Felix Nesi is a writer from West Timor, Indonesia who has won several literary awards in Indonesia. He writes poetry, short stories, novels, stage scripts, and film scripts. His novel, People of Oetimu, has been translated into English and German. He is also the director of a short film he wrote, titled Salute to the Pigs.

“There’s a war, meneer. The road is blocked, explosions everywhere!”

Firmus raised his arms and spoke promptly. In front of him, two white men wearing camouflage were aiming their weapons at him – one a pistol and the other a rifle – and barking in a language he didn’t understand. The man with the rifle approached Firmus, motioning with the barrel of his gun to tell Firmus to get off the truck. Firmus complied, arms still raised.

“Are you concealing any weapons?” the man asked in his language.

“Ceiling?” Firmus asked in return. “You mean stealing? No, sir, we’re not stealing. We’re delivering sandalwood and sopi for Meneer Jan Nieboer.”

Looking behind him, Firmus could no longer see his companions who were supposed to be watching the cargo. But he couldn’t really blame them for running off, as he was beginning to panic himself.

The four of them had driven hundreds of kilometers towards Kupang, carrying sopi for a Dutch official and sandalwood to be shipped to Jakarta. But the droning of planes and the booms of explosives made them stop in Oenaek. They hid the truck among the trees of a rocky hill, and from the black crags they watched planes circle the sky, dropping bombs and paratroopers.

“If the Dutch lose, then our future is lost.”

Firmus heard his boss Am Kolo say something like that once. The Dutch controlled Am Kolo’s business. They were the ones who arranged his sandalwood sales, and they even got him a Chevrolet truck to speed up the deliveries.

But Am Kolo’s wife, Ain Iba, never liked the Dutch.

“Our lives would be better off without them,” she would say, “To them, we're no different than the truck, just tools to be used. We’re the ones working day and night, but the profit goes into their pockets.”

Firmus agreed with Ain Iba, for the most part. He was the one who made the deliveries, after all, so he knew well enough how large of a profit the Dutch made. At the same time, he couldn’t see how the war could change things for the better. War or not, their lives were awful. He wondered why the Dutch and the Japanese didn’t just make peace and split their territories like the Dutch did with the Portuguese, instead of blowing up everything that moved – be they friends, foes, or the frogs caught in a fight between the bull and the buffalo.

On the third day, when the droning and the booms had stopped, Firmus drove the truck out of the trees. He decided to return to Kefamenanu.

“There’s no way the meneers survived the bombings,” he said to his companions, “If we continue to Kupang, we’ll only see bones and rubble.”

Exhausted, he took the sandalwood back to Kefamenanu, hoping Am Kolo could find a buyer among the Portuguese. Two hours into their journey, the two soldiers emerged from the bushes and his companions ran off without him. He was alone, arms raised, and struggling to control his fear.

One of the soldiers approached Firmus, frisked him, and inspected the truck. “No weapons, Captain,” he said to the soldier with the pistol.

The one called Captain looked into the truck bed.

“I’m delivering sandalwood and sopi, sir,” Firmus tried to explain, “From Am Kolo to resident Jan Nieboer. Do you know Am Kolo? What about Jan Nieboer? You know sopi? For drinking? Sandalwood? Kefamenanu?” Firmus pointed to the west and the east, spouting any word he could think of, hoping that one could save him.

As he pointed to the east, Captain did the same. “Dili?” asked Captain.

“Dili? Dili is farther away. I’m going to Kefamenanu, not Dili,” Firmus answered.

“Dili,” Captain pointed east, confusion on his face.

Firmus also pointed east, “Yes, Dili is that way. But it’s farther-”

“Yes, Dili,” Captain answered as if he understood, and kept pointing east, “Dili!” Firmus sighed. It was useless to argue with an armed foreigner, he thought. “Okay, Dili,” he answered, defeated.

Captain looked pleased. He signaled with his hand and five more men wearing camouflage appeared. Weapons and other equipment dangled from their uniforms. One of them walked with a limp and had two others helping him. Firmus noticed dried blood and mud on the bandage wrapped around his thigh.

Two soldiers climbed onto the back of the truck and tossed out half of the sandalwood to make room for themselves. Firmus could do nothing but bite his lip as he watched the bags of sandalwood roll into the brush.

Once the soldiers made enough room and climbed on, Captain made Firmus get behind the wheel. Captain took the passenger seat, pistol still in hand.

“Dili,” said Captain.

Firmus turned the ignition and stepped on the gas. “Dili.”

+++

Firmus had worked for Am Kolo for seven years. He was his trusted employee and often dealt with the Dutch buyers, so he knew how they talked. He realized immediately that these soldiers were not Dutch. They smelled similar to the Dutch – like the stench of a different breed of goat – but they didn’t speak their language. The Dutch spoke like they constantly had a cold, as if they were trying to spit out words while clearing phlegm from their throats.

Captain sat next to Firmus and never let go of his pistol; his eyes were open twenty-four hours a day. The sandy road was riddled with potholes, and the injured soldier moaned in pain every time they ran over one. Three times Captain asked Firmus to stop the truck. They shared their rations, Firmus uncorked a carboy of sopi and poured everyone a glass.

Before sunset the following day, they entered Kefamenanu. Firmus drove towards Am Kolo’s home. As they reached the gates, Captain looked at him.

“Dili?”

“Boss,” Firmus answered, pointing at the house.

Captain expected this boss to be Dutch, but instead it was Am Kolo, a small Timorese man who walked with a limp, along with his wife who was slightly taller than him.

“Sparrow Force? Dutch allies? Aha! I fought for the Dutch once,” Am Kolo said in stilted English, “Royal Netherlands East Indies Army! First Lieutenant of the Cavalry. I was shot in Bali – haven’t held a gun in over ten years.”

Captain responded with a salute and Am Kolo made small talk about their journey and the weather. Ain Iba smiled at Captain before turning her attention to the soldiers getting off the truck bed. Then she looked at Firmus.

“Did you sell some of the sandalwood?” she asked.

“They threw it out,” Firmus replied. He could tell she didn’t like his answer. “We’ll stop for a while and continue on to Dili,” said Captain to Am Kolo.

“But your men are wounded,” Am Kolo said, “You must rest. Has the battle against the Japanese started?”

Captain nodded.

“We were surrounded in Oesao,” Captain explained, “Reinforcements from Australia and the U.S. never came. Commander Leggatt surrendered… that coward. Bastard only thought to save his own skin. We might be the only ones who made it out. Our best course of action is to keep going east and help the Independent Company in Dili.”

“That is quite the journey,” Am Kolo said, “Please, at least let my wife tend to the injured.” “There’s no time,” Captain asserted, “We can rest on the road. We’ll be fine.”

Ain Iba put her hand on Am Kolo’s arm.

“You can’t leave now,” she said, “Our people need to get more fuel.”

Captain looked at Am Kolo, who nodded even though he knew they had plenty of fuel in storage. Captain then looked at Firmus, who also nodded even though he didn’t understand a word they just said.

“Fine, we leave first thing tomorrow,” Captain informed his men. “Mlolkit fafi!” Am Kolo commanded Firmus.

Captain stared at Am Kolo questioningly.

“I just told him to kill one of our pigs,” Am Kolo explained, “We are having brenebon soup tonight. I’ll make sure you boys leave by sunup.”

+++

At eight o’clock that evening, Am Kolo began serving his guests. Their faces had been neatly shaved, and they were wearing clean dress shirts. The injured one had a boyish look to him, perhaps no older than twenty. Ain Iba had changed his bandages, and though his lips were pale from blood loss, his hair was slick and shiny.

Firmus was tasked to pour the sopi.

“Make sure our guests are nice and drunk,” Ain Iba said, “They’ve had a rough week.”

Firmus stood behind Am Kolo, occasionally walking around the room to fill up any empty glasses.

“It’s been some time since we had such a feast,” said one of the soldiers.

“It’s been some time since we had guests,” Am Kolo responded.

The guests and the hosts ate and drank as they pleased, and they were drunk not long after. Slurring his words, Captain expressed his gratitude and introduced his men.

He and three of his men came from Tasmania, they were part of the 2/40th Battalion of the Australian Army. The other three, including the injured one, were British soldiers they had met during their escape. The plan was for the British, Australian, and Dutch armies to intercept the Japanese in Timor, while the Americans attacked from the Pacific. But it seemed that the Japanese had anticipated this. Captain couldn’t believe how many Japanese soldiers were suddenly on the island – parachuting from the skies and landing on the shorelines.

“Why don’t you just fight them in Australia?” Ain Iba asked. Captain said he didn’t understand the question.

“Pardon my naivete,” said Ain Iba, “But would it not be easier to fight the Japanese in Australia? You would outnumber them, have access to better equipment, and be familiar with the terrain. You… I mean, we would all win. Japan would lose the battle before they could even land, no need for you to go all the way to Timor, no Timorese people would have to die needlessly for some foreigners’ war, and no sandalwood would have to be thrown over a damn cliff.”

“But, ma’am, if Japan takes over Timor,” argued Captain, “Even more Timorese people would die, and it would be easier for Japan to attack Australia. We would all lose.”

Ain Iba was about to speak when Am Kolo interrupted her, “Of course, you are right, Captain. Please, excuse my wife. She is a woman, she knows nothing of war.”

The men laughed. Ain Iba’s face reddened, even though she never touched the alcohol.

“Damn foreigners, how dare you bring your war to a land that doesn’t belong to you?” Ain Iba mumbled in Uab Metô.

Though the soldiers didn’t understand her, they could sense her hostile tone, and the room fell silent.

“What did you just say?” Captain asked.

Ain Iba inhaled and smiled politely.

“My husband is right,” she said, “I know nothing of war. I am sorry for my outburst, and at dinner no less.”

Captain stared silently at Ain Iba’s face, then he chuckled.

“No need to apologize,” he said, “You’re a good host. You know, my wife doesn’t understand this war either. Women… they’re just too sensitive.”

The room broke out in laughter. Ain Iba shrugged, called Firmus over and asked him to fill up the empty glasses with sopi. She picked up a glass and raised it.

“A toast, then, to our victory,” she said and downed her drink.

Everyone raised their glasses, and the room bustled once more. Everybody had something to say. Captain tried to explain the importance of saving Timor from the Japanese, but his drunkenness caused him to digress and complain about his wife back home who was emotional like Ain Iba and knew nothing of war.

Ain Iba listened and as soon as Captain paused, she proposed another toast. Her laughter and her many toasts made the soldiers drink more and more. It had been a long time since they were cheered on by a respectable woman at a feast, and it was the first time they had alcohol aged with spices. Am Kolo, hunched like a shrimp over the table, drank along with his guests.

As the Captain stopped talking and his eyelids drooped over his eyes, Ain Iba rose and walked towards Firmus.

“Get two of our strongest,” she said, “Sanlain and Meni… Actually, get Neno too.”

Firmus thought they needed the strong men to carry the drunken guests to their quarters. But as they came, Ain Iba whispered, “Lock the doors and hand me the klewang. These dogs had the audacity to throw away my sandalwood and then expect me to care about their war.”

The Japanese invasion of Timor killed 151 Australian soldiers, about 300 Dutch soldiers, 75 Portuguese soldiers, 4.000 Japanese soldiers, and at least 100.000 Timorese civilians. Ain Iba, Am Kolo, and all their workers were arrested by the Japanese government in April 1943.

What happened next was a massacre that Firmus couldn’t remember too well – or rather, one that he chose to forget. Ain Iba stabbed the neck of a soldier that was sitting in the corner, but the injured one, who was not as drunk as the rest, yelled to warn the others. In their drunken stupor, they tried to defend themselves.

Firmus remembered wrestling Captain. The bastard was as strong as a horse even when drunk. Firmus fell to the ground and Captain strangled him. He was about ready to die when he faintly saw Ain Iba, looming behind Captain before finally slitting his throat. He could hear Am Kolo’s voice, weak and drowning in alcohol, “Iba… Iba, what have you done to our guests?”

Captain’s blood spilled into Firmus’ mouth, thick and rancid, like the blood of the pig he killed for dinner. Captain would never arrive in Dili.

Nadhif Seto Sanubari is a Jakarta-born translator. In 2021, he moved to Iowa City, enrolling in the University of Iowa to pursue a master’s degree in literary translation. During his time in Iowa, he collaborated with author Felix Nesi as part of Felix’s residency in the university’s International Writing Program. Nadhif translated several of Danarto’s short stories as part of his final thesis project. He graduated as a Master of Fine Arts in 2023.

Translator’s Note

As a writer who is deeply in touch with his culture and his people, Felix Nesi's love and passion for his home often bleeds into his work. He had noticed that stories about Timor are nearly unheard of in the Indonesian literary scene, drowned out among the many tales of Java and Jakarta. Felix has taken it upon himself to bring these less heard voices into the wider world and it has been nothing but a privilege for me to assist Felix in this admirable goal.
His 2019 novel Orang-Orang Oetimu, for example, depicts the lives and hardships of the people of a fictional Timorese village, without shying away from darker topics such as the very real violence prevalent throughout the island. All this, of course, without losing his satirical wit and humor in writing. Captain Wants to Go to Dili is one of these stories, a story about the Timorese people, though it takes several steps back in time and drops us into the tail end of the Dutch colonization of Indonesia, just as the Japanese arrived to take the reins.
Keeping with his preference to shed light on parts of colonialization that live on the fringes of Indonesian citizens and worldwide attention, Felix writes about the presence of Australia during the Battle of Timor. If the war stories of the Timorese are drowned out by tales of the Javanese, then the history of the Timor-Australian relations are buried even deeper beneath the perceived significance of Timor’s struggle against the Dutch and the Japanese. The story takes the perspective of a Timorese everyman, a truck driver delivering goods for his employer, while the titular Captain was part of Sparrow Force, which mostly consisted of 2/40th Australian Infantry Battalion troops. Though the island of cTimor now holds a memorial to the Sparrow Force for their courage and sacrifice during the 3-day long battle in Oesao against the Japanese, it is easy to forget the conflict that happened between the Timor natives and the army that came to fight on their land. Captain Wants to Go to Dili exemplifies a brutally close examination of this historical event, warts and all, showing the strife full of violence and misunderstandings.