“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.