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.

Mr Kerala.

We have a favourite Indian restaurant in Dili, called Megha India. The food is always fresh and delicious, but more importantly, it is made with love.

Mr Kerala (as we like to call him) comes from... well... Kerala. He is a moustached, rather stout man with a belly that makes him look like he doesn’t mind one little bit if he doesn’t get any customers for his buffet lunch – all the more for him. His sensible, short-sleeved business shirts do a not-so-effective job of disguising this protruding feature, made all the more obvious by the over-stressed buttons around his middle-region. He always displays a gentle film of perspiration across his brow, and a smile. And he is proud – so proud – of the food he prepares, single-handedly and lovingly in his oven-like kitchen.

Here’s how a typical visit to his House of Delectable Curries goes:

Upon entering the restaurant we are greeted by the smiling man, already looking slightly flustered, possibly because he has only just finished cleaning up his buffet lunch (you can take this statement any way you like).

He is VERY happy to see us, and informs us immediately that he has some nice fish that he has only just purchased and it is very, VERY fresh. (This is before we have even sat down.) I’m always happy to indulge him by remarking how hungry I am and how excited I am to be there, and how it’s been so long since the last time we ate his delicious food.

We sit, survey the menu and ask him what else is good today. After some negotiations about whether we want dry fry or curry, parathas or chapattis, he serves us drinks and then disappears behind a door where the magic happens. (You can actually witness this magic via a large letterbox style window at the back of the restaurant.)

While we’re waiting, I spy him through the letterbox window. I see him busying himself with chopping eggplants, chillis and onions, firing up the woks and frying mustard seeds till they pop. I see him mixing, kneading, slapping and rolling out the parathas and chappatis while the dhal is bubbling on the stove. He has four or five burners on the go at one time and he manages them as successfully as a professional plate-spinner. As he stirs, I imagine little droplets of sweat dripping into the cauldrons of bubbling curry, adding that special element of human salty flavour.

Timed perfectly with the last mouthful of our first drink, he arrives at our table, face beaded with sweat, smiling like a proud parent, bearing armfuls of his gastronomic offspring (well, you get the idea). He takes more drinks orders and proceeds to the bar.

The food is always remarkable, and I always eat too much. And I have absolutely no idea how he does it. Everything from scratch. All by himself.

Part-way through our meal, he does the courteous thing and comes to check on our reactions to his creations. I’m pretty sure he only does this as an ego boost to himself, because he is always showered with compliments at this point. He will often give away some morsel of information about a special ingredient used in the curry and how he brought it back from his village in India on his last visit, such as his special dried tamarind that will keep for years and years without going mouldy if you store it correctly. At other times he will simply make chit-chat, complaining about how he has had three light globes stolen from his restaurant’s front veranda in one week, so he has to unscrew them when he closes at night time.

Last time we were there, he had just returned from two months in India, and our gushes about how much we missed him were rewarded with some complimentary Indian sweets that he had brought back from his village. We also learnt how he has changed the position of his light globes on the veranda to one less obvious to passers-by.

When we leave, sometimes he scolds us for not ringing ahead and ordering his special fish curry that he needs 24-hours’ notice to cook. We promise to be more organised next time. We know we will be rewarded if we are.

A name by any other rose

After many months of forewarning, Tuk Tuk, one of my favourite Thai eateries in Dili is gone. So sad it was to drive past last month and see it empty. It was one of the most popular places in an (increasingly dwindling) line of cute little beachfront restaurants. I really liked it because it was a pretty green hut with lots of character, and the food was pretty good too (by Dili standards).

So you can imagine my excitement (and slight confusion) when we drove past again just last week to see some people setting up tables inside and a sign outside saying, “The New Tuk Tuk”!!

We made haste to dine once again on fish cakes and seafood red curry in little banana leaf parcels.

Upon our arrival at “The New Tuk Tuk”!! we noted the fresh paint job in primary colours and an unusual mural on the wall - a silhouette in red of a naked woman, looking like the lead singer of a heavy metal band with a background of drums, guitars and psychedelic swirls.

We then noted the menu -a laminated piece of white A4 paper, entitled: “Garden 88”.

This wouldn’t mean anything to those unfamiliar with beachfront Dili eateries, but it meant a hell of a lot to us.

Garden 88 is another beachfront restaurant just 50 metres down the road.  It is always empty.

As you can imagine, our suspicions were aroused at this point.

Still, we were hungry, so we chose a few dishes, and after being told “no have” to around half a dozen of them, we settled on some spring rolls, a papaya salad and some barbecued squid.

Our suspicions were further aroused when we noticed that “The New Tuk Tuk”!! didn’t appear to have a kitchen, and that our food was arriving through the front door, in the arms of an exhausted-looking waitress.

Our suspicions were finally confirmed upon the eating of the food which was, at best, mediocre.

To give you an idea about just how disappointed I was, think of “The New Tuk Tuk”!! as the Grease 2 of restaurants - Big hype, same name, but none of the stars of the original.

How can these people sleep at night when they know they are so blatantly capitalising on another’s success?

Bastards!!

****************************************

There is an ironic twist to this story.

I was grocery shopping the other day at Landmark Plaza. There is a Chinese restaurant next door. Guess what it’s called...

“The New Garden 88”.

Blood lust

Mestra Maria* (aka our Tetun teacher) is one of the most gentle and softly spoken people in East Timor.

It’s true!

In a recent class, we were learning about the word “to’o” (toh-oh). It means “until”. Maria told us that in Timor, when cooking, there is a saying: “Tein to’o tasak” - “cook until it’s cooked” (Good advice, especially when salmonella lurks).

We got the point, but just to drive the message home, she added, with enthusiastic actions to match, “Kill people until dead”, followed by an evil little chuckle.

She wrote the sentence on the board.

OK, yes, we understand.

And then, another example, again with actions, just in case we didn’t get it the first time: “Stab the pig until it dies.”

Another evil laugh as she wrote the sentence on the board.

And then: “Hit the cow until killed” (this one is really disturbing).

They do say it’s the quiet ones, don’t they?

*Name has been changed.

DV in Dili

I just went out to get a bite to eat for lunch at a busy little cafeteria around the corner. I took my uni readings with me because I was sans company.

I ordered my food, chose a seat in a nice quiet corner and got down to business: eating and reading. I didn’t immediately notice the couple sitting at the table directly to the left of me.

I successfully entered the Zone of Academic Consciousness, but shortly after, was diverted off course by something happening at said table on my left.

The woman (just beyond my peripheral vision) had begun continuously whacking the man (just within my peripheral vision) with an empty water bottle. The man was feebly defending himself, both in word (by softly trying to placate the woman in a language I couldn’t understand) and deed (by blocking the blows with his forearm while looking embarrassingly around at the people in the restaurant). The woman scolding him was doing so with lowered voice, but she was very obviously unconcerned about the scene she was creating with the bottle.

I didn’t feel it was my place to stare, so I kept my eyes on my reading, pretending not to notice. But in my mind I was secretly scandalising about what it could all be about.

After a little while, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I looked up. But I didn’t look directly at them. I just kept them in my peripheral vision, pretending to be looking at a picture on the wall near them.

They both looked at me and the woman stopped the whacking, momentarily.

I went back to pretending to read. The woman went back to whacking and scolding.

A short time later, I looked up and stared innocently at the wall again, as if considering something very intellectual from the reading I’d just been doing. They both looked at me and again the whacking stopped. I noticed that other people in the restaurant were also pretending not to notice, looking at their own parts of wall.

I resumed “reading”, the whacking continued.

I wasn’t getting any work done, so I decided to pack up and leave. As I was pushing my chair in, I turned and looked directly at the couple, and gave them a big smile. I’m not sure why. I guess I thought I’d be the first to acknowledge the elephant in the room by making light of the situation.

The woman didn’t see the funny side of it. When I met her gaze, I was greeted with the most unpleasant of death stares, looking out from heavily lined eyes, punctuated by an intimidating scowl.

Whoops!

I walked out, to the beat of plastic against skull.

Attention: Desert Mob!!

It’s a gas gas gas

OK, so last night, I was home alone because Wade had to go to Dili for a meeting. It was my first night at home by myself. As luck and Murphy’s Law would have it, the gas bottle decided to run out just as I had put the pasta on to boil. Luckily, we had a spare bottle, but I couldn’t for the life of me crack the nut to change it over (I have since found out – ie since Wade got home – that for safety reasons, gas fittings all turn in the opposite direction to normal ones, so in attempting to crack the nut, I was only making it tighter).

I called out to security (yes, we have security guards at night here, but don’t be too alarmed - it is all merely in the name of job creation) to come and help, so he came inside and tightened the nut some more. After both of us sweating and struggling for around 20 minutes, we shook our heads in disbelief at just how hard this nut was to crack.

The guard said (in Tetun): “Tomorrow I’ll get someone to come and fix it for you”.
(I‘m pretty sure) I said (in Tetun): “No, don’t worry. Wade will be back tomorrow, so he can fix it”.

...

Next morning.

Guard (in Tetun): “Did you get the gas bottle changed over?”
Me (in Tetun): “No”
Guard: “I’ll ask someone from the office to come and help you change it over.”
Me: “No, don’t worry. Wade will be back today, so he will be able to fix it.”

...

Later that morning...

Wade comes back. Attaches new gas bottle in approximately 46 seconds. Advises me on the idiosyncrasies of gas fittings. I am wide-eyed at the wonders of the world.

...

Still later that morning...

Troupe carrier pulls up outside our house. Four men from the office get out and start walking towards our house. Wade goes outside to see what the problem is.

Office man 1 (in Tetun): “We’ve come to change your gas bottle...”

Nativity Wars

If I were a Christian missionary, I would be heartened by the myriad of nativity scenes that adorn the streets and front yards of Dili at Christmas time. I would feel satisfied that my work was done. I would stroll merrily along the road and happily remark to myself, “Oh, isn’t this one lovely! It’s made out of wood! Look! That one’s made entirely out of recycled plastic bottles!! How inventive! There’s another one. It’s made out of little blow-up dolls and it’s decorated with pretty little lights. There’s Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the three wise men. But ...hang on a minute... Is that ... Santa? Oh dear.”

A short time later, perhaps after dark, I would at first be intrigued by the groups of young boys that appear to be hanging around these make-shift stables, drinking beer and listening to loud music. This would very quickly turn into all out horror as I witness the thievery that takes place when a group’s back is turned. Steal a Jesus from one, only to have your own Mary taken away by someone else.

“Somewhere along the way”, I would muse, “We seem to have got our wires crossed”.

Our trip to Bali

This is a story about Wade and Gillian’s adventurous journey to the lovely island of Bali.

Starring:

A couple of fairly clueless, but lucky newlyweds
Friendly helper #1: West Timorese colleague
A Nasty President
Friendly helper #2: Angela*
Friendly helper #3: Angela’s friend
Friendly helper #4: Rahman
Two pushy women
A brave, but stupid, bus driver

*Names have been changed.

Narrated by Gillian, in the first person.

Wednesday, 16 December

Discover that all flights from Dili to Denpasar are full between 23 and 28 December.

Bugger.

Employ West Timorese colleague to purchase Merpati Airlines ticket from Kupang (West Timor) to Denpasar on 24 December. Learn that this domestic ticket only costs $70 per person instead of the $300-odd to go from Dili.

Yay!

Also learn that we must travel overland to Kupang, which means Indonesian visa is required.

Thursday, 17 December

Day of rest to gather thoughts.

Friday, 18 December

Go to Indonesian embassy in Oecusse. Sign says “closed”. Cleaning staff inform me that embassy staff have gone to Dili to process visas. If I’d have put our forms in yesterday, we would have had our visas by Monday.

Bugger.

DAMN YOU, day of rest!!

Make some calls to a few people “in the know”. Am informed that there is a possibility that the Indonesian embassy in Oecusse will do a “diplomat’s visa”, which they can process in one day. Cost is double the usual price of visa. I wonder whether this is simply code for “bribe”.

Monday, 20 December

Go to Indonesian embassy in Oecusse, ready to make my bribe. Am told that visa forms were due in on Thursday. They will now take one week to process – in Dili. I casually wave the $60 across the window and meekly enquire about the “diplomat’s visa”. Am laughed at and told once again that the visa will take one week.

Bugger.

Need to be in Kupang in 3 days. Have no visa. Will have to get the ferry to Dili, which leaves tomorrow afternoon at 4pm. I think we can manage that.

Tuesday, 21 December

Find out that the ferry isn’t running, because the President has decided to use it to take his family to a neighbouring island for a holiday.

Bugger.

Only option left: pay $600 for a charter flight to Dili.

Leave that afternoon at 2pm, major hole in pocket, but grateful for the miraculous opportunity to fly.

Arrive in Dili and begin the process of getting a visa. Thankfully, Wade’s administration officer, Angela, has a friend at the embassy and has offered to take in our forms.

Yay!

Now, for a bus ticket to Kupang...

Various Timorese staff tactlessly inform us that most of the buses will probably already be full because everyone is trying to get to Kupang for holidays. I can only nod my head and hope for the best.

Am taken to one bus office. “Full”

Bugger.

Next bus office. “Yes, we have two available seats for 23 December.”

Yay!

“What are your passport numbers?”

“Umm, our passports are in the Indonesian embassy – we’re still waiting for our visas.”

“When did you put them in?”

“Today.”

“Well, you know, they take 3 days to process them. I can’t sell you the ticket unless you have a visa”.

Bugger.

“OK, well, can you hold the seats for us until tomorrow?”

“I will try. My name is Rahman. Here is my number. Call me when you get the visas.”

Yay!

Wednesday, 22 December

Informed by Angela that we should have the visa by this afternoon – 4pm at the latest.

Because we are driving overland, we realise we are going to need some Indonesian currency for when we get across the border. I head to the bank, 15 minutes before opening. There is already a very long queue, waiting to get inside – it looks like the Boxing Day sales. I notice there are some dodgy looking people standing around with foreign currency in their hands. I think about handing over my US dollars in exchange for rupiah, but it’s probably best to do it officially, inside the bank.

As soon as the doors open, the crowd surges through and disperses into 3 different but equally lengthy queues. I hesitate, not knowing which queue to get into, and as a result, many people shuffle past me and I lose my place in what was otherwise a fairly advanced position.

Bugger.

I quickly scan the room, see a board with exchange rates on it next to one of the queues, and so decide that that would be the obvious place to line up. I stand, towards the back of the line. And wait. Suddenly, two women push past me and stand in the line just in front of me. I look around me in disbelief to see if anyone else is as outraged as me. All I see is a man, looking at me and holding up two fingers. His expression seems to say, “I’m sorry for your loss, but hey, thems the breaks”. I have no idea what the fingers mean. Maybe it’s a peace sign to try to appease me. Whatever it means, I’ve got no patience for this sort of behaviour today, so I promptly push back in front of the women, saying, in my most assertive voice I can muster, “Excuse me! I was in front of you.” I settle into my reclaimed position and look around me. Then I realise that there are actually two lines, not one, and I was standing in the longest one. The two women were just joining the other, shorter queue (hence the two fingers). I realise that I had just officially, and very loudly, pushed in.

Bugger.

But, I decide to stand my ground, because I know what these crowds can be like. There is absolutely no order, nor courtesy. It is simply every many for himself, and if someone snoozes, they most certainly loozes. Now, this is the type of queue that snakes around dividers, like at the airport, so when turning the corner, you are particularly vulnerable to losing your place if you don’t put into place some territory-marking strategies. I quickly devise a strategy: Stick my foot out, and put my hand on the pole. That way, no one can sneak past me. (This is all done very discreetly and casually, by the way. You have to make it look like you’re just standing with your foot and your hand out because you’re comfortable that way.)

I get to what I think is the end of the queue, and then I realise that there is still one more step: a row of chairs, which effectively means, two queues merging into one. This is more difficult than it sounds, especially when nobody wants to let anyone in front of them. And the three young girls in front of me are getting gazumped at every opportunity. They keep letting the people from the other line sit down! By this time I am getting incredibly impatient, so I once again use my territory-marking strategy and stick out my foot and put my hand on the pole, making a barrier so that the man in the other line is now blocked. He pretends not to notice, but he still give my arm a little nudge.  I ignore him. The young girls give me a grateful smile as they sit down on the next available chairs, and I think to myself, “Yep, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, girls. You’ve got to stand your ground.”

After around 40 minutes, I make it to the front of the line, walk up to the lady at the teller and say, “I’d like to buy some rupiahs, please”.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, “We no have. Go outside.”

“Outside? Where?”

“You will see some men there. They have rupiah.”

Bugger.

As I turn to walk out the door, I notice that the two women who pushed in front of me who I pushed back in front of again, are sitting down at the front of the queue. They both have smirks on their faces.

I go outside and buy my rupiahs from one of the dodgy-looking men, for a surprisingly reasonable exchange.

Yay.

...

Promptly, at 4pm, our passports and visas are handed over.

Yay!

Off to the bus office to collect tickets. They are waiting for us.

Yay!

Which means, in effect, that we are officially going to Bali.

Yay!

That is, assuming our Merpati tickets have definitely been booked and the plane gets off the ground in Kupang. Merpati is not known for its reliability.

Thursday, 23 December

President has called a “National Clean Up Day”. No vehicles are allowed on the street between 8am and 11 am. Heavy fines for breaking the rules.

Bugger.

The bus driver decides to risk it. We stupidly drive around the city, collecting passengers. Manage to do so without incident, until we are on our way out of the city, when we are stopped by a blockade. A police officer walks angrily up to our driver.

Bugger.

Wade pokes his head out the window and catches the police officer’s eye, whose expression instantly softens. The bus driver apologises for not being out on the street, cleaning up. The police officer seems to say, “I understand. Away you go on your holidays”.

Yay! (Actually, “Phew!”)

We’re off.

Sometime later...

Realise bus driver is really, really tired. Witness him slapping himself in the face, driving with his head stuck out the window and sticking his head in a water trough at one of the rest stop.                                                                                               

Bugger.

Sometime later, get to East/West Timor border. Process visas and immigration with no problems.  Cross border.

Yay!

Change bus drivers.

Yay!

Arrive in Kupang without further incident.

Yay!

Friday, 24 December

Get to Kupang airport, extra early, in case anything goes wrong with the tickets.

It hasn’t.

Yay!

But...

The plane is delayed for six hours.

Bugger.

We wonder what the hell we’re going to do. Decide to try our luck checking back into our hotel room. We had checked out well before the official time of noon. We are pleased to hear that our room is still available. We put it down to the fact that foreigners like us are a novelty in these parts, and local people want to make foreigners happy. Because they’re usually rich.

Yay!

Kill six hours with no trouble, watching TV in the air-conditioned hotel room, and then walking the streets of grubby Kupang (not one of my most recommended tourist destinations). Get to airport. Merpati flight leaves on time and in better comfort than what we’re used to on the Merpati flights from Dili.

Yay!

Touch down in Denpasar without incident.

Yay!

And that was a little story about how we got to Bali.

Incidentally, Merpati airlines flight from Dili to Denpasar on Christmas Day was cancelled, without notice or alternative flight, leaving scores of Timorese and ex-pats stranded, unable to get home for their holidays. Some had to get connecting flights to places as far away as Brazil.

We were happy for our adventure.

The Honeymoon. The Highlights.

•  Realising that getting there was half the fun.

•  Discovering that the entire island of Timor only has one mix tape that has been copied and distributed to all bus drivers, shops and airports for continuous and painful repetition, 24 hours a day. And each song has EXACTLY the same bass line. Since getting back, have realised that it is the same stuff that our little diva neighbour belts out most hours of most days of the week.

• Noting the fully sick detailing on the windscreens of all the local buses - a word or short phrase in a whacky font - as if giving the bus its title, while at the same time diminishing visibility by at least 30%. Here are some of my favourites:

“Xpressi”

“Simples”

“Stand by You”

“Google”

“Posh Boy”

“Don’t cry”

“Buser”

“Forever Power”

“Blessing”

“Predator”

“Gentlemen”

“Cleopatra”

“Corinthia”

“Alfa Omega”

“What’s the Greek connection?” you ask. I don’t know.


• Catching an unusually large number of men doing up their pants after urinating in public.

• Learning how to make hibiscus tea (among many other, wondrous tasty treats) at the Casa Luna cooking school (a wedding present from my naughty friends, Tara and Will).

Here’s how: You get 3 hibiscus flowers, put them in a cup. Pour over boiling water. Watch it turn dark purple. Take the flowers out. Squeeze in the juice of a lime. Watch the liquid turn to pink. Add sugar to taste. Chill if desired. Drink.

• Marvelling at young children asleep whilst riding motorbikes with their families. One little boy was standing, slumped over the handlebars, dead to the world.

• Discovering that using a banana leaf as an umbrella may not be all that effective, but it sure looks cool.

• Being oblivious to the fact that our fancy “Honeymoon Special” masseurs from our hotel in Amed were not the same people that come along from the beach and say: “You wan massaz?”. We’d booked for 3pm. The hotel masseurs were late. The beachcombers were not. We weren’t to know. We undressed. The beachcombers started with their baby oil. The fancy ones turned up at the door in their fancy uniforms and their aromatherapy oils. Then there were four masseurs in a room with two half-naked tourists looking confused and guilty, feeling like we’d been caught cheating. We wanted the good stuff. We ditched the baby oil (paid for it) and spent the next hour and a half in aromatherapy heaven.

• Getting loved up on New Year’s Eve with my two favourite men in the whole world: Wade and Michael Franti. Watched and listened to the smooth acoustic tunes with our legs dangling in the pool. Then went back to our own villa*, with our own private pool and had a night time swim as the rain started coming down. (That part was a bit luxurious).

• *Shaking my head in disbelief at the traffic congestion while walking back to our villa on New Year’s Eve. At one end of the road the cars were at a stand-still, motorbikes weaving in and around them, as well as speeding down the footpaths, until eventually, the motorbikes came to a gridlock, leaving only small spaces for us lowly pedestrians to squeeze through. Eventually even we were unable to advance any further, with all the available spaces being taken up by cars, motorbikes and other pedestrians.

THE Honeymoon Highlight

I didn’t know I was so clever. In fact, I had absolutely no idea what I’d done until it was happening. It’s the sort of thing you do for someone and keep it as a surprise, because it’s so GOOD.

Somehow I managed to surprise both of us.

I booked us into Mosaic – reputedly Bali’s best restaurant. We were to have the degustation menu (our second such indulgence for the trip – the first being at Lamak, with my friend Beverley, where my fellow diners and I shared our first sweetbread experience. For those that don’t know, sweetbread is not bread. And it it’s not so sweet either. Some say “testicle”. I have heard “pancreas”. But don’t let that deter you from this otherwise delightful dining experience. However, I digress...).

When we arrived at the restaurant, I gave my name to the maître-de, but it didn’t appear to be on the list. “That’s bloody typical,” I thought, “‘Best restaurant in Bali?’ I doubt it!” Just when I was about to start rifling through my bag for my booking confirmation, I heard the maître-de exclaim: “Oh! You’re having the Chef’s Table! Follow me!”.

We were at once ushered into a posh lounge area where a man was playing the piano and a few other guests were sitting on plush couches and sipping elaborate cocktails with a general air of self-importance. The whole scene seemed ridiculously inappropriate to me, considering the economic climate of our broader location. This notion was compounded by the man sitting opposite us who was, for all intents and purposes, Don Johnson from Miami Vice, complete with ridiculously long side-parted fringe that he seemed to enjoy flicking back dramatically with both his hand and his head at the same time, with great aplomb. He just made the whole thing feel downright tacky.

After half a caprioska on an empty stomach, I forgot about Don and started looking forward to the food. With our drinks we were served a canapé of black truffles in puff pastry - gourmet vegetarian sausage roll – and as soon as I bit into it, I immediately realised something:

I don’t like truffles.

Is that a faux pas?

Of course, I didn’t complain. I still scoffed the lot.

I just went off and vomited quietly in the corner afterwards.

Only joking.

We were then collected by a waitress and whisked off to our second location. We walked through the restaurant and down the stairs out the back. Then we were led into a smaller building with around half a dozen tables set up (Don was sitting at one of them, flicking his hair and looking generally seductive), and a fully functioning kitchen. It was then that I twigged: OH MY GOD. WE’RE GOING TO WATCH OUR FOOD BEING COOKED BY REAL CHEFS IN A REAL KITCHEN!!!!!

It was something I’d been dreaming about for a very long time.

Our six-course degustation came with matching wines and it was perhaps the most fancy, French-influenced Asian meal I’ve ever had.

Here is the menu (you will note the chef’s preoccupation with truffles. Personally, I think truffles are passé, but that is perhaps one of my only complaints):

(Click on the image to enlarge, and then drool, if you wish)

And here are a few of the dishes:

I was on a silly high for much of the evening, but it was one of those nights that will definitely be one to remember, and a lovely way to spend our last night in Ubud. Even Don Johnson couldn’t spoil it.

After the ferry

Sitting on the verandah, just me and my computer again. It’s the wet season. There’s a distant roll of thunder signalling the likely storms we’ll get today. There is no breeze, the sea is calm. For now, everything is still.

Except for me.

I’m still swaying.

Flies

Flies buzzing around my feet, tickling my legs.

Not one, not two, but five (at least).

I shake them off.

Within milliseconds they’re back again.

Breaking my train of thought,

Making          (swat)

This               (swat)

Silly               (slap)

Poem            (slap)

Very             (swat, swat)

Difficult         (swat, slap)

To                (swat)

Write            (slap)

Gorging themselves on my mosquito bites,

Reminding me of the kids in the desert

Who used to squash flies in their scabs

Or in the corners of their eyes.

The Legend of the White-tailed rat

(File photo: not actual image of rodent in this story)

When we first arrived in Oecusse and moved into our house, we were talking to a couple of Australians who had lived in the house before. Upon eyeing our sensible plastic tubs that we had bought to keep our dry foods in, the couple warned us about a particularly vicious native rodent that wanders these parts: The White-tailed rat.

“They’ll eat right through that plastic”, one of them warned.

I got the sense that they were know-it-alls, trying to both impress and scare us with their local “knowledge”. A bit like the stories a sixth-grader hears a few weeks before starting high school, about the eighth graders who flush the new kids’ heads down the toilet. Scaremongering. That was all it was.

Six months later...

It’s the middle of the night and I hear an empty tin can scraping across our kitchen floor. In my recent past I have become rather accustomed to the sound of rummaging mice in the middle of the night, so I’m pretty confident it is a rodent of some description. In my midnight slumber I vaguely recall a few sparse but related words: rat... white-tail... plastic...

My eyes spring open. I give Wade an urgent nudge and inform him about our visitor in the kitchen. He dutifully gets up and has a look around to see if he can see anything, but comes back to no avail.

In the morning, we come to understand the cunning nature of this beast. In order to get inside the house, it has EATEN THROUGH THE WOODEN DOOR. While on its midnight feast, it has successfully climbed on top of some very high shelving and EATEN THROUGH A PLASTIC TUPPERWARE-STYLE CONTAINER, like some rodent-shaped can opener, in order to get to the rice – not the cheap local stuff, mind you – the expensive Arborio rice imported all the way from Dili.

Some nights later, the familiar sound once again disturbs me in my sleep. Once again, Wade – the brave, the gallant – stumbles out into the dark abyss, donning his head torch as he goes. I hear nothing for a few moments, and then a sudden crash as plastic boxes, tin cans and whacking implements simultaneous collide. Then, a flabbergasted chuckle from Wade, and all goes quiet again as the energy moves into the lounge room. All is calm for yet a moment before I once again hear the sounds of struggle; this time the coffee table being pushed across a stubborn tiled floor. More whacking, more whacking and even more whacking, and then...

“OK, it’s dead.”

In the morning I am informed that my side of the bargain is to dispose of the corpse, which has been placed respectfully in a cardboard box. I am to take it over the road, far away from the house, where a dog or a pig will likely enjoy the remains for lunch.

I decide to do this without delay, to get it over and done with. I pick up the cardboard box, take it into the bushes a little way down the street, upturn the box and witness only a brief glimpse of something stiff and furry, before running quickly away with a nauseous shudder, saying, “OHMYGODIT’SSOFUCKINGBIG!”

I didn’t get time to find out whether it was in fact a white-tailed rat, but I do hope it doesn’t have friends.