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.
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