The Journal

Java, Indonesia
Barbara and Ben-A Painful Memory
(not their real names)
February 19, 2000


We had docked in the port of Semarang, Java, in the early morning of
February 19.

     For some reason, I had decided I wanted a day on my own rather than
setting off on a thirteen-hour bus tour to Borobudur, the famous Indonesian temple built when the Hindu-Buddhist empires reached their peak. It was a three- hour bus ride each way to this massive architectural wonder, and in this summer's heat and humidity, it would be extremely hot when you got there.  To take full advantage of the temple experience, I'd have to walk the 3 ¼-mile trek around and up each level to the top of this huge
structure.
     For the first time since I'd been on this trip, something was keeping me from going on this tour. Instead, my friend Jackie and I had agreed to meet at 8:30 a.m. in the Mayfair lobby.  We intended to hire a guide and car for the day, perhaps to visit the market in a neighboring town.
      However, this was not to be.
      As we stood there, suddenly a friend stopped us and said, "Barbara's husband Ben just died."
We stood there in shock.  Barbara and Ben had become friends of mine when we traveled together and shared a memorable visit to Iguazu Falls just two months before.  I had grieved with them just a month or so earlier when in a tragic accident,  Ben's son and his wife had died in an avalanche while skiing in the Rockies.
     A lovely couple who had been together just four years, Barbara and Ben were two retired folks who seemed as energetic as teenagers.  It was a pleasure to see their love of  life before this unexpected tragedy had forced them to return home temporarily. But now they were back and sharing expedition adventures again.
     As Jackie and I stood there, shocked at the news, Barbara stepped into the lobby.
     A World Cruise staff member accompanied her.  We hugged Barbara and asked if we could help--we knew the staff had many responsibilities on a port day, and most were off leading land tours already.
      As we sat with Barbara in the nearby library, thoughts came to me about the tough decisions she'd have to make under very difficult circumstances before this day ended.  The death of a foreigner in any country is a terrible ordeal, but when it happens unexpectedly in such a remote place as Semarang, Java,  things can get horrendously complicated.  Graeme Martin, the staff member in charge of the ship for World Cruise
Company, and his staff had already shown great compassion and had helped Barbara as the situation had deteriorated earlier that morning.
     Though he had asthma, Ben, 80, had been a man in good health. However, he had not recuperated fully from a cold he had picked up early in the trip and had been under the ship doctor's care as he tried to kick chronic bronchitis. Just after breakfast that morning, without warning, he had suffered a massive coronary and died peacefully in his room.
       It was now just after 9 a.m.  Barbara had just finished calling her children and Ben's in the United States from the ship's radio room.  The doctor had just completed his duties in their stateroom.  Now Barbara was asked to go down to the gangway on Ruby Deck to await police and harbor authorities.  A strong woman under normal circumstances, even now Barbara seemed to possess remarkable self-control, but we knew she shouldn't face
the coming ordeal alone.
     As Jackie and I waited for the police with her at the head of the gangway, the hot, steamy Indonesian wind blew through the open door.  The air was already  stifling, and it was still early morning.  Finally, the police arrived, the ship doctor produced an official looking letter, and Barbara was informed she had to accompany the body to the Semarang hospital to complete a barrage of legal forms.
     An autopsy would have to be performed. She would need to respond to questions from the police, port authorities, and hospital officials, meet with a funeral director to establish details for cremation, receive an official death certificate, and make sure she had other appropriate documents allowing her to reenter the United States.
     Unfortunately, all these proceedings would have to be transacted in the language of the Indonesians.
     Recognizing what Barbara had to face, World Cruise staff knew she needed a friend at her side.  They asked if I would be willing to accompany her.  We would go with the Indonesian port agent who represented the company and would act as interpreter.  Of course, I agreed and the painful journey began.
  Together, we rode in the back seat of an un-air conditioned van as it trailed closely behind a green hospital ambulance.  Its red roof lights flashing, the ambulance made its way slowly through the teeming industrial city of Semarang.  The Indonesian port agent steered through the heavy traffic, chattering loudly on a cell phone as he called ahead to assemble
necessary officials to meet with Barbara.
     As we made our way along the congested streets, bumper to bumper cars inched over to the side, clearing the way for the ambulance.  The roads were clogged with taxis and  bagaks-the omnipresent three-wheel bike rickshaws that maneuvered their way over the hot asphalt, hauling heavy loads of passengers.   We inhaled the choking fumes from old automobiles and passed by myriad banners and signs printed in Indonesian but instantly recognizable with the words "Coca cola," "Shell," or "Nestles" popping out at us. Semarang was an industrial city jammed with a growing population whose survival hinges on the production of petroleum and natural gas, textiles, mining, cement, chemical fertilizers, plywood, food, rubber, and finally, tourism.
      The journey seemed endless.  Actually, it took only half an hour.  I  remember thinking  this was one of the most surreal experiences I had ever had.
      On that long trip to the hospital, Barbara talked of how Ben had wanted more than anything to take her on this global expedition  She described how happy he had been just two nights before as we had sailed away from Bali, and she mentioned his desire to show her all the beautiful sights of Java.
      If the drive to the hospital seemed surreal, the events once we arrived seemed even more so.
      We lost the ambulance at a hospital gate and had to circle around to find the proper entrance.  Once there, Barbara and I stood  wilting in the heat on a stucco veranda as clinic patients sat staring from benches near us.  We were a strange sight--two foreign women surrounded by about ten Javanese men, including harbor and city police in uniform and a funeral director and several hospital officials.  Most of them were smoking, and a cloud of foul cigarette smoke filled the air around us.  Our interpreter, the port agent, was the only one who spoke English.
         Finally, we were summoned into a musty room and asked to sit at a battered desk.  I was informed I would serve as a witness to the police proceedings that followed.  Each line of every statement had to be translated from Indonesian to English by our interpreter.
             I repeated most of the questions to make sure Barbara understood clearly what was going on and what she (and I) were being asked to sign. I still don't know the Indonesian word for signature, but I signed on the spots indicated.
      Official authorization for an autopsy had to be completed, and later, cremation forms also had to be authorized. Before this could happen, a hospital doctor had to interview Barbara.  We were summoned into his office. There we sat on a faded brown leather sofa, surrounded once more by police, hospital and port officials.
      The doctor asked about the circumstances leading to Ben's death. Everyone listened intently at the translation of her responses.  I glanced around and for a few minutes felt intensely nervous.  After all, here we were in a strange hospital in a strange land without an American authority in sight.  Finally, after a number of questions, the doctor in charge
picked up a heavy rubber stamp and thumped his approval onto the official document we had signed.  I was relieved that the proceedings were almost over.   We shook everyone's hand and prepared to leave the hospital.
      Then what in retrospect seems like a scene from an old silent movie, a hospital official asked a question and I heard the word, "bathroom?"
      Not knowing how long the wait would be until we returned to the ship, I said yes, but I was a little apprehensive.  Walking through the hospital hall earlier, I had noticed a hole in the floor and recognized the "wc." The hospital official did not speak a word of English but beckoned me to follow.  Barbara, in all her wisdom, declined.
      Following close behind him, I tramped through a maze of dark hallways. Finally, he came to a locked door.  He gestured for an attendant to unlock it and stepped back, pointing for me to enter.  I presumed he had led me to a hospital administrator's clean bathroom.  I opened the door about a foot or so, took one look, and immediately slammed it shut!  Inside, to my shock, I saw several naked bodies of men lying on steel tables.  At the edge of the room people in white uniforms peered at me in curiosity. Needless to say, I decided not to enter the room and never learned where the bathroom was.
       Finally, with authorizations in hand, we returned to the van and drove  through a back alley to a "Photo Copi" place. As the witness, I received my own set of records.
       It was 12:30 p.m. and  time to return to the ship.  Packing up Barbara's and Ben's belongings would be the next task to face.  I was very relieved that Barbara had decided not to attend the 5 p.m. cremation process because we were told it would take place on an open pyre.
      Unexpectedly, in another bizarre moment, as we drove back toward the ship,  the port agent decided to take a little detour to point out some outstanding architecture of the old Dutch city.  He wanted us to see the "building of a thousand windows," a beautiful ancient Dutch building now under renovation to become a hotel, the governor's house, and Blandu, the beautiful white historic Catholic church constructed also in the Dutch colonial days. Barbara politely agreed and even asked intelligent questions  as we drove by.   I thought to myself, this is the strangest city tour I have ever taken.
      Returning  "home," two of the ship's staff met us.  Barbara had commented several times how efficient and caring they were.    Just a month  or so before, the same two staff had helped in her emergency return to the U.S.   Here they were again performing the same painful duties.
      We crowded into the stateroom and began the difficult task of sorting Ben's things and helping her pack hers.  Once again I thought to myself what an impressive lady this was.  She had survived a day no one should be asked to live through and had done it with grace and thoughtfulness for those around her.
       Finally, the room was bare, and Barbara was ready to leave for a hotel in the city overnight and then fly home the next day.
      Our ship, the Ocean Explorer, would depart later that night, if all  went according to plan.
      But in life, one never knows if all will go according to plan.

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