I had just sold 27 Wheelbarrows and was looking to sell more. Lots more.  It was 1977 and I was over the moon. Each barrow had sold for £12,000 and there was support equipment on top.  But I had my eyes on a bigger prize, much bigger, and today was the day. 

At this point I should clarify. Far from the common and garden variety, these wheelbarrows were special. Very. Manufactured by a UK company called Morfax they were in fact state of the art EOD robots. Mini remote-controlled tracked vehicles deployed with a single use in mind – explosive ordnance disposal – in other words, dealing with bombs. Born out of the Northern Ireland terrorist troubles of the time, these little battery-driven beauties had been responsible for changing the face of bomb disposal, saving many lives in the process and I had just sold 27 to the Malaysian military together with a package of disruptors, hook and line sets, and Galt Glass bomb suits. Why Wheelbarrow? Simple really. The promising idea needed a prototype. Enter an actual wheelbarrow chassis purchased from a local garden centre, the name sticking. Anyway, flushed with success I had turned across the Malacca Straits and was hell bent on doubling, maybe even trebling, a similar sale to the largest defence force in the region – the Indonesian Army and the demonstration had just gone like clockwork.  All I needed now was a formal letter-headed 'intent to purchase' and I was good to go.

“So sir, pretty good don't you think?”

The three-star Indonesian infantry General resplendent with more medal ribbons than a haberdashers was the go-to man and all I needed was his signature.

“Impressive,” he said smiling, “but I don’t think you understand.”

I knew what was coming.  Singapore aside, most of South East Asia regarded 'corruption' as somewhat of a western construct. The General; commander of thousands, lord of all he surveyed, subsisted on the princely sum of US$300 a month with a pension not much better. It was expected, indeed a perk of the job, that a man in his position would use that position to make any ‘extras’ he could while he could;  to effectively make hay while the sun shone. As long as the requirement was generally met and any embarrassing 'loss-of-face' avoided it was a deal everyone could be happy with and I’d made sure the margins were there, factored in, ready, waiting.

But I couldn't have been more wrong.

"Of course sir,"   I said. "Perhaps if you explain I'm sure we are more than able to accomodate whatever is required."

”I'm afraid you still don’t understand," said the General.

I looked at the chest of medal ribbons, at the peaked cap, at the gleaming insignia.

"I'm sorry sir?"

The General  raised eyebrows behind his mirrored Aviators. "Do you know how many men I have under my command?"

I may have been young but I had done my homework.

“Approaching a hundred Battalions,” I replied, “maybe a quarter of a million men.”

“Indeed, and the area of my jurisdiction?”

“Sorry sir, that I don’t know.”

“Nearly fifty-thousand square miles. The entire island of Java.  Two-hundred thousand men and fifty-thousand square miles and you are offering just 80 units. It wouldn’t be enough.”

My pulse quickened.  This was music to my ears.

“I am able to offer whatever numbers you require,” I replied rather too quickly. This was way back in the day and, as I said, I was young.

I remember the General sighing. At least I think it was a sigh.

“I didn’t say it isn’t enough. I said it wouldn’t be enough.  You understand?”

I guess my blank expression was sufficient confirmation that I didn't.

He smiled benignly, trying to be patient, not something that came easily to a man in his position.

“Look, if there is a suspect device, a bomb, whatever, what do you think I would do?”

“I don’t know sir, evacuate the area?” 

“And then?”

I stared at the man, at his patient smile, a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Then let me tell you,” he continued. “I would order a colonel who would order a major to order a captain to order a lieutenant to order a sergeant to order private second-class Mohammed to go and kick this suspect device. If it’s a hoax, a dud, problem solved. If not,” he shrugged, “such is life and private second-class Mohammed’s widow, if he has one, his parents if he hasn’t, receive a sack of rice a month for the next ten years. Another device and I still have a hundred-and-fifty-thousand other Mohammeds.”

I looked at the General the way a patient might look at a doctor with a rusty needle.

“So you see,” he concluded, “between the cost of your most excellent wheelbarrow and some sacks of rice, there is really no decision to make.”

Clearly whatever ‘hay’ I was offering, it had been deemed too little for the abundant ‘sunshine’ at the General's disposal.  Learned forty-five years ago it was a chastening lesson and one that remains with me today even though the intervening years have seen the Indonesian Armed Forces and its philosophies modernised beyond comparison.

The price of a life measured in bags of rice?

Looking around this so called 'modern world' of ours it sometimes seems not much has changed.