“We’ll anchor here!” I repeated firmly.
There was such obvious dissatisfaction with my decision and so many allusions to “toi”—with the emphasis meaning very, very far, that I picked Ted alone to accompany me in to the shore. We started up the channel, but were quickly hailed by a soldier at a guard station. He spoke no English, but had an efficient-looking gun which spoke an easily understandable language. We rowed over and struggled with a Malay dictionary but were unable to communicate. Finally, soldier-plus-gun piled into the dinghy with us and waved us on up the channel. We started rowing again.
On the way we passed several hundred seagoing praus, brilliantly painted, all very real and all very much lived on. In this corner of the world, at least, the age of sail is far from over. As we toiled up the narrow canal, several of these ships passed us on their way in. It was truly thrilling to see them drive boldly for the entrance, fly up the channel, shedding canvas as they came, to reach their berths with sails neatly stowed and just enough way on to come snugly up to their dock. Such skill, however, doesn’t come from sailing even ten times around the world, but from generations of experience in a vessel which is not just an avocation but one’s whole life.
In the course of an hourlong trip we passed several check points before we reached the inner sanctum and were taken in hand by an English-speaking official. We explained the situation, showed our credentials, and blessed the lucky day that had given us the director of the Ford Foundation in Indonesia as a character reference. We were given permission to telephone Mike, who further cleared up the difficulties and gave us an explanation of what we had done.
We were, it seems, in Jakarta, all right—but in old Jakarta, formerly known as Batavia. Only sailing ships were permitted in here, many of whose crews were not entirely sympathetic to the existing government. During their stay in port all these ships were made to observe a rigid curfew and were kept under close observation. It seemed that our proper port was Tanjung Priok, the large new harbor for overseas vessels, five miles along the coast. Now we could understand the reason for the suspicious treatment, the guards, the frequent check points, and the barbed-wire fences. For all they knew, we were the vanguards of a revolutionary force, come to overthrow the regime.
By the time we got back to the Phoenix it was well after dark and Barbara was frantic with anxiety. Jessica was already asleep and Nick, Mickey, and Moto, quite unconcerned over our prolonged absence, also had retired. Had we been set upon and carved up by pirates? Were we languishing in some moldy Malay jail? Or were we having dinner with President Sukarno, as honored guests of the government? Any of these might have explained the delay, and I’m not sure which possibility caused her more anguish.
Actually, the only danger we ran was on the return trip when, with no flashlight, we were in constant danger of being run down by belated praus charging past in the dark to reach the channel before curfew.
The next morning, under power, we moved to Tanjung Priok in a foggy calm, groped for the entrance, and were met and escorted to a dock within easy rowing distance of the Tanjung Priok “Jachtclub,” one of the few holdovers from the colonial Dutch regime. There the Harrises, Minnetta, and cold drinks were waiting to welcome us, and we were made to understand that all the facilities of the club, including free use of restaurant and bar, were at our disposal!
The location at Tanjung Priok had little beside the hospitality of the yacht club to recommend it. It was steamingly hot, noisy, and odorous. The nights were made miserable by mosquitoes and by the hourly clangor of the night watchman, who punched his time clock every hour by beating a length of pipe upon a metal ring.
Thanks to the Harrises, some of us were spared this discomfort for all or a part of our three weeks’ stay, for they whisked Barbara and Jessica off to Jakarta. Barbara shared the guest room with her mother and Jessica moved in with Susan and began to gain back a bit of the weight and color she had lost during her illness.