Introduction

This is a transcript of my sister's story. It has been  produced and displayed with her permission. 

The situation was this: Tineke (Dorotine Engelien) was the last to be born of the 4 van der Kam children.  To be precise, she was born November 03 1935 on the island of Flores, in Ruteng. As our dad (Eise Eisinga) was a government official, he moved rather often, which meant that we moved rather often as well. From Flores he was transferred to the main island of the Indonesian archipelago, Java. Our stay on Java started in Surabaia, the town that also happened to be the place of my birth (1929), and ended in Tjiandjoer, which is located in the highlands of the district, West-Java. It was during our stay on Java that WWll broke out and we were all interned in Japanese prison camps. After the war the whole family was repatriated to Holland for rest and recuperation.

As can be seen, our stay on the island of Java was not very long. It is during these few years that our mother died in 1939 in Malang, which is located in East-Java. As should be clear, we were all rather young when that traumatic event took place. The two oldest children Ank and myself however knew our mother reasonably well as we were ten or thereabouts. The two youngest children, George and Tineke, hardly knew her at all. This lack of acquaintance with their birth mother was aggravated by the fact that Dad remarried before the war and the youngest two became totally dependent on the care of our step mother, Rie.

Although dad survived the war and lived to a ripe old age, his photograph is included in this story as my sister went back in time to connect with her past.

It is with this scenario in mind that I present my sister's story of her search for her birth mother and her place of birth. PV.

  An epic story of a  search for roots.

Our parents
Eise Eisinga van der Kam & Suzanne Brune
on their wedding day.

This story unfolds between Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia, in the West and the island of Flores, one of the Lesser Sunda Islands, in the East. (see map)

Arrival in Jakarta and the trip out East.
 

Saturday 23rd February 1991  
 

Dear Ank, Bas and George

I am going to try to give an account of my trip to Indonesia, which has been epic!  I am so glad Susan is backpacking through the world, otherwise I’d never have seen Indonesia again and realize how deeply I feel for that country.  It must be more so for you as you are older!

As you probably know, it started with Susan suggesting to Caroline that it might be a good idea if Mum joined her in Indonesia, but she hesitated to write to me and ask, thinking I would declare her mad.  Little did she know that with little persuasion from Caroline and Richard, Uncle Bob, who was here again for Christmas, and Tony, I set to to have my jabs and wrote to Susan in Kuala Lumpur that I was preparing to come.  She nearly freaked out!

So, everything was fixed and set in four hectic weeks, with everything falling into place like clockwork.  It has been so obvious that the Lord has been in all this from the start.  I was able to get a flight at a special rate for a month, and the visa was no problem.  My part-time job was taken care of, a rucksack borrowed from my son-in-law plus another small one, summer clothes dug out, and so on.  On Wednesday 23rd January, I set out with the bare essentials as Susan had advised and listed for me.  It worked out to be exactly right, and she was flabbergasted at the small amount of stuff I’d brought – thought I would never be able to do it, having seen me going on holidays with far too many clothes in an enormous suitcase!  Before leaving, I’d contacted Ank for some details about this and that, so she racked her brains and filled me in on what later turned out to be invaluable clues – thanks Ank!

I arrived in Jakarta, flying in over Tanjung Priok, on Thursday 24th in the afternoon.  Hit by 35°C and bright sunshine, I stepped out of the airport with a bright yellow rucksack on my back, a blue one over the shoulder, hat on head and sunglasses, to Susan’s great hilarity!  It was great to see her again after nearly four months.  She looked well, though thinner.  She led me to the place where all the ‘tuc tucs’ were and started to banter in Indonesian for a cheap ride to our Losmen.  I was very impressed at her confidence and cheekiness.  She obviously enjoyed all this, so we hoisted ourselves and luggage into this rickety thing and set out through hot, dusty, full, busy, colourful, noisy, sprawling Jakarta.  

  
Jakarta, a hot and hazy day.

On the way, I picked out smells of Dorian and other things, to the great amazement of Susan, who saw a new side to her mother, realizing how all the memories were flooding back of smells, sounds, sights and even language.  I felt at home straight away, and in my element despite the heat.  We arrived at the street known to backpackers for reasonable losmens where Susan and Mark had chosen quite a decent one for my sake at 9,000 Rps a night for a double room!  The Rp stands at 3,790 to a pound!

Losmen Nordich (Noordwÿk) was run by a lady who spoke Dutch, which I was to encounter (the language, I mean) many times in the month of traveling.  The room consisted of double bed, a small table and a fan - very basic but adequate to lay down a weary but very happy traveler.  So out came my sheet sleeping bag, and after giving Susan all her mail, while she read I snoozed.  Having been shown where the bathroom was, I mandi’d (the first one of many such glorious occasions) and met my first kakkerlak (cockroach), and had a welcome drink.

We went for a walk before trucking into my first gado gado in a haunt frequented by all the travelers.  It is quite a scene and experience.  I thought with my grey hair and age I would feel well out of place, but no – you see all sorts – young and old, in all sorts of garb.  The pace, of course, was immediately pelan pelan and very laid back and jovial.

The following morning, we went to a bank to exchange some of my money and look for a MacDonald’s (of all things!) as Mark was desperate for European junk food!  We then went sightseeing and, to be honest, I remembered or recognized nothing in the area where we were.  Jakarta is so vast now, full of high-rise buildings on the one hand, with the old familiar unchanged kampongs on the other, with the poverty and smells going with it.  But the people seem content.  They are friendly and helpful.  Did not see many beggars at all, and no people with sores or leprosy marks.

We climbed - well, used a very slow lift actually (operated by a very depressed-looking fellow who looked just at the Up and Down buttons) - to come out to see an incredible view from a monument.  Jakarta is bigger than Singapore now!  As it is the rainy season, the weather was overcast, but it was still lovely to see the mountains in the distance, Tanjung Priok, to which we were going later.  Downstairs was a permanent cinerama of the history of Indonesia, showing the occupations they had endured from way back, the last being the Dutch.  Made me almost feel bad to be Dutch, as their viewpoint, of course, was the only one shown!

The trip to the harbour was by bus, in which you have to be very aware that you do not get pick-pocketed.  As you walk around with all you possess on you, I found it a bit disconcerting but got used to it very quickly.  The walk to the harbour was through the dirtiest, busiest road I’d ever seen.  It was quite hair-raising as cars, buses, becaks, motorbikes and people go anywhere where there is space, with horns blasting continuously.  Roads here were full of holes filled with muddy water.  It was all very exciting and the view we came to see eventually was well worth the sweat and dust and dirty shoes and trousers.

All those old wooden sailboats that carry timber, cement, bricks etc are still unloaded manually on head or shoulders.  There are so many scenes that are unchanged.  Saw some old Dutch buildings still at the quayside from where we must have departed and arrived in ’48 on the ‘Willem Ruys’.  Susan, Mark and I then went for a ‘boat trip’ in a wobbly rowing boat amongst the ships etc.  It was rough, especially when Susan started to paddle too, as the boy just aimlessly went round in circles trying his English on us

That night we said goodbye to Mark, who had been Susan’s travel companion for 3½ months, as he wanted to go on to Bali for a week prior to going on to Australia, as his funds were running out.

Susan and I left the following morning for the station to go to Bandung, trying to find the area where Cihapit Kamp was and the hospital where I spent six months with kidney problems (by the way, Tj is now spelled ‘C’ but pronounced ‘tj’).

Wherever you travel, you get surrounded by young men (and not so young) who want to exercise their English, as that is obviously the brief they get from the teachers – to pick up unsuspecting tourists at train or bus stations!  While Susan was searching out where to get the tickets, I minded the rucksacks and was soon surrounded, so English class began.  Mind you, they then helped us through to an air-conditioned office and later onto the train.  

The journey was fantastic, and quite comfortable in second class, with fans keeping us relatively cool.  We passed Depok, Bogor, Cibadak, Sukabumi, Cianjur, Padalarang and Cimahi into Bandung.  So we went around Gunung (Mt) Gede.  The views were spectacular, the names and sights familiar, and Susan delighted at all the storied I told her as they came back to Memory Lane.  It was also rather emotional for me, as if all my childhood memories were being unlocked and recalled.  You must find, like me, that not having sister and brothers around, you do not reminisce and things get tucked away.  I have felt that this cuts away a huge chunk of yourself, almost as if that part didn’t really happen.  Well, I have concrete evidence now that it did! J  It was lovely to have Susan to share it with, as she saw and heard things she’d never heard before.  Hope she’ll pass it on in due course to Caroline.

Bandung Station was a world apart from Jakarta; it was clean, ordered and very colonial.  I loved it.  Again, Susan had done her homework and knew which road to look and ask for, and so off we went to find our losmen.  These turned out to be full, or too dirty or basic, so we splashed out and went in a ‘hotel’ with air conditioning.  What luxury – even the loo was Western!

After a mandi and a drink (we always walked around with a bottle of water in our haversacks – oh, and loo paper to wipe our brow and other things!) we went exploring and found our way to the Alun Alun in a becak, where it all looked very lively with all the people, all modes of transport, all the stalls with all the foods you may remember to be had.  How very tempting!

We then found ourselves on Jalan Braga, the once chic shopping centre of the Dutch in Bandung, now somewhat dilapidated but still with all the old buildings and shops.  We went for a satay again and nasi goreng special, which was delicious, in a very nice restaurant.  The waiter was very helpful and gave us information on where dances (the Javanese variety) and other things were taking place, but in the end we got so enthralled with the night market that we forgot all about it and ate putu, lumpar, dukus and mangis - and still didn’t get a tummy upset!

After making a makeshift washing line the following day, we did some very necessary washing and then set out to find ‘my hospital’.  After first going to the wrong area altogether, we went by becak through a real Dutch area where I can imagine we or our aunts may have lived.  If only I’d known more street names etc.  They have also changed many of these of course, but there are ways and means of finding out what was what.  Right after this the becak man dropped us off, huffing and puffing because of the hilliness and getting a flat tire.  We found our way to the hospital run by nuns, and with permission wandered around while a kind nurse took us to Suster Simona (Dutch), who chatted to us and was very interested in my story.  Indeed, there had been a Sister Iris right through the war, after which she went to Jakarta and, on retirement a couple of years ago, died a good old age in Holland!  Of course things have changed, but some things seemed familiar and I took some pictures in the hope that Ank might recognize more than I.  It was exciting that this might have been the place and the beginning of many links from the past.

In the afternoon, we went on to Pak Ujo in the hope of seeing and hearing the well known Anklung Orchestra.  Do you remember the bamboo  instruments that you shake gently to get a note?  Lovely sound.  Alas, no performance, but the son gives us a private exhibition and even plays a well known tune for us, which was fun.  Nearly bought an instrument but as we were only starting on our journey, I didn’t.

As we left, we saw the biggest bat ever, hanging in a tree.  He had a funny body and enormous hooks on his toes, and was fed fruit by a boy!  Walking to the bus, a chap with straw bags and other goods hanging from a bamboo pole over his shoulder came walking alongside to chat.  He turned out to be a student trying to supplement his studies.  Susan asked if she could carry the thing, which she did, to the great hilarity of the locals and the vendor!

Back in Bandung’s Alun Alun, we searched out our putu man and supped on those.  We never found such delicious ones afterwards!

On the 28th, we went on again by bus to Cirebon.  The trip took us about 3 hours I think, through the most lovely scenery you can imagine.  We went up and down mountain roads, along paddy fields and woods which all looked very lush and green.  Saw plenty of bamboo irrigation pipes, under which the locals would also bathe, of course.  Having left the mountains, the air became hot and humid again, but fortunately we found an old colonial hotel where we got a room for 23,000 Rps, with a very noisy but welcome air conditioner, and even a basin with running water.  We went out to eat the local speciality, nasi lengko, which was super, with afters of kwe madura, a steamed bright pink and green affair.  Yummy!  The meal cost us about £1.  The fare to Indonesia may be dear, but to live here is so cheap that it is well worth the expense of the flight, especially when you stay for a couple of months – which many Dutch people do, I’ve discovered.                                                             
The following day, before departing to Semarang, we visited the Kraton Kanoman where we met two Dutchmen who were teaching the locals to restore a 16th century carriage!  In the Kraton main hall, we saw two walls covered with Delft blue tiles and brown ones depicting the creation story and Jesus’ birth and death.  On to a Chinese temple, then in a becak back to the hotel to get our stuff.  The becak man unfortunately lost his way, which we didn’t mind at first as the price was fixed, but after passing through the same street three times, to the great joy of the locals, we were beginning to get a bit sore as these things are not designed for western bottoms!  Enfin, we made it in the end, and mandi’d and stood on the road for a bemo to the bus station.  One bus stopped, but it looked full already, so we waved it on.  But no – they insisted we’d fit in, so with a shove from Susan, I, plus two large rucksacks and two haversacks, was installed.  These things hold 7 or 8 – there were 12 of us plus luggage!  I pleaded with Susan to take the puddle that was once her mother with her to Semarang.

Tineke's highschool

We passed Brebes, Pemalang, Pekalongan (where we lived after the war) and Kendal amongst other places.  The trip was long, six hours, on hard seats behind the driver, who constantly hooted his horn and took hair-raising risks when passing other traffic.  The roads are all single-lane each way, so you can imagine the lousy mess of it all.  On the bus, all sorts of things happen like vendors boarding at every stop to sell their wares, buskers coming to sing and getting off again at the next stop, and everybody wanting to speak to us or just stare or touch.  They all think Susan is ‘Comti’ (beautiful) and tell her so.  We happened to pass the losmen we’d chosen to stay at, so the driver kindly dropped us right in front.  It was as well, for later we discovered how far the terminal was from the place, and to heckle with transport people at ten o’clock would not have been our favourite occupation – so the Lord provided again.  

The following day, we went in search of a tourist office, when we met with a lady who spoke English and Dutch who appointed herself to be our guide for the day! She was determined to help me find our house, my school and church.  Semarang is so changed and grown bigger that it was quite difficult, but to cut a long story short, we found the Concordante HBS and ate at the famous Soho Den  where Pap and Mam used to treat us to their famous ice-cream - so now it was my turn to treat my daughter to the still delicious ice-cream made to the same recipe!  In the afternoon, we encountered our first tropical downpour, which flooded Semarang in no time.  We were glad to be in a taxi, which dropped us off at our losmen in Jalan Imam Bongol.

The beds are, on the whole, kapok mattresses on boards and are rock hard, as they obviously never get rolled up and turned!  The following day we got up rather sore and a bit tired, as we’d been rudely woken up in the night by some animal who’d made a dreadful rumpus above us, which made Susan jump of her bed with the speed of lightening!  It took us a while to assure ourselves it couldn’t come through the ceiling!  Breakfast at those places consists of two slices of not-so-nice white bread with a lick of jam and a hard-boiled egg – cold!  Choice of tea or Kopi manis.  We loved the coffee, which is still Kopi Tobrook, or you may ask for Nescafé.  

  On to Yogyakarta, a trip of about 4½ hours, via Magelang.  We’d met a very nice young  man in Semarang who’d insisted we stay with his parents in Yogya, so we phoned them form the bus station and the lady of the house told me in Dutch to come, as the room was already prepared!  They were a delightful family with lots of boys, or rather young men, as lodgers.  They loved Susan, of course, and she had a good time teaching them English and the game ‘Pass the Pigs’!  I had a good time with the parents, who loved speaking Dutch and asked me all sorts of questions about Holland and England and tempo dulu.  He brought out an old Dutch hymn book and one with Dutch songs and invited me to sing along with him!  They were lovely committed Christians who could not do enough for us.  

We were escorted by the son and a friend to the Kraton, where I tried to take pictures of an arch for Emmy, as her father had apparently designed  it, but there was a big Koran-reading competition going to be held, for which they’d built a huge podium right in front of the palace on the Alun Alun. 

We saw some beautiful Javanese dancing, a lot of Delft blue pots and vases, Dutch streetlamps, all in the Kraton.  

We went to see the Borobudur, 

which is indeed impressive, the Pranbahan, the water palace, bird market and a batik ‘factory’.  It is still so very primitive, and you wonder how on earth they can achieve the work they do.  Also went to see Tom Silver, where the famous Yogya silver comes from.  We went to these places in an  andong or dogkar, with the poor horse sweating away.  Before we went in any transport, we had to ‘towar’ (bargain), except for the long-distance buses and city bemos.  It was a great game, at which Susan and I became very good.

On Sunday, we went to church with the family at 6.30 am.  A big congregation, who sang hymns to Dutch tunes, so I gaily sang along with them!  On the way home we had a translation of the sermon, which was very good.  Totto (the son) was going to show us the views of the Merbabu and Mt Merapi, but alas there was low cloud and therefore no mountains to see. 

Arrival in Malang where the search for mother's grave takes on a life of its own.

Our breakfast was beras ketan for me – yum - and rice and soto for Susan, with lots of krupuk.  For about 10 days, we ate no bread anywhere, which suited us well, though when in Malang we had a choice of toast with ceplok and we went for it!  Yes, by the fourth of February we’d travelled to Malang by ‘traveller’, which is a minibus that takes you from door to door.  The trip took 7½ hours via Surakarta, Ngawi, Ngajuk, Kedir, Blitar, Kepanjen, up to Malang.  

Post office in Malang.

Of course, I can’t remember Malang, but I liked it instantly.  The weather was coolish and overcast.  We’d been dropped at Totto’s aunt’s house but we heard that she’d gone to her son-in-law’s funeral!  So no way were we going to stay, and went to a losmen recommended by Totto’s mother by becak.  We needed two, one for Totto plus our rucksacks, and one for Susan and I.  Just then, the heavens opened and we proceeded with huge plastic sheets put over us – it was quite a sight! 

Losmen Kawi was a lovely place - a big colonial house with several wings, with lots of rooms and a gallery where you could sit.  It was very neat and clean, and I felt at home immediately.  Mrs Darwis spoke Dutch and lived in the way we used to live as I remember it.  She had several maids (she called them servants).  The baboe tjuci made a good job of our dirty clothes, which was a treat.  The kokkie cooked delicious meals, which I sampled while Susan and Totto went to climb Mt Bromo.  On arrival, I was pretty tired, and when I heard we had to be up at six again in order to go to the cemetery early, get tickets for the bus to Probolingo, travel on a truck to the foothills of Mt Bromo, sleep there to get up at 1 am to start the climb and reach the top at sunrise, I freaked out.  I just couldn’t cope, so Susan said she’d go with Totto and I stay put, which suited me very well.  We still got up at six, but took it more slowly.

The search for mother's grave.

The evening before Susan had, at my request, bought some roses.  I’d wanted four to represent each of us, but they don’t sell them as they do here – only rose heads which fall apart as petals, so off we went with the little plastic bag to the cemetery called Sukun where the Christians still get buried.  On arrival, we were very impressed by the neatness of the place and the efficiency of the office.  We explained that I wanted to know if my mother’s grave was here.  I gave them the name and the year of death, and promptly they produced two old books through which we could look.  The personnel were very interested and very helpful.  In no time I found the entry: ‘3938 KAM, Brune Suze A, aged 40, died 09.06.39.  Monument’.

They then proceeded to look up the number on a map of the cemetery and established that it was in Block III, so some of the men went to search it out.  

We took some photos of the entry in the book, and after five minutes or so, the chap came back, having located our mother’s grave, but he said the writing was gone.  My heart sank, as I asked how he could be sure it was the right grave.  “Well, because of the number”. 

 There was no mistake – the number was still very visible, though mossy, and I must say that both Susan and I were very impressed by the big gravestone.  Indeed, the marble had been removed.  I would have loved to read what Paps had put on it.  I put our flowers on it and just stood there fore a while with all sorts of thoughts going through my head, and questions.  Susan and I were really choked up.  I took some photos, so if any of you would like them, let me know.  I don’t want to be maudlin about it, but I thought you might like to see it. Behind mother’s grave is Mt Arjuno in the distance.  It was a rainy day, but the photos have come out quite well.

 This visit and discovery of Mams’ grave gave me great satisfaction but also a deep sense of grief, strangely enough, and when Susan and Totto had gone off for their trip, I did a lot of crying, as if for the first time experiencing real grief at Mams’ death. I walked around a bit in the area named after the mountains, wondering where we would have lived before and after the war.  I took a photograph of Boulevard Idjen, now called Jalan Besar Idjen.  There is also Jl Bromo, Jl, Arjuno, and Jl Tenes where all the tennis courts are, apparently unchanged.  It was lovely to have a day on my own to rest a little and enjoy the colonial flavour again, and chat with a Dutch couple who were going to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary there, as they were married in Malang.  They’ve found their house and were allowed to have a look!

 When at the cemetery, an official had asked if I wanted a new inscription, but I declined as I don’t know what had been there in the first place.  Can any of you remember?  Can you remember ever visiting the grave?  Do you remember which church we went to?  We looked at a protestant church built by the Dutch on the corner of Jl Bromo – or was it near the Alun Alun?  Again, I took some photos so that when you come, you can have a look!

Susan and Totto came back tired and wet and disappointed, as there was no sun and it poured with rain, so they haven’t even any pictures to show  for the fact that they went up Mount Bromo.  

Malang – Ruteng  

The following day, we leave Malang on an air-conditioned coach for Bali, via Banjuwangi.  We say goodbye to Totto, who’s been a good friend and guide, and board this nice coach to travel overnight.  We arrive at Denpasser (Bali) at 4 am, and have to find transport to take us to Kuta.  This was not a very nice experience.  We got the usual lot of men around us trying to give us transport and being very pushy about it.  At that time of day, we were not at our best, but I must say that Susan kept her cool despite the fact that one chap became a bit tactile!

After the ride, we soon found a losmen,put our stuff down and went for a walk to the beach through waterlogged streets.  You can imagine the state we got in, but the mandi bak is good for that!  Everywhere are offerings to the gods with joss sticks.  We were glad they didn’t put them in our room though.  We went to fix our flight to Flores, and chose to go to Maumere as Ruteng was inaccessible by air through low cloud and heavy rain.

So the following day, we flew in a tiny twin-engine propelled plane over Lombok and Sumbawa to Flores in the North East (hope you have your maps out!) 

The views were incredible as we flew so low and slowly, it looked very rugged and mountainous, and lush green.  A chap told me where Ruteng was, but all I saw were clouds.   We were getting very excited at the prospect of exploring Flores, and Ruteng in particular.  At the airport, we teamed up with two young men and shared a taxi to a losmen, where we met another (German) couple who asked whether we intended to visit Mt. Kelimutu.  As all six of us did, we chartered an eight-seater vehicle and set off the following day. 

The evening before we left, Susan and I walked around in Maumere. In the high street, pop music was blaring out but as soon as we turned off onto a side track, we were in a typical kampong with snotty children calling “Hello Mister!”, pigs and piglets rooting around, chickens scratching for food, and old folk just sitting outside watching life go by.  We thoroughly enjoyed this scene – also at the harbour, where young boys were diving into filthy water from the quayside with great enjoyment.  They love water, don’t they, here in Indonesia?

So, we set off at 10 am with Ciska driving the Toyota that he’d borrowed from his brother.  Susan and I sat in the front with him and had a good go at speaking Indonesian with him.  As our breakfast had consisted of a sort of cake and kopi manis, we rather fancied some kelapa as we were driving through these endless kelapa groves.  The Roman Catholic priests have set this up with a booming copra industry.  So, I mentioned that if he saw a stall that sold kelapa, we would like to buy some.  After half an hour or so he stopped in the road where three boys had just been up a tree and were enjoying their kelapa. Ciska had a word with them and one of them went up a tree like a monkey to pick us a kelapa each! This was kelapa muda (young coconut) and had so much clear milk in it that we couldn't drink it all though we'd been very thirsty. The boy then proceeded to make a sendok (spoon) for me to scoop out the thin flesh, which was delicious.  Everybody was thrilled with this interlude, as you can imagine.

On to Wolowari, where we had a delicious lunch of nasi goreng with lots of krupuk.  As we'd chartered the vehicle we could ask Ciska to stop on occasions to take photos and stretch our legs.  The roads are incredible and single-track, making passing the oncoming traffic (very little fortunately) a hazardous exercise!  Later, Susan and I were to discover that this trip was peanuts compared with what was to come!

The scenery was breathtaking -  the greens are so green and fresh (rainy season) with splashes of red of kembang spatu and canas.  As the road was so bad, we had a flat tire, which was changed before a great audience from the kampong,  and our luggage nearly fell of the roof!

We got to Moni at about 4 pm and found a delightful losmen of a set of bamboo huts (rooms) + bathroom on stilts.  The thatched huts looked very idyllic but were really quite cold and windy and mossified - not to speak of the dampness!  

The weather did not look promising for the following day when we were to go up Kelimutu, so we struck a deal with Ciska that he take us as far as he could to it, and then later drive us on to Ende!  Tim and Jeff were going to walk up, and set off at 2 am, but the rest of us chose a ride so had to rise at 4 am.  There was no electricity, the wind howled and we began to wonder what on earth we were doing this for.  Ciska wound his way along a potholed road with great skill, and as it was dry we were hopeful that we might see the three lakes, but the higher we went the mistier it became.  The last bit we walked, and stood in strong winds and mist at the highest point to wait for sunrise at about 5.50 am.  We waited 2 hours and got quite damp and we became a bit despondent, when suddenly a chink of blue sky appeared and we had a ray of sunshine for 10 seconds or so, but in that that time we feasted our eyes on the most beautiful emerald green-colored lake.  It was amazing, and worth waiting for.  It was a pity we didn't see the blue or the black lake - we had to buy a photo instead!  

Back at the losmen, Tim and Jeff had a sleep and we drank welcome hot tea while listening to Indonesian choruses being sung, so Susan and I sang along in English!  After a couple of hours, the men surfaced again and we set out for Ende.  This was a trip to be remembered - beautiful views again - rugged, grandiose, impressive and awe-inspiring.  The road was like nothing ever seen in Europe, but Ciska negotiated holes and boulders and mud puddles with great skill.  It was quite something!  

By the way, do you remember having eaten pisang brana?  Apparently that is Flores' special one.  Ciska put us on to it so we bought a whole comb for 500 Rps = 15 pence for 12 - and they were delicious.  

We settled into Losmen Safari and went out to look for somewhere to eat, and afterwards explored the area.  Lots of mountains around.  We looked out on to Gunung Medja (table) which looked like a volcano that had lost its top.  

The following morning, up at 5.30 am, breakfast at 6 am and we are ready for our trip to Ruteng, which another chap would undertake if the river beds were negotiable!  It had been dry for two days and nights so we were hopeful  - only to have our hopes dashed because it was obvious the chap was not interested and let us down, with the excuse of a swollen river.  So the German couple dashed for the ‘airport’ and so did we after some thought, only to find Ruteng was closed to all air traffic and there were only flights to Labuhonbadjo on the west coast.  So the other four decided to take that flight, but Susan and I went back to the losmen and booked a bus to Ruteng for the following day.  That gave us a thoroughly lazy day, which was quite welcome as I'd become rather tired.   

After getting up again at 5.30 am, we were ready to go to the bus terminal where, on arrival, we were swamped with drivers who wanted our custom.  However, we found the one we'd booked with and had our rucksacks hoisted  onto the roof, alongside all sorts of things which the locals were taking on their trip.  We sat beside a family with three little ones, who were as good as gold.  The children are so easy here - it seems they’ll sit on anyone's lap and are very placid and accommodating.  They cram so many people onto the bus that it can get quite uncomfortable, but nobody fusses and there is always room for more!  

We had heard conflicting stories about the length of the trip; some said it would take 7 hours, other 12, others a day.  The route took us all along the coast and was beautiful, on a fairly good road, which lasted an hour.  Then it changed into a horrendous dirt track, where one minute we bit the dust, another went through mud lakes.  Another moment we pitched from side to side and thought on occasions we'd roll over at the next boulder, and at other times we bounced up and down as if there were no tomorrow.  A little nun in front of us (whose legs didn't touch the floor) had a hard time hanging on.  This lasted about 2½ hrs!  

We had a stop at 10 am to ‘makan’ (eat) but at that time we were not at all hungry and were sure we'd stop for lunch as we'd done on other long trips.  The toilets, if you can call them that, were awful, so we didn't spend a penny either.  Bought two small packets of peanuts to nibble, and we all got back on.  Little did we know that this was going to be our last stop till Ruteng, 8½ hours later.  The bananas we still had had perished in the heat so we were grateful for the handful of peanuts and the bottle of water each.  It's as well we drank little, otherwise we wouldn't have survived the journey.  As the buses go once a day, they are used to pick up letters from convents and other places, as well as delivering mail and other goods.  The two nuns were very busy.  

Flores is 95% RC.  The feel of the place is good, the people friendly and helpful, and ever-curious. They loved it when we told them that we were going to visit my birthplace - it caused great excitement and interest.  Fortunately, we hit a good bit of road until two hours away from Ruteng, when the road seemed almost impassable, with patches of mist to boot. The driver deserved a medal and you wonder if or when a bus will just not make it.  He too, of course, had not stopped or rested since 10 am.  His arms must have ached from negotiating this road and endless hairpin bends.  This was truly an adventurous trip, pioneering-style.    

What I haven't told yet is that we had to cross two rivers, and as bridges were under construction, we had to go through the riverbeds.  One was quite dry, the other was wheel-deep, but we made it without having to get out and paddle or push!  At times we saw whole chunks of road gone and the passageway became even narrower, especially when there had been a small landslide too.  Some road repairs were in evidence but it must be an almost insurmountable task to keep the only road from east to west in good shape.  The Dutch started this road, of course.  

You can imagine that we were very grateful to arrive in Ruteng, (28) though gray and rainy.  We’d often wished we could have stopped to take pictures as we went through lovely villages, one with strange ngadas, which are wooden poles with thatched roofs looking like half-opened umbrellas, which were supposed to ward off ancestral spirits.  We also saw a truck full of people going to market, having strung all their chickens upside down on the outside.  You can imagine the noise that went on!   

At Losmen Sindha, we ate a welcome nasi goreng and bedded down in damp beds with damp blankets.  I fortunately found some newspapers that I put between the mattress and my sleeping sheet, and slept like a top till eight - the beginning of a very fruitful and exciting day.  

During the night it had poured and poured but now it was dry but dull, with clouds covering the mountains.  The owner of the place was very excited about my story and my search for where our house was etc, and said that he would put me in touch with an elderly lady who'd been here since 1934 and spoke Dutch!  He was a bit pushy and obviously wanted to be our guide, making  out that distances were big, but we found out that we could easily walk around, which I preferred, wanting to explore in our own way the clues Ank had given.  

So, soon found the Alun Alun with the big waringin and some low buildings which were obviously new-ish, but nevertheless I felt excited.  I took some pictures to make a panorama to show you and to see if you recognise it.  We then walked round the square and came to an old-looking RC church at the end of what seemed to be the main road into the shopping area.  

Susan and I quizzed some boys who were following us but they could not help, and then Susan spotted what looked like a parochial office.  We made a beeline for it, as I was convinced that a priest could help, if anyone, to answer my questions.  The people in the office took us to a chap who turned out to speak Dutch, so after an explanation he told some boys to take us to the missi to meet with a Pater Verheyen.

Standing on the doorstep, we had to wait in great anticipation before this tall, obviously Dutch, priest opened the door.

So I said: ‘Good morning.  I’m Tineke Chilvers – Van der Kam and I wanted to ask if you can still remember my parents?  His reaction was amazing.  ‘Van der Kam!  What a fine man!  You must feel proud to have such a father!’  He could have knocked me over with a feather - couldn't believe he was talking about Paps, as his reaction was so swift and direct.  

He took us into his office/bedroom/living room and, seated at his desk, proceeded to tell us that he'd come to Ruteng in early 1936 and had known Paps and admired and respected him greatly.  He possessed a paper on Roti which Paps had written, which was excellent, but did not know where it was at this point.  He said what a fine man Paps was, with great feeling for the people and very fair.  He had oversight of Mangarai, which is the largest ‘province’ of Flores with Ruteng as capital and most populated.  His memory was so clear, it amazed us. He told us about Pater Burger (who was Austrian), that he was in charge of catering, so no wonder Mams had received vegetables and things from him.  

When I asked whether he remembered Mams at all, he had to admit not very well as she was ‘sickly’ and obviously not around much.  But he did tell me a story that she had made the brothers a big ‘Welcome Back’ cake after having been away on a mission, with ‘To the Twelve Apostles’ written on it, as there were twelve of them.  It was very much appreciated after a long trek on horseback.  So much so, apparently, that he remembered it to this day.  Pater Verheyen then suggested that I should speak with Mrs Kumaat, as she had been here all that time, and before.   

The Pater is also involved in writing books about the flora and fauna of the Mangarai district for the University of Leiden (Holland).  The walls of his room were filled with bookshelves, piled high with books.  I will write to him soon and ask if he can find a copy of Pap’s article and send it to me before he retires to Holland – after all, he is 82!

We left him, very grateful for his hospitality and the information he had shared with us, and went back to the losmen to await Mrs Kumaat’s visit.  Pater Verheyen also said what staunch and devout people our parents were, and that Paps had a good working relationship with the brothers.  Pater Verheyen so obviously remembered Paps with respect and affection, which moved me.  Susan was touched and fascinated by all this, as you can imagine.  I asked him about the entrance to the ‘missi’ , which turned out still to be there, although the garden frontage is now less deep as there is a gate and he has planted coffee.  So we went to the entrance steps from which Mams came, with all the brothers following, and Susan took a photo of the Pater and me on those same steps.  Wasn’t that great?!  

Mrs Kumaat came with an old battered black book under her arm, smiling shyly but obviously keen and pleased to meet us.  When I asked if she remembered my parents, she grinned all over her face and proceeded to tell me that Paps had been present at her wedding and that she had the document with her, saying that ‘In the presence of Mr Eise Eisinga Van der Kam …’ etc, etc!  She later gave Susan and I a photocopy.

She told us a story of when her baby son was very ill and she had difficulty in nursing him in her dark house, which only had wooden shutters.  So she trotted to his office where he was still to be found at one o'clock (that must have been special).  Paps asked: “How can I help you?”  So she told him her plight and wondered whether she could have some windows put in.  Paps said that that would be possible and would see to it.  So after a few days a carpenter arrived and fixed the windows, which are still there today and she insisted on escorting us there, though she doesn't live there any more.  As it was raining, I wondered whether it made any sense to take a picture but I did, and it came out fairly well.  She insisted we go in, having asked the present resident, and showed us where she and her husband sat, with Paps beside her on her other side during the wedding reception.  She obviously relished and cherished that memory.  

She could not tell much about Mams as she was ‘ziekelijk’ (sickly) but remembered her walking around the big garden with her parasol, tending her flowers which were at the front of the house and the vegetables which were at the back.  She too was full of admiration for Paps and said that he was the handsomest man in town!  She kept on looking at Susan and then said that the top half of her face was like him!  Mrs Kumaat told us that her husband was a male nurse and worked closely with Dr Harahab.  If he was away, her husband would be in charge.  She, as was Pater Verheyen, was almost certain that I was born at home.  Can you remember that?  (Bas’ reply: My answer is, yes I can, but I say that only because I wouldn't know where else Mams would go to have you).  Dr Harahab would have been in attendance. (Bas: That would follow!)  

After visiting her old house, where we were treated like royalty by her friends and neighbours, she insisted on showing us where our house was. It stands no longer, but has been replaced by low government buildings.  The house was in the shadow of a huge waringin (tree).  The office was next to the house, and still stands.  The whole plot is very big so we must have had a very big garden.  

The whole day turned out to be very special and I just couldn't get over how God led us all the way and to the right people and places.  The mission of tracing my roots was more than fulfilled.  Of course I would like to know a lot of things, but as you probably have come to remember more now, or other things or episodes again, I hope to hear them.  Bas and George - be prepared for lots of questions!  

As we could not fly out from Ruteng because of bad weather, we booked a bus  journey to Labuhonbajo on the west coast.  I shan't describe the journey as it was again very bumpy and wild, with a bus full of families who brought their live chickens, boxes, tikers (bedrolls) etc, etc.  They seem to make a sport of fitting as many people as possible into the vehicle, and nobody complains but just move up and take children on their laps and chat and joke cheerfully with each other, and everybody minds everybody’s business.  This trip took about 5 hours and cost 3500 Rps, which is less then £1.

We were grateful to have an afternoon's rest before pushing off again to Denpasser (on Bali) in the smallest plane we'd ever been in.  It was a twin-engined Otter, which you got into by bending to choose your seat and sit almost with your chin on your knees, looking over the shoulder of the pilot for take-off.  It was so small that not only our luggage had to be weighed, but we had to stand on the scales too!  It was superb, as we flew so low that we had spectacular views.  It was a shame we had to change planes in Bima on Sumbawa, where we caught a larger plane, but again you could just sit where you liked.  We met a nice Dutch couple on this trip who had been to Indonesia three times before, on two-month holidays.   

The flight is dear, but life there is cheap - I brought half my money back.  We did, of course, the “travellers’ way” of travel, so followed Susan's book: "South East Asia on a Shoestring".  At my request, we didn’t choose the very cheapest, but I didn’t want to push Susan into a higher budget than she’d set herself, though at times it was inevitable.  On average, we spent 12,000 Rps (£3.16) for a double room with breakfast.  Breakfast usually consisted of a sandwich of jam     with a cold hardboiled egg and tea or coffee – or we ate breakfast out for 500 Rps (14 pence) when it was not included, or when, in one case they would have charged 1000 Rps (28 pence), which we thought was outrageous!  Transport too is very cheap.  The flight from Bali to Flores cost £42 one-way.   Fruit in the market is so cheap you can hardly believe it.  A kelapa is 3 p, mango 3 p, a kilo of mangis or rambutan (lychees) about 10 p.  We ate easily and deliciously for about £1.00 (1991 currency).  

So, folks, when are you going?  

The last three days we spent in Ubud on Bali, which was lovely, with beautiful countryside.  Saw some beautiful Balinese dances against a typical Hindu palace background.  We enjoyed the peace of Christian Flores and Hindu Bali, whereas we’d been woken up in Java at 4.30 every morning by the wailing Muslim call, or crowing cockerels that everyone seems to have in the back yard!  

Wednesday 23rd February – the sad  day came of parting and going our separate ways.  For Susan, to Australia to continue her travels, and for me, home, after an epic journey that will fill me with memories that will last me for ever.  Hope you enjoyed my account  of it.  I was very much aware that I was looking for you too, and I really hope and pray that you will have the opportunity to trace your roots.  Though we were separated from each other at an early age, we have much in common and this trip has made this very clear to me, to my delight.  It has been emotional, strenuous, frustrating, but above all, healing for me.  

I sign off now and send you my love, and hope and look forward to seeing you soon.

  Your "zussie"

  Tien 

Slamat djalan bung!

Note: On Dec. 12, 1992 an earthquake hit the island of Flores
killing some 2,500 people and destroying nearly 80% of the city Maumere.