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.

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”.

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.

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”.

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.

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!

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.