People's Power — page 2

But what really sets the general apart from his fellow candidates is a Bill Clinton-like ability to communicate with ordinary Indonesians. Yudhoyono displays that quality in Kakap, a poor fishing village near Pontianak. Having walked through Kakap, querying residents about their problems, Yudhoyono is hemmed in by several hundred villagers, most of them dressed in patched clothing, their skin burnt dark mahogany by years of working in the sun. The air is heavy with a dizzying mix of odors: sour sweat, the sweet smell of decay from riverbank mud and the pervasive stench of drying fish. But Yudhoyono is unruffled by the clamor and the stink, waiting patiently as the village chief lists Kakap's gripes, concluding, "I hope this time that the central government will listen and do something."

"Unlike other politicians, I'm not going to promise you many things," Yudhoyono replies. Instead, he adds, he will remember what he has seen and been told in the village. "I've heard your hopes, your dreams ... I will give the orders to make sure there are more schools, that children get the clothes they need, that everyone gets enough rice." The delivery remains subdued, but its quiet dignity has the crowd cheering almost every sentence and chanting "Long live S.B.Y." as he leaves. "The difference between S.B.Y. and the other candidates," says Sarwono Kusumaatmadja, a minister during the Suharto era and member of the incoming parliament, "is that people understand and believe what he says."

Yudhoyono has distanced himself from his decades in the military. But with two ex-generals as major presidential contenders, some Indonesians fear that the military will again become a political force, as it was during Suharto's authoritarian 32-year rule. "Retired generals are unpredictable," says Salim Said, an expert on Indonesia's armed forces at the advisory group Indoconsult. "They may use the military as a political tool, like Suharto did."

	Retired generals are unpredictable. They may use the military as a political tool, like Suharto did. —SALIM SAID,  expert on Indonesia's military

Wiranto, 57, is particularly vulnerable on this score. He was once an aide to Suharto. And during his time as armed-forces chief, the Indonesian military was accused of causing hundreds of deaths and widespread destruction in East Timor, allegations surfaced of military involvement in riots that killed hundreds during Suharto's ouster, and eight student demonstrators were shot dead by soldiers. Wiranto categorically denies involvement in any of the events, and notes that in East Timor's case, its own Attorney General, as well as Indonesia's courts, have cleared him.

But his years as a top general have also helped him in a key area: conducting his presidential campaign with military precision. In stark contrast to the other candidates' constantly shifting schedules and delayed arrivals, Wiranto's team moves from one venue to the next exactly as planned, usually arriving within minutes of the allotted time. When he is delayed after his hired helicopter touches down in the wrong spot in the Central Java town of Purwokerto, Wiranto's motorcade races to the correct place to make up for lost time, roaring past gawping residents who evidently have no idea what VIP has suddenly descended among them.

Like Yudhoyono, Wiranto is no great orator, instead relying on gravitas and simplicity to convey his message. His features—which can be grim in repose—remain largely expressionless as he speaks to the 3,000-strong throng jammed into the town's stadium. And also like Yudhoyono, Wiranto is pitching his leadership credentials while being vague about how he will tackle Indonesia's challenges. His message is pithy: the country is in grave trouble and needs a strong man to run it; I'm that man; I will give you peace, justice, security.

Then it's time for the singing. This is the moment when Wiranto, a karaoke aficionado who has spent hundreds of dollars on voice coaching and has even released a CD of love songs, comes alive. He calls for an A chord from the somewhat bemused band of long-haired youths manning the guitars and drums. Then, his hips gyrating and arms waving, he belts out two familiar traditional love songs, holding the microphone out to the audience so they can sing the chorus, and bending down to sweep his palm along a line of outstretched hands—the picture of a star. The mostly twentysomething group closest to the stage cheers itself hoarse as he concludes the second song and is calling for a third, when the skies open and a tropical downpour clears the stadium.

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