It didn’t get more mercenary than this. On the horizon - 3 billion dollars worth of marine hardware; behind me - a gargantuan industrial complex that moved 9 billion dollars worth of product each year. I was cooking for the workers at one of the biggest coal ports in the world. Yeah coal. I was a chef agency knife for hire at that time and not so woke. The five-week gig - fifty hours a week on the tropical coast, with food and accommodation included - had looked real sweet. So I said yes.
But on arrival I found out that my working day consisted of just five hours – prepping and cooking for a single dinner service. It took one phone-call to establish that between the agency and the hotel, no-one really could say who, someone had told me a big porky pie. I politely told the hotel manager I was heading back to the airport. He threw up his hands and smiled. No problem - we’ll pay you for fifty hours even if you do twenty five he said. Nice one.
I soon found out that money was no object in the unreal world I’d landed in. The hotel was five minutes from the coal port and was fully booked – forever - with port workers, and they were all paid an extra two hundred bucks a day just for living expenses. So the nightly service consisted of a few dozen knackered men knocking back beer and spirits in the bar, then demolishing oysters, prawns, taters, salads and one, two – even three – eye filet steaks apiece. And dessert. Now sated, they’d go to bed. By eight o’clock the dining room was empty.
It was a piece of cake dealing with cases of prime filet and boxes of prawns, roasting bones for jus and cooking potatoes six ways til Sunday. I got my jollies making different salads, sauces and desserts. Prepping in the late afternoon, I looked out onto palm trees, green lawns and beach sunsets. Hibiscuses and frangipanis bloomed and a nearby wetland meant that the birdlife was amazing.
It was only when I actually walked down onto the foreshore and looked around that the huge scale of the port became apparent. On the horizon, in a massive armada of global commerce, giant bulk carrier ships awaited their black cargo. On the beach, with giant hammering noises, fabricating workshops made and repaired immense structures for the port. Above the wet-lands foliage loomed black pyramids of coal and immense conveyors that ran 24/7/365.
The loading terminal stuck out nearly two kms into the sea and a stone groin ended in a high-security base for pilot-boats. At night I could hear the deep rumble of their diesel engines as they went out to guide the bulkers in. The port projected an intensely serious vibe. It felt like the Death Star. As a major cog in the global economy it made things like sports stadiums, office towers and resort hotels all seem rather superfluous, soft and weak. This was the serious shit and it affected hundreds of millions, maybe billions, of people. The coal port was a major geo-political location; a valuable piece of the planet’s industrial real-estate.
In different circumstances I could imagine soldiers here, with tanks, helicopters and attack ships. There was probably a top-secret military plan for when those circumstances happened. I always had the feeling I was being watched whenever I wandered around. Maybe from space.
I wasn’t the only person making money off the workers. Hard-working ladies ran laundry services day and night. Younger women in tight clothes, lippy and eyeliner hung at the bar ready to trade some earthly pleasure for a hundred-dollar bill or two. There was a bloke who would turn up with a van full of the latest magazines for sale – the ones about 4WDs, boats and guns being the most popular. He also stocked socks, jocks, ear-plugs, sunglasses, razors, deodorant, shampoo and soap. There were some souped-up cars in the car-park at night and non-workers hanging in the bar too. Maybe certain recreational supplies were being sold and bought.
It was a strange place, seemingly detached, by coal and its money, from the rest of the world. I spent my mornings walking around a nearby and super-cute beach hamlet, and bird-watching in the vast wetland lagoons. I wasn’t drinking and at night after work, I’d go back to my accommodation – one half of a shipping container. The hotel had nowhere near enough rooms,so next to it was an acre of air-conditioned containers, many divided into two cabins. Each one was fitted-out with walls, floor, carpet, lights, fridge, basic kitchen, and bed. There were a couple of amenity blocks with showers, toilets and laundries.
In my steel lair I could watch TV or read from the stack of battered paperbacks I’d bought in the nearest town. This was pre-smart phones and I resolved myself to late-night TV rubbish and rationing of my books. Then the other chef came to my ‘rescue.’
Rod was in his early sixties, ex-army with no wife or kids. Recuperating from a knee operation, He did the ordering and one or two shifts a week while I did the rest. He was OK, just, but sported some incredibly old-school prejudices and beliefs. On my third day there I visited him in his full-size shipping container, where he’d lived for last five years. It was his long-term home, decked-out with Balinese furniture and paintings; Asian rugs and knick-knacks, and a giant TV screen complete with surround sound speakers. On the walls hung replica firearms and framed photos of 22 years life in the army. Over the next few weeks I heard quite a bit about his military life.
Rod had also collected several thousand DVDs, and unsurprising, most of them were war-themed. Concerned I might get bored after work, he pressed upon me a spare DVD player, RCA leads and the first of many tall stacks of war movies and documentaries for me to watch. Man, I never knew there were so many battles. I watched The Battle of This and Battle of That and soon it all began to blur into a series of explosions, stubbled jaws clamped on cigars and crackly radio commands. Some battles went to three discs!
As I returned these slices of combat heaven, Rod would seriously quiz me on each theater of war, battle and skirmish I’d watched. Scarcely acknowledging my uneducated, shell-shocked replies, he’d launch into exhaustive dissertations of the tactics, fighting men and weapons portrayed in each DVD. He also had many theories and ideas about current affairs and potential flash-points. Harping on about its proximity and imperial ambitions, Rod worried about Indonesia the most.
One day, barely keeping up with all things military – past, present and future – I asked him what he thought the plan for the coal port here was.
“What plan?” Rod looked puzzled.
“Y’know . . . when they invade.”
His eyebrows shot up in shock.
“This is one of the very first places they’ll come to,” I continued. “I reckon at least two paratroop battalions with armored fighting vehicles, maybe a tank or two. Para-drops of mortars, recoilless rifles and RPGs, plus marines in littoral fast-boats assaulting the beach. Helicopter gunships and ground-attack planes providing air support of course.”
Rod reeled and spluttered. “Here?”
“Yeah, of course - a major coal port is a prime target.”
The absolute strategic rightness of it nearly floored him. Red-faced, he looked around as though the door was about to be blown in.
I couldn’t help myself.
“You better brush up on your nasi goreng Chef. And get the bar to order in Bintang. Lots of Bintang.”