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.

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.

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 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.

The airstrip

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

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

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

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!”