One for me, Tua for you

Sometimes living in Timor feels like one long road trip. In the last six months, I have been in more 4WDs, taxis and motorcycles than I can recall. I can definitively say I have only been in one public bus, but I’m still trying to erase that from my memory. My latest transport venture saw me play a guest role – as token female and malae – on what can only be described as a boy’s road trip.

There was tua (local wine) made by nuns. There were early morning trips (3:45am) into town to watch European football matches. There was even Die Hard 4.

Our destination was Los Palos, a town in the far east known for its Rastafarian artists, beautiful women and supposed status as a ‘high kingdom’ in Timor. Marrying a girl from Los Palos will set you back 77 cows, which even by Australian standards is a hefty mortgage to take on a marriage. To me, Los Palos seems to combine equal parts of Fern Gully and Sister Act. Horses race alongside cars, entire communities (including nuns) fight over rambutan trees and nuns make wine out of everything from raisins to oranges.

The four of us went to Los Palos for various work purposes – to make a short film, to do community consultations, to count buffalo… each to their own, I guess.

Travelling with men is always surprising. Because as well as the football talk, smutty jokes, football talk, did I mention football talk? There’s also watching action movies wrapped in a frilly flower blanket. There’s listening to Celine Dion and Shania Twain ad nauseum in the car. There was also a story about a monkey and a pumpkin that had me crying with laughter.

Being the token female also means that you get the best room. Even though my digs didn’t have a flushing toilet or shower, I found out on our last morning there that Timor’s Prime Minister Xanana Gusmao stayed in the same room recently. It’s good to know the leader of the country gets the same treatment as the token female (if only that was the case more often).

The original token female

Swinging to keep sane

The amigos

A Super(ceded) Birthday

I tolerate birthdays. I know we have to have them. I know our culture demands us to keep track of our age and I know there are certain connotations with certain numbers that really have very little to do with what actually goes on in our lives.

Almost everyone has partaken in a pre-birthday freak out at some stage of their lives. Another year older, another new number. What does it all mean? Blah blah. But even when I'm mid-panic, I always have a little 70-year-old’s voice in my head whispering ‘you’re so young, you don’t even know how young you are,’ which I hope never fades.

Last year I spent my birthday on a garbage dump in Manila, the Philippines. There was a karaoke rendition of ‘happy birthday’. There was a tour of a house made of chipboard and scrap metal. There was the toxic smell of plastic burning. But it was an amazing birthday because we made this.

This year, instead of my birthday going unnoticed, Ramos-Horta announced that the second round of the presidential election was to be held on 16 April. Yay for a public holiday, not-so-yay for the possibility of some election-day violence. I tell you, there’s nothing like a young nation acting out democracy to put your birthday into perspective.

‘You’re 25? Well we’re only 10 years old AND we’re impressing the world with our peaceful nationhood, what have you done lately?’ I felt like Timor was saying to me.

But it seems my run of bizarre birthdays is not over yet – not only did I get a public holiday (thanks José), I got self-esteem boosting chalk drawings, a dance and song routine, a diamante crucifix (among other jewellery from my neighbours), pancakes on the beach and a cranking pair of blue plastic shoes that will edge me a little bit closer to fitting into the neighbourhood.

I also got a new number, but who really cares about that nowadays?

Adults outside, kids inside, sanity intact

Courtyard chalk art

Cool kids

Some partygoers

Birthday cake with candles from  the Jesus shrine

Women who Stare at Goats

Making friends is often about finding people with similar interests to you. I have friends who write plays, friends who eat cupcakes at lunchtime, friends who smell the pages of secondhand books.

Now I also have friends who goat-spot.

If you turned my latest Timor road trip into a movie, it wouldn’t be On the Road or Thelma & Louise. It would be Women (& a man) Who Stare At Goats.

While most expat Dili-ites headed to Bali for Easter, me and five other intrepids hopped in a car and drove to Ossu, a small town in eastern Timor plentiful in huge pink grapefruits and daytime electricity (I think this is a new addition – everybody’s lights are on during the day because no one has had to have a light switch before).

While our destination was an eco-hostel on the edge of a waterfall, our journey included many delightful goat moments. You see, since arriving here I have developed a fascination with the knobbly-kneed niceties of this species. I guess the appeal is that I get an awesome kick out of seeing people (ie: animals) doing what they love. Dogs running on the beach, pigs sleeping, geckos gorging in a bin full of food scraps. It’s all in the same vein and yes, it does actually make me pretty ecstatic. It’s like the part of my brain that is meant to go ga ga over newborn babies of the human variety is wired wrong, and instead I go ga ga over animals having ‘aha’ moments Oprah would be proud of. For goats, they seem to feel that little bit closer to nirvana when they’ve got some elevation.

Goat on a tree stump. Goat on a branch. Goat on a tombstone.

These are just a few typical goaty places to hang out. Whenever I see a goat without a vantage point, they look distinctly unsatisfied, as though just a couple of inches off the ground would make their day so much better.

Goats in search of elevation

And when you do see a goat who’s got themselves a particularly good piece of real estate (they seem to judge their own efforts on dual standards of elevation and difficulty) they look so damn pleased with themselves.

The weekend did include other joys such as river swimming, Frisbee, double carbing it up at meal time, colonial photo shoots, an Easter egg hunt and G&Ts at sunset. But for me, it’s hard to beat the simple joy that comes from seeing a goat getting some air time.

En route in Baucau

The only Lindt bunny in Ossu

Lunch Timor style: when one carb isn't enough

An avid Frankie reader

Just getting started

The river

When we're not goat spotting...

Dili Weekender

When the going gets tough in Dili, the tough get out and head to Gleno, the sleepy town which (I'm told) has a habit of declaring its independence from the rest of the country every so often.

On the way to Palm Sunday mass

Abandoned houses make for great clotheslines

For me, the charms of Gleno are as follows:

Home cooking a la Heidi, fellow Australian and chef extraordinaire

The peace and quiet that can only be achieved in a house surrounded on four sides by vegetable gardens

The local market, where wizened little women with tell tale red-stained lips (a lifetime on the old betel nut) will sell you a handful of potatoes very excitedly

A cheeky puppy with a penchant for cake mix and old socks

A hot shower (for me, the significance of this cannot be overstated)

Sleeping under a blanket – no air conditioner needed!

The recent addition of 24 hour power (admittedly we did have about 45 minutes without electricity, but still a big improvement from my last visit – snaps for the government)

John West makes the best candleholders

And of course, last but not least, Mana Heidi herself, who reigns with increasingly bilingual magnanimity over her Gleno abode.

For a girl from Sydney, the irony of escaping from what can only be described as the large town of Dili may seem a little strange. But I guess no matter where I’m coming from, I’ll always want a quieter place to escape to. Preferably with great cooking and a friendly dog.

The Gleno Weekender