Last Rites

It has been a crappy week.
We went over to Liz’s place last Wednesday to find husband Wayne grey and wounded. A decent, decent fellow with a nine-month-old daughter suddenly widowed in the most tragic and public of circumstances.
Situation worsened by the fact that until Sunday there was no official confirmation of the identities of several of the most damaged remains which had been subjected to two hours in an aviation-fueled inferno. Then there’s the unasked question hovering about the periphery about whether our friends suffered, whether they were still conscious, pinned into their business-class seats by the force of the impact as the fire tore through the aircraft.
My understanding is that several survivors indicated the foreigners in the front of the plane was critically injured and likely not aware of the evacuation going on behind their heads. A small blessing.
We brought Wayne a few memories and laughs. Recalled how hard it was for Liz to lay off the wine at the New Years 2005 dinner (the photo above) we had together just weeks after learning she was pregnant; Liz sounding off at (cowering) Indonesian police for kicking ABC Australia’s satellite rig in the minutes after the Embassy 2003 bombing; Liz telling Wayne how she planned to attend an embassy planning meeting at “not say a thing”, a pledge she was incapable of keeping under any circumstances.
Knee-high Lucy is the spitting image of her mother, bold, anxious to walk unaided, unafraid of adults; a zero-maintenance baby that provide itself hours of amusement. By the weekend visitors detected a shift. She is searching women’s faces, squirmy and crying long and loud for no apparent reason.
Sunday there was a drinks memorial for Australian Financial Review correspondent Morgan Mellish at the unofficial Jakarta Foreign Correspondents Club (JFCC) press club, the same Indo-Thai restaurant where I proposed to Jihan etc. The last time I saw him was at the bar’s 10th anniversary two weeks earlier, one of the best nights out we’ve had in a long time. Mohitos and ales flowing, plenty food and good music. All in the best of humor, unnatural couplings (and subsequent horror!) the order of the night; table dancing, the staff fully part of the celebrations. Think we poured ourselves through the gate at 430 a.m.
The memorial was pretty laid back event, not nearly as maudlin as these things can be. Several journo friends have flown in from Australia, Singapore and elsewhere to cover the story. There is sense of community that one only ever feels at these all-too-frequent events, the commemoration of an untimely and unexpected death. Quite a number of embassy staff also attended so for a brief while the walls were down.
Morgan’s mum Dawn and sister Caroline were there. The family set up a blog for the occasion (http://www.morganmellish.blogspot.com) that contains dozens of photos of Morgan that really tell you a story.
A clear-eyed Dawn told me she felt that his time had come. There were at least three opportunities for Morgan to avoid being on the doomed plane, she said. I understand he got a ticket from Liz on Flight GA-200 at the very last minute, neglecting to mention to his traveling companion on another airline that they wouldn’t be flying together.
She said her son dreamed of three things: working for the AFR, working as a foreign correspondent, and winning a Walkley Award (Australian journalism gong) all of which he’d accomplished. I don’t know what her demeanor was like when alone, but she struck me as a most extraordinary woman.
Liz, Morgan ad the bodies of three other Australians who died in the crash were flown out of Yogyakarta aboard an Australian Air Force C-130 yesterday, for a ceremony Wednesday in Canberra.