The three levels of piglet

So this was going to be a charming witty little blog about contrasts. You see, I spent last week in Australia. Now I’m back in Dili. It was going to be all ‘look at this coffee here’, ‘look at the footpath there’. But I’m currently writing this in sweaty darkness*, Dili’s electricity grid having given up after some wind this afternoon. Normally the barometer here ranges between ‘absolutely still’ and ‘sickly puff of hot air,’ so a real breeze is enough to bowl everyone over (sorry couldn’t help it).

The election campaign got into full swing in my absence. Without polls, I’m judging public sentiment in a totally scientific way: flags and t-shirts. If Dili’s streets on Wednesday were anything to go by, Fretilin is the front runner, but on Tuesday about 20 trucks full of Lasama supporters swamped us on our way back from Liquiça. Either way, Dili’s screen printers have won.

Overcrowded rally truck #46 (they have not received their T-shirts yet)

What is of much more import to me at the moment are changes in my neighbourhood. For example, there are new pigs on the block (not the chopping block – not yet, anyway). I now have medium sized piglets, little piglets, and tiny piglets to ooh and ahh over. With each reduction in piglet size, my voice gets higher. Which means I’ve added to my ‘crazy malae’ credentials amongst my neighbours – as well as carrying a rainbow umbrella in all weather, I talk to pigs. In a high-pitched voice. Great.

Medium piglets - you've met these guys before

Little piglet, or hyena hybrid

Tiny piglets! (in a high pitched squeal)

The polls open tomorrow and the preliminary results will be announced on Sunday. So I’m looking at a self-imposed writing retreat this weekend. I have done a couple of writing retreats in the past which featured copious amounts of food (and alcohol), wombats and rolling down hills in tandem with playwrights (actually I think there was a line of about seven of us, head to toe). The fruits of the last writing retreat included the infamous ‘Minties Project’. This time round, there’ll be no catering, wombats or other crazy playwrights. There’ll just be me, (hopefully) electricity and homemade sangria.

*no I’m not. I was. I have attempted to write this blog about four times. I think I’ve been suffering from post-Australia exhaustion (when you’re having a first world problem in a developing country, it’s even more shameful).