Life after Timor

Three months after arriving home in New Zealand:

• We’ve been surprised at how many people continue to read Dili dally: the number of views is around 30,000 and climbing. Thank you, whoever you are. Obrigada barak.
• We’ve revived our communications business, 2Write. Our door is open again for writing, editing and design work, oral histories, publications and workshops.
• Pat’s building on his Timor experience in a part-time role with VSA, working with returned volunteers.
• Pip talked at TEDx Wellington Women about the importance of both truth and compassion when we tell stories about real people.

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Yes, as much as we miss it, there is life after Timor.

Fish on a stick

Last Sunday, Pat and I went snorkelling at Back Beach behind the Jesus statue, as we’ve done on many a Sunday morning in the last two years. Later, we wandered around to the next bay. A high stone wall has appeared on the cliff edge. It won’t be long before the view of Atauro Island is commandeered by whichever ema boot (big-wig) is building a house on that beautiful spot.

The beaches and hills of Dili have sustained us during our two-year stint. You can see the Jesus statue (Cristo Rei) at the end of the point, and Atauro Island in the distance.

Behind us work had begun on a five-star tourist resort; across the water, new dirt roads zigzagged over the hills, heralding more exclusive development. We agreed that we’ve been lucky to be in Timor at this time. A time of optimism, in spite of all its problems. A peaceful time, sandwiched between the turmoil of the past and the creeping inequality that casts a shadow over the future.

Down among the women

‘How old are you?’ asked the hairdresser. She was Indonesian, like nearly all hairdressers in Dili. I was the only customer. The power had gone out which meant a cold wash and no blow dry. Never mind. A young Timorese assistant hovered nearby with an older Chinese woman, perhaps the owner.

Still working: our landlord’s mother sweeps the yard with a traditional broom.

‘Fifty-nine,’ I said, although the $10 haircut had made me look much younger – like about six. There were small gasps. ‘You are very healthy,’ the young Timorese woman said, as if it was a miracle that I was still out and about. And to her it may have been. Older women are rarely seen on the streets of Dili. They age before their time; by their late sixties, most are dead.

I hope these women – who wear sarongs, chew betel nuts that stain their mouths red, and have survived two and sometimes three occupations of their country – are treated well. I know I am. As an older malae woman, I’ve received nothing but respect in Timor. It starts with hello, which is big in these parts. ’Mana’ – the usual female greeting – is often upgraded to ‘Senora’ or ‘Avo’ (grandmother) in my case. The white hair probably helps.

It’s harder for young malae women, who get pestered and groped, even on their motorbikes. Their freedom seems to bedazzle local boys who are used to girls staying home and doing as they’re told.

Wait your patience

After 10 days in the seductive tourist bubble of Bali, I was determined not to succumb to post-holiday blues. We were heading back to Dili for a final three-month fling before life in New Zealand swallows us up again. There wasn’t a moment to waste.

My good intentions lasted as far as the luggage carousel at Presidente Nicolau Lobato airport, named after one of Timor’s resistance heroes. Think Hokitika airport, only shabbier. ‘Finis’, said the airport attendant as I peered hopefully at the empty conveyer belt which had delivered Pat’s bag – and everyone else’s on our flight – but not my little blue suitcase.

Presidente Nicolau Lobato international airport in Dili: think Hokitika, only shabbier.

We made our way inside the terminal to the office of Sriwijaya Air, an Indonesian airline. A smiley young Timorese man sat behind a glass wall. At the height of his desk, a small semi-circle had been cut out of the glass. To explain my problem, I had to bend down, twist my head and project my voice through this opening. To decipher his muffled reply, I put my ear where my mouth had been, all the time trying to maintain eye contact. It was hard to feel that Sriwijaya wanted to hear from me.

Write for Timor

I never expected to end up teaching creative writing in Timor, least of all in the national language, Tetun. But every Wednesday morning for the last six months, I’ve sat in a windowless room in the former Balide prison in Dili doing exactly that with a team of social researchers.

My four male and two female students have interviewed 800 Timorese women about their roles in the 25-year resistance movement. An academic book is in the pipeline. Now their boss, Nuno, a journalist, wants to share the women’s personal stories. When he discovered my oral history and writing background, he asked me to give them a hand.

Members of my creative writing class. From left, clockwise: Nuno, Justin, Alito, Este and Polan.

Enlisting my help was a big leap of faith on Nuno’s part. I have no teaching experience, and running a class in a language I couldn’t speak 20 months ago is, frankly, a challenge. So how does it work?

South to Suai

In mid-November, before the rains came, we set out from Dili over the mountains through Gleno, Ermera, Letefoho, Atsabe, Bobonaro, Zumalai and down to Suai on Timor’s south coast, then back home via Same (pronounced Sah-may), Maubisse and Aileu. With Pat at the wheel of our rented Toyota Landcruiser 4WD, and Kiwi volunteers Del and Tony by our side, we hurtled 500km in four days at an average speed of 20km an hour. Along the way, we encountered dire roads, a harsh landscape, grandiose churches, hardy people, exuberant kids. Not a typical tourist jaunt but another fascinating glimpse into the rural lives of two-thirds of Timor’s people.

Click on the photo gallery below for the full story.

First stop, the coffee town of Letefoho in the western foothills of Mount Ramelau, Timor’s tallest peak. The new Catholic church, with its clasped hands steeple, attracts 2000 people to Mass on Sundays.

Religious icons like this Station of the Cross outside Letefoho church are commonplace in Catholic Timor.

The full Stations of the Cross line a pilgrim’s path up to three large crucifixes on a Letefoho hilltop facing a statue of Jesus with arms outstretched. In between, a radio tower ushers Timor into the 21st century.

Below the Letefoho church, young women carry shopping home from market in the time-honoured way.

But when a ride comes along, they’re quick to clamber aboard.

Outside Letefoho, we pick up an unlikely hitch-hiker, this old man in traditional dress pictured with Del. He and two young women are heading for Atsabe, at least an hour-and-a-half walk in the hot sun.

Atsabe is home to these four young Chelsea supporters.

Pat decides to detour through a dry riverbed rather than tackle this rickety bridge.

Arriving in the one-street town of Bobonaro at dusk, we’re grateful to find the only guesthouse open, unlike the only restaurant. The squat toilet’s a challenge for aging joints but the rooms are clean and cheap at $25 a night for two with breakfast of paun (bread rolls) and coffee. Sadly, it’s insipid Indonesian powder although we’ve just passed through prime coffee-growing country.

Tony links up with some other likely lads in Bobonaro.

More Bobonaro residents.

Some Bobonaro folk are in for a good night’s sleep.

Next morning, a road worker guides us down the treacherous track to the Marobo hot springs.

But it’s going to take more than a new road to return the hot springs to their former glory as a Portuguese resort and mountain retreat.

It’s in the high 30s out of the water and even hotter in, so Pat (left), Tony and Del just dangle their feet. The air’s thick with the rotten-egg smell of sulphur. Close your eyes and you could be in Rotorua.

When the rains come, the road to Zumalai seems destined to wash away down the hill.

There are barely 10 consecutive metres of straight road in all of Timor and no sign posts between Dili and Suai. So imagine our surprise when we come across a job lot of signs warning us about winding roads.

Another mystifying sign, given that everyone walks everywhere and we can see no evidence of a school.

Out of the mountains and down on the south coast road between Suai and Zumalai, Del (right) and I rustle up real Timor coffee and snacks.

In sleepy Suai, near the Indonesian border, locals weave mats and snooze away the hot afternoon on raised platforms beneath thatched roofs. The elevated houses protect against flooding and hungry crocodiles in the wet season.

A shy young girl roasts freshly-picked cashews over an open fire on the beach at Suai-Loro.

Two boys offer us a taste of the cashew nuts. They’re delicious if you don’t count the burnt ones.

Physical affection is a lovely feature of Timorese culture, though it’s strictly girl-girl and boy-boy.

Local lads joke with Pat and make themselves at home on our Toyota bonnet.

Then it’s time to pull out the dance moves.

The new wing of the Suai Hotel, run by an enterprising young Timorese man, sports air con and TVs, although it could do with a bit of landscaping. Dinner is tiny crispy fish and rice at the warung across the road.

A grand cathedral in Suai has replaced the church where more than 100 people, including three Catholic priests, were massacred by militia in the violence that followed Timor’s independence referendum in 1999.

Being an altar boy at Our Lady of the Rosary church in Waiwhetu was never like this, thinks Pat.

Woven tais and a traditional head piece draped over a crucifix are the only Timorese trappings in the cathedral.

Graves are often more ornate than houses, ensuring protection from the ancestors.

Tropical foliage brightens up traditional houses on the south coast road after months without rain.

An Australian destroyer ran aground at Betano beach during World War 2, and remnants of the wreck remain. Later, Aussie commandos were evacuated from here. It’s hot, but we don’t risk a swim, especially as Del spied crocodile footprints on the black sand on an earlier visit.

Heavy wooden outriggers are used for fishing all over TImor.

A crumbling relic of Portuguese rule on the eastern end of Betano beach.

The town of Same in the foothills of Kablaki Mountain is still recovering from almost total destruction by pro-Indonesian militias after the 1999 independence referendum.

A swimming pool, complete with spa pool and waterfall, is part of Aussie Brian’s ambitious dream for his new Same guest house, our third night stop.

The Same hills in central Timor feature some of the country’s most spectacular scenery.

Government plans to dot pre-fabricated houses through each of Timor’s 2000+ aldeia (hamlets) for those in need have instead created ghettos away from traditional support, shelter, water and food. Many of the new houses remain unoccupied.

The motorbike in front bears the brunt of dust kicked up by a passing truck as we wind down out of the hills from Aileu back to Dili.

It’s a tight squeeze for large vehicles on narrow roads. Just before Dare, Pat has his own close encounter with a police car and we’re grateful to arrive home unscathed.

Living next door to Aussie

Australian ‘bastardry’ is something we Kiwis are pretty familiar with on the sports field. But the phrase is used in a more damning context by Australian writer Paul Cleary in his book, The Men Who Came Out of the Ground.

Cleary tells the story of the 400-strong Australian force that waged a guerrilla war against the Japanese in the Portuguese colony of Timor throughout 1942. As the Japanese swept down through South-East Asia, the tiny Australian contingent tied up an estimated 20,000 Japanese troops.

The key to their success was local support. Lieutenant John Rose wrote to his parents in June 1942: ‘The people we are living with are natives and they have been wonderful to us. They are great friends to the Aussies… they are invaluable guides, philosophers and friends here.’

Pat beside all that remains of the destroyer HMAS Voyager, wrecked in September 1942 after landing Australian soldiers and supplies on Timor’s south coast beach of Betano.

It was a smart strategy for Australia.

The trouble with travel

Every day in Dili is hotter than the last. The wind gets up in the afternoon and clouds gather over the burnt hills, only to disperse. It’s late in the dry season, no rain for months. My skirt sticks to my legs like gladwrap. Dust coats the trees, the furniture, my feet. Even the sky looks like it could do with a mop.

A hut perched on a barren Dili hillside late in the dry season.

And yet, after four weeks in the United States visiting our son Liam and his fiancée Aurora, it’s good to be back. No high-rise buildings or the roar of six-lane freeways. No designer clothes stores. No neon lights. Just streets full of people, beat-up taxis, skinny dogs, kids galore. Good-natured chaos interspersed with pockets of progress and, sometimes, desperation.

Grandfather Ramelau

Timor’s highest mountain, Ramelau, stands at an impressive 2963m, higher than New Zealand’s Mount Ruapehu. It’s revered by the Timorese as shown by its local name Tatamailau, which means ‘grandfather of all’. Fortunately, you can get most of the way up in a grunty 4WD if you have a stomach for bad corners. In mid-August, we climbed to the top to see the sunrise with fellow VSAers Del, Tony and Julia. Click on the first photo for a slide show of our trip, including a shopping expedition at the Maubisse market on the way home.

PS Dili Dally will be on hold for a few weeks while we’re in Boston visiting our son Liam and his fiancee Aurora. We’ll be back in October.

Until then, haree dalan/take care

Pip

Tony and I tuck into the remains of his and Del’s 30th wedding anniversary cake during a picnic lunch in the hills above Dili at the start of our trip.

The 100 kms to Hato Builico, where we’ll stay the night before climbing Mount Ramelau, is a five-hour ordeal (without stops) in our comfy, rented 4WD. For a truckload of Timorese, it must be a different experience altogether.

State Highway 2, the main road from Dili to the south coast, is all broken bitumen and potholes.

At Maubisse, 70km south of Dili, the temperature’s falling. We buy water and five beanies, the town supply, for our early-morning climb.

Driving becomes harder as mist shrouds the road to Hato Builico, a hillside village in the Tatamelau Range. Ramelau is its highest peak.

Locals rug up against the cold but jandals won’t keep their feet warm.

After a damp snooze in the run-down Pousada, we’re up at 3am to start our climb. It’s a two-hour slog in the dark: stone steps for the first 30 minutes, then a dirt track. The top’s clear but freezing and the beanies come into their own. From left: Julia, me and Del.

As the sky lightens, Pat and Del get a 360-degree view of TImor, including the south coast, the hills of Indonesian West Timor, and Atauro Island, 25km north of Dili.

Sunrise over Timor is worth losing a night’s sleep over.

Our guide (left) has lived in Hato Builico all his life. As a 12-year-old, he told us, he hid from Indonesian militia on Mt Ramelau with his family for two months.

Merging old and new beliefs, Timorese have dedicated Mt Ramelau, the home of ancestors’ souls, to the Virigin Mary. This three-metre statue on the summit was erected in 1997 during the Indonesian occupation. Our guide lit small white candles in the grotto before our descent.

Mountain daisies and rolling hills mark the return trip.

Timor’s mountainous terrain has been warmed by the sun for 30 million years.

Heading down the eastern side of the mountain, the sun starts to thaw our bones.

On 7 October, hundreds of Timorese make an annual pilgrimage up Mt Ramelau. Open-air Masses are held at this site, 300m from the top.

What the well-dressed tramper wears to keep the knees warm.

The colourful gateway to the mountain features prayers and a picture of St. Francis of Assisi.

Looking back on the Ramelau peak, we drive away through the foothills.

Traditional houses with thatched palm roofs dot the countryside.

Our trusty driver Pat ferries us safely back to Maubisse along another awful road.

We stay at the grubby, over-priced Maubisse Pousada on Saturday night after our booking at a local guest house is usurped by the owner’s relatives. The grounds are still gorgeous and it has great views of the valley.

On Sunday morning, Julia and me wander through the Maubisse market, an exuberant affair which draws a big crowd.

Sitting is a popular Maubisse pastime on market day.

Still got it! The Blues Brothers Tony and Pat turn local girls’ heads.

Pat’s shocked to hear from this elderly Timorese gent that the All Blacks and Wallabies have drawn 12-all.

Timorese are remarkably generous about having their photo taken, although the Tetun term ‘hasai foto’ means ‘remove photo’. The pony’s laden with rice for the homeward trip..

Maubise feels like a frontier town, complete with cowboys.

Del and I check out coffee beans drying on the road.

Each coffee pod produces two beans.

That distinctive TImor coffee flavour might contain a hint of canine.

Fresh veges are a highlight of the Sunday market.

Del buys cabbages and gains a new friend.

Then she helps me choose a pair of jeans for New York.

Thank heavens I didn’t need shoes or we’d still be there.

Cousin Agapito and other stories

Agapito Martins leaned back in his blue plastic chair and proudly pointed to his shiny tin roof, a sign of his new prosperity. He and other villagers are doing well from a World Vision project which includes cultivating and selling mahogany, teak and citrus seedlings. Seventeen households have pitched in to set up a plant nursery outside Agapito’s home where the seedlings are planted out in black plastic bags full of rich earth.

Agapito with a small basket of orange seeds that will be transferred to the nursery behind him.