My mood is positively correlated with the amount of credit available on my internet stick-thingy

The thingy that changed my life.

Recently, and thanks to East Timor’s ever-so-speedy advances in modern technology, my life changed in a profound way:


I got internet access at home!

It is superficial, indeed. I never expected that an 8cm long stick-thingy could make me so unbelievably happy.

When we first arrived in Oecusse, the only available internet was at the Timor Telecom office – about 5 kilometres from my house, during business hours, subject to available generator power. At that time I had no means of transport and was completely reliant on getting lifts from Wade.

A few months after that a new “media house” opened in town – still about 5 kilometres from my house, but it was open at night (after the power came on), so if I couldn’t get a lift to Timor Telecom during the day, chances were, Wade would need to go at night to check his emails, so I just went along with him.

Within a couple of months of the media house opening up, my life changed for the first time: I got myself a push bike. Finally, I had some wheels! I had to learn to ride it first, but the first day I rode into town to use the internet was one of my biggest achievements since arriving in Timor. I was unstoppable! Except, that is, for the days when I rode all the way into town only to find that the generator wasn’t working, so no internet. Because I was studying at the time, this would often mean that my whole day of assignment research would be ruined. To avoid this situation in future, I got the phone number of the guys at the internet cafe so I could call in advance to check that all was working ok. That made life a little easier.

Some months later, my life changed again: Wade got internet at his office. Wade’s office is closer to home – about 2kms away – and much more accessible. To top it off, it was a really speedy connection so all the articles I needed to download for uni could be done in a fraction of the time than that at the internet cafes.

And then the advent of the pre-paid internet stick-thingy!

Up until a couple of months ago, a typical “To do” list on my Outlook Express would look something like this:

Google: Flights for xmas
Go shopping – food for dinner
Google: Rosella plant
Google: uni enrolment status
Pay Vodafone bill
Google: how to make ricotta
Google: online photography courses

We do adapt quickly. Now I am able to Google at my leisure, as thoughts occur to me.

I have now become so used to having my internet stick-thingy at home, that it has become a real pain in the arse to have to go to Timor Telecom to check my balance on my stick and top up the credit.

Just yesterday, I was feeling really depressed. Nothing I could do would lift me out of the doldrums. Not even the internet. I checked emails, I facebooked, I Twittered (the mainstays of my daily internet ritual) and then I was over it. There was nothing new to be learnt, no jobs to apply for, no inspiration to be found.

I could sense that my credit was dwindling and it was no surprise that when I dragged myself to Timor Telecom late in the afternoon, I found that I only had three dollars left.

I topped up: $50. That buys me 25 hours of internet time. I walked out of the Timor Telecom office, feeling a little lighter, my internet stick-thingy buzzing in my hand with new energy.

So, this morning I wake up, eat breakfast, kiss my husband goodbye for the day, get out my computer, plug in the stick-thingy and suddenly the internet is a whole new world of intrigue, excitement and stimulation. I find myself darting all over the place! Moving from one page to another! One downloaded video to the next! Chatting to friends! Downloading podcasts with ease! Suddenly, I feel alive again! The world is my oyster!

I feel alive!

Mana Gillian

In Tetun, Mana means sister. Maun means brother. Everyone who is female is your sister. Everyone who is male is your brother.


One of the conventions of Timorese conversation is to refer to people you’re talking to in the third person. Allow me to explain, with a simple dialogue.

Maria (for example) might say:   Bondia [good morning], Mana Gillian.
I say:   Bondia Mana Maria.
Maria says:  How is Mana Gillian today?
I may reply:  I am good, thank you. How are you?
Maria might say:  I am fine. Did Mana Gillian have a nice weekend?
I feel like saying:   I’m not sure. Let me just ask her ... (rabble rabble rabble)... She says she did.

It’s particularly confusing when they drop the first name all together and just use “mana” or “maun”, like this:

Jose: How is mana today?
Me: Which one?

(I don't mean to nitpick, but techically, there are approximately 750,000 people he could be referring to, given the female population of East Timor.)

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.

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.

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...”

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!

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!”

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.