minority Hazaras that triggered. From Pakistan, the road leads through Bangkok and K.L. to
Akbar's shop. Earlier this year, his side business had grown so large that Canberra noticed, and
leaned on Jakarta to take action. He had to go underground and sell part of his carpet shop to a
fellow Pakistani running a legitimate business. The down payment of $50,000 allowed Akbar, his
acquaintances say, to solve his problem with local authorities.
But it is Tareq, my friend at the bar and a sometime colleague of Akbar, who offers the best
perspective on the trade - and to Australia's attempts to stem it. I ring him cold - a cellphone
number, of course - from a Pakistani restaurant that knew him, and introduce myself as a friend of
a friend I met at a party in Lahore who'd suggested I look him up. Could we meet for a drink? Brief
pause, then agreement. We meet in a quiet bar near the Sarinah. I find myself talking to an urbane
40-year-old, articulate, intelligent, well-informed - diplomatic c##ktail-circuit material. We talked
local politics for a while, foreign investment, corruption, crime. Only then does he hit me with it:
Nice try with the friend-of-a-friend routine but no one in Lahore knows me as Tareq. That's a
name I use in Indonesia. So what's the game?
It's not yet time to panic. But if a man with serious criminal connections is not enjoying the
interview, we're moving into uncharted waters. Areas probably not covered by my travel insurance.
The syndicates are playing for big money and unlikely to be fussy about how they protect it. The
frequent sinkings show they have little regard for human life. But Tareq is stubbornly convinced
that he's dealing with an Australian spook checking him out. And that gives us both what we want.
He thinks he's got a direct line to raise a finger to authorities in Canberra who'd love to put him out
of business - and the satisfying illusion that the Aussie taxpayer is paying for his drinks. And I'm
happy since he's finally ready to give me a piece of his mind.
"Look," he says, relaxing again, "your people need to understand that in this country if you have
money you can do anything. Take Akbar: he got his 50,000, he solved his problem." Little wonder
he's not worried to be talking to an Australian agent. I digest this while he draws on his beer. "Plus,
do you know what they think of Australia round here?" I shrug. "I'll tell you: After Timor they don't
give a f-k about Australia's problems. I know people in the police and military delighted to see you
having to deal with this business." So much for Canberra's pleas for regional cooperation. Tareq
smiles and drains his glass: "So if your people in Australia think this is going to get better, they're
making a big mistake. My guess'd be it's going to get a lot worse." He gives me a parting
handshake: "Keep in touch." That's when I decided to use a pseudonym on this story. That way, I
live to tell the tale. |