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.