More Timor commercial television (if it existed)

“So, Clive. What are you having for lunch today?”

“Actually, Bill, I’ve got a hankerin’ for a sandwich.”

“What kind of sandwich? A toasted sandwich?”

“Nope”

“A club sandwich?”

“Nope”

“A knuckle sandwich?”

“Nah mate. A Crazy Sandwich!!”

“Oooh, can I come too?”

“Sure, Bill. The more the CRAZIER!!”

[Insert wacky “Crazy Sandwich” jingle]

A splash of colour in a can

Driving through the mountains, I’ve notice that a popular outdoor home decorating idea here is empty soft drink cans, strung up in a row, glistening in the sun outside people's houses.

Our neighbours

Mark my words: We are living next door to one of East Timor’s undiscovered child stars. If there were a Timorese Children’s Musical Theatre Society, this youngster would get a scholarship. Her set of lungs would outclass Shirley Temple’s and Orphan Annie’s combined. I think I can even hear a twangy American accent underneath her Baqueno (think a more exotic version of: “thaaa sun’ll-cahm auuut twoo-maahreow!”).

She also has regular “diva moments”. One Saturday morning recently, Wade and I were horrified to wake up in the too-early hours to a murderous sound – imagine said lungs filling with air and then letting out a blood-curdling scream that sounds something like an exclamation of utter disgust, anger and woe, all rolled into one massive holler, lasting as long as a “cock-a-doodle-dooo” (I know this, because the neighbour’s rooster felt that he was being out-cocked and decided to start joining in, in perfect harmony mind you, making him perhaps one of East Timor’s undiscovered poultry stars); a small window of silence, and then suddenly the little diva would strike up again - in total, approximately nineteen hundred times. Yes, we like to ease ourselves into our Saturday mornings in Oecusse.

We also think our neighbours might be running some sort of children’s boot camp over there, because there seems to be one phrase that we keep hearing, over and over again (coming from the mother/bootcamp instructor): NAO BEH! It seems that every second word that she speaks is “NAO BEH!”, and it appears to have, once again, a weird American accent, except this time the accent is more “white trash” than “Orphan Annie”. We originally thought that one of the kids’ names was NAO BEH!, but we’ve since figured out that “NAO BEH!” is the Baqueno term for “LET’S GO!”.

Because our neighbours never actually seem to go anywhere, we can only deduce that such frequent use of the term is in reference to some overly-strict exercise regime. And, like bootcamp, it starts before dawn, is often accompanied by hand-clapping in quick succession, and is followed by the little tuckers running around doing excessive amounts of heavy lifting.

I’ll tell ya, it’s a hard knock life!

The Ferry

We arrive at the Dili port at 4 pm. We get out of the car and enter the throng, our arms loaded up with luggage. We set off to line up, but realise there is no line; there is just a mob, crowded around a large gate. Young street vendors approach us with sticks of bamboo balanced over their shoulders in the hope that we will buy something to lighten the heavy weights of travelling food - mandarins, peanuts, bananas - that hang below each end, like large scales. I’ve already done the shopping, so we disappoint them by saying no. I’ve bought some gourmet treats for the journey – nuts and beer for appetisers, sushi rolls for main course and Portuguese tarts for dessert, followed by ginger nuts and iced coffee. What can I say? I like a good meal.

We wait, in the baking sun, surrounded by our fellow ferry-goers. Occasionally the gate slides open, followed by a hum of excitement from the crowd as people begin gathering up their luggage. This soon turns to confusion and vague irritation as a car drives through, parting the sea of the already crowded area, forcing people to move away, but only far enough to protect one’s toes. The gate closes again, and we wait some more.

This happens several more times, our hopes rising in anticipation each time, until finally the gate opens and a man begins checking tickets. A few people standing at the back near us start to push their way through the otherwise stagnant crowd (we have learnt since that many people just come here for the spectacle). We begin to make our way to the gate, and amongst the sea of bodies that surrounds me, I feel a tug on my handbag and I instantly think I’m being pick-pocketed. But when I turn around I see a young girl has grabbed hold of my bag strap to lift it over another bag that it’s become tangled up in. I give her a thankful smile and she smiles back – an intimate, friendly gesture amongst the struggling crowd. As more people push through the gate, large boxes are passed over people’s heads, over the fence to the passengers on the other side.

With one final surge, we eventually make our way to the front and get through the gate. We are directed to walk along a very narrow path, wedged between a seemingly endless line of sea containers – standing three high – and the fence that separates the port from the road. We walk along this passage for a few metres, following the other passengers. Then, without warning, our procession takes a left turn, squeezing between two rows of sea containers towering high above our heads. We emerge from the metal sandwich, into the sunlight once again, where the ferry awaits.

We board the boat. I take a deep breath before stepping onto the very precarious ramp which rises and falls with the ocean swell, taking the fewest steps possible in order to get my feet firmly on board.

We make our way upstairs and find ourselves being escorted into a small internal room, the door labelled “VIP”. It appears that the mere fact that you possess white skin automatically implies that you are “very important” and would therefore prefer an enclosed, air-conditioned cubicle as opposed to a plastic chair on the deck. No questions asked.

The first thing that strikes me upon entering the VIP room is the TV, which is playing Indonesian karaoke. On either side of the TV, running the length of the room are two platforms, one at ground level and one about a metre off the ground. Each platform is fitted with little individual vinyl “pillows”, about two inches high, separated by dividers that go from head to waist. It is a bit like a library study desk, except for the lying down part. At this point I remember: I’ve heard people talking about this room – they call it the “chicken coop”. A few locals are lounging around, already having claimed their nest. We choose a spot on the upper deck and mark our territory with our sushi, a couple of jumpers and an ipod.

As I get settled, I start to observe my surroundings, enjoying the friendly chatter amongst the other passengers. My attention then turns to my peripheral vision, which has been heightened at the site of some small but disturbing details crawling around the corners of our cubicles, and exactly where my head is to lie. Cockroaches. They are emerging out of everywhere. I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

As more people start coming into the VIP area I begin to wonder whether we’ve crashed some sort of party. Everyone who entered has been greeted with such gusto and familiarity. After a little while, a young couple walk in with a newborn baby, trying to find the best spot to claim. Everyone in the room has an opinion in trying to work it out for them. Eventually, the guard suggests that he bring in a swag for them to lie on on the floor. Everyone agrees that this would be the best option for them. And so it was.

And as I settle in for my first ferry ride, I lay back on the hard platform, my head on the cockroach-infested, unyielding vinyl pillow, and I come to realise that these people don’t know each other at all; they are simply strangers being kind to each other. I marvel at the gentleness of the Timorese as I slowly close my eyes.

A really, really good way to start the day

When I’m in Oecusse, this is how I start my day:

I sit on my verandah with my computer and my coffee. I work, listening to the waves and the kids singing on their way to school, watching the birds and the ocean. I work here until my computer runs out of batteries and I have to go inside and plug it in. After that I sit at a desk where I can’t hear the waves over the whirr of the generator. I’m grateful for the electricity (many don’t have it during the day), but I know at this point that my morning has come to an end. By the time my computer’s charged up again, it’s too hot to sit outside. Everything is different.

Frog in the bed

Yes. A frog. In the bed.

It was a day of culinary ups and downs...

It was my first trip to a mountain village. After a long and winding drive up a mountain, we arrived to find the smiling village chief and a couple of others waiting for us, bearing gifts...

1. Green coconut water followed by jelly-like coconut flesh.

Upon arrival, we were presented with a green coconut, complete with hole cut out for drinking. There is a slight fizz to coconut water, and it was very thirst-quenching. It also cools you down when you spill the liquid down your chin and onto your t-shirt. Upon completion of the liquid, we handed our coconuts back to the men bearing machetes, to be prepared for the next stage – a few swift motions with the knife and we had two coconut halves and a little spoon, made from husk, to scoop out the soft flesh. Wade had been side-tracked, looking at some bamboo nearby, so the men just kept feeding me the coconut halves. I was getting full, but I liked it.

2. Pig in broth with eyes

For lunch, we went to the village chief’s house; a lovely spot on the side of the mountain with a gorgeous breeze and shady trees. On the table a big bowl of rice accompanied another bowl , the contents of which reminded me of the “gravy beef” dish that my mum makes, although it wasn’t so much “gravy” as “meaty water”. There were small pieces of flesh floating around, and I’m relatively certain one of them was an eye. I piled my plate high with rice and slopped on some water and a couple of little bits of meat. As I ate, I discovered that one of the pieces was pure, congealed fat, and the other was meat, with skin and hair still attached. It was a bit like eating a piece of cheek with a five o’clock shadow... I would IMAGINE. I couldn’t really know for sure.

3. Popcorn
I must admit, I was still a little hungry on the way back down the mountain. Luckily for me, we were stopped half way down by Tia Maria – the local medicine woman. She offered us sweet tea and coffee, and then brought out two huge bowls of organic, lip-smackingly salty, crunchy, puffy popcorn! Now, I don’t often use the word “gobbled”, but I’m telling you - there were four of us - and we literally GOBBLED that popcorn down. Too quickly, it would seem, because no sooner had we polished off those two huge bowls than Tia Maria had put down another two bowls. A thought flashed through my head as I looked at this strange medicine woman, gums shining bright red with betel nut, her fiery eyes excitedly watching us gobbling her popcorn down: Maybe she’s put a curse on us!!! And we’re doomed to eat popcorn on the side of a mountain for evermore!!!!! But then I realised: she’s a medicine woman, not a witch. I took another handful and thought no more about it.

Timor commercial television (if it existed)

Man: I’ve got this date at the park with a single mum and her kids. I want to impress her, but I don’t want to come on too strong.

Woman: I’ve got the perfect fragrance for you.

Man: Wow, smells... intriguing.

Woman: It says, “I care” with a subtle hint of “I want to jump your bones”.

Man: Great. I’ll take it.

When you're out to impress.

Indonesian commercial television (that actually does exist)

VAGISIL! [For smelly vaginas]


Recommended by gynaecologists.

The airstrip

In some rural and remote places, you get what is called an “all weather strip”. In Oecusse, we have an “all livestock strip”.

On our way to Dili we had no less than two false starts, getting half way down the airstrip at high speeds, and then slamming the breaks on just before takeoff, to avoid taking the heads off a small herd of goats which had decided to wander across our path. There were also cattle, dogs and chickens milling about.

I'd never considered the potential of installing horns in aircrafts until this day.

Speaking of comparisons...

When you’ve lived in the desert, it’s easy to mistake the lights in the hills in Dili at night, for stars.

Geez, it’s a small world!

I’m in Dili now. I just got out of a taxi. Before I got into the cab, I asked (in Tetum), “How much?” (I know how to say this now). And then the driver said something I didn’t understand, but I didn’t hear any numbers, so I knew that he didn’t tell me the price. So then, I said “$1?” (in Tetum – I know how to say this now, too), but in saying this, I must have inadvertently answered his question, which I now assumed was, “How much do you want to pay me?”, because he then said, “OK”, in English. And I got in.

The rest of the journey went in silence, until he asked me (in Tetum) if he should turn right. I didn’t actually understand what he said, I just knew he asked me this, because we were coming up to the corner where we needed to turn right and he motioned with his hand. I said “Yes”.

So, he obviously thought I could speak fluent Tetun. Anyway, then he started making conversation, just as we were approaching my destination. He said something like, “Senora, [unidentifiable Tetum]... Australian?” I said, “Yes”, assuming he was asking me if I was Australian.

Then he said, “Hau [which I know means “I”]... [unidentifiable Tetun] Ulladulla ... [unidentifiable Tetun]”.

Then I thought, “My gosh! He sounds like he’s been to Ulladulla!!”

So I said, “Ulladulla?”

And he said, “Yes” !!!

Now, I’m assuming that he said, “I’ve been to Ulladulla”, but I could be wrong. That would be a really small world if he had. But I also just looked up the Tetum phrasebook to see if there were any Tetum words that sound like “Ulladulla” and the closest thing I can come up with is: “ular iha kabun”, which probably isn’t what he said, because, besides not sounding anything like “Ulladulla”, it also means “intestinal worms”, so I’m almost positive now, that he WAS saying: “I’ve been to Ulladulla”!!!

Wow! What a small world!

I’m getting good at...

• Catching mozzies with one hand.
• Making tomato sauce from scratch.
• Drinking way-too-sweet coffee.
• Squat-toiletting.

In Oecusse: Walking from my house to town in the morning

Stranger: “Bon dia!” (Good morning)
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”
Stranger: “Bon dia!”
Me: “Bon dia!”

Walking from town to my house in the afternoon

Stranger: “Botardi!” (Good afternoon)
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”
Stranger: “Botardi!”
Me: “Botardi!”

Roosters ringing out at dawn

Since arriving in Timor, I’ve been making lots of comparisons between my current experience and my time in Bangladesh. I can’t help it. I just keep seeing things that are either very similar or totally different, or even just Timorese things that make me think of Bangladeshi things.

One morning in Dili, I got up to use the bathroom. It was dawn. All was quiet, except for a chorus of roosters crowing across the city – some right outside my window; some far off in the distance - each one singing the same song, but with its own individual voice and intonation.

“Sounds like the call to prayer in Bangladesh,” I thought.

Corn-on-the-cob

Wade and I went to a local market in Dili. I call it the “Hali Lara” market, because that’s what I was told it was called. But no one else seems to know what I’m talking about when I say that name. I’ve double-checked it with the person who originally told me the name. She confirmed that it was correct. I wonder if she’s playing a joke.

The Hali Lara market (if that is its real name), is set at the foot of the Dili mountains, and is instantly recognisable by the presence of several gigantic banyan fig trees out the front, with their foreboding, veiny trunks that could house a small family, their aerial roots hanging down from the branches like giant windchimes. The market has a lively array of items available, including colourful spices; vegetables arranged in little pyramids of tomatoes, mounds of ginger, baskets of rice; cheap Chinese kitchen gadgets and, surprisingly, second hand clothing.

The first thing that struck me as we began weaving our way through the stalls was just how many people didn’t seem to care that we were there. No one was yelling at us to try to get us to buy something, no one was holding things up in our faces saying, “Yes? You want to buy?”, no one was coaxing us into their shop, saying, “Please come in!”. We were just free to browse wherever we liked and everyone just went about their own business.

It was as if we were invisible!

I said to myself, “This has got to be the most relaxing market experience I’ve ever had”.

We slowly wandered towards the food stalls. We bought a packet of peanuts. We didn’t even have to bargain. It was all so relaxed.

We came across a man selling barbequed corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick. Since I hadn’t had lunch, I thought, “Yeah, I’ll have one of those”.

I chose the one I wanted, gave the man his money and started walking again. I looked down at my corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick and took a bite. Suddenly I felt like my invisibility cloak had just been yanked from my person. Eyes were staring at me. People were pointing. When I smiled at them, they smiled back, even bigger. When I smiled back at them bigger, they started cracking up laughing and exclaiming things in a language I couldn’t understand.

We kept walking. Everywhere we went, people were looking, pointing, laughing, nudging their neighbours. Busy people walking past would look up as they passed me, and then do a double-take, looking at the corn, and then back at me, then at the corn again, and then break into a smile. Before too long, news of the “malae” (foreigner) with the corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick was spreading like wildfire, proceeding my every turn, where the locals around the corner were waiting for me with anticipation.

I started to get paranoid, wondering if I was doing something wrong. Maybe it wasn’t actually corn, but some strange animal poo. But then why would a man be barbecuing it and putting it on a stick and then smearing butter all over it?

Although it was a little different to the corn-on-the-cob I’ve had before (ie it was excessively crunchy – not a lot of moisture in the kernels), I still maintained that it was, indeed, edible.

Perhaps I had something in my teeth?

No, Wade confirmed that this wasn’t the problem.

It was a mystery.

For the rest of our market experience we were met with curious, yet friendly, pointing and laughing gestures.

I surmised that they were gestures of approval, rather than ridicule.

I took out the trusty Tetum phrasebook. I looked up “tasty” and found, “kapas los” (this food tastes good). I tried out the phrase on a few people. It was returned with vigorous head-nodding and more smiling.

By the time I’d eaten half of it, my jaws were beginning to ache. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it in the bin, especially with everyone watching. We walked out to the street and hailed a taxi. The driver gave me and my corn a friendly smile as we got in, and we went home.

It all began with a trip to the Emergency Room...

Midnight. Darwin airport. Four hours until I had to be back at the airport for the 6.30am flight to Dili. I had a choice to make: four hours in a hotel room trying to sleep or the emergency room?
It wasn’t so much an “emergency”, as a: I’ve got the beginnings of an illness that if I don’t act fast, I may regret it when I get off the plane in a country where I don’t know the language or the health care situation. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I’d spent most of the flight from Sydney to Darwin in the toilet.
The emergency room was busy. There were lots of sick-looking people sitting in uncomfortable-looking chairs. Some were groaning. Most were quietly watching a television mounted high in the middle of the room. RPA was on, which I thought a bit unseemly for an emergency room. I approached the nurse who was sitting behind a large glassed-off reception desk. I was feeling somewhat guilty that I wasn’t exactly an “emergency” patient, but I explained my situation and she processed me without emotion. I happened to notice a brochure sitting on the counter. It said:

While you’re waiting, we’re saving lives.

I took a seat and prepared for a long night of bad television and a stiff neck.

After only about an hour, my name was called. “Wow!” I thought, “That wasn’t too bad after all. They must have taken sympathy on me because I’ve got a plane to catch.”. I did wonder what the other patients must be thinking though... “This girl waltzes in before us, and she doesn’t even look sick!”. I almost thought to speak up and say, “Oh, no! These people were before me,” but my bloodshot-eyed stupor took away all compassion.

The doctor was friendly enough, until she informed me that she was only taking my “obs”. She poked and prodded, wrote some notes and then directed me promptly back to the infomercials. As I resumed my seat, I thought I noticed a snigger from an old lady in a wheelchair.

By this time it was about 2.00 am. I had to be at the airport in 2½ hours. All I could think about was bed. Also by this time, I seemed to be feeling a bit better, which really made me feel guilty about being in the emergency room. I seriously contemplated walking out, getting in a cab and going back to the hotel to sleep. I’m not sure if it was my own resolution that did it, or the fact that I was mesmerised by the “Sambarobics” (the latest Latino weight-loss craze that everybody’s doing!) on the TV, but I decided to wait it out.

There is one distinct difference between waiting in an emergency room and other doctors’ surgeries: drunk people. They make the wait so much more entertaining. Watching the antics of one young man in particular - I can say with utmost certainty – was the only thing that kept me from falling asleep in my plastic chair. He appeared to have a broken nose, and he was in the (real) emergency section. He came storming out from behind the reception area, swearing and saying he wasn’t going to wait around anymore because everyone was taking too long. He walked out. The ambulance officers didn’t try to stop him. Neither did the nurses. After about five minutes, he walked back in, blood pissing everywhere. “I blew my nose!” he said, “I know you told me not to, but there was so much f...ing blood up there, I had to get it out. I promise I won’t do it again. Can you let me back in?”

“Sure,” said the nurse opening the door, unamused.

While you’re waiting, we’re dealing with dickheads.

The other thing to do in the emergency room is to get to know the system. It didn’t take me long to work out what was going on. First, there’s the “small door” for “obs”, which takes about two minutes for people to come in and out of. It's basically there to get people's hopes up. Then there’s the “big doors”. When people get called into the “big doors”, they are there for a bit longer, but when they come out, they go through the “automatic doors” and go home. It was about 3.30 – I had just finished kissing my sleep goodbye - when I was finally called into the “big doors”. I was led to a hospital bed, told to sit on the chair next to it and that: “There’s no doctor at the moment, but we’re fast tracking you and you’ll see the first doctor available”.

Fast tracking me? Huh?

I waited, sitting on the chair, looking longingly at the bed next to me.

In all, I saw the doctor for approximately five minutes. She was nice enough. I got the drugs.
What I didn’t realise until my third day of building intimate relationships with the toilets of Dili, was that she gave me the wrong ones.

I had my first little Dili adventure in the local farmasia (chemist), my Tetum phrase book in hand. After (unsuccessfully) describing my symptoms to the girls behind the counter, a friendly man helped to explain them in Chinese to the Chinese doctor, who had come out to see what all the commotion was about. Within minutes, everyone in the shop knew all about my medical condition, but I had the (right) medicine. The doctor sent me on my way, but not before she had tut-tutted at the sight of my original medicine bottle, saying: “These no work!”.