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.

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.

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.