This was supposed to be the “dry season,” but the visibility was
consistently poor and at times rain blotted out the land. Several times
we passed sails—Indonesian praus—the first signs of humanity we had seen
since leaving Carpentaria Light Boat behind.
We flew our colors and the Indonesian flag, which Jessica had made
during the trip, straightened up the deck, readied the anchor, and put
on clean shirts. After we had dropped anchor in the harbor of Kupang, I
even celebrated by going below for a quick—and necessary—shave.
Two immigration officers in neatly pressed tans were the first to board
us. Both were very young and slight in build, looking like neat,
precocious, and well-scrubbed schoolboys. Once again, the dire
predictions of “informed sources” failed to materialize, for no one
threw our passports on the floor. Instead, they examined them carefully
and then handed them back with a smile. One of them, indeed, wished us
“Well come!” in two understandable English words.
We spent an enjoyable hour while Barbara served coffee and opened a tin
of Australian “sweet biscuits” and I filled out the necessary
forms—which were printed in both Indonesian and English.
That, the officials then indicated, was all. There were no further
requirements. We were quite free to go ashore.
Thank you very much, we said. And where could we get our American money
changed?
Communications took a bit of time, because our pronunciation of English
words was obviously unintelligible, but we were all patient and
determined—and we were able to invoke the additional assistance of
_Teach Yourself Dutch_ and _Teach Yourself Malay_ which I had prudently
bought back in Sydney.
American—money—changed? The officials looked at each other. They
consulted. They examined a proffered $10 bill with great interest.
“May be Jakarta!” they suggested helpfully. (Jakarta, the capital of the
far-flung republic was a thousand miles to the west.)
“No—_before_ Jakarta. We want to buy food—here!”
“No. Here impossible,” they insisted, although with regret. They climbed
into their launch—an open dory with American outboard—and chugged off.
Armed with our language books, we set off for shore in Flatty—Barbara,
Ted, Jessica, and I. We had anchored out farther than we had realized
and found it a long haul to the beach past dozens of large sailing praus
and a few motorized fishing boats. People seemed to be living on all of
them. We could see them gathered around open fires on the raised poop
decks, cooking, eating, hanging out clothes. They watched us curiously
and when we waved they shouted back a friendly greeting.
It was already dusk, but the beach was a ferment of activity. A Dutch
freighter had arrived, lighters were plying back and forth, and hundreds
of Timorese were wading out beyond the shallow water to unload the boats
and carry boxes, barrels, and bales up to the customs shed. Drums of oil
were simply dumped overboard and floated to shore, where they were
rolled up the sloping beach by a number of wiry men. The scene was one
of frenetic bustling, a startling contrast to the deserted quiet of the
evening waterfront in New Zealand or Australia, where the eight-hour day
is King.
As we neared the shore, a crowd surrounded us and willing hands helped
to pull us in. No sooner had we stepped out of the dinghy than a dozen
men seized it and rushed it up far beyond the high-water mark. No one
spoke a word of English, so we could only assume that Flatty was in the
hands of friends and would be well cared for until our return.
Out of the darkness a roly-poly Indonesian approached. “Dr. Reynolds?”
he asked, in carefully enunciated syllables. He handed me his card: Mr.
Ndonoe, Customs Office. He wanted to go out to the boat.
“Tomorrow morning all right?”
“No, please. Now.”
A word from Mr. Ndonoe and the dinghy was rushed back down the beach and
refloated. We climbed in. Mr. Ndonoe, as I mentioned, was hefty and
there seemed no point in overloading the boat, so I suggested that Ted,
Barbara, and Jessica remain ashore until our return. We gained nothing
by this maneuver, however, as their places were promptly taken by three
young Timorese, two of whom seized an oar apiece and began to row
mightily in opposite directions, while the third shouted orders. Finally
we got partially squared away and began an erratic course out across the
harbor. Looking shoreward I could see that the rest of my family were
being herded up the beach under escort—evidently someone had been
delegated to look after them. I could only hope that Mr. Ndonoe’s
business would not keep them waiting too long.
When we finally reached the _Phoenix_ it developed that Mr. Ndonoe’s
visit was by no means an official one. His curiosity stimulated by the
reports of the two young immigration officers, he simply wanted to see
for himself the small refrigerator that made ice by means of a kerosene
flame! And, having shown him the ice, which had hardly begun to solidify
around the edges, since we had used it for our earlier guests, I had to
mix him a drink to prove the usefulness of the six small cubes.
By the time we got back to shore Barbara and the youngsters, who had
been shown to Mr. Ndonoe’s office in the customs shed, had practically
memorized the customs forms, written in Indonesian, which was all they
had found to entertain themselves. They had almost convinced themselves
that our amateur oarsmen had sunk us in the bay and were so relieved to
see us that nobody minded that it was too late to shop for the bread and
fresh vegetables we had hoped to take back for supper.
I was able to assure them that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were not waiting
for any problematical fresh produce but had already started
philosophically to cook rice and open cans.
“Then why can’t we go to a restaurant?” A longing for someone else’s
cooking—anything, in fact, that they themselves hadn’t prepared—seemed
to be an occupational disease with the women.
“I doubt if there’s a restaurant here—and anyway we haven’t any money,
remember?”
Mr. Ndonoe confirmed my doubt. Yes, there was no restaurant and there
was no place to get our American money changed.
“There is American family, though,” he volunteered.
“_Where?_”
A guide was sent to lead us through dark, narrow, teeming streets to the
large and rambling house (a Japanese hospital during the war), where the
Kingsleys, Mennonite agricultural consultants, were living with their
seven children and a couple of missionaries from Australia. They took us
in at once and, when they learned we had not eaten, placed us around
their kitchen table and filled us with home-baked bread, butter and jam,
hot chocolate, and bananas—green in color and about the size of a hot
dog, but ripe and very good.
While we were still eating, another official dropped by. He spoke no
English, but told us—through our hosts—that our Japanese men would
_not_, after all, be allowed ashore. Also, in spite of our earlier
understanding that we had satisfied all requirements, it now developed
that Mr. Ndonoe wished to see all of our ship’s papers in the morning;
the “polisi” wished me to report to them first thing; and it would also
be necessary to pay calls on the harbormaster and the port doctor. The
next day, it appeared, would be a busy one.
In the morning, with the Australian, Mr. Dicker, to translate, I went to
plead with the headman. He was polite but adamant. He had no intention
of permitting any Japanese to set foot in Kupang. He gave no reason, but
I assumed it was a personal matter. Perhaps he had unpleasant memories
of the Japanese occupation. He acknowledged that all our visas were in
order, but managed to bring out the fact that it is a long way from
Jakarta, where such permission is given, to Kupang, where _he_ was in
charge. A long way, both in miles and in authority.
I sent off a cable of protest to both the American and the Japanese
Embassy, but the Kingsleys warned me that even a cable exchange between
the islands would take at least three days at best. This effectually
killed any desire we had to linger in Timor, for we felt keenly how
infuriating it would be to have to stay aboard, in full view of such a
colorful port. Moreover, I had a strong hunch that no matter what cabled
instructions were received, there would be no change in local policy.
I decided to accept Mr. Kingsley’s offer to cash one of our stateside
checks for Indonesian rupiah so that we could lay in a few fresh
provisions and push on at once for Bali, where we hoped our cabled
protests would assure us of a friendlier reception.
Mrs. Kingsley sent her cook to help Barbara and Jessica shop. Ted and I
made the rounds of the port authorities to announce our change of plans
and clear for sea again. The cook was tiny—not just short, like Japanese
women, but small and fragile looking. She wore a white blouse and a
figured sarong and, like most women in Timor, even the poorest, she wore
dangling gold earrings through her pierced ears. She spoke almost no
English, but with the help of an Indonesian phrase book borrowed from
the Kingsleys, Barbara managed to do very well.
Off they went, along the street that curves beside the harbor, past the
bombed-out shells of what had once been substantial brick buildings, to
the market—a miscellaneous collection of mats beneath a single thatched
roof. The stallkeepers squatted cross-legged on the ground or, if they
boasted counters, on the counters behind their wares. In neat piles
arranged upon banana leaves were chunks of meat, hands of tiny green
bananas, fish, eggs, Chinese cabbage, bean sprouts, and bright red chili
peppers. Barbara’s guide seemed to know the going price of everything
without asking. Eggs—all tiny and without any guarantee of
freshness—were six rupiah for eight—one rupiah being worth about nine
American cents on the official exchange. Potatoes, sold in heaps of ten
or twelve, cost one rupiah per pile, the catch being that each potato
is, literally, the size of a marble! Tomatoes were the same size and
about as costly. Bananas, however, were cheap—only five rupiah for a
good-sized stalk—and oranges were one rupiah for four.
The final purchase, and one for which the phrase book had to be called
into play and a special expedition made, was bread. The bakery, at a
considerable distance from the market, had a complete stock of ten
loaves of bread, each loaf consisting of a length of five to eight
bun-sized segments which sold for a half rupiah apiece. The very idea of
any one customer buying the lot was staggering, but once Barbara had
managed to persuade the cook—and the cook had reassured the baker—he
became very businesslike. He wrapped each loaf separately in a fresh
green banana leaf and laid it on the counter, where it promptly
unwrapped itself while he worked on the next one. The individual
segments began to come apart as he worked, but the baker, nothing
daunted, produced more leaves and showed a willingness to wrap each bun
if necessary. The market basket was already overflowing and the cook’s
arms were full, so Barbara scooped up the whole lot, leaves, buns, and
all, and made her way back to the beach where we were waiting by the
dinghy.
Ted and I, for our part, had been enjoying another aspect of Kupang. Our
official business disposed of, we had wandered up and down the streets
of the city trying to register everything in a short time so that we
could share it with the others on board. For the first time since
leaving Japan we had the impression in Kupang of teeming life, of
countless people, of bustle, color, movement—and above all poverty,
grinding poverty. Many people were clothed in nothing but patches, one
upon another. Faces were gaunt, arms and legs were nothing but sinewy
muscle laid upon bone. Most noticeable of all were the toothless, gaping
maws of the betel chewers, men and women alike, their mouths stained red
and drooling fungus-like shreds as they chewed. It was a sight, we felt,
that would take a bit of getting used to.
There was wide variety in the costumes of Timor. The most common form of
dress seemed to be a tubular length of bright cloth which served equally
as a skirt, a shawl, or a complete costume à la Gandhi. Fierce-looking
banditti from the hills strolled around with bright scarf turbans on
their heads and sheathed knives stuck in their sashes; Muslim in
black-velvet fez worked side by side with nearly naked Malays whose
headgear dress was an amazing replica in woven pandanus of the
fifteenth-century flat-crowned velvet hats worn by the early Portuguese
explorers.
This latter style, in fact, had for centuries been the traditional
headgear of the Timorese but when Ted, who has few wants, demanded
excitedly to know where he could buy such a hat, Mr. Kingsley assured
him that none were ever offered for sale. Any man who needed a new hat
would design and create his own and there is no tourist trade in Kupang
to create a demand for mass merchandising.
Nothing daunted, Ted borrowed a phrase book, memorized a few words,
touched me for a handful of rupiah, and began to scan every hat that
passed with a critical and speculative eye. In the end he succeeded in
buying an almost new hat right off the head of its surprised—and
delighted—wearer.
A few more enterprising visitors like Ted, and mass production of
Timorese hats will revolutionize the economy of Kupang!
At the waterfront there was plenty to see while we waited. The freighter
was loading with passengers for its return trip to Jakarta and the beach
was turbulent. Bedrolls, bundles of goods wrapped in matting, fighting
cocks in bamboo cages, and eating chickens tied by their feet into
bundles were all being carried down to the shore and loaded onto the
backs of porters, who waded out with them into deeper water where the
lighters were waiting, followed by the passengers themselves. Just
beyond the shallows, the boats would stand by while the oarsmen held
them steady and passengers scrambled over the gunwales and helped to
load the cargo aboard. At last, with only inches of freeboard, the
lighter would move off ponderously in the direction of the freighter.
When the family finally assembled at the waterfront, I loaded our
purchases and the girls into the dinghy and then shook hands with
everybody, including Mr. Ndonoe, who had come down to see us off. Mr.
Ndonoe, however, simply kept hold of my hand and used it to steady
himself as he climbed into the dinghy and settled himself comfortably. I
tried to explain that we were ready to sail as soon as we got to the
_Phoenix_, but he indicated that he would go along. Mr. Dicker had the
impression that the visit was official, so there was nothing to do but
make the best of it.
Once on board, however, it appeared that Mr. Ndonoe had come with us for
the same reason a pup jumps onto the seat of a car—because he enjoys the
ride. I’m afraid we were a bit abrupt as we packed him into Flatty
again, since Moto had to row him all the way to shore and return before
we could load our dinghy aboard and get underway.
Boatwise, it is a pleasure to leave Kupang: just up anchor, drift slowly
seaward as you make sail at your leisure, and you are on your way. No
tricky channels, no coral, no adverse tides, no shifting winds, no held
breath.
Much as we had looked forward to a leisurely trip up the Indonesian
archipelago, we decided to make no more stops until Bali, where we felt
more certain of our welcome. We had no desire to cause incidents, and
were afraid that the feeling against the Japanese which had been
evidenced in such a relatively large port as Kupang might cause even
more trouble in remote spots, even farther removed from central control.
Accordingly, we set our course for Benoa, the port of entry to Bali, 500
miles to the west. On this hop there was much leisure for reading and
relaxation. Books were always a special joy at sea, partly because we
had time to think about what we read and partly because, in the hours
when we gathered in the cockpit, we found pleasure in sharing what we
had been reading through discussion or by reading bits aloud. Life at
sea was teaching us the joys of conversation, of propounding a theory,
of following an idea to its logical conclusion. We all increased our
knowledge painlessly and almost unconsciously as we compared impressions
of the people and places we had left behind or tried to learn a bit
about the ports that lay ahead.
In route to Bali we talked, among other things, about our brief
experience in Timor, about Mr. Ndonoe and his almost childlike
eagerness, about the unreasonably prejudiced and stubborn senior
immigration officer; about the very young immigration officials; and
about the Italian port doctor who had come out for a two-year term
“because not enough doctor for all the place they need.”
For the first time, as we read something of the history of this very new
republic, we realized what terrible obstacles Indonesia was facing in
her struggle to achieve a place in the community of nations. She had no
background of gradual education and preparation for self-rule, as had
the Philippines. Having thrown off a very paternalistic colonial rule by
sudden revolution, she found herself without enough experienced leaders,
professional men, and trained government officials. No wonder so many of
the officers we met had seemed young. They were! And as for the older
ones, like our senior official in Kupang, he had perhaps worked in a
minor capacity under the Dutch and, on the basis of such slight
experience, had been quickly kicked upstairs. Perhaps his overbearing
and dogmatic attitude was simply a reflection of the treatment he
himself had received or observed under the hated colonial rulers whom he
had replaced.
Our periods of companionship in the cockpit were never scheduled and
sometimes burgeoned at an hour that would have been unthinkable ashore.
For example, from Barbara’s diary:
July 13. Woke up about 3 A.M. and realized by the wallowing of the
ship, the slatting of sails, and the banging of blocks that the wind
had left us. Went up to sit with Ted on watch. The wind was beginning
to tease us, coming in little puffs and then falling off—but each time
returning a little more strongly, until gradually we began to move and
the water aft began to gurgle a bit. The phosphorescence of our wake
was spectacular—we could trace the curve of the rudder deep down and
bubbles of light like sparkling champagne were kicked up behind.
At four, when Earle came on watch, Jessica heard us talking and she,
too, came up and joined us, just in time for a thrilling display of
phosphorescent dolphins! They gamboled and disported about us in
luminous streaks and splashes. We could follow them beneath the
surface, a moving river of cold, greenish light, until they broke the
surface in a shower of spangles accompanied by the characteristic
“whoof” of expelled air.
Our entrance into Bali was one of the most trying and difficult that we
had yet experienced. The currents that sweep down between the islands
are fierce in these areas and the monsoon wind pours down through the
passes. The year previous, a yacht larger than the _Phoenix_ had been
blown down the strait while attempting to reach Bali and it had taken
her a month to work her way back against the winds. We had no desire to
emulate that experience!
The log tells of some of our difficulties:
Last night set course to reach Bali—allowed 1 knot westerly current.
When estimated distance run at 0500, sailed N and at dawn saw outlines
of land. Rainy, misty, visibility poor.
Thought this point of land was S.E. Bali and set course to run up
coast to Benoa. No visibility in frequent showers. Lost land, picked
up _another_ point, and decided we were in the middle of Lombok
Strait. _Terribly_ rough—roughest we’ve had yet—high, steep waves,
from all directions. (Displaced all the boxes tied in the back of the
cockpit—first time _that_ ever happened.)
Finally saw small island S. of Nusa Besar, and thus positively
identified position. Cut south of island, across both Lombok and
Bandung Straits.
Very rough, tough trip. To cross straits logged about 25 miles to make
10 good.
Finally located Benoa, in a relatively clear moment, got the leading
marks in line, when a heavy shower washed out all sight. Since the
entrance involves a right-hand turn and various tricky meanderings, we
put about and lay off one hour until the weather cleared a bit.
When we entered, we found _buoys were completely changed_ from the
pilot book and our up-to-date chart. Had to put man at masthead and
con our way through the reef.
The village of Benoa turned out to be a picturesque cluster of houses
and brightly painted fishing boats drawn up on a spit of land to the
left of the harbor, but the port of Benoa, on the other side of the
water, was less interesting. It consisted of a few large and, at this
hour, quite deserted buildings beside a large dock. We drifted in, tied
alongside just at dusk, and gathered on the deck wondering what to do
next and whether anyone from the village should be notified of our
arrival.
Across the water a few early fires flickered in the town. On the dock,
high above, a half dozen men began to congregate, squatting to look down
at us with friendly curiosity. I decided to see what I could find out,
but when I climbed up the ratlines and so to the dock, I met with no
success. Phrases I had memorized in Dutch—in Indonesian—in Malay—nothing
seemed to arouse any understanding. At last, in desperation, I tried a
few words of Japanese—and suddenly we were off! Only then did I remember
that Bali had been held by the Japanese from 1942 until the end of the
war. Their Japanese was not much better than mine—but different. Anyway,
it served and through an exchange of very halting questions-and-answers
I learned that all the officials had gone for the day, that it was quite
all right for us to remain at the dock overnight, and that Den Pasar,
the main city of Bali, was 11 kilometers away and could be reached by
bus.
I returned to the deck, where we had a leisurely supper and turned in
early. To tell the truth, I was utterly exhausted. The family took a
short walk, but came back to report nothing of interest on our side of
the harbor except the dock buildings, a long, deserted causeway
stretching into the distance across tidal flats, and a stack of long
wicker baskets like porous sausages, each of which contained—a real,
live pig!
Even this news failed to arouse me. However the Balinese arranged to
package and store their bacon for export, it could wait, I decided,
until morning.
10 BALI, JAVA,
THE KEELING-COCOS
“A sense of uneasy anticipation....”
Bali was worth all the trouble it took to get there. Not only is it
spectacularly beautiful, with its rugged mountains, its misty vales, its
crumbling temples, and the glossy green of its rice paddies, but the
people are beautiful too. Outside of Den Pasar, where the tourists
congregate and create understandable disruptions and where it is
considered “rude” for women to go about unclothed above the waist, the
Balinese serenely follow their age-old customs, practice the Hindu
religion, which is the hard core of their society, and preserve their
independence and integrity.
In contrast to other countries we had visited, even the more remote
islands, we saw little influence of the West in Bali. No American
movies, not even in Den Pasar; no Cokes or chewing gum. Music could be
heard as one strolled the streets of a village at night, and it was not
rock and roll but the hauntingly compelling music of Bali, played on
drum and gamelin.
Our first act, after officially entering the next morning, was to take
the bus to Den Pasar to meet Barbara’s mother. Minnetta herself was on a
trip around the world, traveling by a somewhat faster means and at a bit
higher altitude, but the motivating aim of her entire junket had been to
meet us in Indonesia!
No one seemed to know the bus schedule, but all were happy to show us
where to wait for it. Eventually, a dilapidated bus pulled up, so we
climbed on and waited. And waited. And _waited_.
Several praus with wishbone sails pulled up to the sea wall and willing
hands began to unload. Stalks of bananas, bunches of coconuts, matting
bundles were all unloaded, carried up the sloping sea wall to the road
and thence up a narrow ladder to the top of the bus.