Pensive Vacation

            

            It was in nineteen eighty six. Thirty six years after we left Indonesia, when we could not resist the temptation to go back there on vacation. Relax, this is not going to be a travelogue to those all familiar places. Lest y’all flip the page and sigh: ”Been there, Done that!” Rather it is what turned out to be an unexpected journey into a dimension of time in which no one can enter but me, albeit a time only pertaining to my past. 

I had good memories of that country so there was no problem returning to my old stomping grounds. Besides, being an incurable dreamer, I am, "Often rebuked, yet always back returning to those first feelings that were born with me. And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning for idle dreams of things which cannot be".(Emily Bronte)    It was a different story with Barbara my wife, who only remembered as a small child, the misery of the Japanese camp and thus went back there with trepidation and mixed emotions.

Of course, we could not travel so far away from California and not swing by Singapore for a week first for some R&R from the 24 hour trip. There we spent a wonderful time of acclimating from jet-lag and pensively inhaling the various scents that whisk about like ghosts, leading me down the basement archives of my mind and dust off faded images of my own past.

My earliest memory of Singapore was when mom and kids went there to meet dad who returned from a Japanese POW camp and we all spent some time there in a tent camp, either Beatrix camp or Prins Bernard camp. I don’t remember which, but it was close to the beach. From there we were relocated to Tandjong Pinang on an amphibious PBY. Tandjong Pinang belongs to a group of tiny Islands of the Riow Archipelago, close to Singapore, but Indonesian territory. That is where dad’s new job was, to teach at a small grammar school. Mostly kids of the military and administrators, who were a small minority among the Chinese population. He seemed to be happy there with his new friends and played a lot of tennis; a lot of tennis, while mom was bored out of her skull.

She was accustomed to the genteel life of Bandung.Where grandma's large house provided for uncle Wim, Aunt Jo and family, uncle Emile and a few other families who were tenants in adjacent pavilions. With aunt Jo and her husband George Pikler, the band leader there was always some excitement going on. But now an occasional trip to Singapore was the only distraction she could indulge. So after a while the atmosphere at home got kind of tense. Mom wanted more parties with dancing, but the annual Koninginneball at the Resident’s house, where you obligingly watched your P’s and Q’s was not entirely her idea of fun. Eventually dad relented and we moved back to Bandung.

Come to think of it, I just remembered the Resident's name: Van Waardenburg. And I also remember one of his daughters’ names, Geesje, with whom I used to play on occasion. Out of curiosity and to check my memory, I Googled that name and something came up under the heading “The Indonesian Revolution and The Singapore Connection 1945-1949”. Wow! I always thought of Singapore as that clean and straight laced place. But there is always another side, is'nt there? Hotbed of spies, opium smugglers and arms dealers who tried to make a fast buck on the brewing revolution, cruising the Malaka strait in sampans.

A Dutch naval officer inspecting a vessel for smuggled goods.

And of course the story would not have been complete without mentioning a certain Captain, Raymond “the Turk” Westerling who, as the result of Special Ops. activity against the TNI , (Tentara National Indonesia) in Bandung, was now a fugitive wanted for mass murder.

He became the reluctant guest of Singapore authorities when trying to travel incognito with a false passport. The passport of a.....dead guy.......... who knows. Ironically he was put in the same cell with an Indonesian rebel and predictably a dogfight promptly ensued with the Indonesian suffering a broken jaw. Authorities dropped assault charges to deport the captain PDQ.
The TNI Siliwangi Div HQ, was located across the street where we lived and saw Cpt Westerling's brigade in action up close. We considered him a hero.
When the time came to move on to Jakarta, our next vacation stop, we had no idea where to go once we got there. But tante Ip Robert had earlier told us to make sure and visit her adopted son, Mr H. (name withheld to protect the guilty : ). So I called him from Singapore, explained who we were and that we were coming to Jakarta for a few days. It was just great to hear that he would pick us up at the airport and take us to a hotel that he would arrange. We packed our suitcases, including a little something for the customs agents, prominently visible upon opening of the suitcases, as was “customary”. (no pun intended). Mr H couldn't make it that day but he sent his son and chauffeur to pick us up. With the rest of the passengers we stood in line for customs declaration when Remy, mr H’s son picked us out of the line and whisked us passed the customs agents, as if he owned the joint, and out to a waiting car. We didn't even show our passports. (“Ahh, we’re home again” I thought, “and nothing has changed”). Well, this was only the first impression that soon would be corrected drastically when we saw the sights on the way to the hotel: Things did change!

That evening we had dinner at a restaurant with mr H and his lovely wife. Dinner was on the house since mr H. was the owner of this restaurant. (which was just one of many). It was a cozy place and according to mr H, served the best steaks in Jakarta. Something he took great pride in. During the course of our conversation it soon became apparent to me that we may well have been introduced to what I would characterize as “The Jakarta Connection”. There was some intrigue going on right then and there. Sitting at another table across the room were a bunch of Americans who seemed just a bit too familiar with mr H to be casual customers. He told me to go up to them and say hi, which I did. They were practically our neighbors, from Burbank California. Lockheed and General Electric to be exact. Mr H was probably just getting new engines and some parts for his private airplane. That’s what he used when he was going on vacation, sometimes returning with a couple of souvenirs like antique cars. I later learned from my best buddy that he was so far up the food chain that he “screens” anything and anybody if there was some connection with airplanes. (Hence the patronizing treatment at the airport.)When a small combo of the live entertainment came to our table to take requests I was tempted to ask for BTO’s “Taking care of business” (….And working over-time). But I settled for Malaguena instead since they were dressed as Mexican rancheros. They seemed to be surprised that I actually knew a tune they had in their repertoire and played it con appassionata.

Mr H had a humble start as one of many young people who sought temporary or not so temporary refuge in the home of Tante Ip and Oom Bernard who were evangelists, stretching the capacity of their home to the limit. When destiny took them to a fork in the road, mr H went one way while the rest of the “family” went the other way. Things became rather tricky. One day he returned for a visit when one of the uncles also came to visit. A hot headed KNIL man, armed with a sten-gun who did not know mr H with his long hair, characteristic of the unmilitary rebels. Taking aim to shoot, he was narrowly stopped by an aunt who jumped in between and frantically explained who the man was. Then came a time when that uncle was captured and imprisoned by the rebels and mr H came and used his influence for that uncle’s release and others. And so, I was sitting there at dinner, listening to those stories with details that get in the way of one’s judgment about who was good and who was bad. Details that one might refer to as the proverbial “fog of war”. In a way I was reminded of one of Hella Haase’s novels, with a difference between her Oeroeg and Mr H; Oeroeg growing up in the shadow of a condescending society of plantation owners and Mr H finding refuge in a family of caring evangelists whom I had the privilege to know.

During that time some three hundred thousand Indo’s had to or preferred to leave Indonesia for other parts of the world. Ironically, how many Indonesians have left Indonesia after the Indo's left. Many of them even going to Holland! And how many are still trying to get away. So from that perspective the Indo’s should consider themselves blessed. They can even choose to return to Indonesia to visit or live there with “AOW's” (Soc. Sec) gathered elsewhere and live high-on-the-hog (again).

LINKS.

The Indonesian Revolution and the Singapore Connection

Raymond "The Turk" Westerling

Tentara National Indonesia

Emily Bronte