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.