Abandoned at the Inn, Christmas 1977, Porto Moniz, Madeira

Map of Madeira – Porto Moniz is near the top, on the left

 In the winter of 1977, Natasha and I were housesitting an estate, called “Quinta Santo Antonio”, located in the high hills above Funchal, on the Portuguese island of Madeira, 700 miles off the coast of Morocco.

The view from “Quinta Santo Antonio” where we were housesitting

1977 was just three years after the Portuguese revolution, and in many ways Madeira was still a feudal society. Most of the population lived a simple life in the countryside, apart from a small number of aristocrats who owned 90% of the land.

One of these aristocrats became an acquaintance. His ancestors were founders of the island in the late 15^th century and his name was Baron Martim Matos Noronha da Camara, or just “Martim”. 

Martim asked if we’d like to experience something different over Christmas, since he knew we were keen on local folklore and traditions.

He suggested Natasha and I make a trip to the remote fishing village of Porto Moniz, on the far northwest coast of the island.

We took him up on it.  Having no car, and since no buses were running on Christmas Eve, we arranged for a car and driver.

Following a five-hour ride along a narrow road hugging the coast, with countless hairpin turns and precipitous drops, we finally arrived in Porto Moniz. We found the only inn of the village – the place where we’d made a reservation by phone – only to discover it was closed up. 

The driver had already left. There we were, stuck. It was raining.

After knocking several times on the door, an ancient caretaker appeared and let us inside.  It was cold! He pointed to an old wooden table where a small plate of sardines and cookies had been left out for us  --- the only, seemingly forgotten, guests. 

Then he left, locking the place up, with us inside, and the heating off!

At this point we wondered if Martim had played a big joke on us.  He was known for his unusual sense of humour.

The village seemed to be uninhabited. We thought it strange no one was about on Christmas Eve, the island being a very Catholic place in those days.

Then, from our window, we noticed some locals walking up the hill with lit candles, heading to church.  Soon it was a procession.

Around 1 o’clock in the morning, the locals started, what we later learned, was an annual tradition over the past few years – driving up and down the hill in trucks.

They were mostly young people, many standing up in the back of the truck, singing carols and local folk songs at the top of their lungs. This went on for the whole night. 

There was a small radio in the kitchen, where we heard on the news Charlie Chaplin had died at his home in Vevey, Switzerland.

At noon on Christmas Day, the inn’s owner suddenly turned up, asking if we’d had a pleasant stay. What could we say? All we’d had was sardines, cookies and a bar of chocolate, and spent a very chilly night on our own.

Mid-day, we visited the volcanic lava pools.

Volcanic Lava Pools, Porto Moniz

It wasn’t easy finding a taxi on Christmas Day, and the route back was almost washed out from recent rains. 

Finally we arrived back at the Quinta in the early evening, after paying a double fare.  There we had hot meal, and opened a bottle of – Madeira!  At least a bit of Christmas joy was experienced.  

Looking back, this was by far the most peculiar and unexpected Christmas we’ve ever had.

It's a Trilogy

Looking for holiday season gifts?  Choose any one (or all three) of these children's stories written by Henri van Bentum and illustrated by PJ Heyliger.

The Misadventures of Rexie the Damselfish is the latest in a Trilogy of children's fables written by Henri van Bentum and illustrated by PJ Heyliger. In this most recent book, we visit the realm of coral reefs and little Rexie, a Damselfish, who lives among the Sea Anemones. A whimsical and delightful tale, brilliantly illustrated, filled with suspense and adventure". Here are the links to order a copy of "The Misadventures of Rexie the Damselfish:
Amazon.ca 
https://www.amazon.ca/dp/154503706X
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/dp/154503706X

And here are the links to the first and second books (also see earlier posts for more about these publications):"King Neptune's Jewels with Fins and Tails"
 https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1541005589

"Nimbert and Tirwinkle in an Enchanted Flower Garden"
https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1543037739

My Escapade with the Roma / Gypsies

Already there have been several responses to my recent article about the DNA ancestry test. (Click here to go to that post.)  Some are curious about my experience with the Gypsies (or “Roma” people), at the ripe old age of a two-year old toddler, an experience which gave my Mother grey hairs.   

Well, here goes. In those days – the early 1930’s of the Low Lands – small bands of wandering Gypsies in caravans often came to our door, asking for water, and whether anything needed to be fixed such as pots and pans, or have knives sharpened.   We didn’t have running water, just a pump, although my grandmother had a well.

Painting by Vincent van Gogh of Roma Gypsy wagons

Others wandered the streets with a portable organ, or an organ on wheels -- always accompanied by a monkey. The monkey wore a suit and a red Fez hat.

Organ Grinder with Monkey

These organ grinders would also knock on doors, asking for pennies, if owners hadn’t already thrown them coins from an upstairs window. When they came to the door, it would be the monkey, hat in hand, begging for pennies. 

It was on such an occasion that Mother gave me a penny to give the monkey. I was two years old, and just able to walk, without falling over.  Mother was busy in the kitchen, and I simply followed the monkey and the Gypsy.  And landed in the caravan.

It was not a case of being kidnapped from our front door, more one of me following them. But of course this man who came to our door must have gone straight to the caravan with this 2 year old, blond, roly-poly, healthy little boy, who I’m sure was welcomed with the traditional open arms and passion of the Gypsies. Vaguely I remember the painted wagons and hearing violins and accordions.  But memories of faces or whatever happened eluded me. 

I was gone for a long time, I learned much later. Here is how the Interpol and local police found me.  An uncle of mine (brother of my father), was a photographer.  It was then the fashion to make photos of newborns in their birthday suit lying on a soft sheep’s hide.   The photos were taken every year up until about the age of three to five. So my parents had several photos of me, one as a newborn then one at age one and age two.  The photo at age two was given to the authorities who circulated it everywhere.

 Here is the very photo Interpol used to help find me.

Six months later, I was spotted when the caravan crossed from Belgium into the Netherlands.  Healthy and strong. 

And that’s how Mother’s hair became grey from worry, and how I was rescued. 

Father was a peace-loving man, and did not lay charges against the Gypsies, so they were not punished.

Now, eight decades later, I still wonder if these wandering people transferred their nomadic spirit and nature to me, since I’ve had a great love of travel and adventure all my life. One thing for sure, I love gypsy music.

Henri van Bentum

 

Remembering my cousin - Dr. Piet van Bentum

“Letters From Far Away Lands”

Remembering my Cousin -  Dr. Piet van Bentum

Petrus Bernardus van Bentum (Piet)

Feb. 27, 1931 –  January 1, 2016

Piet van Bentum,1962, New Guinea

Piet van Bentum was born in Amsterdam in 1931.  Piet wanted to be a doctor, but had no funds to go to medical school.  However his mother (sister-in-law of my father), obtained work as a technical assistant to my father, who was a diamond-facetter at Asher in Amsterdam.  This allowed Piet to go to medical school.

Also the Dutch Reformed Church (DRC) was always looking for missionaries and for young doctors who they would sponsor, like a scholarship. The DRC missionaries had been active in many countries around the world, for centuries.  For example, they established a church in New Guinea (now Papua New Guinea), already back in 1640.  Piet applied and trained to become a doctor.

During this time, cousin Piet visited me while I was in a tuberculosis sanatorium called Zonnestraal (‘sunbeam’), near Hilversum.  After I immigrated to Canada, we corresponded in the 1960’s by mail.

After graduation Piet married, and in 1962 was sent far, far away to a remote region of New Guinea -- to the highlands at Ajamoeroe. There he worked amongst a tribe that until recently had been headhunters and cannibals.

New Guinea

It was wonderful to receive letters from such an exotic place as New Guinea; even the envelopes and stamps were a source of wonder not only to me but to others in Toronto. 

During a cold Canadian winter, I often imagined Piet over  there in New Guinea.  His letters brought things to life from that far-away place. As an artist, I lived a nomadic, bohemian life and had at least twelve different addresses in three years, so sadly I no longer have Piet’s letters.

In New Guinea, Piet travelled around to various places with other doctors to gain experience.  In his letters, he described being there was “like living at the dawn of time”. 

Dr. Piet set up camp and a clinic in the highlands.  (A hospital had been established in Biak, the closest town.)  His ‘patients’ had no currency as we know it.  Their culture was based on the barter system. The most valuable currency was piglets, and also shells such as Kina or Cowrie shells. 

 

Kina (and Cowrie) shells were a form of currency. Here you can see shells that have been cut and made into a necklace.

In this way, the young van Bentum couple experienced the barter system. One of Piet’s patients gave him a skull in exchange for treatment.  It had been the head of an enemy warrior.  Piet realized this skull was a valued object, and the patient instructed him with gestures that he was to use it as a pillow. (!)

One day, another patient came with an arrow sticking out of his chest.  Dr. Piet carefully removed it, and told the man to stay at the clinic for a few days until the wound had healed.  

Next morning on his rounds, Dr. Piet noticed his native patient had disappeared. But three days’ later, the man arrived back -- with two piglets -- as payment.  He pointed at his chest, which had already healed, and gave Piet a big grin.

Several of the tribesmen had injured their genitals due to ‘accidents’ with the penis sheathes they wore, which gave Dr. Piet a lot of extra work. All the while, there were still skirmishes and fighting between tribes, mostly about piglets, land or women.   However, there was no more headhunting or cannibalism.

During this time, the young couple became parents to a boy, Carel, who was born in Biak.

Then, the Indonesian government declared that all citizens of the Netherlands had to leave New Guinea.  Mrs. van Bentum and her new-born son travelled back home, and Dr. Piet stayed on a while longer.

After New Guinea, Piet returned to the Netherlands, where he took extra training in surgery.  A second son, Pieter Jr., was born during this time.

But in 1964 Piet was off again:  this time, posted to Cameroon, Africa to do the same thing, provide his services as a doctor.  Piet worked in a hospital where he also  made use of his newly-acquired surgery skills.  There, in Cameroon, a third son, Floris, was born.

 Stamps from Cameroon

 

After three to four years (in 1967), they returned to the Netherlands via freighter. The ship’s cargo was African wood.  The freighter caught fire and the van Bentum’s were transferred to another vessel, homebound.

 

On one of my visits to the Netherlands, Piet showed me his collection of artefacts from New Guinea and Cameroon.  Already back then, I suggested that he write a book about his experiences.  But he didn’t seem keen, shrugging his shoulders and saying “not important”. 

All these experiences in both New Guinea and Cameroon enriched Piet van Bentum’s knowledge of tropical diseases, and gave him a unique set of skills.  

In 1967-68, Piet was a GP, in Utrecht.  Then, he applied for a position as an instructor for young international doctors at the renowned Royal Tropical Institute in Amsterdam (Koninklijk Instituut voor de Tropen /KIT. ) Piet van Bentum worked there for five years.

Early picture of Koninklijk Instituut voor de Tropen (now known as KIT)

In Groningen, he became Director of the south-west Groningen Geneeskundige Dienst (GGD), [“Groningen Medical Service”], serving for six to seven years as medical advisor for sixteen districts. From Sneek, they moved to Veendam, where Piet also worked for the “GGD” as manager/doctor, but for the north-east district of Groningen.

Piet really loved sailing. He had a sailboat, called “The African Queen”.  He also kept bees, for honey. 

Piet was one of a kind.  As I mentioned earlier, I often encouraged him to write his memoirs, but he never did.  I don’t know why, for he had so much to tell us all.   

He retired in 1993 and moved from Veendam to Frieschepalen.

Piet van Bentum was a happy family man, had a great sense of humour, and was a true humanitarian. Piet recently went ‘over the horizon’, in his sleep, on January 1^st of this year.  It is in his memory that I compose this blog post.  

 A picture of the “Tuinfluiter” in the garden at Piet and Wimmy’s house. Piet loved this spot, where he admired the peaceful landscape of Friesland.

Henri van Bentum