Our Trip to Indonesia

My mom lived in Montreal, Canada. In 1993, she gave all eight of her children $5,000 and said, “You can do with it what you want, but I hope that you will use it to visit Indonesia. Visit the place you were born and where we were in the concentration camp under the Japanese regime.”

On May 8, 1994, she passed away. She was still alert until almost the end. I was there for my regular visit once a year. She was in the hospital. We played our favorite card game -- bridge -- and talked; she was still OK but she knew that the end was coming.

After 10 days, it was time for me to go back home. The very day I was home Trixie, (my sister that took care of my mom until she had to go in a hospital) called me and said to come back right away, mam’s dying soon. I just turned around and took the first plane I could get back.

When I came to her bed, she looked at me and said: “Oh, Mies, you came back.” I held her hand and my oldest sister Fransje, the other, the other six of her children around her. About 15 minutes later she died peacefully.

The following year in the summer, my brother Piet tried to arrange a trip to Indonesia. He and his wife Ina, my sisters Letty and her daughter Petra, Trixie and I decided to go. Piet and Ina’s very close friends from Holland wanted to go too. So, we were with the eight of us. The three oldest sisters and my brother Jan didn’t or couldn’t make it.

Everybody left from Amsterdam airport, except me. I left from LAX. It was a five-hour flight to Hawaii and a 17-hour flight to Indonesia...way too long. I arrived in Medan, on the island of Sumatra. I came off the plane and saw nobody familiar. I found out their plane was a few hours late.

Well, what to do? I decided to leave my suitcase and big handbag in a locker and went out. I had to stretch my legs after that long flight. I walked until I saw some small eating places along the road and decided to try something. I was 14 years old when I left Indonesia for good. I soon found out that my knowledge of the Malayan language was very poor. Maybe it had changed since 1949.

I sat down. They put a small bunch of small bananas (sweet and delicious) before me and I ordered a beer. I was so thirsty. The beer was warm, but it was OK. Thank goodness that I changed some of my dollars for rupees (their currency). I was thinking of home in California, where they serve chips and salsa.

Then I walked back, the whole affair took about 2 ½ hours. But nobody was there yet. Now they told me that the plane was not arriving until the next day. What to do? I was all alone, spoke very little of their language, saw no taxis or hotels; actually I only saw the airport and the (not paved) street I walked on.

But there was a lady with a board and it said “Maria Zeeman” written on it. Oh, thank you Lord, that must be for me. She told me that my brother had called to find me and bring me to a place where he had rooms rented. Soon I found out that there were no hotels or motels. Private people would rent rooms out. She spoke good English, told me what I had to know and that she would pick the rest of the family up tomorrow.

Meanwhile it was only 2 p.m. so I told her that I would like to take a bedja (man on a bicycle with a big chair in front for me to sit in) and go to the passer (market). It was an “open air” place with all kinds of food and merchandise. I asked him to wait for me. I walked through the market with all kinds of fruit, spices, chickens and much more. It sure wasn’t clean and the market was on sandy ground. I walked further looking for a nicer place to fenster out.

Would you believe that there was a McDonald’s? Unreal, but I didn’t want to order anything but tea and a cookie. I left soon. But my “bedja” friend was nowhere to be seen. I walked on the street, but hardly anybody was around. My cell was worthless here and I didn’t see anything that would have a phone.

Finally, I saw a phone on the end of the street, but realized that I had no small change. Oh dear. It was getting dark. In Indonesia, it’s dark very fast. And I didn’t see a soul.

Then I heard a motorcycle and what do you know, it was the same lady that had picked me up from the plane. I was so glad and she told me that she was looking for me. I had to sit on the back of that thing. It was pitch dark and it was scary to say the least.

She took me back to the place. She told me never to be out in the dark and never say that you’re Christian. And don’t go all alone, it’s dangerous.

So much for the first day in my birth country.

Maria Zeeman is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.