Next Wednesday marks the 20th anniversary of the first Bali bombings which claimed the lives of 202 people, including 88 Australians.
The Australian Government will host a memorial service at Parliament House in Canberra
While a commemorative ceremony will also be held at the Australian Consulate General in Bali. In these excerpts from his book Bali Heaven and Hell, Noosa Today’s PHIL JARRATT describes the mayhem and horror of that tragic night.
Saturday, 12 October, 2002
Wayan Agus Parwita, 23, a recent graduate of Bali Polytechnic’s diploma course in tourism and hotel management, had a spring in his step as he walked the short distance from his sparse rented room to the Coral Reef restaurant to begin his afternoon shift at 3pm.
It was a warm afternoon but the intense humidity of the approaching wet season had not yet fully kicked in, and, considering he was deep in the concrete jungle of modern Kuta and could not see much of the sky, Wayan only imagined that the day looked bright and full of promise. Although it wasn’t really what he’d studied for, he liked his job at the Coral Reef, which was why he’d been there for almost a year and now oversaw the whole front-of-house operation. A year back he’d merely been filling in time waiting for his results, but he’d come to like the team at the Coral Reef, he had a good relationship with his Japanese boss and he was learning a lot.
Although the family compound was only half an hour away in Cepaka, just inland from the beaches of Canggu, working long shifts at the Coral Reef meant he didn’t get to see his parents and younger brother, Made, as often as he liked. And frankly, the tiny rented room, hemmed in by noisy nightclubs, didn’t have a lot of appeal. Tonight, however, they had a private function at the Coral Reef – a Japanese wedding – and chances were he’d get an early finish, grab some sleep and be able to head home to Cepaka early in the morning.
When he got to the restaurant and started laying tables, his work-mate Kadek had an even better idea. “There’s a wayang kulit puppet show at Pererenan late tonight. Why don’t we ride down there after work?” Cepaka was no more than a five-minute motorbike ride from Pererenan. Wayan could sleep in his own bed. It was agreed.
The wedding party arrived from the Ritz-Carlton Hotel on time and the guests were rowdy and ready to move out to somewhere more exciting by 10pm. At 10.30pm the restaurant was empty, the last of the guests weaving in the direction of the Sari Club, a couple of hundred metres up the lane. Although he’d never been inside it, Wayan knew it was way too early for that place, but you couldn’t give a drunken Japanese any advice. He and Kadek had the place ready for lockup by 10.45pm. He contemplated going back to his room and grabbing a few things, but what the hell, he’d be back in Kuta the next afternoon.
The two young Balinese men walked to their motorcycles parked in the small bay around the back, revved their engines and took off northbound for Pererenan. As he negotiated the bike around the Saturday night revellers on busy Jalan Legian, Wayan thought what a lucky break the Japanese wedding had been. Normally he wouldn’t be finishing up and walking home past the Sari until well after 11pm.
It was just after 11.05pm when Wayan and Kadek pulled up alongside each other at the traffic lights at Lio Square, Kerobokan. At this rate, they’d easily be in Pererenan for the start of the show at 11.30pm. Suddenly Wayan heard a loud bang, like a clap of thunder. “We’d better go fast or we’ll get wet,” he shouted to Kadek. They looked up at the sky and saw nothing but stars. Wayan shrugged, the light changed to green and they roared into the night.
Charter boat skipper Tony “Doris” Eltherington had had a huge Friday night, celebrating some Mexican sailor’s birthday. Six boats had rafted up together in the Benoa yacht harbour and it had gone on all night. He didn’t want to go anywhere, but the new girlfriend twisted his arm and they drove into the Kuta markets for dinner. Afterwards he sat morose in the passenger seat while his girl drove the obligatory Saturday night lap around the hotspots.
They parked illegally and briefly caught up with some friends, drinking beers at a roadside bar. It was on at the Sari Club later on, the friends were saying, everyone would be there. Doris knew that was true; half the surfers in town were at the opening of the Mambo store just down the road, and the Sari would be their after-party. So that would be another reason to avoid it. Doris drained his Bintang and coaxed the girl back into the car. They edged their way through the traffic and headed for Benoa.
Doris had barely closed his eyes when a massive impact to the side of the boat knocked him out of bed. The veteran skipper wrapped a sarong around his waist and stormed up on deck, his girl following. He mouthed a curse in silent disbelief as he surveyed the bright red sky above Kuta, just four kilometres away across the mangroves. The girl clutched his arm and buried her face into his shoulder.
“My god, what is it?”
Doris bent low and plucked a cigarette and lighter from one of his on-deck stashes. He lit it and inhaled deeply. “It’s Hiroshima, babe, that’s what it freaking is.”
The Sari Club was just starting to warm up when Melbourne gaming attendants Shelley Campbell, 26, Amber O’Donnell, 27 and Belinda Allen, 23, strolled in just before 11pm. The “old hand” of the trio, having visited Bali a few times now, Shelley was in control of the evening. She took a quick look around the half-full club and told Belinda they were heading across the street to Paddy’s Pub. Amber had her own plans. Shelley had heard from a friend that AFL stars Mick Martyn and Jason McCartney had just arrived in town and were drinking in one place or the other. She had met the handsome McCartney before and was determined to find the footballers.
On their way out of the Sari, Belinda had to make a toilet stop. Slightly impatient with her friend, Shelley paced up and down outside the cubicles. An explosion shook the building and flung Shelley and another girl against a concrete wall. The Sari Club continued to shake.
“What the hell was that?” said the second girl.
“It must be an earthquake,” Shelley whispered, choking with concrete dust.
As they lay on the bathroom floor, trying to pick themselves up, a second blast blew out a concrete wall, releasing a searing hot wind. From the rubble, Shelley could make out flames behind it. They stood out in the chaotic darkness. A girl staggered out of a cubicle. It wasn’t Belinda. Shelley craned her neck around. She could make out Belinda’s distinctive white sandals beneath a pile of rubble. She wasn’t moving.
Summoning all her strength, Shelley crawled across the floor and tried to lift the toilet door off her friend. She couldn’t do it. She started screaming Belinda’s name and was still screaming when two young men shook her and said: “You have to get out.”
North Melbourne team mates Mick Martyn and Jason McCartney had arrived in Bali that afternoon for an end of season holiday, enjoyed a few beers by the pool at the Hard Rock Hotel, grabbed some dinner and headed for Paddy’s to start the serious end of the party program. They had been at the bar for two rounds when a small Javanese man walked through the pub and stopped at the DJ stand, not far from the end of the bar the footballers were using. He paused momentarily, then reached across his chest and pulled a lever to ignite the vest bomb he was wearing.
The impact knocked McCartney to the ground and when he tried to open his eyes he had no sight. Next to him on the ground, Martyn was quicker to pick himself up, but the first thing he saw was a fireball hurtling towards him. With fire burning most of his upper body, he had no time to notice that McCartney was also on fire. By the time he had his own situation under control, McCartney lay seriously burnt, his eyelids fused together.
Somehow Martyn got his friend’s burning shirt off him and got him to his feet. They started to move towards the exit but became separated in the chaos. Martyn found his friend stumbling on the road outside Paddy’s.
“Jas, it’s me. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
“How do I look, mate?”
“You’ve got a few burns.” McCartney had started to swell from internal burns and Martin feared for his life. “Mate, I’ve got to get you back to the hotel.”
McCartney nodded. Inside a minute Martyn, a big, forceful man, had commandeered a motor bike and driver. “Hang on, Jas, you’ll be right,” he reassured his friend. And to the driver: “Hard Rock Hotel. Now!”
Mick Martyn felt his head spinning. He looked around in the weird fiery light for someone to drive him to the hotel. The party was over and it had only just begun.
