Malacca Strait Pirates
October 2007
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Malacca Strait Pirates
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By Peter Gwin
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Beach Boy emerged from the jungle with a 20-foot-long (6 meter) bamboo stalk. He stripped the shoots off the bamboo, while Hakim used the parang to hew the mangrove root into a footlong spike. When they finished, Hakim lashed the spike at an angle to the end of the bamboo. “This is how we climb onto the ship,” Beach Boy said, motioning to a nearby tree as if it were the side of a ship. “The tekong [driver] maneuvers the pancung right up to the stern,” he said, lifting the pole and hooking the spike onto an upper branch.
In one fluid motion he grabbed the pole with both hands and pulled himself upward, lifting his legs, then clasping the bamboo with his feet and driving his body upward inchworm fashion. In seconds he reached the top and then slid down the pole. “This is how five jumping squirrels can all board a ship in less than a minute.” He handed me the pole. “Now you try.”
I kicked off my shoes and copied the technique. The bamboo’s natural joints offered a good grip, even when wet, and its stiffness made it easier to climb than a rope. To reach the decks of taller ships, Beach Boy said they would lash two or three bamboos together. I reached the top and slid down. “You could be a pirate,” Muhammad said. The others laughed. I started to put on my shoes when I felt a powerful grip on my shoulder and a cold blade of a parang on the back of my neck. “Then you grab the first sailor you see,” Muhammad barked in my ear, “tell me where the money is.” My heart skipped a beat before I realized he was just demonstrating the next step in an attack. “And the sailor will follow you like a water buffalo.”
Back in the pancung, we headed for Batam, but as we approached the harbor, Hakim veered toward one of the hulking cargo ships anchored just outside. Crewmen were hanging wash on the railing. Beach Boy waved, and the sailors lazily waved back. Hakim maneuvered the pancung to the ship’s stern and drew up beside the rudder. “This is the hole,” Muhammad said, his voice echoing off the steel hull. “The crew can’t see us here.” I looked up and saw that the curving hull shielded the pancung from the deck. “When the ship is moving, the water is very rough here.” He pointed to a spot on the surface over the ship’s massive propeller. “The tekong has to hold the pancung steady while we raise the bamboo and climb up. That’s why the tekong always gets the biggest share of the money.”
“But you have to board the ship, subdue the crew, find the money, and not get killed,” I said. “That’s easy,” he said. “Are you ready to try?”
Happy Happy
Back in Batam, Jhonny and Beach Boy offered to show me where pirates would go to get “happy happy.” Jhonny and others told me that after major heists pirates would often jet off to luxury hotels in Jakarta and blow big wads of cash on unimaginable indulgences, including a strip club where you could eat sushi off the bellies of the dancers. But after a shopping trip, Batam pirates might celebrate at one of the local karaoke bars. “We will go to Die Nasty,” said Jhonny. Beach Boy nodded.
Late that night, the three of us walked through Jodoh’s dark streets, where beckoning young women in low-cut blouses vamped under lighted signs advertising karaoke. We arrived at our destination, which turned out to be a club called Dynasty. The dank room smelled of clove cigarettes and was dimly lit with orange bulbs that cast a lurid glow. A waitress escorted us to a table and brought over beers. Beach Boy scanned the menu of songs that customers could request to sing. Along the far wall, a row of young women sat beneath a line of spotlights. Each wore a round badge with a number. They giggled coquettishly, competing to make eye contact with us. “Karaoke hostesses,” Jhonny explained. He went over to the women and made his way down the line, smiling and chatting. Finally he returned with a young woman who settled between Jhonny and me.
“What your name?” the woman asked in heavily accented English, patting my thigh. I told her and mentioned that I was here just for the karaoke. “Yes,” she said, “everyone come to Die Nasty for karaoke.”
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