Hadomi Timor

My last day in Timor was like a microcosm of the year that led up to it. It had everything, from Catholicism (half an hour spent looking over Dili from the vantage point of Jesus, early in the morning and on my own) to chaos (getting stuck in Dili lunchtime traffic. And afternoon traffic. And 5pm traffic), cultural miscommunication (trying to buy a bicycle for a Timorese kid from Japanese guys who spoke no Tetun… or English) to being completely overrun by children (a final farewell complete with popcorn, photos and tears).

Dili from Jesus

Timor airbag

And like so many days I’ve had in Timor, it ended in happy, confused exhaustion. And a messy house.

After much deliberation, we had decided to buy one of the kids a bike. Not because he was our favourite (although he probably is), but because he is older and different and he’s never had a bike, despite it being the thing du jour in Dili at the moment. We were worried about how the other kids would react, but a huge cheer went up when they realised he was getting a bicycle of his own – they all scurried away with it and through our thin kitchen walls we could hear the excitement continuing next door.

And so now the mosaic tree is as finished as it will ever be and our house is strewn with half-packed bags and the remnants of a last dinner party.

Even though Timor has given me floods and landslides and giant rats and blackouts and gropings and tears of frustration, it has given me much else besides. Timor is a place where goats and cattle roam the countryside freely and strangers parked next to you at the traffic lights say hello and ‘diak ka lae?’ It’s a place where neighbours will bail floodwater out of your house before you get a chance to ask for help and colleagues will tell you about the time they saw the Santa Cruz massacre from their schoolyard. After a year here I haven’t come close to figuring the place out, but I do have a feeling it will stay with me forever.

And now, reluctantly, I have to sign off (what do bloggers call it? Clearly I don’t know the lingo). From the bottom of my sarcastic heart, thanks for reading. Every comment I’ve got about this blog has been shockingly gratifying for someone accustomed to drafting plays in garret towers (metaphorically speaking anyway) for months on end.

If next time you see me, I look a little dazed and confused please remind me – ‘it’s okay. You just had one of the best years of your life. Bele hamnasa.’

Farewell to qualms

Living in Dili is like being in the midst of a constant stream of farewells – if it was a sitcom, you’d think the writers had some serious plotting issues. And this week it’s my character’s turn. Which I guess means Dili will be down one sarcastic, slightly neurotic blonde.

My last day of work on Friday finished with speeches, a horrifically rainbow-coloured cake and of course, karaoke. John Denver’s Leaving on a Jet Plane was up first, followed by Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight, which did get slightly awkward. But then the refined sugar and food colouring kicked in and I realised that at some point I reached a Timor milestone – I no longer laugh at the awkwardness of bad karaoke. It just seems like the most logical way to spend a Friday afternoon after a busy week at work.

On Saturday we had a no-holds-barred mosaic session in which we officially relinquished control of our mosaic tree to the neighbourhood. 

We also planned to have a ‘clothes swap’ for us to offload some of our more ridiculous/unnecessary market purchases (of which there were many) to unsuspecting friends. It soon became a competition of how many pieces of clothing two grown men could put on in five minutes (top score being 15 – some of the dresses got complicated). Soon after the kids got stuck in and somehow the whole lounge room was cleared of clothing in under five minutes.

After many mosaicing sessions, crazy dinners, dance routines and just moments spent staring at my neighbourhood in wonder, it was lovely to see so many familiar faces. When I got a bit emotional and had to take a time out from the chaos, the kids were concerned – ‘What’s wrong Joey? Why are you sad?’ Then a thoughtful pause… ‘Can I have some more cake?’ They obviously knew they had caught me at a weak moment.

Now I’ve turned to packing up and trying not to get too sentimental over things like sunsets and riding on motorbikes. I feel like I somehow I managed to live five years in one, and now I’m about to surface again I’m not sure how it will feel to take a breath.

Full circle

Of course my last trip to the districts was always going to be to Maliana, my favourite far flung outpost. Maliana is the kind of incredible place where eating lunch becomes an exercise in anxiety control. One moment you’re wondering how much MSG one person can consume before displaying serious side-effects, the next you’re surrounded by military personnel casually holding semi-automatic machine guns the size of small children. It’s hard not to be intimidated in the presence of light artillery. But it was very pleasing to see them put the guns on the ground while washing their hands before lunch.

 

My final district jaunt featured the usual things – being swamped by children, looking at wells and toilets, asking questions about wells and toilets, running out of questions to ask about wells and toilets. The experience of having 20 pre-school children stroke my skin and hair made me feel like some kind of albino Shetland pony at a petting zoo, but their intentions were good. I think.

 

'Looks like a good'un.'

 

Trying not to freak out during peak hour at the petting zoo

 

It was lovely to be in the female majority on a work trip for once (and I mean that – ONCE), which meant that instead of staying up late drinking beer, we swapped photos of children/nephews/nieces instead. My new colleague is also an absolute gun at English and says things like ‘nighty-night’ which pleased me no end.

 

Returning home to Dili, I was greeted by Mumma Pig. And by greeted I mean she gave me a haughty look as if to say ‘welcome to what used to be your driveway but it is now my personal fiefdom’. Now that I have a year of pig observations under my belt, I’m practically the Jane Goodall of porcine behaviour.

 

This pig was moody. She was aggressive. She was glaring people down like Julie Bishop in a parliament throwdown. She even charged at one of the teen piggies and squashed him against the gate and was looking like she’d love nothing more than to do the same to me. Her belly had the kind of jelly-like appearance that only comes with a sac full of piggy foetuses waiting to enter the world. It was clear she was suffering from some pre-natal tension.

 

And indeed by 6am the next morning there were 9 little piggies holed up next to our front gate. Now these are officially the smallest I have ever seen. You can imagine my response – high voice and compulsion to take lots of photos. Right after I took the below photo I was charged at by Mumma Pig but I survived unscathed.

 

First morning in the world

 

In other news, there is no petrol in Dili. Theories abound as to why, the best one I have heard yet being that we are part of a huge social experiment as to what happens when you cut off fuel to an entire country. Great. The Bubble is already out of petrol so I’m back to schlepping on the streets and having awkward conversations with taxi drivers about why I’m not married. And that's a full circle.

Pre-emptive nostalgia

In my last month in Dili, I’ve come down with something. It kind of snuck up on me and the symptoms, which were subtle at first, have now become debilitating. This is a classic case of pre-emptive nostalgia.

 

It rears its head in the most unlikely of places – I’ll be in the local warung, ordering cassava leaf and banana flower and wondering when I became such a plant eater. Or I'll be stuck in traffic and taking the opportunity to admire the politically-inspired street style – a CNRT hat paired with a Frenti-Mudança t-shirt, for example.

 

The nostalgia is stopping me from thinking clearly. I can’t even muster up any frustration at the puppy next door. We started to feed him occasionally and now he expresses his love for us by stealing shoes. So far I have lost one sandal and a shoelace. The only problem is, I don't really care.

 

The shoe fetishist

 

It takes such a long time to put down roots in a place and develop the kind of knowledge that makes you feel at home. Like knowing the coolest time of day to sit on the verandah, the length of time clothes take to dry on a sunny day (less than 30 minutes) and the exact sound the gate makes when friends are coming in to visit.

To pull up those roots takes almost as much effort again. But I know it’s worth it and there is a long list of reasons why. The latest three reasons I am getting on that plane:

1. I have started wearing pants to work that resemble pyjamas.

2. I fear I am developing an emotional bond with the tiny mouse who has taken up residence next to the kitchen. His panicked scrambles back to safety whenever we surprise him in the midst of fossicking through bin scraps (he never can get a good grip on the floor tiles) provide me with much delight.

3. There is a 4-year-old boy in Sydney who has started making a welcome home sign.

It must be time to get out - even Comoro Road has started to look beautiful