Hell in Paradise

We did all we set out to do, singing the evening into the night. Marc played all his old favourites, from Tom Petty’s ‘It’s Good to be King’ and Buddy Holly’s ‘Peggy Sue’ (because it annoys me). Marc sat on the terrace with the green guitar on his lap, the mozzie coil winding a wisp of smoke around his ankles. He was wearing the orange shorts (again) and one of his favourite t-shirts, sipping on a large Bintang.

“Bintang!” He tried a poor imitation of a Balinese accent as he held up his beer in a salute to us all before taking a swig (he sounded more like Speedy Gonzales). Bobby cackled as he wandered up to join us, reading Marc’s shirt out loud:
“Your village called, they want their idiot back…nice.” He nodded his head with a smile, swigging on his own Bintang.
Marc glanced at me with a cheeky smile as he started to sing:
“Oh Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, pretty, pretty, pretty, Peggy Sue ...”
“Rah! I hate this song!” I protested, laughing, before singing along. Next, as Marc started to sing our song I closed my eyes and listened to his beautiful voice.
“Sail away with me honey, I put my heart in your hands, Sail away with me honey, now ...” I still loved to hear that song, especially hearing it this time. I was dreaming of the fresh start we were set to make in Australia, now that we’d grown together through our hard times.

I wasn’t originally going to go out. Bobby and the boys had decided they were getting up at 5am for an early Sunday surf sesh at Canggu, and I committed to the early start, but Mel and Marc were so keen to party, being Saturday night n’ all. I went into our room and closed the swing-doors, considering my choices. It made sense to leave them to it and get an early night … however, it was only a few days ago I’d said how I would love to have a girlfriend to party with. I rifled through my bag and picked out some funky suede shorts with tassels down the sides that had been my birthday present from Marc, pulling on a black singlet my sister Mellie had sent from Italy, together making up my ‘Lara Croft’ outfit. When I pushed open the green doors dressed in my party gear both Mel and Marc cheered.
“Lara can do both! Why not dance and then surf too?” I joked. I swapped my hard boots for sandals because of the heat - which was lucky for Mel. I kept treading on her poor flip-flopped feet as we walked down the busy lane to the Sari Club. A group of children followed us, holding up their open palms with tired, wide, dark chocolate stares. I had long-since learned to ignore them. You give to one and ten more will follow you the whole way, calling out to you: “Please miss, one dollar...”

Mel wanted to go to Paddy’s but it was dead so we ended up at the Sari Club, of course. It was about 10:30 pm and I decided that I’d be out of there by 11 and tucked up in bed after a dance or two. A line of sellers bustled outside offering cigarettes, marijuana and jiggy-jig to all those entering and leaving the club. We wound our way past the bouncers in to the busy club, hanging by the bar as the dance floor filled up. Marc and I shared a jungle juice, which was so strong I couldn’t even drink it.

You never know quite what you’re getting with jungle juice. The mix is never the same and as arak is cheaper than orange juice, well, that’s just asking for trouble! I decided to do the familiar rounds, popping across the road to Paddy’s a couple of times looking for Blaine. Of course, then a song came on that I had to dance to and I dragged everybody onto the dance floor.

My memory is hazy. There was laughter and silly moves and cheesy tunes and ...just…general silliness. There was a group of very young, very pretty girls with their hair in tiny braids (a sure sign of it being their first trip to Bali). A pissed-up Aussie guy with no shirt and lots of mates cleared the dance floor to make way for a running jump onto his belly, sliding through the spilt beer to the whooping amusement of his mates. It was pretty funny but the floor was filthy. I thought he was lucky there was no broken glass on the ground. I looked around, remembering what Oka had told me, noticing that the only Balinese in there were working behind the bar. I couldn’t really relax into it, but I’ve always tried to make the most of every situation. I love the saying: “go hard, or go home.” My personal variation was “dance hard, don’t drink, then go home and get up for the early surf.”
I got into the groove, dancing to all sorts of cheesy shit, shaking our heads in mock embarrassment as we grooved to “I’m Too Sexy”. The Sari, at the very least, is a place where you just dance as if no one is watching. As I lost myself in the groove, I recalled years of Bali trips between Paddy’s and the Sari.
“Do you believe in life after love,” started to play; a song Marc particularly hated, as he couldn’t stand Cher’s electronic voice. He raised his eyebrows at me as it came on, and indicated his jungle juice was getting low, shaking the bottle.
“Sorry guys, I have some pride!” he laughed as he walked off, disappearing into the crowd.
“See you in a bit!” I chirped and turned to face Mel. It was my Bali song, but of course Marc didn’t know that. When that song first came out I was eighteen years old and out at Paddy’s on my first solo trip. I’d recently experienced my first break-up back in Australia, so I’d danced harder than ever to that tune when it came on. Whenever it played, in whatever country I happened to be in, it always took me straight back to that filthy, steamy dance floor in Bali, under the flashing lights, watching Cher on the big screen. They played it every night in those bars. I always chuckled at how the music lineup would never change each night: the same stuck record in both bars. You could hear ‘Land Down Under’ downstairs at Paddy’s and wander straight across the road to Sari only to hear it again. By the time you’d had a dance and wandered back to Paddy’s to see who you could find, it’d be playing again, upstairs this time.

From the speakers, ‘Murder on the Dance Floor’ started to play. I looked around, wondering where Marc was, as we loved to play up to that song. I couldn’t see him, but instead two drunk and creepy young guys sidled up to Mel and I. We tried the subtle brush-off manoeuvres, but they didn’t work, and neither did the turned back, or even the elbow in the ribs. I was thinking how ironic the song was, as I wanted to kill these guys! Rather than resorting to stomping on their toes, I danced Mel away to the back of the dance floor, further from Marc who was watching us from the sunken bar at the front of the club. We now danced in the corner of the L-shaped bar which spanned two sides of the dance floor. The Balinese guy behind the bar was swaying to the music as he served the next jungle juice with a smile.

We reveled in our new space with plenty of room to boogie. ‘Without Me’ came on. As we watched Eminem dressed as a superhero flashing on the big screens above the dance floor there was a loud bang over the music. It was not a familiar sound, but no one paid much attention until the electricity flashed off, and we stopped for a moment, glancing about as the music took a few seconds to come back on. I tried hard to place the sound. Was it a shotgun? Surely, not in Bali. Was it a party banger? A car back-firing? Maybe...must be, surely. A chill rippled up my spine. The air in the club shifted as if a wave had passed through. The lights flashed on and off. Something wasn’t right, but despite the uneasy feeling in my gut I took the decision to go and check it out when the song was finished. If anything was wrong there was no point in running straight into it, I thought.

That momentary decision was to save my life. Unbeknown to me, the inquisitive Marc wandered towards the door, jungle juice in hand.

The music started playing again, the screens flicked back on. On the chorus the beat was thick and Mel and I were getting low, bending our knees, wiggling our hips as we grinned at each other.
“Last song for me,” I muttered below the music, as I imagined the crystal sunrise waves at Canggu.

The noise which came next I will never forget. It was an empty sound that did not resonate. It was a thud, like the slam of a car door but multiplied to a volume I simply cannot describe.

The sound is all around, blasting through my ears, my body, my soul. It feels like someone has burst a hot air balloon on my face. My hair is streaming and my ears are screaming.

All the air in the club is sucked out, replaced with a gust of hot pressure, which picks up the dancers and the whole club like a dumping wave or an angry child throwing dolls and pencils with a frustrated shriek. I’m being hit by the biggest, most powerful wave I have ever known, except it is hot.
In slow motion I see the club around me explode, ribbons of fire tearing through poles and people flying through the air as my mind captures this moment in a three dimensional photo. As time slows I am picked up and suspended in mid-air, twisting to face down as I slam to the ground.

As everything hits the floor I find myself in eerie blackness. I lay amongst the rubble as I feel the roof collapsing around me, stopping close above my head. After the impact comes the silence, stretching out for an eternity as the music of the Sari Club stops forever. No one knows what has happened, and the living have not yet realised they can still scream.
And as I lie here I can feel the pressure of rubble on my back. Am I still alive? I think that this silence is the end, and that this simply must be my time. I feel a peace floating over me, and I can accept that what will be, will be.

But, oh no, all the things I want to do, but can never do, all my dreams, hopes…gone.

Another voice comes into my mind screaming a clear message: “NO!” As I snap from my daze, the voice speaks clearly: “What are you thinking? Get out of here, NOW!”
Right. If there is any way out of here I am going to find it. I try to move my aching body, and to my amazement it responds. I throw off the wood, tiles and whatever is covering me to crawl out on my belly. Thank God. In the darkness I can hear Mel’s voice close by.
“Hanabeth! Are you OK?”
“Yes! Are you?”
“Yes. Don’t panic, we’ll get out of here.”
Where is Marc? He’d been standing too far away to know now. We’re on our hands and knees with several others crawling under the collapsed roof, away from the amber glow at the front of the club. If we don’t move quickly we might be trampled as there are people moving behind us too, pushing in the darkness. A hot and putrid stench burns at my mouth and nostrils and thick smoke is gathering all around as we crawl, trapped under the rubble. I notice the ground is soft, and in horror realise that there are people under my feet, alive or dead I do not know, but I can’t stop. I kick off my sandals … I know that every split second counts. I can see the ominous amber glow growing from the front of the club. I know I’m very far from safety, and every sense is on overdrive as I feel my way through. We find a hole in the collapsed roof through which we can see the stars, and people immediately start to surge upwards onto the roof. I stretch my hands up the rubble to pull myself through, pushed from behind. Everything is hot to touch, like the stones of a fireplace. The part of my mind still stuck in the world of thirty seconds ago curses at the loss of a good pair of shoes.
“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll probably be able to come and pick them up tomorrow,” I think momentarily, just as another voice in my head screams: “What!! Fucking shoes, what about Marc?” It is like my brain has split in two as it struggles to comprehend this reality. My heart thuds as I think of Marc. There is no way back, but where is he?
“Marc!” I scream out loud, but no answer comes. Again I can hear Mel’s sweet reassuring tone:
“Don’t panic, keep calm.”
But the girl behind her screams: “Run! RUN!” I think that is a more appropriate approach right now.

I find myself on the thatch of the roof. Around me I see the fallen roof broken up into so many segments and different levels, trying to make sense between what I can see now and what was supposed to be here before. Everywhere I look I see patches of flames in the straw lighting up silhouettes of those coming out behind me...Where is Marc? No, I decide, it’s hopeless. To turn back will be death. Now is the time to run, now is the time to panic. My blood runs cold as I see that we are amongst the kindling of a massive bonfire, well on its way to catching alight. I can’t see Marc so I can only hope beyond hope that he is close behind, or is finding his own way out (of course he is).

I use both hands and feet to scramble up the roof like a monkey, moving as fast as I can as the adrenalin surges into my veins, jumping across gaps between the roofs. The fire is getting louder and the flames are starting to create a dull roar as they advance across (and under) the roof. I try to push through what seems like a window between tiers of the roof, but a man and I jam shoulders and as we both pull back to surge forwards, it happens again, yet neither can fit through unless we take our turn. We pause:
“After you,” I say.
“No, after you,” he pushes me through and follows. We jump down to the ground, safe and free. On second thoughts, no, we are not. As I look up my heart sinks and then rises to my dry mouth in fear. In front of me rises a towering wall, and I realise that we are still in the club. I don’t remember this wall. Where am I? My eyes scan up and down the tall, grey wall to see no steps, no way forwards, no way out. To my right are flickering flames and to my left a couple of guys are boosting girls up the wall. Should I ask for help? No (that voice again): I am able bodied, I’ll let them help others and themselves. There must be a way to do this by myself. Searching the darkness, the only light is the flickering, growing wall of flames behind me, casting my tiny shadow on the grey wall. The thick power lines that had been hung along the front of the club now lay severed and hanging down the wall. Could they be live? I hope not, but what is my alternative? Without hesitating I grab the rubber casing firmly and run up the wall, hauling myself about four metres up in seconds.
“Argh!” I yell as I rip some skin off my knee while pulling myself onto the top of the wall. It could be worse. The rough top of the brick wall is only four inches wide, and on the other side, far below there is nothing but rubble…it’s funny, I can’t remember there being a building site here. It’s a short distance to crawl along to where the flimsy framework of a roof remains, as long as I don’t look down. The roof is little stronger than a pile of matchsticks, so I choose my steps carefully as each hand and foot finds its place to manoeuvre slowly, following behind a Balinese man.

As I reach the other side, my heart sinks again as I am met by a large drop, the size of the one I’ve just climbed. I can see piles of debris; broken tiles, wood, shrapnel and glass littering the ground. People are down there staring up at us as we appear over the rooftop. One man yells out to me:
“I’ll catch you, you can jump!” (Bless him) I yell back for him to help others first, as I would probably just injure him if I land on him, anyway. I’m able bodied enough. I climb carefully down to the edge and ease myself down until I am hanging from my hands. I can only pray as I release my grip, dropping like a stone.

I feel the full impact of the drop, with my knees bent as I fall back on to my hands. I turn to look back over the roof I’ve climbed over. There aren’t many people coming over the same way; I think I must have been one of the first out of there. Maybe I can help others down, but my size and height make it seem pointless. I’ll just hurt myself. I scan the people on the roof, searching for Marc coming out behind me. Maybe he got out first? I run across the road, stopping in the middle, taking in the scene of fire and panic around me. The whole street seems to be in flames. The sound of a car horn stuck down makes an eerie background noise to the cries of human panic and suffering. I feel a huge rush of blood to my head as I remember this place. I’ve been here before, in the dream of four nights ago. This was the exact same scene. What has happened?

The gravity of what is occurring finally hits me as I see a body being dragged away from the flames by a Balinese man; it is the body of a young man, with only skin flapping where a skull used to be. My heart goes cold as I take in the orange shorts he is wearing. The blood rushes to my head and my heart thumps in my chest. But no, these are plain shorts and it is the body of a teenager. I see the pale skin and freckles, maybe European. They are orange boardshorts: not Marc’s, not Marc, yet still that image burns in my brain. I can’t see Marc around me so I run between the burning cars to try to get to the south side of the street towards the front of the club, and maybe back in to get Marc. If not, I want to get to Cempaka to see whether Marc has gone there, and to see Bobby and Blaine. The flames are thick, so I brace myself to try to run along the narrow blackened pavement, between burning buildings and cars. As I run forwards I can see several blood splattered bodies on the pavement to my right. There is someone moving in the orange glow of the flames. I crouch down to see a young male, alive.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, as I crouch down and grab his hand. “Can you move?” I shout above the roar of the flames and the chaos.
“No, I can’t,” he replies in an Aussie accent. He can’t be more than eighteen years old. I glance up at the flames ripping from the car only a few feet away. I try to haul him up, but he is much bigger than me. I have to shout: “Look, I don’t give a damn if your legs are broken, you have to get up now otherwise you’re not going to make it! I can’t carry you but I’ll help you all I can.” Thank God, he is trying to get to his feet. It’s all I need, so I use his own momentum to pull him up, holding on to his left hand and locking it over my left shoulder. It’s wet, and as I look down I notice it is completely red, sodden with blood. I feel sick – I’m not good with blood at the best of times. I put my right arm round his waist, taking on as much of his weight as I can. When we are clear of the flames two men approach us to help the young man, freeing me from his weight. I immediately turn a full circle: Where is Marc? Where is he? I can’t stop so I just keep on running and searching. Finally I find Mel standing wide-eyed on the corner of the alleyway. We rush towards each other and embrace. Mel speaks first:
“I’m so glad you’re okay. Where’s Marc?”
“I don’t know Mel, I didn’t see him come out. I can’t find him.” I can hear the fear and thickness in my own words, and they scare me.
“It was a car bomb. They fucking bombed us,” Mel says.
“No way!” I reply firmly, shaking my head. There’s no way there could be a car bomb here. “It must have been an accident…” My words seem naïve, even stupid.
“Maybe it was a gas explosion?” I mutter. I cannot believe this is a human, deliberate action. Who would, who could, do this on purpose? We look back towards the club we were dancing in five minutes before. Red and orange flames stretch up high above the roofs, eating into the blackness. Suddenly it dawns on me, and my internal organs feel like exploding from my body.
“Oh my God, there are people still in there. No-one’s coming out! Mel, are there people still in there?” I ask hysterically.
“No,” she says, “I think everybody got out.” Is she just trying to calm me?
“Look at the people around! They didn’t, Mel! We have to go back!” I start to run back towards the front of the club, my heart ready to burst out of my chest. I feel a hand reach out as Mel grabs my arm and pulls me back, stopping me from running back into the flames. But I have to get back. I have to do everything I can to get those people out. I struggle with Mel, trying to pull away, but she cries out:
“Hanabeth, NO! There are still petrol tanks and gas bottles that are yet to explode. Stop! You will get yourself killed. Marc will be fine. He’ll be looking for you on the other side. It’s not as bad as it seems.” As she locks me in her arms her tone is soothing, and she is speaking all the words I want to hear, but I know she is only trying to comfort me. As much as I want to, I just can’t believe her. My body goes limp as powerlessness engulfs me. I stare at the enormous tower of flames and something in my heart turns cold and still. This time I speak in a quiet tone, half calm yet half a whimper.
“He’s dead, Mel. He’s gone, I can feel it.” Somehow I feel quite sure and I speak as if it were a matter of fact.
“Don’t be silly. Don’t give up yet! Think how many places he could be. He will turn up soon,” she reasons. I want nothing more than to believe her, and have no intention to stop looking, but I have a deadly feeling deep down that is difficult to ignore. How can you love someone that much and be that close to them and not know the moment they leave this planet?

Suddenly there is renewed panic – everyone around us starts to scream, running up the street, sprinting away from the flames. They are yelling something about another bomb. Maybe another petrol tank has exploded. Before I know it I too am running amongst all the others, sprinting up the street until eventually I come to a halt, as many sprint on. It seems a little crazy, and I don’t know what started it. So I wait for a very short while before I jog back down the blackened road, calling out to the injured lying on the side of the street.
“I know CPR, can I help anyone?’ My voice rings out with a question I quickly realise is ridiculous. It’s hardly any help to those lying under the column of smoke feeling their skin burn as their lifeblood runs from them. What can I do? How can I help? How can I find Marc?
“We need water!” someone yells, as they attend to an injured man lying on a makeshift stretcher.
“Hanabeth, we have to get water.” It’s Mel’s’ voice. She grabs my hand and leads me across the street. At the mention of water I become aware that my mouth is very, very dry, and a choking, thick horrid flavour sticks inside my mouth. I have never known such thirst. We duck into a restaurant and walk up to the bar, pleading for water. Between us we have no money. Mine was in my ‘handbag’ (Marcs’ pocket). The barmaid kindly hands over two small bottles of water. In our frantic thirst we forget what the water is for as we rip off the lids and throw our heads back, glugging down the life-giving liquid. Suddenly it occurs to me, there must be a mirror here. I pull Mel into the bathroom where there is a little light and we can see ourselves in the mirror for the first time. I take a step back in shock to see my face smeared with blood, my whole body grey-black from the smoke and the explosion. Our hair is thick with dust, dirt and blood. I turn around on the balls of my feet, examining my limbs, my skin, checking myself for injury. I know enough about the effects of shock to know that either of us could be running around with serious injuries. Mel turns on the tap and we rub at the blood, finding nothing more than mere scratches underneath. The blood is not from our veins. We stare at each other, astonished that we are unharmed. But still, Mel is unsure. She holds out her arms:
“My arms hurt. Could you look at them?” I examine the backs of her arms where she has indicated, but can see nothing. I feel the bones in her arm gently.
“You seem okay, Mel. Everything seems in tact.” In my shock and naivety I do not stop to consider the possibility of burns.
We shout our thanks to the bar staff as we rush outside back into the chaos. Mel takes the water to the young man and once more every scrap of my energy is focused on finding Marc. I cross the street, pushing through the crowd, turning people around, looking for his face somewhere amongst the chaos. The silly boy (it’s almost funny) had dyed his hair jet black a few days before, to cover the three faded blue spots left over from his mushroom outfit for the SAS Ball. Looking for his dark skin, I turn around a hundred men that could be him, only to reveal unfamiliar Balinese faces. Never before have I longed so much to see his wide grin, his gangly arms, feel his warm embrace. Once again I remember my dream, as I had pushed through the crowds searching the faces…and, yes, in the dream I’d found him. This renews my hope to keep going. I must be running around in circles because I keep finding the same young man lying on a stretcher made from a large shop sign. His jet blackjet-black hair is sticky with blood. How many times already have I stopped in my tracks to stare at his face? I gently stroke his head and tell him he is just fine, although I doubt it.
“I don’t want to die here. Please don’t let me die,” he begs of me and Mel, who is staying by his side holding his hand. Her soothing voice and kind words must mean the world to this young man.
“It’s okay darling, you are going to be just fine. Don’t you worry,” I hear her say, over and over.

My heart breaks a thousand times tonight. I want to stay with him, but I must find Marc. I cross the street again to climb up on a white jeep, standing on tiptoes trying to see past the flames to the south side of the Sari Club. There lies my hope that Marc is alive, and I hear myself screaming his name:
“MARC!! MARC!!” I cry out over and over, until my voice is hoarse, then I just keep screaming his name anyway. If only a weak reply were to meet me through the chaos. Again I recollect my dream from the week before and the moment when I found Marc in the darkness, but this is beyond any nightmare that has ever crept into my sleep. I run back to Mel still screaming his name, frantic now.

“Have you seen Marc? Where is he? Mel, I have to find him one way or another.” She stares at me through scared but kind eyes.

“Marc will be fine, darlin’,” she reassures me, as she looks down at my feet. “Hanabeth! You are standing on broken glass! I look down at the floor to see the remains of a shop window piled under my bare feet. Suddenly I become aware of a dull ache in the soles of my feet. I grab my ankle and balance on one leg, pulling several thick shards from deep in my flesh. Once I’m free of the glass I am running again, weaving through the crowd, this time more conscious of trying to avoid the worst of the glass.

Time is passing, so surreal and twisted that I have no idea of the speed or the sequence of its passing. We have helped to move some injured people into taxis. After an agonising wait, fire engines and ambulances start to turn up. I’m guessing it must be more than forty minutes since the explosion. This is too little too late. I’ve been running in circles in the dark for such a long time. It is Mel who finally instigates the move.
“Hanabeth, my arms are really sore.” She now has my full attention and I examine her upper arms under the fire light, seeing bubbles starting to form on her skin.

“Oh shit.” Finally, I realise my stupidity in not recognising that she has been burnt. Someone produces a wet rag that we press on the burns. I look around, scanning the crowd again. I have to have just one more try.

“Just wait thirty seconds. Wait right here.” I run off once more to look through the crowd one last time. I slow to a walk, coming to a stop back next to Mel, finally deciding that my chances of finding him at the hospital are greater by this point. I grab Mel and virtually pounce on a motorcyclist.
“Will you please take us to the hospital?” Suddenly my voice is clear and urgent. The Balinese teenager nods and we jump on the back of his bike, Mel in front of me so I can keep holding the wet rag on the back of her arms and shoulders. A man comes up to take a photo of us and we scream at him in anger.

“How dare you take photos at a time like this! Fuck off!” As the camera flashes I give the photographer the finger and we speed off through the seething crowd, away from the flames into the black night.

[On the 12th October 2002, the terrorist bombings on Jalan Legian caused the deaths of 202 people, including Hanabeth’s boyfriend, Mark Gajardo.]

This is an extract from Shock Waves - Finding peace after the Bali bomb, by Hanabeth Luke.