Award for Kindness

A photograph on facebook struck me. I saw it on the wall of my old friend from high school – we went to junior high school together over 20 years ago. The picture was his son with the teacher, holding a school award that written, “Certificate of Achievement for Caring/Kindness”

I commented on this, congratulating the boy and his parents who raised such a kind-hearted boy. What a very good idea from the teacher and the school. Instead of a gold star for every excellent work in homework, academic achievements or sports, they award children who do good deeds.

If only every school in the world give awards for kindness and good deeds. If then employers continue this tradition: using kindness as a measurement of achievement. Imagine a supervision session, or an appraisal at an office. The boss asked, “What good deed have you done in the past six months? How many times today have you made a customer smile?”

Imagine then all bonuses are based not on how much profit you made, but on how much you make a difference, on how many people’s lives became better because of your work. Imagine banks giving out their annual bonuses not to those who successfully gained huge accounts from the rich, but to employees who managed to support small businesses and help them thrive.

Imagine if politicians are competing against each other not to gain vote and a seat in the posh Parliament, but on how many small communities they made better off. Imagine that act of kindness and good deeds are considered the most profitable and beneficial for all. Passers-by would queue to buy a sandwich for a homeless person, and shopkeepers will smile beautifully while tending their happy customers.
I once asked for the manager in a small supermarket near my office. The manager looked like he was bracing for a complaint. I said to him, “Can I vote for your branch to be the best branch? I think you have an excellent team. Your staffs are friendly and very helpful. I think they all deserve a good bonus.” The surprised look on his face was funny and wonderful at the same time. I wish we have the courage to voice our commendation as often as – or even more often than – our complaints.

Back to my friend’s son with his achievement in kindness. If only we all learn from this tradition, schools give out gold stars for the good deeds their pupils do. Then when the pupils grow up as bosses, they will decide on bonuses based on kindness. Then because banks give out loans to people who wanted to make a difference, these clients will not have the heart to run away with the loan. Maybe if we share more kindness…. Then maybe, just maybe… We do not need to fight each other and be miserable.

Thank you Chris Peddijanto and his father Jeffry for reminding all their friends on facebook on the value of kindness.

Bruno the Dog

He was not my dog. Bruno was my dad’s dog, long time ago, in late 1930s when my dad was a young boy. I know Bruno from my dad’s bed time stories. Stories that he told me long time ago, when I was a very young girl.

My dad was born in a tiny island of Saparua, in the East of Indonesia. He lived in the old Dutch Fort Dursteede, overlooking the gorgeous blue sea and white sand beach. This is where the story started.

Growing up in the midst of nature’s wonder, my dad’s childhood was spent most of the time running around from home to the sea, swimming, diving, and fishing. His dog Bruno came along with him wherever he went. As my dad went free diving for pearls or just swimming around with his friends, Bruno the dog played in the water, jumping and running happily.

Bruno was not always happy and friendly though. According to my dad, he could be rather scary and intimidating to naughty kids and bullies. My dad had a special bond with Bruno, as if Bruno could read his mind. In fact, my dad has always had special relationships with animals and Mother Nature. Later in his life as an air crash investigator, he encountered a monkey that saved his life. He passed this belief to me that sometime, strange as it may sound, creatures big and small could be representing our guardian angels.

My dad never likes bullies and oppressors. So did Bruno the dog. In dad's childhood adventures, Bruno was his little sidekick. One day, naughty boys teased and bullied a sweet little girl called Sintje – she was my dad’s childhood sweetheart. My dad got into a fight, and Bruno joined in. Bruno did not bite. As my dad – my hero – scared off the bullies, Bruno growled and barked and the bullies ran away.

The best part of my dad’s bedtime story is this: Bruno chased the naughty boys, and as they ran, they fell face-down into a pile dog poo. Bruno saved the day.

I cannot remember the details, nor can I verify these bedtime stories, but I remember the laughter that my dad caused. I never know Bruno the dog, but I am glad that he filled my childhood with bed time stories that taught me about how bad people will always learn a hard lesson while the good will have the last laugh.

Blackbird and The Spirit of the Mountain

When I was a teenager and a keen mountaineer, I heard many stories that sounded superstitious during my climbs. As both environmentalist and naturalist, I tend to respect the stories as one of those “believe it or not” stories.

When visiting Ujung Kulon National Park – where the last one horn rhino was spotted many years ago – we were strongly advised to respect the following rules. Never mention the word “mosquito” but replace it with “small child”. A tiger (Panthera tigris sondaica) should be called “si Mbah” (translated: grand mother). Men should not urinate standing; instead they should squat like women.

There was never any clear warning of what would happen if someone disobey these unofficial rules, but we tend respect it. A senior environmentalist taught me that nature has its own mind, energy and power, and that people living in the area have learned how to live in harmony with their surrounding. So that as visitors, the least we can do is to respect and follow their rules. He said, “It does not hurt to call a mosquito “small child” and I don’t mind squatting like a girl if it means respecting the spirits of the place.”.

Later in life as I studied philosophy and came across James Lovelock’s Gaia, I can put a little bit more logic – even though still not scientific – into the superstitious. If the Earth has its own life, soul and spirit, then respecting it the way local people do is the least we can do to our provider of lives.

Among many strange stories and traditions that I came across in the tropical nature of Indonesia, there is one story about a blackbird who will show lost climbers the way. I heard this story on Mount Gede and Mount Pangrango, in West Java. During my teenage years until about ten years ago, I have climbed these twin mountains over a dozen times, and heard this story many times.

One climb – I cannot remember which one and I cannot remember who with – I was very near the summit and exhausted, when I suddenly felt lost. It was not my first climb to Mount Pangrango (3,019 m), but at that point, I just could not see the next step to climb. There seemed to be more than one foot paths, the usual clear path was nowhere to be seen. There was another friend with me. We both looked around, knowing that we almost reach the top but could not find the path.

Then a blackbird landed in front of us – it was about five meter ahead of us. It stared at us, showing no fear at all. We looked at each other, with unspoken thoughts about the legendary blackbird. Then the bird started to hop – not fly! – in front of us. Without hesitation, we followed it. The bird stopped and waited for us when the climb got treacherous. We followed our spirit of the mountain for a good half an hour until at last we saw the summit. As we walked up to the summit, the blackbird gave us one good stare and it flew away.

I was never superstitious, but the blackbird – or the spirit of the mountain – showed me the way and guided me step by step to the top, to safety.

This morning, as I went outside my flat – in Manchester, UK, 10,000 miles away from Mount Pangrango – a blackbird hopped onto a bush right in front of me. He (it was a male blackbird) stared at me for what felt like a very long time from a few metres away and hopped closer. I felt all hair on my body stood and I almost knelt down. I was back to Mount Pangrango over 20 years ago. So I said this loud enough, “Thank you. Thank you, Good Spirit!” The bird flew away and I promised the Spirit that I will write this little true story.

My dad at IPTN Nurtanio Aircraft Industry

Friday 25th February 2011

I got a text message from my dad. He said, “Hi darling, I am in Bandung now, after Tanjung Pinang. Back home tomorrow, then back to Bandung again to continue the investigation of the engines. Love you and big hug to all of you.”

I am amazed. My dad was born in 1936, he will be 75 in May this year, and he is still flying around the 13,700 islands of Indonesia investigating air accidents. Last week he went to Tanjung Pinang, a small island off the cost of Sumatera, to investigate the crash of a Casa 212-100. The twin turbo propeller belonging to Sabang Merauke Air Charter (SMAC) was on its flight test with two pilots, two crew members and a flight inspector when it crashed in Bintan island, killing everyone on board.

My dad led the Indonesian National Transport Safety Commission (NTSC or KNKT, Komisi Nasional Keselamatan Transpor) investigation team. Like a forensic scientist, he would analyse every single part of the engine they found to determine the cause of the accident. When on a mission like this, my dad is always a young man.

Today’s text message from dad took me back to the days of my childhood, when he took me from hangar to hangar, showing me aircrafts, their engines and all the beautiful complicated parts. The smell of avgas and oil combined with the background noise of aeroplanes taking off and landing was the happiest smell and sound for me.

I remember my first visit to the hangar of Nurtanio Aircraft Industry where my dad is currently working to analyse the Casa 212 engines. Nurtanio – renamed as IPTN then renamed again as PT Dirgantara – was the pride and joy of the nation back in 1980s. It was also my dad’s pride and joy, with his “baby” the Casa-Nurtanio CN-235 was born. Seeing CN-235 flying later when I was an aviation journalist always took me back to the days when my dad talked passionately about this new design, about his opinion on its fly-by-wire system, then his weeks in Bandung testing it.

In the 1980s, Nurtanio cooperated with Spanish Casa and together designed and manufactured the Casa-Nurtanio CN-235. For this project, during early 1980s, my dad often went to Casa in Spain, MBB in Germany and Aerospatiale in France. As an 8-year-old girl then, all I knew was that my dad was tending his baby.

While I am writing this, my dad is back in the hangars of his youth, the home of his baby CN-235. My thought is there with him. He will be dissecting the engines of the Casa 212 with precision of a forensic scientist. He will be reconstructing the last flight and analysing the flight data recorder and cockpit voice recorder – the orange box known as the Black Box; then in the next few days, he will be sitting in front of his lap top with charts, animation, calculation and colourful diagram that represent the last flight of SMAC’s Casa 212.

My mum said, he always looks like a teenager getting ready to go on exciting mountain expedition whenever he received a call to go on an air accident investigation. He is always healthy on the busiest days. He climbed mountains in Papua and lifting heavy parts of a wrecked aircraft in his 70s. Then when the investigation is concluded, my dad will be fast asleep on his comfortable sofa, looking like a sweet old man.

My dad is the aviator hero that I am proud to know of. There might be Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Eddie Rickenbaker, Howard Hughes and other famous names in the world, but there is only one Joseph Tumenggung who is – until today – the only internationally certified air accident investigator in Indonesia, whose stories made me fell in love with the roaring sound of an iron bird. There is only one sweet dad who took me in his Volkswagen Beetle to the end of the runway at sunset, watching aeroplanes taking off and landing.

I miss you dad….

Mac at Dunham Massey