Chris McCall, Meulaboh – He races as fast as he can in his battered minibus, but screeches to a halt for the men with big guns. Roads in the troubled Indonesian province of Aceh are nowhere to linger without reason.
The driver and his passengers know it all too well. It may cost you your life. Once the playground of foreign sun-seekers, the rugged, beautiful west coast of Aceh is now the playground of the military.
Rounding a bend on a hillside, the minibus suddenly comes across a small party of soldiers, armed with assault rifles. It screeches to a halt and the men are ordered to get out. The women are generally spared the effort. Politely but firmly, all are ordered to produce identity cards if Indonesian or a passport if a foreigner.
"Is there any ganja [marijuana] in there?" asks a soldier, inspecting a bag near the driver's seat. He helps himself to a newspaper inside. "Is that your real name?" a soldier asks a nervous young man, pointing to his KTP, the identity card all Indonesians are required to carry. The man, visibly shaking, quietly insists it is.
Within 10 minutes it is over and everyone jumps back into the minibus, which picks up speed to get to Meulaboh. It is a five-hour trip and the minibuses often travel nearly empty. Few people travel if they can avoid it these days. Checks are routine and can easily turn into something far worse.
Ordinary Acehnese are all too familiar with friends' or relatives' lucky escapes. Many recount tales of being shot at by Indonesian troops or police after reacting in a "suspicious" way – most often by running away.
Most of the security forces are non-Acehnese and many are unhappy there. Some have tried to desert. Largely ostracised by the people around them, they rarely sit down in public with Acehnese. They are liable to be shot or stabbed if they do. They cannot wander alone into areas where the rebel Free Aceh Movement is strong. They are liable not to come out again.
Lining the two sides of the road in many places are piles of browning vegetation. A passenger explains that the people have cut it down to reduce the chance of ambushes. "They were ordered to do it by the military," he says.
The driver slows down sharply at a bridge swarming with soldiers. He waves gingerly to them and tries to smile as he crosses at a snail's pace.
A few more kilometres down the road, a police officer stops the minibus briefly outside a well-fortified police station. Virtually all have roadblocks outside them and well-defended sentry posts to protect them from hit-and-run motorcycle attacks, which have claimed the lives of dozens of their colleagues.
But this one is more interested in the surfboard an English tourist travelling to the offshore island of Simeulue has strapped to the top of the bus. "I didn't realise it was as bad as this," said the tourist, smiling. "I might not have come here if I had, but I'm here now."
While their chiefs insist their men on the ground are well-disciplined, those who deal with them in the field say they are sometimes jumpy and clearly terrified of the rebels, also known as GAM.
Some of their Acehnese colleagues have changed sides, taking weapons with them and, more dangerous still, inside information. On the other hand, once away from their commanders most misdeeds are easily concealed from them. It is a recipe for violence.
But the violence is not just on one side. According to intelligence sources and witnesses, GAM has started carrying out "sweeps" in some places, boarding buses and seeking out people who it believes are enemies.
Sometimes rival "sweeping operations" run across one another, resulting in a gunfight. Intelligence sources say any Acehnese helping the military are liable to be threatened or worse.
Five hours after leaving Banda Aceh, the bus comes to a halt in Meulaboh, where there is a semblance of calm, largely thanks to a heavy security presence. Here, unlike Banda Aceh, you may occasionally find a