Square pegs. Round holes.

The 2003 edition of the “ Peace Corps East Timor Tetun Language Course” assures readers that ‘malae’ is a term of respect, reflecting the high status which is generally assigned to foreigners in East Timor.”  It goes on to say that “when Timorese are told that some foreigners take offence at being called malae, they are astounded that people could so misinterpret its connotations.”

I’ve tried to persuade myself that this is true.  I’ve tried.  I’ve failed.  Children running up to you crying, “Malae!  Malae!” is one thing.  When they add, “Dollar?  Malae, dollar?” it becomes another entirely.  And so I’ve always felt that rather than a sign of respect the term ‘malae’ was a sign of expectation – that malae was a substitute for ‘saviour’ and that we were somehow expected to lead the impoverished Timorese to something better.

There is nothing wrong with wanting a better life, nor indeed working towards one and in so doing asking for help along the way.  That’s exactly why I’m here; to make a positive difference.

But if you want to talk about culture shock, my experience over the last two weeks would be it. It hasn’t been about roads, or hygiene or food.  It’s about values, priorities and ways of relating to people.

First a little background.  My living situation here is somewhat unique.  I am sharing a house that is rented by an Irish man who is currently overseas.  He has lived in Dili for over a decade and is well-respected, even renowned for his work with the Timorese during their fight for independence.  He is one of the few malae granted a Timorese passport – unless you are regarded as a human anomaly you must be born in Timor to get a Timorese passport.  He subsidises the education of several Timorese and, for the members of this household, a core of five Timorese and often their friends and families, he provides accommodation and food for which they are expected to clean, cook and do the washing.

Some of them are studying; some have part-time jobs.  None contribute financially to the running of the household.  All come and go as they please, sometimes completing their tasks, sometimes not.

Since I am the only malae here, it has now fallen to me to manage the finances.  Provided you are not buying imported western brands, food here is relatively cheap; particularly if you buy fresh vegetables from the market.  Two dollars a day buys more than enough vegetables and these are supplemented with rice or noodles.  So, using my western thinking, I gave our ‘cook’ thirty dollars for human food and fifty dollars for cat food (and no the irony was not lost on me, but I was asked by the owner of the cats to pass on the cat food money).  My logic was this, three dollars a day is more than enough for the vegetables, but maybe it would be nice to have something different.  I didn’t want anyone to feel that they had to scrimp and scrape.

The monetary transfer occurred on the Sunday evening.  On Monday food entered the house – along with at least five other people.  By Thursday everyone had exited – and the fridge was bare. 

The following Wednesday I put out another $10 for food.  The money disappeared, but once again, dinner seemed somewhat . . . absent.  Then I heard from the Irish man’s friend that the Timorese had texted her to say that there was no food and they needed another.

I am sadly extremely naïve.  I had thought that treating our ‘cook’ as an adult – the woman is married with a child – I was showing respect.  What I got was, to me, a slap in the face.  I felt as though I was simply a cash cow to be milked for as much as I was stupid enough to hand over.

But is that it?  Or is it simply that the Timorese operate from a different perspective?  As much as they seem to crave a “malae lifestyle”, my perception is that what they crave is money.  Many can’t appreciate how that money is generated.  Malae just have it.  Most Timorese don’t.  And perhaps it’s not even money per se, but what they see malae can do that they can’t.  Malae buy beer. Malae eat out.  Malae go on holidays.  Malae live in nicer houses.  Malae buy cars and motorcycles.  It looks enticing.  However, there is a price to pay.  Malae work.  They budget and they save.  They might have mates they can borrow money from if things are tight, but essentially we’re on our own.  That’s our culture.

Timorese culture is family-based.  When you have something you share it with your family.  So in giving our ‘cook’ $80, I was endowing her with the ability to give to her family – and she did.  That’s the Timorese way.  And once the money is gone, what makes sense is to seek more where the first lot came from – and so it continues; if you’re naïve enough to let it.

Call me miserly, but I don’t think it’s prudent to simply give people money when they don’t appreciate its real worth – not the financial worth, but the worth in terms of the labour that someone else put into earning it.  It’s not an infinite commodity and simply giving it away can instil the idea that somehow there’s a money tree that’s perpetually in bloom.  It also doesn’t equip people from developing countries with the financial skills they need to function in a capitalist society. 

Which brings me to the question:  Why do they need to function in a capitalist society?  The obvious answer is, because that’s what we’ve introduced.  But it only raises the further question of:  Who are we to impose our expectations on others?  Shouldn’t they decide the forces that will move their country forward - or perhaps even towards traditions and roles we could consider backward?

The concept of extended family wanes under capitalism; yet the idea of looking after even the most distant relatives is the traditional Timorese way.  Why should they change to suit us?  And perhaps more importantly, how can we modify our ways of being, of helping, of giving to accommodate their traditions whilst still equipping them with the skills to function in a global economy?

There are square pegs and there are round holes but designating wrong and wrong, good and bad is not quite so cut and dried.

A Definite Dili Day. . . or a pot plant conspiracy.

The day began like a normal Monday morning anywhere in the world – with a groan that time had not stood still overnight and I was still required to be up and at ‘em.  Still, I wasn’t feeling too bad.

I had spent the weekend applauding my organisational spirit.  My boss had asked me how a particular client was going and I’d given him an honest answer – I had concerns.  “Send me an email,” he’d chortled and so I’d given at least half an hour of my time to not only document the challenges but to itemise the consequences and provide possible solutions.  I should know better by now.  I do know better.  But every time a boss or manager asks for my opinion about something I’m still stupid enough to think they might actually want it.  Earth to Mandy!!!  They don’t.  What they want is for you to tell them that there’s been some horrible misunderstanding and that rather than a problem rampant euphoria has descended and everything is right with the world. 

So when I optimistically asked, ‘Did you get my email” his response of “I can’t send that to the client” somewhat dampened the self-congratulatory parade was happily marching through my mind.  I blunder on, trying to explain my thinking.  That’s when the storm clouds thundered and the hail pummelled said parade participants.  “I got your email!” he snarled.

Right then.  Note to self:  When management ask for an opinion, what they want is an ego-trip. Second note to self:  Save opinions for people who care – like the devoted folk reading this blog J

My first class of the morning started in the usual fashion- with only half my students in attendance.  They at least, are eager, enthusiastic and wanting to learn.  I perked up.  Perhaps the day could be salvaged.  After all, it was only 9am.  Right.  Fast forward another sixty-five minutes.   I was leaving, riding my bike round the building as I had previously been instructed to do (apparently the driveway is one-way.  Oh why not, almost every street in Dili is one-way, why not the driveways too?).

Here I should alert readers that there was a HUGE downpour the night before.  So though the skies were now blue the potholes were full to overflowing.  I really don’t understand why Dili doesn’t have more water fauna . . . .

So . . . there I was dodging the puddles.  This was fine when they were just puddles, but inside the gate – the only entry and exit point – there were two veritable lakes, nay oceans!  I had no floaties and so determined to skirt around the edges.  Apparently I need skirting practice.  Instead of the neat little dodge, dodge, dodge that seasoned riders ably accomplished I did more a splash, screech, accelerate, accelerate, accelerate . . . . eeeeeeeek . . . . crash.  Pot plants went everywhere and the flora be buggered, the darling Timorese were more concerned with my well being and then the well-being of my bike.

If I’d been in Australia, I would have prayed for a hole to swallow me up but here in Dili holes that can swallow you up were the damned problem to begin with!  So I thanked the Timorese men again and again, reassured them that yes, bike and I were fine and I slunk off, hoping that my students hadn’t seen and wouldn’t hear rumours of ‘that wild malae woman with the pink helmet’. 

Back at the ranch I hunched over my laptop and pummelled the keys.  It didn’t help.  The day was not getting better.  I gave two of my students an exam.  They seemed to do okay.  Then I prepared to go to my mid-afternoon class . . . except . . . except .  .  . big drops started falling . . . then more big drops, then bigger drops and then even bigger drops and even more bigger drops.  But my class was meant to start in twenty minutes.  Not for the first time in my life, I damned my conscientiousness.  I donned the wet weather gear that one of the teachers who’d left recently had given me.  Thank you Denise!!!!  Then I poodled off.  The puddles of the morning now stretched across the road – that very same road I have to share with big arse four-wheel drives that don’t seem to have weather challenges.  They went just as fast, only this time they sprayed water in decorative arcs.  Thank you Denise.  Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!

I arrived decidedly drier than a mad woman on a motorbike in a moderately heavy rainstorm had any right to be.  Shelter at last . . . except the roof of the classroom leaked, had leaked and formed another of those ubiquitous little lakes and was still, in parts, dripping.  One of the students called in the big guns – a small woman with a broom and the water was soon dispersed.  The lesson began – and then finished.

I rode back to the school and conducted an exam for my evening class.  The exam was in three parts and they had ninety minutes in total – forty-five minutes for the vocab and grammar section, thirty minutes for the reading and fifteen minutes for the writing.  At forty-five minutes I told them to move onto the reading and the writing.  At sixty minutes I strongly suggested they move onto the reading and writing.  At seventy minutes I all but told them to abandon the vocab and grammar ship and make for the good ship reading and writing.  Some listened. Others didn’t.  Even a novice like me could tell they weren’t going to make it.  I warned them again at eighty minutes, at ninety minutes, at one hundred minutes, one hundred and five minutes and one hundred and ten minutes.  At one hundred and fifteen minutes, I took their papers away.  Yes, I am the teacher from hell.

I also have a conscience and I felt awful.  Why hadn’t they listened?  Why hadn’t they at least thrown down some answers?  Given themselves a chance?  But they hadn’t and all I could do was head to Dili Beach Hotel because, oh surprise!  The electricity was off – again!!!  This means there is no point in going home as 1) it will be as hot as hell and 2) it will be as black as

Hours later and high on two cans of coke (the smaller, 250ml ones), I took my leave.   I stepped towards my bike which was still where I’d left it and as I swung around to get on, my butt connected with something . . .  something that toppled over and spilt dirt on the path . . .

A young Timorese lad appeared from nowhere to make sure I was okay and to assure me that the pot plant was fine and that no harm had been done.

I sighed.  No harm?  Not to the pot plant at least.  But me and my massacred ego were going to go and put a definite Dili day to bed . . . I rounded the corner into my street.  There were once again huge mounds of rock and dirt.  Yes, dirt . . . that mixed with the rain to create . . . yes, a huge mud pile into which I happily rode my bike and not so happily attempted to pull it out again.  I sighed.  Closed my eyes and counted . . . slowly . . . very slowly .  . . once again reminding myself that Dili is a place to learn patience, a virtue I could clearly use more of.

To speak or to embody? That is the question.

English is not just a language; it carries with it social, historical, cultural and even financial possibilities.  Here English is seen as a portal to a job, then a better job and a better life, perhaps even a life that mimics those of the malae that teach it.  There’s nothing and everything wrong with that.  

We are not simply teaching a language, we are entwining western ideologies, life style and aspirations into lessons on present perfect, past continuous, present simple.  But it is anything but perfect – or simple.  

One of my classes is studying to undertake the IELTS, the International English Language Testing System.  It is an international recognised standard and migrants must achieve a certain standard to migrate to an English-speaking country.  If we’re talking about migrating somewhere, living there, understanding the local customs and opportunities, then wrapping some culture into English lessons seem not only logical but entirely necessary and responsible.  

However, what of those who are not migrating?  What of those who simply wish to be able to speak the language, to converse with business people worldwide in a common language or to explain procedures and requirements to English-speaking guests in their mother country?

The challenge of IELTS and all that it takes for granted hit home the day my students were reading an article on the Mekong River.  It was the article per se which made me pause to consider the relevance, but the questions which followed, or more specifically:  Where would you find an article like this?

Okay, you’re probably thinking, how hard can that question be?  Isn’t it simple?  You’d find it in the travel section of a newspaper or an in-flight magazine or in a travel magazine or perhaps even a healthy living magazine.  There are so many options – to us.  

To the Timorese these are not options.  They don’t have magazines.  There are no newsagencies.  You can buy a newspaper from the guys that stand outside Hotel Timor, papers tucked under their arms, waving them at passersby in the hope that some will make a purchase.  I haven’t seen a library.  I haven’t seen Timorese lying on beaches reading books the way malae might.  

So what this test is asking is not just, “How good is your English language knowledge?” it is also demanding test-takers understand western lifestyle and customs.  How do you easily do that when that lifestyle is so utterly foreign?  And is it fair of examiners to require it?

For those of us inculcated in western civilisation, those of us who take the 24/7 news cycle for granted, who flick on a computer and read the news on-line each morning with our coffee, or switch on the radio while we drive to work or have the news home-delivered, the idea of a slither of this globe that doesn’t know what we know – and what’s more, doesn’t necessarily care to know – might well be unthinkable.

And yet, that slither of this globe exists here, and I’m sure elsewhere.  One of our teachers tells the story of a class in which she was talking about the death of Osama bin Laden.  She mentioned his name and the students stared blankly.  So she added, “9/11?”  The mist did not lift.  “The twin towers?  America?”  I imagine the students clutching at the only word they would have grasped, America.  But they hadn’t heard of 9/11.  Can you imagine that?  Not having seen that footage ad nauseum?  Not having to change channel as it’s trotted out again and again and again and again?  Not even knowing that it happened?

Who are these people that know so little about world events?  You might well ask and perhaps I would counter with a few questions of my own:

What was the Santa-Cruz massacre?  When did it happen?  How many people were killed?  Why did it happen?  Who captured the incident on film?  Who got the film safely out of Timor-Leste?  Why couldn’t the camera crew who shot it take the film into Darwin?  

What do you mean you’ve never heard of the Santa-Cruz massacre?  How could you not?  It was one of many defining moments in Timorese history.  The bravery of the malae who stood with the Timorese, who shot the film, who got it past obstructive Australian officials and into the world media has not been forgotten.  Not here.  Sure in metropolitan Melbourne it’s not something most people know about; it happened somewhere else to other people. People whose points of reference are different to ours.  

Which brings me full circle back to the point:  In teaching English as a language is it necessary to test students’ knowledge about the culture and the history of English-speaking countries?  Is it vital that students of English adopt our points of reference when they are often so utterly foreign to them?   

One textbook asked students to decide what different companies did and when they were established.  I have lived my whole life in English-speaking countries, I have multiple degrees and certificates proclaiming I’m at least mildly intelligent, I’ve watched the sitcoms, analysed the ads and I couldn’t answer the questions.  Why do we expect that others not exposed to our overwhelming self-importance might even be that interested?  Ah yes, because English is their portal.

Through English they see a better life.  What they don’t see, and may not realise until it is too late, is that despite our requirement that they begin to embody the culture, the lifestyle, the aspirations that are apparently symbiotic with our language, is an assault on their culture, their lifestyle, their aspirations.  Surely you can learn a language without relinquishing your rightful heritage.  And surely we of western decent, we who are more educated, more affluent, more ‘civilised’ could find teaching methods and topics that celebrate and explore local history and culture, rather than papering over it with our less-than-objective newsprint.

A time to every purpose – under heaven

In 1962 Pete Seeger recorded a song called Turn Turn Turn.  It quoted Ecclesiastes 3:1 and would later be further popularised by the Byrds’.  The first line, for those unfamiliar with individual verses of the King James Bible and not necessarily au fait with music trivia is:  To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

Though living in Timor-Leste provides many lessons for we soft-bods of western “civilisations”, one of the more profound is that of what Buddhists call The Suffering of Change.  It isn’t just the impromptu street closures or the appearance – or disappearance – of mini-mountains of rocks in the road.  Nor is it the lackadaisical way local service providers seem to modify the process you need to follow just after you’ve filled in the paperwork for the process they originally outlined.  What is more notable is the ebb and flow of people.  Malae come and malae go.  In fact, someone once said they attended ten going away parties in their first month.  Gabe my housemate, infamously and not so discretely, intimated to the guest of honour at a going away party that another version of her would be along in the not-too-distant future.  But it’s true.  Not in the sense that individuals are not themselves worthy, but in the sense that her departure would create a space that another malae would readily fill.

And now, months later, it has been Gabe’s turn to gather friends and celebrate the shared experiences and commiserate the impending partings.  Gabe’s upcoming departure is a bittersweet moment for me; though I will miss Gabe, he is selling me his dongle, a rare and precious commodity in Timor-Leste, a personal modem. 

Gabe had chosen the front side of Jesus, because not only does it have the best beaches this side of Jesus’s backside, it also has the best sunset; perhaps one final piece of poetry from someone who has touched many people in his time in Timor-Leste.

Gabe is an anthropologist.  He came here to study local customs.  Sad to say he described his research project to me on several occasions, but I am sure I would fail to adequately explain its purpose.  I will say that Gabe showed the utmost respect for the Timorese.  He was one of the most humanistic people I’ve met.  To sit in discussion with him is to be buoyed by the notion that there really are people in the world who not only talk about integrity and compassion and respect, they embody it as well.  One thing I personally found touching was that he invited not only his malae friends, but also his Timorese friends to his going away bash.  So often here there seems a divide between the seemingly cashed-up malae and the seemingly cash-deficient Timorese.  Gabe crossed that divide, bridged it and did so in a way that effortlessly assumed there was actually no real divide to conquer, simply people to befriend.

The sunset was beautiful.  The soundtrack was a guitar and a beautifully tuneful Timorese voice singing a song in Tetun.  I felt the tug of someone who wants to stay, knowing that they must leave; that  push-pull of knowing that your life lies somewhere else but that you belong here too.  It’s almost bizarre; it’s not as though life in Timor-Leste is easy.  It isn’t.  Everything takes as long as it takes; it might be logic, it might be illogical, but ultimately it is what it is and no amount of western wishing will make things move more efficiently or effectively . . . though I’ve heard that a few choice notes in the right hands can make a few things happen more expeditiously.  Still, bribery aside, Timor-Leste is a place that seeps into you.  There’s raw innocence, unkempt possibility, unforgiving, unrelenting assaults on all the order and ways of being we’ve all been indoctrinated in since conception.  Perhaps that’s its charm; the way it challenges and challenges and challenges and just when you think you’ll snap, there’s a breathtaking sunset or even just one of those dazzling Timorese smiles. 

And the sunset was beautiful, a magnificent red orb that paused amid the clouds as it descended past the horizon as the earth once more turned, turned, turned. 

Gabe is gone now.  He left on the morning flight.  As I ride along Beach Road towards my class at Banco ANZ, I think of Gabe in Darwin and then Sydney and then off to America.  Three days of travelling – from Dili’s heat to Chicago’s winter.  To my right, behind the named and unnamed Dili streets, clouds hover over the mountains.  That’s nothing new.  Each afternoon clouds mist over the mountains.  Sometimes they venture towards Dili.  There is never rain. 

But these clouds are darker than usual, not angry exactly, more brooding.  I wonder if today will be the day that marks the beginning of the rainy season.  More pressingly, I wonder if I’ll make it to my class dry or be caught in this year’s first downfall.  I accelerate and arrive at the bank, sweaty but otherwise dry. 

“It looks like rain,” I say as I enter the bank.

“Maybe tomorrow,” one of the bank’s employee’s tells me.  “Not today.”

He knows better than me, but I’m not totally convinced.  Those clouds . . . those clouds . . . My class is just beginning – we’re doing present continuous - when the first droplets splash onto the footpath outside.  Never one to pass up an educational opportunity, I rush to write, “It is raining” on the board and to ask, “What tense?”  and “Has it already happened?  Or is it happening right now?”

In the beat between my question and their answers, I pause and think, to every season, even in this heavenly place, the earth still turns, turns, turns.  Gabe is gone and Timor-Leste has surrendered its tears.

Surmounting the back side of Jesus

To the religious amongst my readers, I apologise.  This is in no way meant to be blasphemous – simply something I added to the list of things I would like to achieve during my year in Timor-Leste.

My reference is to the statue which, Wikipedia.com informs, is of Cristo Rei of Dili or Christ the King of Dili is 88.6 foot (27 m) located atop a globe in Dili, East Timor.   

The statue was designed by Mochamad Syailillah and was unveiled by Suharto in 1996, as a gift from the Indonesian government to the people of East Timor.  Apparently, the statue and the globe on which it rests, are situated at the end of Fatucama peninsula facing out into the ocean (Wikipedia.com)

Here's a glimpse at what it looks like.  The photos don't actually do it justice.  It was a bit too hazy to give the full effect.

What is the problem?  The first thing, is that this is what is called the “Front side”.  I’ve surmounted the front side (though admittedly haven’t yet climbed the 500 steps).  The challenge I’m talking about is the back side.  Here’s a snippet of, not so much a problem, but the challenge.  See if you can pick it.

 Can't guess?  I have one word for you - gradient!  The back side of Jesus is down a humongous hill.  It's a veritable alp I tell you . . . well at least to this scooter novice.  I did scoot to the top, but I stopped when I looked down the road.  Having not yet mastered 'brake' all I could see was me careening off the road onto to and then down the rocky mountainside.  I was standing near my bike, contemplating the situation when two locals zoomed up on a motorbike.

They stopped, looking at me with great concern.  "Is anything wrong?" they asked, gesturing to my bike?

"Oh no," I said, rummaging in my bag for my camera.  "Just taking photos."

Yeah, I know . . . just being a wimp.  But one day . . . one day soon . . . I shall surmount the back side of Jesus and when I do, you my blogging friends, will be the first to know.