Mana Gillian

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


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

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

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

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

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

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.

Blood lust

Mestra Maria* (aka our Tetun teacher) is one of the most gentle and softly spoken people in East Timor.

It’s true!

In a recent class, we were learning about the word “to’o” (toh-oh). It means “until”. Maria told us that in Timor, when cooking, there is a saying: “Tein to’o tasak” - “cook until it’s cooked” (Good advice, especially when salmonella lurks).

We got the point, but just to drive the message home, she added, with enthusiastic actions to match, “Kill people until dead”, followed by an evil little chuckle.

She wrote the sentence on the board.

OK, yes, we understand.

And then, another example, again with actions, just in case we didn’t get it the first time: “Stab the pig until it dies.”

Another evil laugh as she wrote the sentence on the board.

And then: “Hit the cow until killed” (this one is really disturbing).

They do say it’s the quiet ones, don’t they?

*Name has been changed.

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.

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.

More Timor commercial television (if it existed)

“So, Clive. What are you having for lunch today?”

“Actually, Bill, I’ve got a hankerin’ for a sandwich.”

“What kind of sandwich? A toasted sandwich?”

“Nope”

“A club sandwich?”

“Nope”

“A knuckle sandwich?”

“Nah mate. A Crazy Sandwich!!”

“Oooh, can I come too?”

“Sure, Bill. The more the CRAZIER!!”

[Insert wacky “Crazy Sandwich” jingle]

Timor commercial television (if it existed)

Man: I’ve got this date at the park with a single mum and her kids. I want to impress her, but I don’t want to come on too strong.

Woman: I’ve got the perfect fragrance for you.

Man: Wow, smells... intriguing.

Woman: It says, “I care” with a subtle hint of “I want to jump your bones”.

Man: Great. I’ll take it.

When you're out to impress.

Indonesian commercial television (that actually does exist)

VAGISIL! [For smelly vaginas]


Recommended by gynaecologists.