Top of the bell curve

I have been on a lot of field trips since coming to Dili (turns out wherever you are, the ‘field’ is somewhere else). I’ve been stranded in Manatuto on my own with nothing but two words of Tetun to rub together. I’ve drunk raisin wine in a nunnery. I’ve learned that the road isn’t truly bad until the driver starts white-knuckle-grasping the handle above the steering wheel.

But last week, I officially reached the apex of field trips when I found myself splashing around on a white beach, knee deep in crystal clear water of the tropical variety. Laughing somewhat hysterically at the ridiculously paradisiacal turn my ‘work’ had taken, I tried to keep it together for the sake of the locals – a few fishermen looking at me curiously.

I was on Atauro island, which is a bit like a drug. More specifically, an antidote to too many dusty weekends in Dili. On the axis of Hammock Time to Endless Horizons, Atauro is at the top of the bell curve. It is truly some kind of kapaas (lovely).

Despite this being my fifth visit to Atauro, it was the first time I’d made it outside of Vila, the port town (I find a comatose-like form of relaxation normally sets in within the first hour of any visit to the island). We set out along a coastal road on borrowed motorbikes. I was glad I don’t understand the physics of how steep a hill has to be before the motorbike will actually flip backwards. But by the time we made it to the village where we were staying, it was kind of hard to remember why we had come in the first place. By the time I’d been skimming above the coral in a fishing boat for half an hour on our way to the next, smaller village, my mind was not exactly in work mode.

On the road

On the boat

Somehow, between the fish, squid and coconuts (they are more plentiful in Atauro’s villages than bottled water) with every meal, we did squeeze some work in. I may have also made tentative plans to build a hut in a village with no electricity, running water or mobile phone reception. 

Waiting for motorbikes - island time

Manu (chickens) on the move

This is what a good morning looks like

Diary of a lockdown

I always fancied myself as a bit of a homebody. I’ve dabbled in vegetable gardening, I’m a book nerd from way back and I’m excellent at staring into space for extended periods.

But as we enter the 34^th straight hour in the house, I’m discovering the limits of my homebodiness. This is what I’ve done so far: the work from home thing, the reading a book thing, the watching a movie thing, the washing the car thing and of course the mosaicing thing. I haven’t yet resorted to watching Game of Thrones but that could be imminent.

At 28 hours I was attempting to edit a report with a chorus of ‘Joey… Joey… Joey’ chiming through the window via certain small neighbours of mine. At 29 hours I pretended to nap. At 31 hours I opened the nutella jar. At 32 hours we decided jazzercize was an excellent idea. That lasted twenty minutes and included an interpretive dance section.

Timor Telecom is jammed so we got a message 90 minutes late telling us there was some kind of security incident going on along our street. I have to admit, no sounds of it penetrated my cone of silence. If this keeps up I’ll be blogging about the growth in circumference of the tomatoes in our garden.

And in the latest news, apparently tomorrow is another stay at home day. By this time tomorrow, I may be a human mosaic.

Another day of hilarity at home

The craft of denial

There’s a special type of denial that comes with police sirens screaming up and down the road while helicopters circle overhead.

After a peaceful weekend on nearby Atauro Island, snorkelling by day and swimming in the phosphorescent ocean by night, we knew on our return that things in Dili might be somewhat chaotic. Somewhere between reports of 58 cars being torched and rumours of a policeman killed is the truth. In a bid to continue to keep this blog as low on factual detail as possible, you can read about it here.

When there’s nothing you can do but sift through the text messages about the developing security situation piling up on your phone, you know the only thing to do is to turn to craft.

This is how my housemate and I found ourselves cementing tiles on a wall on a Monday morning in Dili. Both advised not to go to work, what could we possibly do but mix a bowl of cement and turn up Noah and the Whale?

The tree is an ongoing project that has seen various tiles sourced from a paint shop and donated by our neighbours. Our techniques are still developing but our vision is grand (it may or may not involve tiled butterflies and hanging ferns).

It seems a strange thing to be doing while so much is going on outside. The kids next door, playing with marbles and toy guns, told me that some Portuguese military came round last night to settle things down. My first and only response to that piece of information was to wash the car with dishwashing detergent.

Aside from the crafting and pottering at hand, all I can hope is that 7 months and 2 elections into 2012, peace will prevail in Dili.

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

This morning

Team effort

Our mosaic is officially cool enough to pose in front of

Fairy godmothers of the night

The charms of Bali are plentiful, to which everyone from my Mum in the 70s and Julia Roberts can attest. Rice paddies reflecting the afternoon sun, the smell of incense wafting through the streets, ancient statues swathed in fabric and fresh flowers. I concur, I really do, but one thing I would like to bring to the attention of potential visitors is red light sabres.

Even motorbikes get their own morning offerings

Red light sabres are wielded by friendly men on busy street corners. These fairy godmothers of the night are basically there to help you with anything. They can summon a taxi, give directions or just point out a glowing path for you. They probably also give spiritual advice if you ask nicely.

My first visit to Bali coincided with Timor's parliamentary elections, but it was not qualms about election day mishaps that had me booking flights out of town. While Dili really isn't so bad, it does lack some little luxuries, red light sabres being just one example. Things like free internet, cool breezes and anonymity for malaes. Even the local brew, brem, has it on Timor’s tua (we tested this hypothesis thoroughly on our first night in Ubud). 

One of many ridiculously scrumptious meals. No cassava here

In a pause between eating, we got all hobbity and climbed up a volcano

Cynically surveying the young expats of Ubud last night with my Dili-based travelling companions, we got all high and mighty comparing their artistically dishevelled style to our permanently ruffian appearance. But each to their own. They may be able to take their fluffy dogs to shisha bars, but Dili has its own charms. Who knows, maybe one day Julia will make it to Timor to star in a follow-up to Eat Pray Love, titled Brunch Curse Hookup.

Fire twirling - is the universe trying to tell me that this is the way to the pretzel?

The butterfly effect

Just as a butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon causes a hurricane in America, so does Portugal losing to Spain in the Euro Cup affect my morning walk.

In Timor, everything is connected. Everyone is related (terms like ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ are all-encompassing), everyone knows each other (one day my colleague realized where I live – ‘you live in Johnny’s house? I used to get tattoos there’ great), and everyone hooks up with everyone else (an exaggeration perhaps, but only slightly).

So last Thursday morning, as Ronaldo missed his penalty shot in Ukraine, I was woken by the sounds of thousands of Dili-ites in a football-induced state of rapture. Due to go for a walk at 6:45am (clearly the tropical heat is triggering a profound personality change) we had to wait until the first wave of hysteria died down before going out. On the street, my neighbours were looking expectantly in the direction of the Portuguese military compound, as if waiting for some external sign of catharsis.

When I got to work the effects were still rippling. Money was changing hands; bets were being settled. By 11am, the Food Security Assistant was snoozing at his desk. By mid-afternoon, the only person firing on all cylinders was the guy who’d won the bet and had been buying copious cans of coke all day.

Sometimes it’s hard to understand cause and effect in Timor. Every day I ponder questions like ‘Why does Xanana Gusmao expect to get votes by floating a huge balloon with his face on it above the harbour?’, ‘Why does the restaurant say they don’t have icecream but they can make a smoothie… with icecream in it?’, ‘Why do eggs need to be hardboiled then fried twice before they are edible?’ There are no easy answers here.

Community celebration in Liquica:
granted, the connection between dental care and good teeth is a little more direct.

What has become clear however, is that with the Euro Cup over, people can now focus on waving flags and wearing T-shirts for the third election this year. And composing campaign jingles in the style of Indonesian pop songs. And so Timorvision begins.