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!

Desperate times call for desperate measures

All my friends and family who helped me out in my trip down “childhood foodie indulgence” lane a few months ago will appreciate this:

In a particularly desperate, shaky, gotta-have-cholocate-now-!-oh-shit-!-we’ve-run-out-of-chocolate-! moments today, I raided the kitchen and came up with something I might otherwise have scoffed at in my more refined adult life, had I been in another place: a spoonful of nutella, double-dipped into a jar of crunchy peanut butter.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Life’s like that in Oecusse.

I just went out into my (very overgrown) backyard to chase the neighbour’s chicken away, and I bumped into a watermelon, sitting amongst the tall weeds, ripe for the picking.

...

I went to the Oecusse market this morning. I have been living in Dili and eating hotel food for the last six weeks, so it was a much-anticipated fresh food purchase. I’m now eating the rewards for lunch. I made a simple avocado and tomato salad with thinly sliced Asian shallots and a tiny clove of garlic, finished off with some local sea salt, pepper, extra virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar.

I don’t believe I have ever tasted anything quite as fresh and bursting with flavour.

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...”

After the ferry

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

Except for me.

I’m still swaying.

Flies

Flies buzzing around my feet, tickling my legs.

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

I shake them off.

Within milliseconds they’re back again.

Breaking my train of thought,

Making          (swat)

This               (swat)

Silly               (slap)

Poem            (slap)

Very             (swat, swat)

Difficult         (swat, slap)

To                (swat)

Write            (slap)

Gorging themselves on my mosquito bites,

Reminding me of the kids in the desert

Who used to squash flies in their scabs

Or in the corners of their eyes.

The Legend of the White-tailed rat

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

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

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

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

Six months later...

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

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

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

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

“OK, it’s dead.”

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

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

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

A splash of colour in a can

Driving through the mountains, I’ve notice that a popular outdoor home decorating idea here is empty soft drink cans, strung up in a row, glistening in the sun outside people's houses.

Our neighbours

Mark my words: We are living next door to one of East Timor’s undiscovered child stars. If there were a Timorese Children’s Musical Theatre Society, this youngster would get a scholarship. Her set of lungs would outclass Shirley Temple’s and Orphan Annie’s combined. I think I can even hear a twangy American accent underneath her Baqueno (think a more exotic version of: “thaaa sun’ll-cahm auuut twoo-maahreow!”).

She also has regular “diva moments”. One Saturday morning recently, Wade and I were horrified to wake up in the too-early hours to a murderous sound – imagine said lungs filling with air and then letting out a blood-curdling scream that sounds something like an exclamation of utter disgust, anger and woe, all rolled into one massive holler, lasting as long as a “cock-a-doodle-dooo” (I know this, because the neighbour’s rooster felt that he was being out-cocked and decided to start joining in, in perfect harmony mind you, making him perhaps one of East Timor’s undiscovered poultry stars); a small window of silence, and then suddenly the little diva would strike up again - in total, approximately nineteen hundred times. Yes, we like to ease ourselves into our Saturday mornings in Oecusse.

We also think our neighbours might be running some sort of children’s boot camp over there, because there seems to be one phrase that we keep hearing, over and over again (coming from the mother/bootcamp instructor): NAO BEH! It seems that every second word that she speaks is “NAO BEH!”, and it appears to have, once again, a weird American accent, except this time the accent is more “white trash” than “Orphan Annie”. We originally thought that one of the kids’ names was NAO BEH!, but we’ve since figured out that “NAO BEH!” is the Baqueno term for “LET’S GO!”.

Because our neighbours never actually seem to go anywhere, we can only deduce that such frequent use of the term is in reference to some overly-strict exercise regime. And, like bootcamp, it starts before dawn, is often accompanied by hand-clapping in quick succession, and is followed by the little tuckers running around doing excessive amounts of heavy lifting.

I’ll tell ya, it’s a hard knock life!

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.

A really, really good way to start the day

When I’m in Oecusse, this is how I start my day:

I sit on my verandah with my computer and my coffee. I work, listening to the waves and the kids singing on their way to school, watching the birds and the ocean. I work here until my computer runs out of batteries and I have to go inside and plug it in. After that I sit at a desk where I can’t hear the waves over the whirr of the generator. I’m grateful for the electricity (many don’t have it during the day), but I know at this point that my morning has come to an end. By the time my computer’s charged up again, it’s too hot to sit outside. Everything is different.

Frog in the bed

Yes. A frog. In the bed.

It was a day of culinary ups and downs...

It was my first trip to a mountain village. After a long and winding drive up a mountain, we arrived to find the smiling village chief and a couple of others waiting for us, bearing gifts...

1. Green coconut water followed by jelly-like coconut flesh.

Upon arrival, we were presented with a green coconut, complete with hole cut out for drinking. There is a slight fizz to coconut water, and it was very thirst-quenching. It also cools you down when you spill the liquid down your chin and onto your t-shirt. Upon completion of the liquid, we handed our coconuts back to the men bearing machetes, to be prepared for the next stage – a few swift motions with the knife and we had two coconut halves and a little spoon, made from husk, to scoop out the soft flesh. Wade had been side-tracked, looking at some bamboo nearby, so the men just kept feeding me the coconut halves. I was getting full, but I liked it.

2. Pig in broth with eyes

For lunch, we went to the village chief’s house; a lovely spot on the side of the mountain with a gorgeous breeze and shady trees. On the table a big bowl of rice accompanied another bowl , the contents of which reminded me of the “gravy beef” dish that my mum makes, although it wasn’t so much “gravy” as “meaty water”. There were small pieces of flesh floating around, and I’m relatively certain one of them was an eye. I piled my plate high with rice and slopped on some water and a couple of little bits of meat. As I ate, I discovered that one of the pieces was pure, congealed fat, and the other was meat, with skin and hair still attached. It was a bit like eating a piece of cheek with a five o’clock shadow... I would IMAGINE. I couldn’t really know for sure.

3. Popcorn
I must admit, I was still a little hungry on the way back down the mountain. Luckily for me, we were stopped half way down by Tia Maria – the local medicine woman. She offered us sweet tea and coffee, and then brought out two huge bowls of organic, lip-smackingly salty, crunchy, puffy popcorn! Now, I don’t often use the word “gobbled”, but I’m telling you - there were four of us - and we literally GOBBLED that popcorn down. Too quickly, it would seem, because no sooner had we polished off those two huge bowls than Tia Maria had put down another two bowls. A thought flashed through my head as I looked at this strange medicine woman, gums shining bright red with betel nut, her fiery eyes excitedly watching us gobbling her popcorn down: Maybe she’s put a curse on us!!! And we’re doomed to eat popcorn on the side of a mountain for evermore!!!!! But then I realised: she’s a medicine woman, not a witch. I took another handful and thought no more about it.

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.

I’m getting good at...

• Catching mozzies with one hand.
• Making tomato sauce from scratch.
• Drinking way-too-sweet coffee.
• Squat-toiletting.

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!”