Good-bye, malae

We wrapped up our VSA assignment and left Dili on 1 April. There was no time for a final coffee at Padaria, a snorkel at Back Beach, a spend-up at the tais market, as I’d imagined. Instead, it was a mad rush to finish my Tetun guide to creative writing. Matadalan Hakerek Kreativu evolved into a 140-page book, including four of my students’ stories about women in the Timorese resistance movement, thanks to journalist Nuno Rodriguez who trusted me to teach creative writing in a language I could barely speak. It was the highlight of my time in Timor, a reminder that if you keep the space open, your passion will find you. Here’s more about the guide and the classes.

Launching my Tetun guide to creative writing just before we left Timor was a thrill. Nuno, who inspired me to write the guide, is on my left. The banner behind us reads, ‘I write, I live’.

Guests at the launch check out the guide, the first of its kind in Tetun.

For me, it was worth the last-minute frenzy to see the guide launched at the Xanana Reading Room two days before we left. But it was tough on Pat who had to lay it out in between handing over two years of work at World Vision, and ferry 150 copies home from the printer on his scooter an hour before our farewell party.

Some people we’ve met while we’ve been away will be lifelong friends, others we may never see again. Development workers are a transitory lot, trundling through Timor like an escalator before scattering around the globe.

Pat, draped in a traditional woven tais from his colleagues, cuts his farewell cake at World Vision. His boss, Samaresh, looks on.

The Timorese must be weary of saying good-bye to malae (foreigners, pronounced ma-lie), but they do it with grace. At Pat’s farewell lunch at World Vision, his boss Samaresh and co-workers praised his softly, softly approach. He gets alongside people and makes them believe in themselves. He has transformed the organisation’s communications. They’ve signed up more Kiwi volunteers.

Monik, who recently won a scholarship to the Dili International School, presents me with a farewell tais.

A hundred students from the English evening classes I’ve coordinated put on a farewell party for me. One had written a song, another a poem. There were speeches and food. I got so many tais they had to start hanging them around Pat’s neck.

Free English evening classes are a hit with Timorese students, pictured here at my farewell.

Leaving these bright young folk was a wrench, aggravated by the nagging question, will we ever return? Family, friends and familiarity pull you home. But what takes you back to a place that’s not your own?

Already, Timor’s fading. I can picture myself walking along the river road past kids in fluoro school uniforms, pigs rooting in rubbish, palm fronds splayed against the sky like tarantulas. But the sounds and smells are elusive and it’s hard to conjure up the stickiness in the face of Wellington’s autumn chill.

I miss the warmth of Timor, both her climate and people. I miss the babble of languages and the thrill of speaking strange sounds that other people understand. I miss the sense of purpose. It takes a long time to make a difference but the need is clear and the locals are remarkably tolerant of our attempts.

I miss the simplicity. VSA found us an apartment and provided an instant community. Our motor scooter cost $2.50 a week to run. We cooked on a two-ring gas burner. There’s nothing to buy. For Pat and me, it was like a second honeymoon, free of the ties that have tugged us this way and that for as long as I can remember.

Oh, and I miss being tall.

On our way home, we stopped in Oz for a couple of weeks to visit friends and re-adjust to credit cards and motorways. It was great to debrief with fellow volunteer and Dili neighbour Julia who has gone on to work in Alice Springs. Sharing resettlement qualms with those who haven’t been there is harder.

Julia and I reunite in the Aussie outback.

People ask, are you pleased to be home?  It feels like a test, my ‘yes’ or ‘no’ a judgement  on their choices as much as my own. I don’t want to turn it into a competition. There’s so much to love about New Zealand. Sausages cooked over an open fire with the grandkids. Sisters. Crisp salads. Rinsing my toothbrush under the tap. DKNY perfume, not Dili DEET.

Pat dispenses sausages and tales of Timor at Kaitoke River to a rapt audience of grandchildren.

But the First World doesn’t have all the answers. It’s taken over a month for our unaccompanied luggage to get from Auckland to Wellington, and nearly three weeks to get internet connected. No one just sits. And  I’ve passed more homeless people begging in central Wellington than I ever saw in Asia’s poorest country.

Would we volunteer again? Another two-year stint’s unlikely. Our youngest grandchild was three when we left; he’s just started school. That’s a lot of cuddles to miss out on. But if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that the line between staying and going is not as rigid as I thought. After 30 years in the same house, you can pack up, head off, return, and the sky stays put. More scary, in fact, is how little changes. You’re not even sure if you have.

Pat’s going to build on the experience by working part-time for VSA, connecting returned volunteers. I’m not sure what the future holds for me. Before we set off, my big bro Matt, who’s helped out in Asia for 25 years, said living in a new culture would renew our feeling of awe: both awe-some and awe-ful. He was right. The challenge is to maintain the same sense of wonder here, at home, in the awe-dinary .

This is our last Dili Dally blog. A big thank-you to all our readers for your interest and support. You can still find us at 2Write, our communications business.

If you live in Wellington and want to know more about Timor, please come along to Exploring Timor-Leste, an exhibition of craft, photographs, paintings, music and stories. It’s running at the Thistle Hall at the top of Cuba Street until Sunday 10 May.

Obrigada barak

Pip

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.

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.

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.

A day dallying in Dili

6am: It’s dark when Pat and I leave home to walk up the hill behind our house. The roosters are already in full throttle and there’s a welcome coolness to the air. We scramble up a rocky path, past silent shacks, in time to see the sky turn orange above the hills of Cristo Rei. In the harbour below, container ships wait to unload almost everything Timor consumes, including rice from Vietnam, eggs from Singapore and clean water from Indonesia. Not much goes the other way.

Sunrise over Dili harbour

The tais that bind

I got a rare chance to observe the ancient art of weaving tais (pronounced ‘ties’) when 10 women from Oecussi – a small Timor Leste enclave surrounded by Indonesia  – brought their skills to Dili recently.

Grupa Feto Fitun Fronteira (The Women’s Star Frontier Group) spent two weeks at the Xanana Reading Room showing visitors how they spin, dye and weave home-grown cotton into beautiful cloths, using techniques and designs handed down by word of mouth from their mothers and grandmothers for up to 2000 years. It’s part of a bigger project supported by two local NGOs, Timor Aid and the Alola Foundation, to preserve and promote textile development throughout East and West Timor.

This 15-year-old Oecussi girl has  learnt traditional tais weaving from her grand-mother. Scroll down for a full photo gallery.

I went back to the uma mahon (shady house) at the Reading Room several times, drawn by the women’s skill, patience and teamwork, not to mention their fortitude in sitting straight-backed on thin mats for long spells, legs stretched out under their looms.

The art of tais is performed only by women, often as a social activity that provides income, binds communities and underpins many cultural practices. The fine cloths are used for ceremonial occasions, everyday wear, decoration and as objects of exchange. These days, as weavers cater to modern demands, you can buy tais handbags and scarves, shoes, book marks, place mats, cushion covers – in fact, almost anything you can think of  –  in a bewildering array of designs, patterns and colours unique to each of TImor’s 13 districts. 

Many modern tais use synthetic dyes and cottons. However, the Oecussi group’s goal is to preserve the old ways, time-consuming and labour-intensive as they are. As with many indigenous communities  – including Maori in New Zealand  –  traditional weaving is in danger of dying out, a process hastened in Timor by the wholesale destruction of people, materials and cultural knowledge during the 24 years of Indonesian occupation.

The Oecussi enclave has the most diverse range of tais production techniques still left in the country. The women of Grupa Feto Fitun Fronteira, the guardians of this sacred heritage, are fighting for its survival. To see their craft for yourself, click on the first photo below and scroll through the photo gallery.

To’o tempu oin/Till next time

Pip

Oecussi weavers from Grupa Feto Fitun Fronteira (Women’s Star Frontier Group) demonstrate the art of tais at the Xanana Reading Room in Dili.

A woman feeds a cotton boll through two rollers in a wooden mangle to soften the fibres. This process also separates the cotton seeds which can then be replanted in communal gardens.

The clean cotton boll is fluffed up with a bow-like implement to make it easier to spin.

After gently rolling it into a cocoon shape, the woman spins the cotton by hand, pivoting a wooden spindle on a saucer.

Bark, roots and leaves combine to make a natural red dye. Vinegar helps protect the thread from rodents.

A woman pounds turmeric bulbs and water to make a natural yellow dye. Behind her hang skeins of naturally-died cotton.

The more times the cotton is soaked in the natural dye, the more vibrant the colour becomes.

Crouching on the stony ground, a woman rubs black dye made from mud and buffalo dung into a skein of cotton.

After dyeing, the cotton is wound into a ball for weaving.

Using a half-coconut shell, a weaver threads cotton onto a loom in the colour combinations required for a particular tais pattern.

This 15-year-old girl has learnt the mapa’uf weaving technique from her grandmother, and memorised this pattern. The transfer of knowledge also requires sacred prayers and rituals. The back-strap on her loom maintains the cloth’s tension but can cause painful pressure.

Unless the younger generation become involved in weaving tais, the art will be lost.

Tying a set of threads (known as the futus resist dye technique) is the most intricate and time-consuming aspect of weaving tais. The thread is first wound onto a bamboo frame. Sections forming the motif are tied off with palm leaf strips and the cloth is then submerged in dye. The ties block the dye so the tied threads retain their original colour. After the ties are carefully cut away, the threads are woven into the tais to reveal the motif.

Tais motifs often combine human and animal features. Popular motifs include the gecko, horse, Timorese stilt house and crocodile, the basis of Timor’s creation myth.

According to local accounts, religious cross-stitch patterns were introduced in the mid-20th century by Portuguese nuns who taught Timorese girls embroidery.

This tais, woven using the mapa’uf technique, was traditionally worn only by rulers and people of high status.

Tais woven using the sotis technique have traditionally been worn by the common people in Oecussi.

The leader of Grupa Feto Fitun Fronteira (left) displays a full-sized tais that takes a month to weave and sells for US$150.

Times are a-changin’

I was looking forward to getting back to Timor third time round. I’d met family I never knew at a reunion in New Zealand and hugged my grandkids till they couldn’t stand it. It was time to see Pat and friends, pick up my English teaching and Tetun learning, start writing again. Instead I got off the plane with a First World stomach bug and spent the first week in a disoriented fug.

Ants join forces to carry off bits of our house to make one of their own.

As I lay on the couch feeling sorry for myself, two welts appeared on my stomach, souvenirs of an adventurous ant. In his Jitters from the Critters post last year, Pat described ants as ‘tolerable’. That must have been before the invasion.