The Book of Timor

Chapter 8 ~ Eating our way from Kapiti to Dili

2011-05-24T23:30:00.000-07:00

This should probably be chapter 1 in the book, but I only just wrote it, so it's going in here instead.

The first thing Alofa and I did when we moved to the Kapiti Coast from Hamilton in March 2010 was to buy a whole pile of fish and chips and head to the beach.

Surrounded by the smell of the salt spray and a flock of noisy gulls, we surveyed the view, ate the fish and chips, and agreed that there was a natural harmony here between the things we could see and what we were eating. I’m not quite sure why, but even the very best fish and chips taste better when I’m at the beach. As soon as I’ve sat down on the sand and sprinkled on some vinegar a sense of familiarity and oneness creeps across my psyche.

So, when we found out that I had been accepted to go on a two-year assignment with VSA in Timor-Leste I wondered if the fish and chips would taste as good sitting on the beach in Dili.

In order to get to Dili we had to fly to Brisbane. During the five hours we were stuck in the terminal I had a quick pie, knowing it would be the last pie I saw in a long while. Next it was on to Darwin for the night. In keeping with the “last meal” concept I decided to have a steak. We found the Victoria Hotel, not far from where we were staying, where I ordered a 16oz steak with mushrooms, fries and a side salad. The steak was a monster, and cooked to perfection (medium rare). The mushrooms were chunky sliced field mushrooms in a creamy brown sauce. I devoured the salad and the mushrooms disappeared quickly too. But while I tried valiantly with the steak, it was too much for me, and I had to leave a third of it on my plate.

The next morning we flew into Dili. During our day-long orientation, I took a note of the warung (local eateries), that serve all sorts of Asian, Indonesian and even some Western food. That day we stopped at the City Café for lunch. It’s an “up-market” warung – it has air-conditioning – and while most of the vegetables we ate were new to me, they tasted great. The fried and/or steamed tofu, was excellent, too.

During the next few weeks we tried out other warungs. Most offer a smorgasbord of dishes. You point out your selections to the young girl behind the counter, who serves them and calculates the price – usually between US$2 to $3 for a healthy and substantial meal.

Local specialities include nasi goreng and various soups. We also found excellent Thai restaurants and feasted on magnificent pizza at the Dili Club (which isn’t a club at all, but a restaurant and bar owned by a Kiwi).

But one thing I couldn’t find was a standard fish and chip shop. There was plenty of fish, but it all seemed to be roasted or served barbequed. I started to miss the familiar taste.

Eventually we found a Singaporean supermarket that sold Frozen New Zealand “Dory Fish” – whatever that is – and organised a Friday night gathering of Kiwis for “fush and chups”. We battered the fish in tempura batter and deep fried it all in two large woks, one full of crispy fish, and the other deep fried potato chips. A little salt, vinegar, slice of lemon and tomato sauce and it was proclaimed to be a great success, but it didn’t feel quite right.

I realised that the problem was that I had not eaten it on the beach. I wondered whether such a thing would even be possible given the security issues in Dili, where there is no street lighting and little in the way of police patrols. How advisable would it be to be to sit on a beach eating food wrapped in paper in a country full of hungry people?

My questions were answered a week later, when a friend invited us to “fish on a stick” after work on Friday. We headed down to Dili beach, where we found a collection of tents surrounded by a thick cloud of smoke coming from the many fires surrounding them. Cooking over the embers were skewers of sardines and mackerel, lined up neatly on their sticks like regiments of fish soldiers. There was also chicken satay, and Bar-B-Que chicken, Sausage on a stick, and even squid on a stick.

We soon learnt that the stalls are set up every evening and are run by local families who make their living providing this evening meal to everyone and anyone passing along the beach road, either as Take-away’s or to sit and enjoy the evening on the beach.

We bought several skewers of fish, then grabbed a small woven basket of saffron rice, some home-made chilli sauce and a cold drink, and found a spot on under one of the tents to enjoy our meal.

The fish tasted smoky and magnificent. There weren’t any seagulls but there were dogs mooching around for scraps, and we could smell the sea. For the first time since arriving in Dili I felt that familiar harmony. It wasn’t fish and chips on the Kapiti Coast, but it was the Timor-Leste equivalent.

Chapter 7 Los Palos to Jako Island and back to Dili ~ The Road Trip, Part 2

2011-04-10T22:00:00.000-07:00

We set off early in the morning and found the local petrol station, went through the usual confusion of asking for the tank to be filled with Diesel and were not understood by anyone who worked in the place. They decided we needed 4 litres and put it in the car, took the money and left us to consider if that was enough. “Probably OK” I said, but suspected that I might regret that comment. Off we went, heading for a stop at Tutuala and then on to Walu Beach in order that we could get the boat over to Jako Island the following day. According to Google earth it’s 41 Kilometres to Tutuala and then only 8 kilometres to Walu Beach where we can stay the night at an “Eco” resort – sounds a simple enough plan? And it’s not like it’s that far.

Well, the road’s not that great, a little narrow and whilst there are a few small villages on the way there’s not a lot to look at, but it’s slow tiring work. I come to realise that the main problem with the roads here in Timor, is not so much the lack of maintenance, but it has more to do with the unavailability of any good rock to use in the road making process. The rocks here are predominately schist’s and contain a lot of crystal; quarts etc. and are not particularly good for road building as they have a tendency to shatter and splinter on impact. Helping to make that continual supply of dust (remember the dust?). It’s hot in the car and whilst we stop on the way to look at various sites, there is no respite from the heat, even with the air-conditioning on inside the car, its hard going. We eventually get to Tutuala, which is perched on top of a magnificent mountain / cliff side. With such absolutely stunning views of the Ocean, stretching far below, I was immediately questioning why anyone would want to live in such difficult terrain. The village is situated right on top of the mountain and the surrounding land is far from arable. The fishing might be great out here, but it’s a long walk (8 Kilometres) to the Ocean

There’s a “Guest House here that we stopped to have a look at, but the children outside the guest house told us that the owner was asleep inside and that if we wanted to wait, he would wake up later. We decided that this may not be the most valuable way to spend the afternoon and headed on to the road that leads to Walu Beach.

Bruce had explained that we would need to put the Mystery Mu into 4 Wheel Drive – Low in order to navigate the road, which we joyfully did, knowing that it was only 8 Kilometres. Oh my Goodness, we literally crabbed across a rock infested slice through the jungle. I was fortunate as I really had to hang onto the steering wheel, Lisa and Alofa, were not as fortunate as we bounced, ducked, dived, scrambled down what is a cliff face towards the beach. It took us 45 minutes to get to the bottom!

Definitely time for a rum, and some relaxation time. We negotiated some sort of deal with the owners of the Eco Lodge that seemed to be fair. The conditions at the lodge are pretty basic. Water, sewage and Electricity are all non-existent, but they assured us that there was fresh fish for dinner. So we settled in for the night. There are individual cabins as well as a large communal dining room / lazing around room which we immediately settled into with drinks and snacks and discussed the road into the place, the driving skills required and the remoteness of it all.

Having eaten and drunk far too much, we headed off to our respective beds, for a some well-earned sleep. Regrettably we soon realised that we were sharing the accommodation with the insect population of Walu Beach as well as one or two Gecko’s that assisted in keeping us from getting the rest that we really needed.

The following morning it was up to a refreshing salt water shower – how do you brush your teeth in that stuff? Breakfast consisted of fish, rice and bread with Tea and Coffee and then we were off to the long promised boat trip across the gap to Jako Island. I should point out that at this stage there are the five of us, three Australian volunteers and a Timorese Ambassador with his wife and two children staying at the Echo lodge, so, there are not a lot of people around, and of the 12 people at the Lodge we are the only ones going over to the Island this morning. We are definitely looking forward to some peace and quiet, some snorkeling and some lazing around in the sun. We find the boat and head across to Jako. The water is crystal clear going across the gap, but a little murky as we approach the Island as there has been some rain (Yes – we visited in the rainy season) . But soon enough we are on the beach contemplating the white sand, the snorkeling and the sleeping.

Whap, whap, whap – the sound of a helicopter breaks the silence. We sit and watch – astounded – mouths agape, as a UN Helicopter comes over the Mountain, heading directly for us. We are even more gob smacked when it proceeds to land on the beach at Jako, disgorge about a dozen UN staff members’ (presumably police) onto the beach with their eski’s, mats and shade tent.

Dili and wondering where they are going. It seems that rest and recuperation are a key part of the mission’s logistics. I suppose I also feel a little cheated, as it was no mere drive in the park to get here and to suddenly realise that the majority of the UN staff have probably been here too, albeit at the end of a 45 minute helicopter ride, is a little disappointing. I wander off to contemplate the meaning of all this and collect shells. The island reminds me of Mystery Island in Vanuatu, in that it is obviously un-inhabited and probably not capable of supporting life as we know it. But it is so beautifully cleaned, pristine, and almost virginal. My thoughts are drawn back to the UN despoilers and I realise why the UN presence is not always a popular thing here in Timor, and I have first-hand knowledge why that would be so. The people of Walu Beach and Tutuala rely on the tourist trade to a great deal. The tourists bring in enough money to put a few extra things on the family’s table, by staying at the Eco Lodge, buying supplies in the town, hiring the boatmen to take you across to the Island etc. however, when the UN fly everything they need (including themselves) straight into the most suitable spot on the beach for the day and then fly back out to their apartments in Dili, they bring nothing of any value with them.

After a day at Walu Beach and Jako Island we decide to do the “long haul back to Dili, our plan is simple enough – drive till we drop, so off we head and make reasonable time driving back as far as

Bacau an old Portuguese Market Place is the definite highlight in Bacau, however, by the time we get there, we are tired and decide to stay with the sisters just next to the Pousade Hotel. The following morning, we went in search of a petrol station and ended up getting on the wrong road at the wrong time. The traffic was backed up and there was some sot of commotion up ahead of us on the road. Sitting in the car, we are trying to ascertain why there are so many people around about and why the traffic isn’t moving, when a young Timorese girl steps up to the car and says “I am sorry for the delay, but we have a man dying on the road” We start to move and soon see that a man on a motor bike has collided with a large truck on a corner of the road. He is lying in the grass by the side of the road and a woman is clutching at him at wailing at the top of her voice. There seems to be about 200 hundred people that have appeared out of nowhere, just standing watching and a lone policeman is trying to get people to move back and the traffic to move on. We are all shocked into silence when we take in the scene. We quickly locate the Gas station, fill the car up and leave Bacau. We decide that there is a reason, why we have been shown this event, but can’t quite seem to put our finger on the reason why.

We drive back into Dili, stop at a cafe called Food’l’do and order coffee and muffins. It’s actually good to be back in Dili. In the past five days, I’ve learnt to stop complaining about Dili and the Power cuts, the dust, the rain and the bureaucracy, I’ve learnt that life is a lot harder out there in the districts and we have a lot to be thankful for.

Chapter 6 Dili to Los Palos ~ The Road Trip Part 1

2011-03-15T19:08:00.000-07:00

Its December 27^th, we have drivers licence’stucked away in our wallets and purses. Bruce’s wife Sheryn has arrived in Dili from New Zealand for a holiday visit and Bruce wants to go for a “road trip” into the “districts”. The term seems to mean anywhere that is not Dili, the country is divided into Districts, sub districts, Sucos (towns) and Aldeias (villages), which from a Database perspective is a simple way of dividing the place up as the entities are all one to many. But I digress; you want to know about the road trip.

Microlet outside Lita Supermarket

Bruce had borrowed a Pick up from the Dili Institute of Technology (DIT, pronounced Deet). And Lisa had a Isuzu Mystery MU, having two vehicles was evidently important, in case we broke down, however, Eli, whom we had met at Christmas was hiring Toyota Land Cruiser, as he was going to Los Palos to play a “Free concert” with his band and it was agreed that we would travel in convoy from Dili to Los Palos, we would stay in Los Palos for the concert, and then along with Bruce and Sheryn we would travel to Valo Beach at the Eastern tip of the Island and cross over to Jaco Island by local boat. We hadn’t decided on the itinerary coming back, but we had a plan on how to get there, and on the bright Tuesday morning, that was enough for us. We emailed the VSA In Country Manager and told him that we were “out of here” as per VSA regulations. We packed bedding, water, food, toilet paper, put some music on an iPod, got some cash from the ATM (it actually worked for once) and hit the Frog and Toad (Road). We drove out of our place in Aimutin onto the Comoro road and got a puncture. It was just as well, that it happened there and not somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, as when we stopped at the puncture repair outfit, they couldn’t lift the car with the jack and we had to wait for the big jack. We sat in the sun and wondered if this was a prelude to the next four days?

Once the puncture was fixed we mee up with Bruce, Sheryn and a lady named Kirstin, for breakfast. Kirstin told us that she was here with her husband who was an orthopaedic surgeon, who was over here to work with Dr. Dan for three months. She explained that they were pretty unhappy as having gained approval from his employer to take the time off and come here to help out, he had not been able to do anything as the Government had not allowed Dr. Dan’s organisation to use any of the Surgery’s within the Hospital complex. I did ascertain much later, that like all things, there were two sides to this story and whilst it was widely recognised that Dr. Dan did a marvellous job of providing free medical services to the Timorese, his qualifications had lapsed 8 years ago and as an unregistered Doctor, the Ministry of Health had no choice to deny him access to the Hospital’s
facilities. Anyway after a quick cheese and something inedible toasted sandwich and a cup of local coffee, we were back in the Mystery MU we drive through Dili , stopping at the market opposite Lita Supermarket, we realise our convoy of vehicles are in sharp contrast to the transportation that the local Timorese get to use. We also get a sharp reminder about the tensions that exist in the capital with the presence of two UN “peace keepers standing on the other side of the street.

We start to climb out of the Dili flood plain and head towards Dari, the roads start to disintegrate and we cross a washed out area that was only 15 kilometres outside of Dili, where the road had basically disappeared for about 200 meters and we rolled around while Lisa attempted to navigate the vast mud hole that had been left behind. Once we climbed to the top of the hills we looked back on Dili and the haze that comes from the dust that sits over the town. We looked out over the Banda Sea towards Atauro Island and there was a sense of relief at having escaped the madness of Dili.

We climbed further up the mountain and then suddenly sailed back down the mountains towards a coastal road, where it was obvious that things were a little harder out here than life in the big city. Timor, has a rugged sort of beauty, it’s all that rock that seems to be moving around. There are some green patches, but not like the green in a New Zealand pasture, small tribes of goats graze on what grass there is, and the villages are Spartan. Small gardens are in evidence but the rice paddies are all vacant. The growing season was destroyed by early rains. As you get closer to sea level the road approaches a river, where the Water Buffalo in the muddy ground, some of which are obviously old rice paddies. Traditional shacks are made of timber with bamboo shutters, however, the concrete block construction of small houses is obviously a more popular option, and I have to presume that this is more to do with security than comfort. The road winds on, up the mountain, through winding passes, down back to the coast, through a river plain and back up the mountains. I’m sure this sound like an enjoyable way to spend the time in the tropics driving through this countryside, but I doubt if I have conveyed the absolutely abysmal state of the road. It took us over 8 hours to drive to Los Palos, which is only 210 Kilometres from Dili!

We arrive at Los Palos and decide that we will stay at a guest house run by the Amalkasih Darah Mulia (ADM) sisters. Alofa and I get the President’s Suite where Ramos Horta is reported to stay whenever he is in Los Palos, I have no way to authenticate this story, but it was a nice story. The sisters use the Guest House to train the girls and boys at the hostel how to work in the hospitality industry. They supply a cooked breakfast (Scrambled Eggs, Fried Rice, Poun (a local bread), and Coffee and a cooked meal in the evening (Fish, Tofu, vegetables, rice) plus a bed for US27.50 a night for the two of us. All of which was amazing especially when you take into account the mountain air and the absolute peace and quiet that surrounds you. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a place that was so quiet. We think that caves and libraries are quiet, but this was just amazing. I had managed to buy some coke cola in Los Palos and had a bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum. We sat on the balcony sipping rum and coke talking about the day and then we just naturally descending in absolute silence.

The next day, Eli said that they were going to play the concert that night, but Bruce, who was tasked with picking up the sound equipment back in Dili, hadn’t picked up all of the things that they needed.
The fact that Bruce hadn’t got a list of what he was supposed to pick up and was just asked to stop at a place where they would give him the equipment that the Band needed didn’t seem to worry anyone, so we decided to go for a picnic at the nearby lake and they would have the concert tomorrow instead.

There are two important lessons to learn from this, Timorese are not really into detail and timeliness isn’t something that is worth stressing over, but more importantly, referring to that “nearby” lake. Timorese have no concept of explaining distance.

We all met at Eli’s house and are surprised to be introduced to his mother and father, especially after his story at Christmas, and after a little confusion we set off planning on stopping at the local market first and then heading for the lake.

The road is shocking and we literally just crawl our way along the road, until we come to massive plain of grasslands, where we leave the road completely and literally weave our way across the plain through a series of tracks and mud pools, it’s definitely 4 wheel drive territory and after about half an hour of sliding around the grassland, we get back on the road and head into a small village called Muapatine that sits on the edge of the lake, Lagos Ira Lalaro. We have travelled about 25 kilometres and it’s taken us about two and a half hours. We stop at a traditional Timorese house.

Eli tells us the story behind the Lake, he tells that a long long time ago there was no water here at all and the people were in desperate need of water, they went to the Village Chief, who in turn called on the Gods to help. The Gods told the Chief that they would show him how to bring the water to the villagers, but there was a cost involved and the price that he would need to pay was the greatest price. The Chief accepted the Gods deal and was directed to a place where a piece of wood was lodged in-between some rocks. He pushed on the wood and the water that now makes this huge lake gushed out of the ground fully submerging the village. Many of the Villagers and the Chief himself lost their lives and the village was totally lost. The present residents say that as the level of the lake falls you can often see the tops of the old village buildings. The lake whilst a massive expanse of water is actually very shallow and it often dries up completely.

We head back along the road; the area is very lush with all of the water; however the living conditions are still very basic. There is no electricity out here and the water is from the lake, it’s one of those places that you need to be going there if you are ever to see it, but you would need a good reason to go there. Personally, it’s not something that I would normally recommend for the casual visitor. Driving on these roads is strenuous and the possibility of being stranded by either car failure or just getting stuck in the mud would not be the easiest thing to deal with. Eventually the road runs to the lake – it’s the “end of the road” in the most literal of senses.

We park the cars on the road and the look at the lake. Eli says that he saw some bamboo back on the road, so he drives back and cuts some long lengths for fishing poles. Someone else quickly digs up some worms and the guys start fishing for small Tilapia fish.

A young Indonesian man named Djuwadi, (pronounced Chewadi and shortened to Chew) says that we’ll light a fire to cook the fish on so, fire wood is gathered and making a hearth with a few large rocks, the cooking fire is quickly set up. The fish seem to be jumping on the hooks and Bruce gets the job of cleaning and gutting them. (That’ll teach him for having a Swiss army knife) Jane makes a marinade for the fish by pounding Turmeric, Garlic, Ginger, Kaffir Leaves (or lemon leaves), Chilli, pinch of salt, in a Mortar and Pestle and the cleaned fish are then left to soak in all this wonderful stuff before being placed in a wok with oil and sort of sautéed until crispy. You eat the whole fish bones and all as the bones are very fine, and just crunch up after they’ve been fried. Three Portuguese Doctors turned up with some Chorizo and local bread and beans, cabbage, capsicums and local rice were bought from the Los Palos market, which Djuwadi and associates had cooked up in a pot. Desert was fresh fruit also purchased from the market. The feast was set out on the ground and as everyone congregated around this banquet, the heavens opened up with an offering of fresh water. A mad scramble saw food and people quickly retreat back into cars or under the tarpaulin that was originally used to spread the food out on. After half an hour of fairly solid downpour we decided it was time to head back to Los Palos.

Bruce said he saw a snake go across the track on the way home, but I didn’t see it. I talked about the trail through the grass plain before, well, with a half hours rain on top of it we literally sliped amd snaked our way back to the guest house.

That night Eli and his friends put on the free concert in Los Palos. Having never been to a Timorese Rock Concert, especially a free on, I’m kind of excited, but I’ve learnt not to get the expectation up too high. We arrive at about 7:30, when the concert is scheduled to start and all of my expectations are met, as things are still being set up. I’m warmly greeted by Eli, who insists hat I need a chair around the back of the stage where the other band members and assorted friends associates, technicians and general groupies have congregated. The stage has been constructed with local rough sawn timber and a tarpaulin. To tie the tarp down, they use a simple mechanism of a piece of rope is tied to the tarp, and a rock tied to the other end of the rope. The tarp is put up over the wooden frame and the rocks ensure that it stays there. The front of the stage comes out to the edge of the pavement and the audience area is the street, which the police have blocked the traffic from coming through, whist there is a side road that will get you to Los Palos, nobody seems to mind that the main road into the town has been officially closed due to the concert.

Behind the stage are two burnt out houses that look as though they were trashed in 2006 troubles, which the band members keep disappearing into. I wonder what these guys have got going on in there, especially as they are all very “Rasta” in their appearance. Unfortunately it only turns out to be Tua manus, which is distilled palm wine. It’s evidently very potent, as the palm wine before distillation has the kick of a mule, so after distillation, it gets to be over 40%. I’m told it goes well with coke! I get to meet up with a number of the guys in the band, but most of these artists are pretty shy, but then what would you say to an old white guy that just appears on the scene?

The crowd gathers and the mood changes to an electric sense of excitement, and as the usual series of checks and tests are completed, the air becomes charged, the crowd moves closer to the stage and starts to really pack in, but it’s all done with a carnival air about it. There is no pushing, no shoving, no malice, no drunken louts in the mosh pit, but it is very electric.

Anyway, eventually, the concert starts with the guys in the band singing a haunting vocal which I suspect is the national anthem, and then Eli asks the crowd to move back a bit so that the children can come to the front, once that’s organised, it’s into a couple of reggae numbers, that are sung to a good beat, but they are singing in Fataluku, which is one of the fifteen indigenous languages that are spoken in Timor-Leste not including Tetun (which comes in two flavours Tetun-Dili and Tetun-Terik) So, not understanding the words is no big thing, and I find that it’s just good to be outside in the night air, with the music waiving through me. The rain starts, but it doesn’t dampen anyone’s spirits. Then the damndest thing happens, one of the guys that I was introduced to before and probably the shyest of them all, gets up on stage and starts doing a stand-up comedy routine, once again, I can’t understand a word, but judging from the hoots of laughter from the crowd, he’s telling some pretty blue jokes and the crowd are lapping it up. He is so good that when the band comes back on to play the audience and the band demand that he comes back on stage and do another fifteen minute segment.

The band starts up again, and as each song is worked through, the members of the band change, whilst appearing to be an informal arrangement, I suspect that it’s all very cleverly thought out and well-rehearsed, the guys in the band are relaxed and pretty laid-back in their approach. I watch the crowd, there is some attempt to start some dancing by Bruce and his wife, but it’s not going anywhere, the predominately male audience is hapy to stand and watch. I think they are all waiting for the comedian again. The Band plays on, the comedian gets back up on stage and the evening starts to roll into one highly pleasurable event. We head back to the Guest house at about 11:00pm, looking at the road for potholes, and missing bits, as there are no street lamps, and watching the sky at the same time, as with no street lighting the stars are brilliant against the electric cobalt sky.

That night we reflected once again on the day’s events with a large rum and coke (or two) before calling it a day. Lying in the bed in the Presidents suite, I can’t help thinking that whilst the simple basic living skills are a pre-requisite to existance here, and that within the Timorese, the slow easy approach to things in general is a charming attribute, are these the basics needed for Nation building? I suspect that the message in the music may be the answer, if only I understood the words.

Chapter 5 ~ The Drivers Licence

2011-02-22T22:26:00.000-08:00

We had decided to take the opportunity during the Christmas New Year break, to do a Road trip along to the Eastern end of the Island, (see chapter 6) and in order to comply with local regulations, decided that the right thing to do was obtain a local drivers licence. We were advised that all we needed was two passport photos, our New Zealand Drivers licence, our passport and US$20. Sounded easy enough, so Lisa and Alofa headed off on the Friday midday to pick up a local licence. They were back fairly quickly, explaining that they had been sent away to come back on Monday as everyone at the Drivers Licence centre were ready to go home for the weekend.

Well, that should have been a clue but unperturbed we all headed back there on Monday, we arrived at 11:00am, only to be told that we could come back in the afternoon at 2:00pm as everyone at the Drivers licencing centre were now going to go to lunch.

Now we were perturbed and after some insistence on our part, we managed to get the officer to supply us with the application form that would need to be filled out by 2:00pm. He also advised us that we needed to get a photocopy of our NZ drivers licence plus a photocopy of our passport and that we had to supply a manila folder as well. Counting this exchange as a major step forward, we headed off for lunch and to find a stationary shop, that made photo copies. We had a good lunch, found a stationary store that sold us the folders and made all the photocopies and by 2:00pm we were back outside the Drivers Licence centre waiting to be served.

Let me tell you about this building, it is a long oblong of a building with approximately 6 windows on each of the long sides to the building, each with a sign above it, explaining what that window is for. Given that the local Tetun language is slightly limited when it comes to describing such complex issues such as Drivers Licences and vehicle registration etc., the signs are predominately in Portuguese. My Portuguese is as good as my Tetun – negligible! The building layout also means that as you go from window to window, submitting your paper work, at the different windows (as we were to do that afternoon) all of the paperwork ends up in the middle of this building. This, sort of, explains the need to supply your own manila folder.

So, we submitted our “stuff” at window four only to be told that this was the wrong type of manila folder and the photocopy of the NZ drivers licence had to be of both sides of the licence and not just the front. Luckily we were then also informed that there was a porta-comm office down by the car park that would sell us manila folders, of the right type, for a US1, that we needed, as well as do any
photocopying that we needed at a price of $0.10 a copy.

Armed with this new knowledge, we bought the right folders and obtained the right number of photocopies and went back to the window. You do realise that at this point in time we are only at step 1, but what the hell….it can’t be that difficult – eh?

We submit our forms, photos, folders, photo copies and money and are immediately given back the money (wrong counter) and as each of these items are all checked off and we are told to wait at the next window, (window 5) whilst much cross checking, rubber stamping and keying into the computer system of our information is undertaken.

After a half hour our names are called and we are given a computer generated piece of paper that lists all of our details and advised that we need to go back to the porta-comm office and get five photocopies. We trudge to the porta-comm, get our copies and take them back to where we were given the original. There’s no one there! We hang around until a local passer by tells us that we need to take them to the other side of the building and go to Window number eight. We circumnavigate the building, line up outside window eight and hand in our photocopies. Once again the paper work disappears into the “core” of the building. Sitting outside, I start wondering about creating a Business Process Map using BPMn standards and decide that there is no mapping symbol for random process branch or real-time change in the Business Process. Meanwhile there has been much rubber stamping going on inside the building and we are called back to window eight, given back two copies of the pre-printed form and told that we need to take these forms along with our US$20 and go to window two.

Yippee we must be getting close now and it’s only three o’clock. Circumnavigating the building again, we line up outside window three, hand over our forms and our money. I watch the most absurd process play out in front of my eyes. The lady who took the forms and the money first checked them all off for accuracy (well, I assume that was what she was doing – as she took a while staring at each of the forms, she even made sure that they were both the same), then out came the rubber stamp and they were both stamped. She passed them onto a young girl who was standing next to her, who carefully placed them into two piles. The first of these piles the woman whom we had first given them to, then picked them up and receipted the forms by writing in the amount paid, signing the form and putting a “Paid” stamp on them. She then placed them back where she got them from. After a few minutes a man came from the centre of the building and took away the pile of receipted paperwork. Another man came to window one and gave us the other copy back and told us this was our receipt and that we had to keep it. We stood around like a flock of lost sheep, until we heard our names being called at window number five, and it is there that we are given a half sheet of paper with one of the photographs stapled onto it and a whole lot of writing in Portuguese and Tetum advising us that this is our temporary licence. Hey we made it it’s 3:30 and we have a licence, oh no it’s not that easy, you see we are then told that the temporary licence is no good until it has a number put on it by the man in the office next to window six.

The man in the office is going to take a digital photograph of each of us to be laminated into our real licences, once they are produced in two months’ time. So, it’s easy enough, we just need to get our photo taken? (although I did wonder ehy we needed to bring two photgraphs with us in the first place, but then, who am I to question this?). Lisa goes in and has hers done and a number is placed on her scrap of paper, and she is all officially licenced. Alas we are informed that Alofa cannot have her photo taken as she has a sleeveless top on and that all women’s photos must have sleeves. The girls quickly disappear into a very smelly public toilet and exchange blouses. The man in the Office laughs at their reappearance and good naturedly takes Alofa’s photo, gives her a number and she is legal too. However men having their photo taken must be wearing a shirt with a collar. I can be butt naked as long as I’m wearing a shirt with a collar. I am advised that I can go home and change, as they don’t close until 4:00pm, but it’s 3:45pm and we live a good 10 minutes away. Of course I can come back Monday? No, they don’t do drivers licences on Mondays and anyway, I’m supposed to be a long way away on our Road trip by then.

We hatch a hasty plan, pile into the car, and head for the Hari Laran Merkadu, a large market that is nearby, that has a huge clothing section. Lisa drops us off at the gate and we run into the market hastily looking for a shirt. Now I should remind you dear reader that we are in South East Asia, in a land of very small people and at this point in time I’m standing 1.86 meters tall and weighed in at 110kilos. I would add that I’m still the same height, but a lot lighter now. Anyway the choice of shirts in a fashion sense is monstrous, but then I’m not going to be making a fashion statement with this piece of clothing, as my choices are extremely limited, there is nothing here that is XL! We run from stall to stall asking for the largest shirt that they have. Most of the stall holders just look at me and laugh, good naturedly; I am sure, but laughter none the less. We eventually find a white, tan and brown striped collared shirt with a crest on it that says “DJ”. Its tag says that it’s a Large size, we pay for it and dash back to the main gate of the market. Quickly locating Lisa, we bundle back into the car and head back the Dept. of Motor Vehicles, as we are driving, I slip off my T shirt and start to squeeze the new shirt on – it’s a little tight, to say the least, but Alofa is sitting in the back seat and she helps by pulling down the back of this thing whilst I breath in deeply and pull down the front. We arrive back at the building, I hop out of the car, I can’t breathe, my chest is so constricted by the tightness across my chest, I feel dizzy, running in the hot sun, is not the smartest thing to do, but constraining your ability to take in oxygen, really doesn’t help. I get to the office and plunge through the door, it’s 4:15 and everyone is sitting around talking about the day’s work. One look at the gasping malai that just burst into the room with the multi-coloured collared shirt and the very red sweaty face has them in utter hysterics. Several people have to get up and leave out of embarrassment for me. But the man that takes the photos, smiled and said “Thank you for respecting our requirements”. I have my photo taken, get my number on my piece of paper, thank everyone and walk out to the car. By this stage I am really getting very faint and I realise that if I don’t get this shirt off really quickly I am going to collapse. By the side of the car, I heave the thing off over my head and am suddenly aware that everyone in the office is watching from the windows. I turn, smile and wave. My gesture is met with warm smiles, waving of hands and that infectious laughter of the Timorese at play.

Chapter 2 ~ Rain

2011-02-22T21:52:00.000-08:00

We had to move to Aimutin, it’s on the other side of the Comoro Road, but in a much safer location. We don’t need to go into the details, let’s just say we’re in a better place now. We have a different view from our new house now, rather than the gritty streets of Marconi we have some open space around us and a view of the surrounding mountains.

I look at the mountains daily, I can’t get over their majesty and I wonder if I’ll ever get the opportunity to traverse those rough country roads that will take me over the mountains to new Districts, Sub-Districts, Suco's, Alienda’s and places of reported peace and beauty. There’s a greying
that started after we’d been here a couple of weeks that occurs between the mountain tops and the start of the azure sky. Each day the grey gets slightly darker and the edge of the mountain line starts to mist over, there’s rain on the mountains and it’s slowly getting more visible as the days roll by. After about a week there are rumblings in the afternoon. Rumbling of distant thunder on the mountains. Those grey clouds are getting darker and are rolling further down the mountain side, whose edges are no longer etched against the sky line, but hidden in tumultuous dark clouds. In the morning the sky is as clear as the sunshine that beats upon us, but as the afternoon progresses, the lines start to blur. It’s getting closer each day, rolling further and further down the mountainside. Until, eventually, it gets very dark – it’s charcoal grey now, the clouds are foreboding and threatening.

Shhhhht! The first lightning shoots across the sky, it seems to go sideways, across the very close horizon, and it’s really close to the ground. The hairs on my body stand to attention from the static in the air. One Thousand and one, one thousand and…Crack, rumble, rumble rolls the thunder and
then Shhhhht!, another bolt of electric light traverses the sky with the inevitable crack of thunder so very close behind.

The first drops of rain seem to be the size of a small egg as they plop onto the searing concrete, splat, Intermittent at first and then within thirty seconds they are cascading out of the sky. The tin roof roars with the impact of water and the Shhhhht………..crack rumple rumble of the storm continues to add the crescendo to this orchestra of nature.

I ran out into the rain the first time it happened, the rain was warm and it seemed to contain a healing effect of washing away the weeks of sweat and dust that we had endured, Alofa giggled as we played in the rain, just being kids again – fantastic. I suppose it lasted for half an hour. Unbridled silliness rained in Aimutin that afternoon and the power went out about half way through the storm. Nothing much left to do after that – was there?

We ventured out onto the Comoro Road, the dust (remember the dust) and the rubbish on the Rua’s and Avienda’s of Dili were flushed, and I was surprised to see how quickly the storm drains backed up and the water flooded the streets. I thought it was probably too many plastic bottles in the
storm drains, but the following morning was going to show us a different cause.

That Dust!, it was the next day, as the searing sun evaporated the residual pools of rain, that we saw the dust, it was now baking mud – Crunchy on the outside, but soft and clay like inside. Later that second day, same time, same orchestra, Mother Nature did it again, a little longer this time, maybe an hour, maybe less, but it poured down. A moat of water encircled our little house and large puddles soon appeared in the vacant lot beside the house. The water hit the roof so hard as to make conversation impossible and whilst on one side of the house it fell to the courtyard as a curtain of translucence, on the other side of the roof, the wind hurled into a cloud of mist and spray.

Everything is wet; even those small denomination bills are soggy with the rain.

That night we heard the frogs, singing for a mate in their newly created puddle homes and swollen drains.

Day three, same time, same orchestra, this time it just bucketed down and whilst the thunder and lightning desisted within the hour it just kept raining until early the following morning. The morning was cool, the dragonflies were swarming the floods and our house was cut off, we waded our way out the driveway up to our knees in tepid rain water and squelching mud. The day is cooler now, the humidity seems to be a little higher and the dust, remember the dust, has gone. There’s a muddy ring in the ocean around Timor Leste, the wet season has begun, and those roads, across the mountains to far away exotic places, are now closing down as the sides of the mountain slip and crumble, in order to make a new batch of dust.

Chapter 4 ~ Revenge on the Comoro Road

2011-02-22T21:40:00.000-08:00

I’d been issued with what was referred to as a Motor Scooter, I was told it was one of those “clutch less machines” that you just sat and rode around. I used to ride a Vespa 125, when I was 15 ( I was a Mod in Bristol, back in the days of Mods and Rockers), but hadn’t been near a bike since. So you can imagine my chagrin, when I was confronted with a Honda Zippy 125. This is not a “clutch less machine”, it has a 4 speed kick-gearbox, a rear footbrake and a front calliper brake, which strangely is on the same handlebar as the twist accelerator.

I had mentioned the madness that manifests itself on the Comoro Road back in chapter 1, in my first impressions of the place, as well as the concept of the road being a shared resource. So, I decided that I would try out the Bike by riding to and from work. I hit my first problem when I realised that the Bike didn’t come with any sort of facility in which to carry any bags or place to strap on your briefcase. Sort off pretty useless really as it cannot be used to go shopping with, and when traversing to work, you have to carry your laptop and your lunch in a bag that is coiled around your shoulder and neck. The bag takes on a life of its own every time you need to stop, by attempting to swing round and get in front of you and if you accelerate away, it attempts to slice of your throat and drag you back where you came from. Given that degree of complication, managing the bag is nothing compared to attempting to predict the foible of Timorese drivers who are sharing this resource with you. They overtake on either side of you, and whilst the all vehemently believe that there are no :Give-way” rules, traffic entering from either the left or the right hand side do so by blaring their horn and inching, slowly into the traffic. If however a gap is spotted then the entry into the traffic needs to be done at alarming speed.

The road itself is in various states of disrepair and there are whole sections where there is a 2 meter lane of gravel and mud alongside the road, which sort of takes the place of a footpath. At other times there is a foot path as well, with or without the footpath, this area can be used for a footpath or for taxis to make into a third lane along what was only ever designed as a single lane each way piece of roading. There are a number of hazards, pot holes are probably the least of the obstacles, however, there are some pot holes out there that could swallow a bike. The major hazard is actually everyone else on the road as there is no formal structure to the way people drive on the roads, no adherence to whatever road rules that are in existence and little or no respect to the frailty of human life. Having seen a number of accidents on the Comoro road and being privy to the number of deaths and casualties that are occurring on the Timor-Leste Roads, I decided that I would follow the VSA Guidelines on Managing Risk and “Staying Safe”. I weighed up all the pros and cons of riding a motor bike in Timor-Leste and could not come up with a single reason, why I should endanger my life by attempting the use it as a means of Transport. I should add that VSA had expected both Alofa and I to ride on the bike at the same time, something that event a brand new Honda Zippy had several complaints about. So having made the decision, the next thing to do was to identify the alternative. I quickly learnt how to flag down a Taxi and with stumbling and slightly broken Tetum language skills, I managed to get from home to work and back again on a regular basis. I have to admit that on some rare days, it was really easy, but the overall experience was one of fear, stress and general annoyance.

Fear

The Fear was simple, Taxi drivers all over the world see themselves as the “Knights of the Road”, and as such are entitled to endanger the lives of their passengers in order to get the passenger to their destination earlier than the passenger had really intended. Let’s be honest about this, there is nowhere in Timor-Leste that you would be going to where punctuality is that important, that it should stop you from breathing. They drive along the pavements, on the wrong side of the road and within a millimetre of other Taxis attempting similar manoeuvres.

Stress

The stress is a little more subversive, there is a rule that whatever costs a dollar in Timor-Leste, must be charged to the Malai at double. So, whilst everyone knows that the Taxi Fare is $1.00 from Aimutin to Motael(where I work) the “Malai” price is $2.00. Eventually I was able to accept the anomaly, however, once the Taxis had convinced all of the Malai that this was the correct rate, they started charging the Local’s the same rate, and seeing as how the Local rate was now unofficially $2.00 the Malai rate went up to $3.00. I knew we were all heading for trouble when I flagged down a Taxi, told the driver where I wanted to go and he asked me how much I was going to pay him! Taxi drivers also believe that as they own the Taxi, it’s up to them who they pick up, there are no regulated Taxi ranks where you can queue for a cab, but more an ad-hoc situation where they beep at you and you wave them down ensuring that your hand is palm down and that the gesture is a downward motion, all very PC until you get in the cab. You soon find that although you think you have hired a cab, you are about to share it with a Sister from the Catholic Church and a man with a chicken. Both of whom are going to some other location which is not on the most expeditious route to where you are going. All of the passengers are going to have to pay the “full” fare either Malai or Local, and if you express any disappointment about not going the way that you had anticipated, the Taxi Driver has a valid excuse to create a new lane on the other side of the road and to accelerate down this newly found lane into the oncoming traffic at great speed.

Annoyance

The cars are dirty, the air conditioning never works, all gear boxes seem to be in a state where one or two of the gears isn’t really working and most of the drivers insist on having the music blaring at around 140 Db. Added to that they smoke inside the cab whilst driving, and when you get to your destination they don’t have any change. You learn very quickly that the only way to deal with these guys (note – There are no Women Taxi Drivers – Perhaps there should be) is to ensure that you have your $2.00 in the correct change, tell them where you want to go to, suffer the trip, and then upon arrival, get out of the cab, hand the driver the $2.00 and walk away!

Obviously, I was getting very disillusioned by my Taxi experiences and I began to wonder if I was just getting too “picky” in my old age, after all, no-one else seemed to mind. I talked to a number of people and found that the majority of people that I knew had given up on Taxis a long time ago. The most popular reason for abandoning Taxis as a valid means of transportation, being that they all go home as soon as it gets dark, the reasoning for this is the “security problems” but the general consensus is that they really don’t want to work the late shift! I also started to realise that the number of traffic accidents had not decreased, now that I was riding in a cab and whilst the majority of these macabre disasters involved motor bikes, the other main contender in the accident stakes were Taxis, who didn’t always come of second best, due to the dismal state of repairs to most of these vehicle they tended to fall apart on impact. A large number of the Cabs that I have driven in have these sunscreen stickers on the front windscreen, but unlike the ones in use elsewhere in the world these are not see through and the driver has to look through about 33% of what the vehicle manufacturer has designed as a suitable windscreen for a vehicle of this size and shape. So, it’s not really surprising that a number of the windscreen also have the shattered imprint of a human head
on the inside of the glass too.

It was time to look at the alternatives again. I considered the Microlet, a refurbished combivan, with seat that go along the length of the van facing each other, however, whilst extremely cheap, the owners of these vans like to cram in as many passengers as is humanly possible. It’s a matter of quantity not quality travel, and given that I as a Malai am about twice the size of the average Timorese and that I suffer from claustrophobia, I decided against the Microlet. I also considered buying a car, but it just seemed to me that being a volunteer in a country and swanning around in last year’s Mercedes wasn’t quite the “look” I was going for, besides, did I really want to drive a car on these roads? – No, the answer was simple – Shanks’s pony – my own two good
legs. I walk to work and back now. I get a good bit of exercise doing this every day, I get to see what’s going on around me in the town, I get to say “Bondia” to all sorts of people and say “Botardi” on the way home. I have
learnt to avoid the mud puddles, the stray dogs and avoid being run over by miscreant vehicles that have elected to use the piece of the road or pavement, which I am walking on, as a new lane.

I am physically getting stronger with my walking and I have done away with the Fear, Stress and annoyance of the alternatives, not to mention the $20.00 a week I am saving, well I’m not really saving it as in order to endure this walking, I have it justified as either two bottles of wine or a dozen tiger beers, or maybe even one bottle of wine and a six pack.

Chapter 3 ~ Christmas

2011-02-22T20:47:00.000-08:00

We’d decided that we wouldn’t do all of the traditional things that we usually do for Christmas
(Decorate the tree, Large Christmas dinner with too much to eat and drink etc.) as we were so far away from our family and friends, and so new to Timor. It was time to step out of the comfort zone and do something different. After discussions with Lisa and Bruce, we decided that it was to be a Bar-B-Que and Blender Bender. The idea being to invite some people over, ask them to bring what they wanted to eat, and something to mix in the blender for drinks. Sounded really simple to me! What do you think?

We organised a large Bar-B-Que with the appropriate coconut shell fuel, several blenders and Lisa and Alofa organised some salads to round out the meal, by 2:00pm we were all set for the onslaught of guests. Hmm………………………….

Bruce turned up and so did Bony Magoo (a fellow volunteer), they said that they had invited some other people who would turn up later. I had made some Drambuie and had bought a case of beer and the girls were making cocktails with rum, fresh fruit and coconut milk. So we were well stocked for drinks, which was probably just as well. Alofa and I had bought some fish for the Bar-B-Que, I had made a trifle for desert and Bruce brought some sausages and a chocolate cake. So we were all set. We lazed around in the afternoon sun swapping stories and lies. As the evening approached I lit the fire. Bruce and Bony went “across the street” to visit some friends, and came back with some additional guests. The more the merrier, and when Hugh turned up with Melly, it seemed that we had the basis of a reasonable party. I cooked our fish and the sausages and was worried that we may have to perform the seven loaves and five fishes trick. However, when dinner was served we had more than enough and having eaten too much we all retired to the balcony to tell stories.

A young Timorese man named Eli started talking; he said that Alofa reminded him of his Grandmother, that she was a “strong person” too and that she was from Goa in India, which was a Portuguese settlement. He explained how a number of people came from Goa and sailed to Timor (That would have been a long sail). Someone asked if his Grandmother was still alive and he explained that he had lost his Grandparents as well as his mother during the time of the ndonesian withdrawal from Timor (1999) He talked about what happened during that time and told us a harrowing tale about how he lost his mother, and how he had been found as a baby, still clinging to his dead mother. There was a silence as he spoke, which told us, that none of us really knew how to react to his life story. Bony suggested that the Australian and New Zealand Government’s needed to apologise to the people of Timor-Leste for their lack of action during the crisis. This statement allowed us to get over the emotional silence and discuss the subject in a logical/political manner. However, those tales of loss still hung in the night, and you realised that the ghosts of Timor were an everyday reality to the people of Timor-Leste.

The conversation had moved on to a more political discussion, which is an area of conversation, which all volunteers should learn to avoid like the black plague. In order to divert the discussion, someone asked Eli, what he thought would happen in the up-coming elections. He said that the “young people” were not happy with what had been accomplished so far and that the current situation in Timor was not what the struggle for independence was supposed to deliver. He feared that the elections would lead to blood-shed.

There was a kind of “Che Guevara idealism” in the way he spoke, and it was clear in his mind that the revolution was not finished yet.

I felt the night draw in and get colder, and reflected on what had been said, what we had been eaten and what we had drunk and decided that this was Christmas after all, and that the decorations were those that we had made to the truth, the food and drink remained the same – we had consumed too much of all three.

Chapter 1 ~ Wednesday 3rd November 2010

2011-02-22T20:34:00.000-08:00

The Air North 737-800 plunges through the cloud to take a shotgun landing on a strip that is a lot closer to the town than Google Maps had indicated.

We scream down the tarmac and the shanty shacks; pig sty’s and banana patches remind me of Tuvalu, so long ago. We turn off the strip and there are more planes than expected, the UN is here with star lifters and helicopters dotted around the apron. Disembarkation causes some mirth for the
crew, who have never had the plane parked such a long way from the terminal before. We soon realise the cause for their mirth on the long walk through the thick tropical air. It’s 11:15am and the sun is at its Zenith, it intends to stay there for an hour and burn our skin off, which is about as long as it takes to buy a visa, go through immigration and customs. The customs man wants to look at the package that Alofa and I have hand carried all the way from New Zealand, whilst perplexed as to why anyone would want to hand carry a bug zapper, he is interrupted by a female associate that asks how much it cost in US$, we show them the NZ price tag, and explain that the NZ$ is half a US$ (well almost nearly the truth) and we are on our way out the door to be met by Jason. We wait for Lisa, she is also a volunteer, and we had met once before on Auckland North Shore for a coffee and chat, we then met up again in Darwin in order to catch the flight up to Dili. Once Lisa is through Customs, we are bundled into the pickup double cab and are on our way, Jason has a schedule of things that he wants to get done today, we are all to shell shocked to dissent, so we head off into the traffic, Jason explains that he likes to think of the road as a shared resource. This is probably the greatest understatement of all times used to describe mayhem on wheels (and foot). Whilst it can be generally accepted that the Timor Leste road code defines the left hand side of the road as the correct driving side, the execution of this rule is more about using every piece of available road, so if
it’s expedient to zip up the right hand side in order to gain 10 seconds of valuable tropical time, then that’s what is about to happen at any moment. If the rule is left hand side, it’s probably safest to drive straight down the middle and look out for cars, trucks, SUV’s, motor cycles, push bikes and
pedestrians on either side in either direction looking to get into your path in order to commit some random act of suicide. Finally to add a certain charm and flavour to the mix, the United Nations vehicles all own the whole road and you are expected to just move out of the way, because the UN is here. Goats, cattle and small children display a better understanding of the random chaos and are
cautious when entering the playing field, but with all good humour it’s fair to say that nothing that visually assaults the senses is as bad as the noise.

Where the rest of the world uses indicators, road rules and courtesy in order to navigate the highway, the Timor Leste driver has the horn. It is used to tell you that they are going to overtake you, (either on the left or right), they want to enter an intersection, exit and intersection, turn left or right and, most importantly, it is used by Taxi drivers to ask everyone if they want a taxi, how this conversation is consummated I was yet to learn, but the question as apparent and asked repeatedly of any pedestrian who was within a 200 meter radius of the taxi. It should be noted that there are literally hundreds of yellow taxis in Dili and each one takes it in turn to ask the same question of
the same pedestrian. They cruise like sharks taking bites at the crowd, trying to entice the unsuspecting pedestrian from the safety of their own feet into the wild malaise of transportation. As
your senses attempt to take in this utter chaos, the thunder of the real sharks vibrate in the sky as a line of Black Hawke Helicopters head off to some unknown part of the surrounding mountains. It’s only now that you notice the mountains and realise that despite the madness of the street, you are in a beautiful tropical land whose green interior, promises tropical fauna and magical splendour and that this land is endowed with a surrounding cobalt sea. Ahead, overlooking the Ocean from his perch on the mountain is the statue of Christo Rei, with arms outstretched, palms up, in the universal symbolisation that “all may come and rest in me” and I am immediately relieved to have been
accepted into my new home.

There are street vendors, carrying poles with assorted wares, tied in strings, to either side of their pole, they have mango, papaya, pomegranates, banana, limes, lemons, sour sap, pineapples, water cress, some sort of cabbage and peanuts, they have fish of all shapes and sizes and lobsters too! There are hand carts that have cold drinks water, coca cola, sprite etc. for only 25 cents. They sell chips, cigarettes and snacks of all descriptions. There’s even a guy on the road selling live chickens, if you want it, there’s a street vendor selling it somewhere in Dili. They push the carts around or just park-up under a shady tree all along the Avienda. There are two prices, for most things one being the local price and one for the Malai (foreigners), but that’s Ok as it’s nice to be in a country where the word for us is not derogatory or based upon some historical gastronomic activity. The street vendors are pretty honest, to tell the truth, and we have found that the by-standing Timor Leste will put the vendor, and us, straight when an attempt is made to undertake some minor wrought.

Jason has organised a “care package” and after some paper work in the “office” (his desk in the corner) we pick up our boxes that we dispatched two weeks ago from Otaki and head for the house where we will spend the next two years.

We had always understood that the accommodation was going to be modest and so our expectations are not high, what is not explained is that the community where the accommodation is situated is a lot more “modest” than anticipated. The place is fine, and with a bit of work we can make ourselves comfortable. The shock is in the surrounding poverty and the close proximity that we have with our neighbours. Forget the NZ quarter acre Pavlova paradise. This is real integration into the community, at an unbelievable level. It’s also at this point that you realise the need for all of that immunisation back in NZ and more importantly we also remember why we are here, and what we are trying to - “if we can improve the quality of one person’s life, then that’s a success”.

I realise that our presence here whilst being an agent for change may not be “all good” and that there are hundreds of years of collective social memories that need to be taken into account when assessing our situation. There is a sudden sense of honour that this country would accept assistance
from a Kiwi IT guy. It is a humbling experience. Rather than be daunted by our surroundings, we head off for bed – no need for the electric blanket tonight! Sleep comes easy, day 1 is complete and we are here in Marconi, Timor-Leste!

Did I mention the dust? It’s day two, or is it day three?
It’s all starting to blur a little. My mind has taken on the same consistency
as the Comoro Road, there’s a lot going on, there’s a lot of noise, and there’s
this haze that hangs around from the dust. We seem to be going here and going
there, as part of our orientation, in and out of the pickup, trying to keep
cool and not break out in that waterfall of sweat. There is so much to do, in
too short a time, as we haven’t really unpacked. The first night we had dinner
out at a restaurant, as it was impractical to set up the kitchen after only one
day, and whilst the restaurant was a good idea, it means that we still haven’t
really got settled. We need a day or two to just get ourselves organised as our
worldly possessions are now in two suitcases, 6 cardboard boxes and a few
pieces of hand luggage (duty free single malt whisky).

Our programme Manager has taken us to the ANZ Bank to set up
Bank accounts. When he said it was the ANZ, I thought “Great, at least that’ll
be easy”, ah, I should know better than that, by now. Suffice it to say that the
visit to the Bank was an hour and a half of my life that I’ll never get back,
and the good news is that we have to wait three weeks before we can pick up our
Access (EFTPOS) cards. The program manager sagely advised us to retain enough
money, in cash, to last for the next three weeks. I stand in the queue wondering
“how long is that piece of string” and with no comprehension, or guidance, we
line up and sagely do mental arithmetic about living in a foreign country that
uses US$ as a currency, without a clue as to the cost of living. Obviously the
programme manager has been here before, and he has wisely shown us the
expensive supermarkets, and the expensive restaurants, so that we over
estimate, and keep too much money. All of this is in direct contravention of
the VSA guidelines of not carrying too much money in your wallet.

In the Bank we witness the local merchants depositing and
withdrawing “bricks of bank notes”. You could be excused for thinking that we
were in post-war Germany, but no, we are in post-conflict Timor Leste where the
US$ is king as long as it’s in small denominations. Whilst the merchants are
literally handling tens’s of thousands of dollars, the largest denomination is
a $20 bill. Don’t try to cash a $100 round here, it’s too much like hard work,
as this is a cash society and the smaller the denomination of the note, the
more it gets used, and more of that dust (remember the dust) gets ingrained
into the notes. It’s in your eyes; it’s up your nose, it gets under your finger
nails. If I had hair it’d be in there too, it gets in your food; it settles on
everything and somehow manages to crawl inside your socks. The good news is
that this is the wet season, “wait until it gets dry”, and old Timor hand
points out to me.

This dust comes from compacted and crushed rock, these
majestic mountains that surround us, are not the usual Sth. Pacific Volcanoes
per se, but were, and are, created as Australia collides with Asia, thus forming the
Banda Arc, whether or not the Australian Plate goes under the Asian Plate or
the Asian plate goes under the Australian or (the more popularly held belief)
that a bit of both occurs, with a lot of pushing and shoving going on, these
majestic peaks have been thrust skyward and then stripped away to uncover their
naked beauty. This collision has created huge monoliths of quartz rippled
Precambrian schist’s and shale’s. We now know that the collision also was of such
a force, as to create the pressure needed to form hydrocarbons, but that is a
different part of the story, that I am yet to learn about. It’s as if the collision, is slowly grinding
these old and hard rocks down into this fine abrasive dust, that collects at
the side of the road, waiting for another UN vehicle to pick it up scatter it
across the road inside a cloud of chaotic swirl and noise, in order for it to
settle in that nice clean spot that you just removed the dust from. When you dust
it off, it lifts into the air again, only to settle by the side of the Comoro
Road.

About The Author

2011-02-22T19:21:00.000-08:00

The Author

My name is Andrew M^cTear Smith and I am a VSA volunteer working in
Timor-Leste, which most people know by its previous name of East Timor. My
assignment is working in Information Technology for a counterpart
Non-Government Organisation (NGO) with a series of databases that are designed
to provide Early Warning / Early Response conflict monitoring, and a National Humanitarian
Database that identifies what International and Local Development Projects and
Programs are running within the country. It is hoped that we can create a
consolidated Geo-Spatial portal of this information in order to initiate the
dialogue needed to ensure the Early Response component of the programme.
I will be living here in the community for the next 2 years and hope to capture some thoughts,
insights and emotional reactions to my experiences here in Timor. I am
accompanied by Alofa, my wife, without whom, none of this would be possible