Trading Places

1. The Huon Gulf - Papua New Guinea

Some pulled. Others pushed. The two seven-meter-long fiberglass dinghies, known locally as banana boats, edged away from the beach. They were turned to face into the swells. Bows rose above cresting waves. Sterns ground into swirling sand.

Assisted by one of the shirtless locals, a young Japanese woman straddled the transom of the dinghy on the left. There were no seats. Once in, she held the side for support, edged her way forward, and sat on a woven floormat toward the bow. The woman was followed by an elderly American and his wife. They both stumbled and stammered to a spot opposite the Japanese woman.

Two others lifted their legs and stepped into the awkward movement beneath them. More tourists clambered into the other banana boat alongside.

With the tour groups seated, knees at various angles and elbows locked onto the sides for support, the guide stepped up into the dinghy on the right. She stood at the back; legs bent to counter the movement. Helen was about forty with a generous physique. Vibrant eyes radiated a benevolent demeanour from her rounded Morobean facial features. Her hair jutted up above her head, curly and thick. Her faded green shorts sat loosely on her broad hips. Her floral Meri Blouse hung from her shoulders.

Helen shouted over the noise from the wind and waves, Please stay seated! The seas have become restless while we were at the waterfall. It will be very safe, but we will not have the smooth trip we experienced this morning. It looks like you are about to get a free roller-coaster ride as part of the tour. But do not worry. Our drivers are very experienced. They will ensure you are safe on your trip back to Lae. Oh, and thank you for choosing this tour.

Helen squatted. She sat on a red plastic fuel container.

The elderly American in the dinghy to her right called across. No. Thank you, Helen. That walk was something else. You sure have a beautiful country. It is pristine.

Helen’s dinghy dropped off a wave and crunched into the sand beneath it. The fiberglass hull shuddered under the force. The people on board groaned. A younger man on Helen’s boat called from under the brim of a large straw hat. In a nasally Australian accent, he called across to the American, Ha! It looks like the ocean is not very pristine. That crunch just about busted the bones in me bum!

Helen replied to the Australian man, only three ahead of her, Sorry Bruce. It will not be this bumpy once we get away from the beach.

She sounded assured. Look, the boys have pushed us off. We will be out from the shore-break in a few moments.

Several of the village men were shirtless: waist-deep alongside each of the dinghies. As new waves washed in under the hulls, the men pulled or pushed. The thud of the boats on sand was replaced by smoother but more pronounced up and down movements. The men in the water maneuvered the dinghies away from the white surges of the shore-break. They kept each boat faced into the waves.

With the dinghies off the sand, two other men clambered over the backs of the boats. Each stood beside an outboard.

Both boats had a grey Yamaha bolted to their stern. The motor on the yellow-trimmed dinghy to the left was a fifty-horsepower. The one on the red-trimmed boat was a seventy.

Propellers were lowered into the water. Fuel lines were primed. Starter ropes pulled.

The ropes were pulled again.

The fifty-horsepower engine burst into life. It shook and rattled on its mountings. Blue smoke billowed up from the water around it.

The man at the seventy-horsepower pulled again. And again.

The fifty-horsepower motor had settled and idled patiently. Occasionally it gurgled as the exhaust lifted out of a trough between the waves.

The man on the red boat pulled his rope again. The motor stuttered. Despite its reluctance to start, when it did, the engine sounded deeper and throatier than its less powerful companion.

With both outboards idling inconspicuously, their drivers smiled at each other. The man on the red boat had a slim build. He was average height. His broad angular nose suggested he had grown up in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea. He wore a green shirt and black boardshorts. The driver on the yellow boat wore a red shirt. He was similar in height to his companion but was stockier in appearance. He had a Newcastle Knights cap pressed firmly onto his head. His rounded facial features suggested he was more likely a local.

The men in the water gave a coordinated shove and pushed the boats further away from the shore. As the locals headed back to the beach, they waved. Passengers on both dinghies thanked them for their help.

Helen called out to the villagers, Thank you boys! See you next week Thursday. I will bring another tour group.

She was met with calls of No worries, Boss Meri. and Safe Trip.

The drivers clunked their motors into the forward gear. Their boats nudged through the swells. The movement made their up and down motion more obvious, but the passengers could feel it was now much smoother. The driver in the red shirt steered his boat in alongside the red trimmed dinghy. The two drivers were close enough to touch fingers. The man in the green shirt smiled. He said to the man beside him, Safe trip bro.

The man in the red shirt put his free hand up under the brim of his cap and saluted. He said, Safety tru. It is what Boss Meri expects. But the sea has an angry spirit this afternoon. It will be an interesting journey.

The driver in the green shirt nodded. His eyes were alive. He said, We will need to journey along the peaks and in the troughs if we are to keep our passengers from spewing up their traditional village lunch! He added, I bet you cannot get your passengers back to the Lae Yacht Club without them getting wet from the waves.

An arm came across. The men’s hands again joined above the narrow line of water between their boats. They shook. The man in the red shirt said. It is a bet. I am backing on tupela cold brown bottles of SP beer I ken get my passengers home much drier than yours!

Ha! The man in the green shirt said, Make it three brown bottles. I will add another one because, not only ken I get my tourists back more drier than yours, I ken get them back first!

The man in the red shirt was defensive, You mean a race? But you have a Seventy. I only have a Fifty!

The green shirt countered the challenge, But bro. I have more tourist on board, and there are fat meris in my dinghy. You only have the fat American guy. So, despite our different engines, I have the disadvantage, especially in these conditions. It will take all my skill to keep this banana boat high on the waves. In these swells, it will be up to our driving skills, not the power of our motors.

The man in the red shirt smiled. He shook hands again. Okay, Mister Kenney. I will meet you at the bar. I will drink my three brown bottles while I wait for you. I hope you get back in time to pay the bills!

The man in the green shirt laughed. Ah Mister Danny, you are a fine friend, but you are gamin if you think you ken win a race from here to Lae. Especially in the rough oceans we got this arvienoon.

Helen had overheard the conversation. She said to her brother and his friend as they stood above her, Don’t do anything silly and endanger the lives of my guests!

Kenny Danny laughed. Sorry tru, Boss Meri. We always drive safe!

You better. I need my guests to write good reviews about this tour.

Without warning, the throttles on the tillers of both motors were twisted. White water vortexed behind the dinghies. Both bows lifted and dropped into the trough beyond the wave they were on. In both boats, passengers fell onto and across each other. Each boat climbed the next hill of water. Passengers were forced toward the back of their boats. Some tumbled around on the floor. Some rolled. Heads clashed. Hips pressed against hips.

The boats fell over their wave into the deep hollow beyond. Passengers were flung forward. More heads clashed. Different hips jammed against other hips. With each exaggerated movement, passengers groaned. Some braced for the next thrashing, but in the hollow before the next large wave, the drivers turned their dinghies.

Side on to the movement, the jarring ceased. The boats sped up. Now with the red trimmed dinghy fifty metres ahead, the tour boats followed one another and climbed the facing sides of the swells. They disappeared from each other’s view as they free fell down the trailing edge of the surging surface.

The driver in the yellow-trimmed boat locked his knees and pressed his feet into the floorboards. He used the tiller as his support. The breeze cut at his face and stung his eyes. He looked ahead across the waves. As the red-trimmed boat rose back into view, he saw its driver had taken a similar stance. One hand gripped the tiller to maintain control. The other was up above his head. When the driver in front knew he was being watched, he lowered his arm like he was starting a Grand Prix.

The race began.

2. Jacksons Airport - Papua New Guinea

Shane McNemus stood back from the conveyor. Passengers milled in front of him. Some lunged at passing handles. Others remained inanimate. Occasionally, a person stepped forward, checked a luggage tag, then stepped back. To most of the recently arrived travelers, it seemed like every bag except their own had been around the belt several times. Shane watched the behavior of those who waited. He had seen it before. It was part of a ritual which played out in airport Arrivals Halls around the world.

A woman stood beside Shane. She leaned languidly on her empty luggage cart. She mumbled to herself. It seemed like she was in the middle of a soliloquist argument. From time to time, she shook her head. She clenched her fists repeatedly, as if she squeezed at stress balls.

Shane asked, Are you okay, Miss?

The introspection beside him stopped. The woman turned and looked. Her lips did not seem to move, but she said, Yes. Then she added, What business is it of yours, even if I was not?

Shane shrugged, Ah, none I suppose, but I always make it a habit to look out for fellow passengers should they need assistance, especially at the end of a long international flight.

The woman smirked, Huh, I flew in from Cairns. It only took about an hour. She went back into herself.

The woman, most likely his age, was shorter than Shane, but Shane was unusually tall. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied behind her head. Her grey adventure-style top suggested she was an outdoor type. The image was enhanced by the khaki cuffed shorts which sat just above her knees. She wore white socks and grey leather hiking boots. Her thighs and calves were firm. The skin on her legs shone through a less-than-subtle Caucasian tan. Shane perceived the woman beside him to be an active person, albeit a somewhat preoccupied one. Shane thought she was attractive, but it was unlikely he would ever tell her that.

The luggage on the belt continued to amble around. Knowing the woman beside him had just flown in from Cairns made Shane feel a little less apprehensive. He had arrived from Singapore. While he had waited in the passport processing queue, Shane met a man who had recently arrived from Manila. So, it was possible his plane was last to the gates, and his suitcase was still being offloaded to join others already on Conveyor Belt 2.

The woman beside him stopped mumbling. She looked up. She said to Shane, Your accent? What is it? Are you English?

Pleased with the progress in idle chit-chat, Shane said, Scottish.

There was no reply. The woman returned to herself. She checked her Customs Declaration card. She knew it was accurate. She inspected her nails. She knew they were in order.

She then said, without looking up, My husband was Scottish. Well, his grandparents are Scottish. I suppose his father is too.

Shane said, Oh, your husband was Scottish? I am sorry for your loss.

The woman looked up. Her eyes were a distinctive, almost fiery hazel. They drilled into Shane. No, she snapped. The man is not dead. He is just not my husband anymore. We have separated.

As fingers pushed back through his recently trimmed black hair, Shane regretted the connection he had sought out with the passenger beside him. He checked the conveyor belt. Still no floppy blue duffel bag. Without thinking, he said to the woman, Oh, so you have been through a marriage break-up. I hope it didn’t get ugly.

She snapped again. My husband was not ugly! He was gorgeous. Turned out other women found him too good to resist, and, she added, He found them too much of a temptation. How would you like to come home and find your man in bed with another woman? Not once. I forgave him for that. Nor twice. It was the third time I cracked.

Shane said, It would be very unlikely I would come home to find a man in my bed.

The woman said, Huh? She did not wait for an explanation. She stepped forward to the conveyor, reached out, and grabbed for her bag.

Without turning, she walked off toward the customs declaration checkpoint. Her shorts fitted snugly and accentuated the sway of her hips. The muscles in her calves tensed as she stepped away.

Shane smiled. She was beautiful. But her husband left her for others? The brief encounter he just had with the woman gave him more than a hint as to why the marriage failed.

Shane McNemus watched the cargo belt. Gradually the congregation of newly arrived luggage dissipated. The line of bags went from many to a few. It went from a few to one. A blue duffel bag, the same as his own. But he knew by the pink coloured lock at the end of the main zip runner, it was not his. He slumped. He checked his baggage ticket. He hoped his bag had been transferred at Heathrow, and Changi.

Shane had never experienced lost airline-luggage. He was not sure what to do. He started by taking the last bag down off the rubber conveyer belt. Even though he knew it was not his, he checked the tag strapped to a handle. Of course, the code was not the same as the one on his baggage ticket. He went to drop the bag to the floor when the name below the code caught his attention.

He looked at it. He was confused.

S Mc NEMUS.

Maybe it was his bag?

But the pink lock? Maybe a baggage handler found it and put it on there?

But why? How?

When?

The baggage code was different. Maybe the baggage ID had been changed in London or Singapore.

He was confused. He mumbled to himself, It looks like my bag. No, it doesn’t. It is in too good a condition. My bag is much more knocked around. Isn’t it? But my name is on it.

Not sure what to do, Shane lifted the bag and proceeded out of the Arrivals Hall.

He had nothing to declare.

3. Marina Bay - Singapore

A mid-afternoon haze streamed through the panoramic glass panels at the front of the Lobby Bar. The glare obscured the normally magnificent view across the lagoon to the Marina Bay Sands Hotel. It created silhouettes of Jackey’s guests as he stood behind the bar and wiped dry a batch of machine-cleaned glasses.

Despite the intensity of the sun’s rays, one customer’s silhouette struck a familiar outline against the backlight. It was a shape Jackey knew well; the enormous Papua New Guinean, Tobias Ogame.

Like previous visits, Ogame had ordered Tiger beer. One for himself and one for the silhouette with him. Jackey assumed the second man was a business partner. Ogame was not a regular patron, but he did drink at the Lobby Bar whenever he was in Singapore. Each time Jackey had served this guest, he was taken by him.

Ogame was huge. As on previous occasions, his rounded head was shaved. His sideburns were still bushy. His cheeks bulged over the series of creases and shadows of his glistening brown chin rolls. His lips were still an orange-pink colour. His teeth were jagged and stained yellowish red. When seated, he looked uncomfortable behind his enormous midriff and oversized white business shirt. Today, a red tie hung loosely in the collar around his elephant-trunk of a neck. As was often the case, his enormous hands rested on the ballooning rounded body-shelf of a stomach which bulged above his submerged trouser belt. And, as usual, an unfinished glass of beer sat between left and right fingers, balanced and stable on his belly.

The man with Ogame, was much thinner. The outline of his hairstyle cut a shadow against the window light. It indicated to Jackey the man was Asian. While Ogame looked at ease, the man with him leaned forward in his chair, suit coat unbuttoned. His forearms rested on his knees. His silhouetted pose suggested he was deep in conversation with Ogame.

He was.

Ogame paused the discussion. It gave him a chance to raise his right arm. He held up two fingers and shouted toward the bar, Jackey! Two more Tiger beers, and some more nuts!

Ogame pushed forward, which pressured his restricted upper body. He reached to the table, dragged his fingers across the base of a crystal bowl, scooped up the last of the peanuts and transferred them to his mouth.

Cheeks bulging, Ogame chewed. He swilled the final mouthful from the glass in his hand. He placed the empty glass on the low tabletop. It came down with a thud. After he had swallowed, he spoke to the person opposite.

My good man. I like the way you have thought this project through. In recent years I have begun to deal with Indonesians. It has proved to be fruitful. Perhaps it is your people’s cunning and ingenuity. Maybe, with so many of you seeking success, the cream of the crop has come to the top.

Thank you for the compliment, Tobias. From your kind words can I infer you are willing to do business?

Jackey delivered the beers and a fresh bowl of peanuts. Ogame took up his new glass and swallowed half its contents. He placed the glass on the table. He dug at the new bowl of nuts. He said, Abhijat, let me just say I am interested.

Abhijat leaned in, enthusiasm more than secrecy. He said, almost in a whisper, Sir. It is a well-thought-out operation. And once the arrangements are in place it cannot fail. I am sure, through this proposal, you and I can do business, good business, for many years to come.

Ogame grunted. Ha. I was told my last two ventures could not fail, and both went bargarap.

Abhijat countered him. But Tobias, on both occasions it was bad luck, not bad management which brought the demise of your operations. How were you to know the Swedish girl you called the Dancing Queen would attract some love-sick Australian determined to be her knight in shining armour. And as for dear Carlos, taken by a crocodile in the swamps near the Fly River? Who could have predicted that?

Ogame was pensive, Ah dear friend, it is the things we cannot predict which must be managed well, if we are to have success with a proposal like the one you have on the table.

Abhijat took a sip from his glass. He was not accustomed to drinking beer. It was against his religion. But in the interests of making this deal, he pressed the back of his tongue into the bitterness and swallowed.

He took a breath. He felt confident. He reiterated the plan. Tobias, for years the Australians have interfered with my business. The politicians down there have won elections by stopping my boats, at my expense. But with this proposal, not even Australian Border Force will get in the way. You have my word. There are many clients who will pay big money to get into Australia, if I can guarantee they do not end up with a lifetime sentence to some offshore detention centre. With the increased patrols and the inhumane detention processing which go on to our south, my ability to sell places on one of my boats has been severely restricted.

Abhijat tried not to show his dislike as he sipped at the beer in the glass. He swallowed quickly. He said, Tobias. My ongoing trials using legal immigrants are identifying several locations in the north of Australia within easy access for a vessel which crosses the Coral Sea.

Ogame smiled. Yes, I have read your reports. I am sure you will settle on the best location. With my assistance, maybe there is a way to assure your clients safe passage, and better still, assure them safe delivery for their organizations?

Abhijat nodded.

He smiled and asked, So, Tobias, we have a deal? You will assist me to provide business-class service for my wealthiest clients? Together we can begin trading places?

Ogame queried the Indonesian, Trading places?

Abhijat maintained his smile. Weeks of negotiations seemed to have paid off. His capacity to fulfil contracts for wealthy clients of the International Movement for Cohesive Disunity was about to become viable. He said, proudly, Yes Tobias, with your assistance, our cashed-up patrons will soon trade a cramped backroom in an inner-Jakarta apartment block for spacious and luxurious high-rise living in Sydney, Brisbane, or the Gold Coast.

Ogame frowned.

Abhijat stiffened. He needed no further impediment. As far as he was concerned the deal had been done. These pleasantries over the foul-tasting alcoholic drink were merely a ritual. Weren’t they?

Ogame looked into Abhijat’s eyes. So, you have vetted these clients of yours? I am happy to make money out of less than scrupulous activities, but I would not like my name to be associated with ventures of ill repute. I am not agreeing to be part of an operation which might smuggle terrorists in under the Australians’ noses. Am I?

Abhijat smiled. He said, Dear Tobias, you are right to questions such things. After all, many terrorist movements around the world have made it so much more complicated for hardworking individuals like us to make a genuine living.

Abhijat paused. He smiled again. He said, I will answer your question this way. The interests of my clients, beyond wanting safe passage from Indonesia, is none of my business. I am offering them a way into Australia, for a fee. What the clients, or the organizations they represent do, once the client gets there is not my business, or for that matter, of concern to you.

Ogame sighed. He devoured the last of his beer. He sighed again. With the hint of a smile, he said, Abhijat, you are right. If our passengers can pay their way and are prepared to make the journey with us, then anything else is not to be considered.

Abhijat smiled again, So, I can commence trading those places?

Ogame asked, You are sure the passengers can pay up front?

Yes Tobias. And as well as when the operation is complete. Money is not an issue for our customers.

Ogame held out his hand. The Indonesian took it. Ogame smiled. He said, Money is always an issue for me.

The men shook.

4. Victor Harbour - South Australia

Stuart had been impressed. Saundra had remained stoic.

The Deputy Chief Officer of the South Australian Country Fire Service had attended Stuart’s retirement function. Stuart had not expected such a dignitary to be there. Saundra did. She believed for years Stuart was the most talented member of the brigade. She had urged him many times to seek promotion. She told everyone her husband’s talents deserved better than a rank-and-file role at the Victor Harbor Station. She considered those who were promoted over him not as worthy of such highly paid positions while Stuart was available. It had been an ongoing tension between wife and husband.

Stuart had been content with his shift work, the comradery of his crewmates, and the certainty of personal time for fishing between shifts. He knew the stresses and additional commitments of an administrative role. He also had no interest in relocating to Adelaide to gain a promotion full of responsibility and little extra take-home pay. Saundra had dismissed such pressure as collateral, worth enduring, if Stuart could be a senior officer in the service. For Saundra it was more a matter of prestige than monetary reward.

The function had been a