The moderate yet unmistakable state of heightened anxiety of a lone female foreigner riding in a Dili taxi

It often begins before you even get inside. You start by examining the vehicle as it approaches: black or dark green taxis tend to look dodgier than yellow ones. I am unsure of the reality. Decorative paraphernalia on the windscreen and dashboard can have adverse effects on safety, passenger dignity, or both. If you can hear the music thumping before the car has even stopped, you know you’re in for a wild ride. Spotting even a trace of another human being in the taxi as it approaches warrants complete abandonment of Plan A, due to safety concerns. Them’s the Rules.

Deciding where to sit. The Rules say to never sit in the front. Some Rules dictate that females sit behind the driver, so he can’t see you. This has been tried, but resulted in total paranoia of being within arm’s reach of the driver should he wrap his arm around the back of his seat and grab onto a knee or ankle. Besides, any taxi which has half a dozen decorative paraphernalia of small, convex rear-view mirrors suction-capped to the windscreen can see in fish-eyed detail the upper-torso of whoever is sitting in that seat. I usually go with the back seat on the passenger side.

Next, you check out the driver. I usually start with a “bondia” (good morning) or a “botardi” (good afternoon) as I get in, just to gauge what I’m dealing with and to start on a positive note. I have always found this to be a good strategy; more often than not it has turned a disinterested, tough-guy face into a slightly less disinterested one. It’s important to note that this can also be too successful, especially if the taxi driver thinks you’re hitting on him and the entire trip ends up becoming a massive one-way sleaze fest. This has happened before.

Once you’re settled in your seat, and you’ve given the driver your destination, you sit back, knowing that the following questions are almost certainly going to arise, in this particular order, along with a slightly elevated pulse rate:

Did he understand me when I told him where I was going? (My Tetun can be a bit hit and miss.)

Does he know where he is going? (Many young drivers come to Dili from out of town to work.)

Is he going to demand extra money at the end of the trip? (The Rules say to work out the cost beforehand. I have learnt that doing it “Timorese style” and just getting in and planting $2 in their hand at the end is just as successful... but you never know.)

Why is he going so slowly? (Dili taxis are said to be the slowest taxi drivers in the world. Thankfully, this has the effect of reducing anxiety levels.)

Where the f**k is he going?? (This question arises quite often. Once, in my first few months, it popped up after the driver took a sudden turn down a dirt track and proceeded into a maze of unsealed roads (really just a whole lot of potholes joined together), turning his head and mumbling something vague to me in Tetun. We continued through this labyrinth, and just as I was about to jump out of the slowly moving vehicle and run into the closest house shouting “THIS TAXI DRIVER IS TRYING TO KIDKNAP ME!!!”, I spotted a familiar landmark up ahead. I gave the driver one last chance. We continued to the end of the track, where we turned onto a sealed but traffic-laden road and within a block I was at my destination.)

Can’t he turn that f**king music down? (In some cases I have been totally transformed in a Dili taxi, cruisin’ the streets with all the windows down, my sunnies on and the whole car vibrating to the rumbling bass– I’ve been a biatch-in-da-hood and even a funky reggaton gangsta. And I don’t like it.)

Touch wood, nothing has ever gone seriously wrong for me in a taxi in Dili. Most of the drivers are really very sweet and all they want is to make their money and get on with the next job. Most of them know exactly where they’re going and will take whatever money you give them at the end of the journey without argument. Some of them ask you if it’s ok if they stop off on the way to collect a dollar from an old security guard who didn’t have enough money to pay his fare earlier in the day. Some of them will pick you up late at night and take you home, even though they have already finished work and have picked up their wife and baby, who are sitting in the front seat, at which times it’s ok to break the Rules. Most of them love to have a chat, but are just as happy not to. Most of them have no interest whatsoever in lone female foreigners like me.

Desperate times call for desperate measures

All my friends and family who helped me out in my trip down “childhood foodie indulgence” lane a few months ago will appreciate this:

In a particularly desperate, shaky, gotta-have-cholocate-now-!-oh-shit-!-we’ve-run-out-of-chocolate-! moments today, I raided the kitchen and came up with something I might otherwise have scoffed at in my more refined adult life, had I been in another place: a spoonful of nutella, double-dipped into a jar of crunchy peanut butter.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Life’s like that in Oecusse.

I just went out into my (very overgrown) backyard to chase the neighbour’s chicken away, and I bumped into a watermelon, sitting amongst the tall weeds, ripe for the picking.

...

I went to the Oecusse market this morning. I have been living in Dili and eating hotel food for the last six weeks, so it was a much-anticipated fresh food purchase. I’m now eating the rewards for lunch. I made a simple avocado and tomato salad with thinly sliced Asian shallots and a tiny clove of garlic, finished off with some local sea salt, pepper, extra virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar.

I don’t believe I have ever tasted anything quite as fresh and bursting with flavour.

Sliding right back into the Oecusse lifestyle

A month in Dili presents a great contrast to the situation I now find myself. I’m sitting on our Oecusse veranda after an overnight ferry ride and the only things I can hear are lapping waves, a little family of chirping birds and my fingers tapping on the keyboard. It’s absolutely beautiful.

Getting off the ferry this morning wasn’t quite so peaceful. Being a seasoned traveller on the Nakroma, I have learnt that it takes approximately half an hour for the crowd to clear the lower decks, so if you’re too eager and leave your air-conditioned quarters on the top deck too early, you end up just standing in a crowd, queuing down the steep stairs, getting all hot and frustrated.

After waiting in my cabin until well after the horn had sounded to indicate that we’d arrived safely in Oecusse, I made my way freely down the stairs, satisfied with my timing, only to find that the lower deck was still full of people. This was unusual, because people usually push past each other trying to get off as soon as the doors open and the ramp is lowered. So, I pushed past everyone and eventually got to the front and I discovered the reason for the hold up.

The ferry’s ramp was lowered, not onto the corresponding ramp on-shore, but into the water about four metres from the shore. There was a channel of water about hip-height rushing between the two ramps, moving with the tide. Two men were holding onto a wooden board in order to make a bridge for people to walk across, but the tide was so high that this board was also submerged in water, so every time a tide surge came through, the men would have to hold it down to stop it from floating away WHILE THE PEOPLE WERE TRYING TO CROSS IT.

Added to this was the fact that the ferry’s door was lowered at an angle more than 45 degrees, so it was incredibly slippery and very steep.

I stood there watching in disbelief at the fact that some people were still attempting to get off the boat (and back onto it again – as it is common practice for young men to run on and off the boat unloading all sorts of supplies from Dili, including sacks of rice, bundles of clothing, gallons of water, boxes of 2-minute noodles, cooking oil, slabs of beer and coca-cola, chickens, roosters, goats, pigs, cows, buffaloes, building materials, sacks of cement, ceramic tiles, firewood, poles of bamboo, TVs, DVD players, beds, chairs, cupboards – almost all of such goods carried on top of heads or shoulders). I looked behind me and saw four men approaching, carrying a motorbike, like pall bearers carrying a coffin. They proceeded to walk it down the unbelievably steep ramp. Once they got to the bottom, they couldn’t seem to make their way onto the wooden plank because there were too many other people crowding around, trying to get on it. One of the many bystanders on the shore (completely oblivious to the role he was playing in blocking the way) indicated to the four men carrying the bike that they should bypass the bridge all together, and just wade through the water and onto the sand. So, they did! They entered the perilous, waist-deep swell, motorbike-on-shoulders and struggled their way through the waves onto the beach.

I decided I needed to get out of this dire situation and try to get off. I de-thonged and started to make my way down the steep, slippery ramp. The ramp has two, metal-ridged columns which allow some grip for the feet, but on either side of these columns, it’s just smooth metal. I stuck to the ridges. Two impatient men decided to overtake me on the smooth part of the ramp, both of them carrying massive sacks of rice on their heads. Completely and utterly unsurprisingly, the second man slipped, and, in perfect slapstick fashion, careered straight into the legs of the first man, knocking him off his feet. Both men and both sacks of rice fell into the water. The first man, after regaining his composure, gave the second man the biggest death-stare, as the crowd howled with laughter.

I eventually managed to get off without any trouble, but not without much head-shaking and tut-tutting at the lack of concern for OH&S.

This picture was taken a couple of weeks after the event in this story. While the problem with the boat ramps was still not fixed, note the canoe - possibly one of the shortest boat rides in Timor. I think the new, improved steel "bridge" that you can see being hauled in at the top of the picture might have been overkill though. Also note the many observers standing around, adding nothing to the experience but inconvenience.

A three-part story about a walk up The Stairs

Part 1 – Prologue: Ol’ Darty Eyes

I’ve been doing a bit of work in Dili for the last week or so, working for a local NGO. It is a short term contract helping some health workers to develop a training module for supportive supervision (we’re all learning as we go). I’m working in a small team of young men: two trainers and one coordinator (my boss).

I’ve dubbed the latter “Darty Eyes”. He looks quite friendly and innocent, but he has rather large eyes – the type that have a slight bulge – and he spends his conversations with body relaxed (leaning back in chair, standing propped up against door frame, etc) but eyes darting all over the place, as if he’s waiting for the cops to come bursting through the door. To top things off, every half a second or so, his eyes seem to always return to the same place: my boobs.

It is rather off-putting.

I have taken to shuffling around beside him when I’m talking to him, or holding my notebook across my chest or folding my arms in an attempt to divert him off-course – with marginal success. In his defence, I’m not actually sure that he even realises he’s doing it. For all I know, his other colleagues may be walking around feeling equally self-conscious about their chest-regions, although they are all men, so maybe they wouldn’t notice.

I’m not taking it too seriously though, because I think he is a genuinely nice person.

He has some other strange habits, too. Sometimes he breaks out into falsetto, android-like sounds for no apparent reason. When he arrives back at the office after lunch, he says “Hello!” in a very high-pitched voice that sounds as if he has just had his testicles squeezed a little bit too hard.

And another thing. He wears perfume.



Part 2 – Big Jesus

I went for a walk up The Stairs.

Doesn’t sound like much, but it’s the only way I can truly get close to Jesus. And, I’m talking about 500-odd of those uneven little buggers, so it’s not exactly a walk in the park.

The Stairs are divided into two sections. The first is a gradual but lengthy climb; the steps deep but short, like those at the Opera House, in groups of approximately 10 (this is an average – nothing about these stairs follows regulation). Divided amongst these groups, nestled into the side of the mountain are large copper depictions of the stations of the cross, so if you’re feeling a bit puffed out, you can look over at Jesus and give yourself a boot-camp style talking to, like this:

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT? AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT CARRYING A BLOODY CROSS, YOU LAZY PIECE OF SHIT! GET UP THERE!

It’s all about motivation.

The Stairs take a gentle curve around the side of the mountain, so you can never really tell when the whole thing is going to end. So you just go by feel. About the time when you’re so hot you could wring the sweat out of your hair into a glass and drink it, you finally see the top of the first section. Here, you find a large paved area where many people take the opportunity admire the view of the beaches and the Dili sprawl below, but it is also a chance to catch your breath, because the second section is pretty much vertical. But once you get to the top you’re rewarded with an even better view, as well as the sight of Jesus, standing on top of the world, arms stretched out to give you a welcoming hug for making the trip up to see him (although he is exceedingly tall and therefore out of reach).

Many Timorese enjoy this walk, and not just for religious reasons – I’m surprised at how many get really into the whole exercise thing. But some of them do quite unusual versions of the types of exercises I’m used to seeing. For example, I saw one young man doing push ups, but he was doing them extremely fast – about as often as ‘Ol Darty Eyes looks at my chest in an average conversation. They were very serious push ups. Everything is fast and earnest with the Timorese exercise regime. They tend to be slight in stature, so they have no problem throwing their bodies around. One day, when I was about to descend a particularly long and steep flight of stairs – maybe 30 steps - I was startled at the sight of a man who was jumping up towards me, like a frog, Two Steps At A Time (!), WITH HIS HANDS BEHIND HIS HEAD (!!) (Quite dangerous, I thought.) But he made it all the way to the top, to where I was waiting with mouth agape, and the little frog looked up into my eyes and gave me the most satisfied smile I’ve ever seen.

Today, I went to see Big Jesus. Today, there was no breeze. It was really, really humid. I decided that today I was going to walk up the stairs two at a time, as a way of punishing myself for all the sitting down I’d been doing for the week. I thought, “I don’t care how sweaty or puffed out I get. I’m by myself – no-one’s watching. I’m going to do it! I’m going to punish myself!!”

So I did.

Right up to Big Jesus I went, two stairs at a time. By the time I got to the top, I was sweatier than Mr Kerala cooking a vindaloo in a sauna.

I regained my breath, did a few stretches (just to fit in with everyone else looking limber and serious), said goodbye to Jesus and began the slow but satisfying trip down the stairs again, wobbling with lactic acid.

Upon my descent, I cursed the cheap, synthetic t-shirt that I’d bought in Bali for $2.00 that I’d decided to wear that day, because it was doing a very poor job of soaking up the perspiration running out of my pores like a tap, and was hugging my figure like a wet T-shirt competition.

It was at this point that I looked up and saw a familiar figure walking towards me: Ol’ Darty Eyes.

Bugger.

Remember Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Well the only thing missing from this eye-popping scene was the sound of horns.

“Botardi, Mana Gillian!” he said.

“Honk Honk!” said his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Maun [brother],” I said, folding my arms.

“It’s very hot today,” Darty commented.

“Honky honk honk!” agreed his eyes.

“Yes, it is,” I said, fanning myself with my hands.

“Have you been exercising?” asked the man.

“Honk diggity donk!”

“Yes, I have. Well, it’s been nice to see you. Now I must go. See you tomorrow.” I shuffled away and down the stairs, my cheeks burning with exercise and embarrassment.



Part 3 – Taxi!

Big Jesus is a few kilometres out of town, at the end of a long, winding and often lonely road. Once you get there, it can sometimes be difficult to find a taxi to get home. On this particular day I was alone and the shadows were already long by the time I’d finished my walk. I had a couple of taxi drivers’ numbers in my phone, but I hadn’t needed them in such a long time that I didn’t know whether they were still valid. One of the numbers was for a young taxi driver from Oecusse named Mundu, so I thought I’d try him first, in order to support the Oecusse cause. (Note that Mundu was working in Dili – I wasn’t going to ask him to drive all the way from Oecusse to pick me up. That would just take too long.)

I dialled. A woman answered. This conversation ensued, spoken in Tetun, as I will now translate for you in the only way I know how: Badly.

I said:   “Mundu? Taxi?”

She said:   Mundu? He’s not here.

I said:   Ummmm....

She said:   Do you want a taxi? I’ll call him. Where are you?

I said:   I’m at Cristo Rei.

She said:   OK. I’ll call him.

I hung up, uncertain of whether Mundu was going to show up or not. I sat on a sandstone wall and watched the red sun slowly disappearing into the horizon. Pretty soon it would be dark, and although there were a few people milling about drinking sunset drinks at the beach-side bar, it wouldn’t be long before they started getting into their cars to go home, the nervous-looking female sitting on the wall a mere blur in their peripheral vision.

I scrolled through my phone numbers and located “Helio”. Helio is another taxi driver whose number I acquired from a friend a few months ago. The first and last time I called him, he charged Wade and I five dollars for what would usually have been a two-dollar trip. He had become accustomed to malae (foreigner) passengers paying generously for his services. He reminded me of a cheeky monkey.

I dialled Helio’s number.

Helio:   Hello?

Me:   Hello. Are you Helio?

Helio:   Yes. Do you want a taxi?

Me:   Umm. Yes. Umm. I think so. Umm. I have already called another one, but I don’t know if he’s coming or not.

Then, noticing that some of the sunset drinkers were beginning to leave, I said:

Yes! I need a taxi. I’m at Cristo Rei. I’m waiting for you.

I hung up. I felt better. I felt a little bit guilty that one taxi driver might be making the trip for nothing, but I also figured that Mundu probably wouldn’t show up anyway, and I needed to put my own safety first because I didn’t want to get stuck.

A short time later, my phone rang. It was Mundu, confirming that he had been told that I was waiting for him at Cristo Rei.

Me:   Oh. OK. Umm. I have called another taxi... I don’t know if he’s coming...

Mundu:   I don’t understand.

Me:   Where are you now?

Mundu:   I’m at ANZ Bank [about a 10-minute drive away]. Do you want a taxi?

Again, feeling very guilty but with an overriding sense of urgency (and a secret hope that Helio was more than 10 minutes away), I said:

Yes.

Mundu:   OK. I’m coming.

A short time later, my phone rang again. It was Helio:

I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m leaving Comoro [a 12-minute drive away] now!

Me:   OK. (Read: Oh shit.)

I sat on the wall, looking at the empty road to my left for a sign of headlights.

Nothing happened for some time, but I eventually spotted two cars in the distance, winding their way along the road. One seemed to be in hot pursuit of the other.

My phone rang again.

Helio:   I’m coming! I’m coming!

Oh dear.

A couple of minutes later, in what looked more like a yellow, two-carriage, car-shaped train rather than two separate vehicles, Mundu, followed by Helio, rounded the last corner to where the malae was sitting on the sandstone wall.

I really wanted to give the job to Mundu from Oecusse, so I approached his passenger window and told him to wait for a moment, to which Helio’s response was to start beeping his horn in long, continuous beeps. The few remaining sunset drinkers were looking at me funny as I ran to Helio’s car. I apologised to him through the passenger window, telling him that I wouldn’t be needing his services. My broken Tetun excuses only seemed to make him angrier. I offered him two dollars as compensation. Then he was really angry, telling me that he’d driven all the way from Comoro. I could see that Mundu was getting agitated in the car up ahead. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just held the two dollars out and pleaded with my eyes for the driver to take it.

Finally, Helio said, “Give me three dollars!” I placed another dollar in his hand, apologised once again, and was relieved to see him smile as he made his u-turn to begin his journey back to the city.

I entered the safety of the back seat of Mundu’s taxi, still feeling guilty but relieved to be on my way home.