Ate loron seluk (See you on a different day)

Living in Dili means you have a continuum of people in your life. Everyone is coming or going, digging their heels into the place or trying to break free from it. For me, the month of May had some goodbyes I was loath to make.

As a self-confessed introvert, I have unwittingly adapted my ways to the social maelstrom of expatsville by developing an extroverted alter ego. Let’s call her Joey (no, really, we do). Joey likes to meet new people. She’s talkative, always up for a party and apt to spontaneity. Joey forms attachments with people quickly. Whereas I take my sweet time letting people in, Joey rushes on, arms open and caution to the wind.

Add to that a visit from my Mum and Dad, who finally met the neighbours and pigs and craziness of Dili I’ve been going on about, and the tally in the recent goodbyes column is looking pretty full.

So in a nutshell, Joey got me into this mess. Some of the people I’ve said goodbye to, I will definitely see again. Others I may not. The problem with making friends with fascinating, experience-laden, wanderlusty individuals is that they’re prone to moving on to the next place.

I spent the first 21 years of my life living in the same house, so needless to say the thought of saying goodbye to someone who is returning to the faraway pocket of earth from whence they came feels deeply unnatural.

As you can probably tell, I wrote this blog. Joey is already off making some new friends.

Nicolau Lobato airport: where it all happens

 PS. I realise talking about yourself in the third person is one of the first signs of insanity. I submit my case to you for review.

President in a white jacket, Granny in a pink dress

Ten years ago, Timor-Leste became the world’s newest country. This weekend, they celebrated their first decade of freedom with pomp and ceremony, as well as entertainment from a Brazilian cowboy-hat-wearing duo and an Indonesian hypnotist.

This being the country of the public holiday, government employees received no less than a five-day long weekend, presumably to ensure celebrations were carried out with appropriate thoroughness.

Thunderbolt and T-Lo enroute to Taci Tolu

My own Independence Day celebrations involved hanging out at Taci Tolu listening to music and marvelling at the relentless energy of the mosh pit, who periodically climbed on stage and danced like it was nobody’s business. Then the ema bo’ots (VIPs) arrived and were greeted with lukewarm enthusiasm from the crowd, who preferred to cheer whenever someone in the crowd made it onto the big TV screens.

Finally, the two biggest ema bo’ots (VIPs) – president outgoing and president incoming – arrived, stylishly late. Then the evening moved onto flag raising, admiring of the military’s white socks and guessing what sartorial former president Jose Ramos-Horta was whispering to new president Taur Matan Ruak. My money is on ‘don’t worry, I’ll give you the number of my tailor’ (he was wearing an amazing white jacket and woven waistcoat). It also ended with a 2am walk on a darkened beach back to my bubble/car, traversing fallen barbed wire at the airport, prickly grass and a river.

As close as I got to the ema bo'ots

Not surprisingly, it turns out I am much more comfortable sitting in the dirt with the povu (people) laughing at the ema bo’ots than rubbing shoulders with them. On Sunday a whole bunch of us were invited to a reception for the Governor General (my guess is we were there to represent ‘fresh faced and idealistic young people’). But there is just no way to have a normal conversation with someone when their minder is hovering next to them, ready to whisk them off as soon as things get slightly awkward. While my conversation with Quentin was hardly memorable, I feel like we had an unspoken affinity as the only two blondes in the room wearing hot pink. Mine was a $4 dress from the markets, hers was an impeccable ensemble with matching lipstick.

There is no doubt the lady is impressive. She spoke graciously and even referred to herself as the ‘granny in a pink dress’ at one point. During his last speech as president the night before, Jose Ramos-Horta had joked about drawing out his speech indefinitely so he would still be president.

Real ema bo’ots = extraordinary people with a sense of humour.

The sun sets on Restoration of Independence Day

MJ at the marathon

I’m not a big one for openings. Apart from a few plays and that time I was on the first flight of an aeroplane and got a free luggage tag, normally I’m just one of the masses.

Perhaps I’m on the up and up because following on from my opening of a classroom, which involved shots of Cinzano, last week I attended the opening of none other than a toilet block. Well, it was actually two toilet blocks and a water tank. There were little girls in tais beating drums, a pig with its throat cut (I looked the other way) and a Justin Bieber dance routine. And of course copious amounts of very excited hand washing.

I had been to this particular school before, so I was surprised when the kids started calling me MJ. But let’s face it, I only pretend to understand a fraction of what’s going on normally anyway, so I didn’t think it was a big deal. Later it was explained that they had shortened my name to MJ. Of course. My name being ‘Mana Joey’ (mana means older sister).

Smiles in Maliana

Family resemblence: matching mohawks

Back in Dili on the weekend, I got up early to watch a friend do the half marathon. The marathon is a pretty big deal in Dili, with plenty of local and expat runners, marching bands and even cheerleaders. Compared to the hustle bustle and merchandise of Australian sports, this was much more home spun. When the winner of the marathon walks off down the street to catch up with friends, you know it’s not an average sporting event.

Sitting on doorsteps watching the world go by is a favourite Timorese pastime, so it was hard to tell if the sparse crowds at Mercado Lama at 7am in the morning were just doing their normal Saturday morning routine or were diehard marathon enthusiasts. Judging by the lack of cheering (applause is not really a Timorese thing) and the mystified look on their faces, I think the concept of voluntarily running 42km is kind of foreign here. But it’s pretty foreign to me too, so maybe that’s why I felt at home amongst the bemused bystanders.

Gliding in first at Mercado Lama

To cheer or not to cheer?

Returning back to our house, I was greeted by even tinier pigs (seriously, it’s getting ridiculous) and my neighbour standing on his roof singing at the top of his lungs. Just another Saturday in the hood.

Rocking out on the rooftop

The Bubble

To be an expat in Timor is to live in a bubble. I don’t care how many tais you buy, how much Tetun you can speak, how much dog meat you dutifully eat at community gatherings – there’s no escaping the bubble that is your inherent malae-ness.

Malae (foreigner) bubbles can be measured by one simple proxy: PPP (pig poo proximity). The greater the time you spend in proximity to pig poo, the more fragile your bubble becomes. The only thing that can offset PPP are dinners at Discovery, Dili’s haunt du jour for malaes in search of luxury meals. For example, on Sunday night I waded calf-deep through a mixture of rainwater and pig poo to get from my house to the street after a huge downpour. However, I was on my way to have dinner and drink red wine at Discovery, meaning that overall I had a neutral PPP for the day. Malae bubble = intact.

Of course there are other factors that can affect your malae bubble. For example, if you live in Palm Springs (a compound in Dili where the rent per square metre rivals Woolloomooloo) you are actually not in a bubble at all. You are in an air-conditioned dreamland which happens to share the same geographic coordinates as Timor. Other bubble-mitigating factors include use of hand sanitiser and hours spent at Beachside Café.

For better or worse, the size and strength of my malae bubble was upped this week with the long-awaited purchase of a car. Previously I got around Dili by walking (running the gauntlet of ‘honey honey’ all the way home) or catching taxis (where I developed a habit of counting air fresheners – record so far is 17 in one taxi). To understand the rare occurrence of malaes on footpaths in Dili, you merely have to count the startled faces of fellow malaes gaping at your presence on the street from their air-conditioned 4WD comfort.

Yet as of this week, I have officially crossed over to the dark side. I confess, I have been driving around Dili with my air-con on listening to Florence + the Machine. My PPP, previously at consistently high levels, has been negligible. The pigs in my neighbourhood have been looking at me wistfully as I come and go, as if to say ‘where are your hellos and goodbyes? Where is your high-pitched cooing at our cuteness?’ It’s true, I have been too busy trying not to run over the 15+ pint-sized piglets to greet them properly.

I’m not sure whether I will ever regain my previous levels of PPP. I’m not even sure that I want to. Maybe tomorrow I’ll put on my blue birthday shoes and fly some kites made out of plastic bags with my neighbours, just to even things out.

The bubble