GoD - Goats of Dili!

By the dawn’s early light

At 2963m about 1000m in vertical ascent, Mt Ramelau, in Ainaro District is the highest mountain in Timor-Leste.  It is approximately 70km and 7 hours drive from Dili.  Yep, you read correctly – that makes our speed about 10km / hour.  Admittedly we did stop for coffee and a bit of lunch, so make that 15km/hour.

The roads are winding and pot-holed, in places the pot-holes are interspersed with asphalt.  The countryside is breathtakingly beautiful.  As you climb through Dare and out of Dili, you begin to appreciate the spread of the city and just how low it is compared to the hills that surround it.  It seems to stretch on forever as Christ gets smaller and smaller and finally disappears as you descend into the valleys behind the country’s capital.

Our first stop was Aileu – it has coffee, some great jam and clove drops and a crocodile.  The forlorn old croc is housed in a pen behind the police station and the poor thing did have the demeanour of a long-term captive.  The locals liven him up with live chickens for which we were fortunately absent. 

Further on Maubisse sits nestled between hills and overlooked by the Government-owned, Portuguese Pousada or guesthouse.  We stopped to admire the views and the garden and were treated to some acrobatics by the local children.  Timorese of all ages love having their photos taken and you really can’t openly carry a camera without obliging their hopeful faces – if you do, you’re rewarded with beaming smiles that are universally photogenic.

Our destination was Hato Builico and we arrived there at about 3pm.  We stayed at a guesthouse with seventeen rooms, though for that night, we six were the only occupants.  No one else, it seems is nuts enough to venture into the mountains in wet season.  They do have a point.  It had rained on and off most of the way and in some places the road was more like a mud-wrestling pit. 

Hato Builico is extremely peaceful.  There’s no loud motorcycles, no blasting doof-doof music, no musical horns with their tunes that with only one honk seem to blare on and on and on.   And even better – and more surprising – it’s cold.  Not just fresh, definite jeans and jumper cold.  It was absolutely blissful!  The most interesting aspect of the highest town in Timor-Leste is that it is kitted out with very modern solar panel street lights.  Now that is progress.

 

You can climb Mt Ramelau at any time.  We chose to do a sunrise climb, meaning that we would get up at 3am and hopefully reach the summit by sunrise, which is by all accounts, spectacular.  You can climb it alone, though most people recommend hiring a local guide.  At about $3 per person this is infinitely doable and also gives back to the local economy.  We went to the house of a local guide and secured his services through a young woman who could have been his daughter, granddaughter or some other extended family. 

“He should come, even if it’s raining,” we told her.  She nodded what we took to be her understanding and assurance that he would indeed be there – rain, hail or shine.

 After dinner and a game of take two which became remarkably more energetic after the distribution of some ginger lollies with a real ginger kick, we hit the beds, snuggling into the thick blankets.  Only hours later we were up again donning long pants, jumpers, even beanies.  Beanies!!!  In Timor-Leste! 

Fortunately it wasn’t raining.  Unfortunately our guide was missing in action.  Being the intrepid explorers that we are – perhaps foolhardy; perhaps content to follow the two people who’d been up the mountain before (albeit that one of them clearly admitted that she’d gotten lost doing so unguided), we set out.    You can drive to the bottom of the path.  The road is steep and quite daunting in the darkness.  But we made it to the gate.  There are no photos to show for this part of our adventure – it really was pitch black.  Each of us was armed with a torch.  I used the one in my phone; it worked a treat. 

The first part of the journey upwards is a loooooooong set of beautifully crafted steps.  They seem to go on forever and as elegant as they are – particularly in the wee hours – it would be a damn shame to have them go all the way to the summit, which is apparently the plan.  After the steps comes the real mountaineering . . .  and path finding.  The path itself is a well-worn track.  The challenge is that there are a couple of tracks – short cuts and long cuts and finding the right one can be tricky when you don’t have Rudolf to guide you.  Still, our leaders did a superb job and we reached the summit by 6am!  Yeehaw bring on the dawn!!!

Well, of course the dawn arrived.  It’s one of nature’s basic rules – the earth turns, there is night and then there is day.  What isn’t necessarily a given is that the dawn won’t be shrouded in mist.  So as we gazed in wonder at the statue of Mary and the Timor Telecom tower, both of which grace the peak, it slowly dawned that the spectacular dawn we’d have high hopes of seeing would have to wait for another trip.  

With frozen hands and chilled noses, we began our descent.  The mist lent an eeriness to the path, which in the early morning light was blindingly obvious.  It also laid in the valleys like marshmallow between green jellied moulds.  But about a third of the way down there is a traditional Timorese house.  It is said to be sacred and Timorese will take a handful of soil with them before crossing through the house grounds.  This is said to ward off evil spirits.  Climbers can use the house overnight, though there is nothing in it, bar spaces to sleep and a pit toilet and shower space.  That means you’d need to lug everything up the mountain with you – a seriously daunting prospect.  Let me add that while people do stay there, the local’s congeniality has been sorely tested by some Aussies who lit a fire and consequently burnt a large portion of the area. 

As we walked through the house something miraculous happened – the mist cleared.  One of our number, more adventurous than the rest of us or perhaps more cognizant that this might be the only time he’d pass that way, wanted to climb back up.   Three of us declined and three of us gathered our cameras, left our packs behind and began another ascent. 

I can tell you my muscles were none too happy to be forced upwards again.  But our effort was rewarded.  Though I couldn’t quite make out the coastlines, it is said that from Mt Ramelau you can see the ocean on both sides of Timor-Leste.

And just to prove how strange the world can be, as soon as we started back down, the mist rolled back in.  Though it impeded the views, it made everything magical.  I could imagine we were stepping through the set of Lord of the Rings.  At the bottom, the grandeur of the paths beginning, lost to us at 3am, became apparent.  It is a very grand entrance . . . the archway to an unforgettable experience – whatever the weather.

Take Two

Scrabble^© aficionados may want to close their eyes.  Those that find their Scrabble^© opponents take far too long to form their words may want to take notes.  There’s a new game in town . . . actually it doesn’t seem new to Timor-Leste; it appears more a staple of resident malae. 

The name of the game is Take Two and the aim of the game is to use all your tiles to make intersecting words of any length but that comply with the general Scrabble^© rules.

Here’s how it goes:

·         All the tiles are placed face down.

·         Each player takes seven (7) tiles.

^·          Each player tries to use all their tiles in making intersecting words ala normal Scrabble^©.

·         The player that uses up all their tiles first shouts, “Take two” and everyone dives into the tile pool and pulls out another two tiles.

·         Players again try to use up all their tiles.

The beauty of Take Two is that you’re basically constructing your own mini-Scrabble^© board.  You can rearrange any or all of your words at any time.  The challenge is to do so quickly enough before another player shouts “Take two”.  Once all players have exhausted the tiles  from the pool and one player has successfully used all their letters, the round is complete and scores (if you’re keeping score because you don’t have to) are tallied.

To get your score, add all the letters in all the words they’re used.   That means intersecting letters are counted twice.  The sum of any leftover letters is deducted from your overall score and that gives your total for that round.  Rounds continue until a player reaches 500 or any other nominated target.

It’s fast.  It’s fun.  It’s just perfect for those chilly nights at the base of a mountain.

Introducing Felix . . . The Bike

Okay, this goes to the tune of "Felix the Cat".  Acknowledgments to the copyright holders of music and lyrics. 

Felix the bike

The wonderful little black bike

He purrs along to Christo Rei

Dodging pigs and dogs along the way

Felix the bike

The wonderful little black bike

He scoots between the taxi cabs

Out-psychs the UN troglodytes

That’s Fleix, he’s the wonderful bike

Sorry. Finish.

Remember as a kid when you opened the food cupboard?  For me anyway, there was great anticipation.  What had mum bought this week?  Would there be anything I liked?  Or would she have stocked it with things I hated, but that would nonetheless grace my plate with the expectation that I would eat them?  Shopping in Timor-Leste-Leste is a similar experience. 

Brands come and go with no apparent rhyme nor reason.  It doesn’t matter how popular something is, it may disappear for months.  Take water for example.  Bottled water is a staple in Timor-Leste – and it’s cheap.  Anyway, the water disappeared from the local supermarkets.  I scoured the shelves and when I could find not even the smallest bottle, I asked one of the staff. 
“Water?”

“Sorry.  Finish.”

It’s the standard reply and I suspect it can mean a variety of things: “Sorry, that’s a very popular line and we’ve unfortunately run out”; “It’s five minutes ‘til my break and to be honest I seriously can’t be arsed  bothering with your question”; “What is water?  I have no idea what you’re talking about.  Come back when you can speak the language”; “Yeah well I’d love to help you but the wharfies are holding the shipping container with the water to ransom.  They’re demanding over $20,000 a month.  We’ll be lucky to see it this side of Christmas . . . next year.”

The figure quoted to me for ‘wharf fees’ was actually $200,000 a month.  That seems exorbitant – even at Timor-Leste rates.  Still, the principle remains valid.  If you don’t pay the bribe you don’t get your container.  Perhaps the most annoying thing about this is that it apparently doesn’t apply to everyone.  When the supermarkets failed to stock water, I simply went to the little kiosks; they had an ample supply.  And so it is in Dili.

For example, my petrol gauge was on empty this morning and since I’d promised a colleague I’d go bike riding with her, I actually needed some.  I stopped at Tiger Fuel, arguably the most notable service station in Dili.  The man at the pump waved me in – yes in Dili it really is still a service station.  As I dismounted and was about to open the fuel tank, he shook his head and said, “Sorry.  Finish. Maybe four o’clock.”  Great.  My ride was scheduled for two.

But here’s the thing.  Just because one vendor has “Sorry.  Finished” a product, there are others who haven’t.  So fortunately when I pulled into the service station about a kilometre down the road I was greeted by an attendant, ready, willing, able and with access to fuel enough to fill my tank.  Three dollars fifty.  That’s what it took.  All you have to do is shop around . . . and sometimes around . . . and around . . . and around.  There’s also an element of patience. Products here are a bit like seventies fashions.  If you wait long enough they come back.

Like Nutri-Grain.  I stumbled upon it at Leader Supermarket in my early Dili days and assumed it to be a staple.  Erroneously as it turns out.  There is another supermarket down my end of town – Landmark.  (The more at the other end of town is called Lita and you might be excused for thinking that there is a law that requires all supermarkets popular with Malae to adopt a name that starts with ‘L’.)  Anyway, Landmark is usually not the supermarket of choice.  As a general rule it has a limited selection.  But it was hot and Landmark does have good air-conditioning.  It was in these circumstances that I discovered they had Nutri-Grain.  They’d never had it before, and I’m lead to believe by those who’ve lived here for longer than I, that they may never have it again.  I bought three boxes.

Product pricing is interesting too.  Australian chocolate is expensive - $37 for a box of Cadbury’s chocolates.  One dollar for a Curly-Wurly.  An Oral B toothbrush costs anything from 65c to $6.50 (Guess which one I bought?)  A 500ml bottle of water is 25c, a litre is 75c and a water cooler sized bottle is $1 – but you need a water cooler to be able to use it.  A 300ml can of coke – yes they sell the little ones!  A litre bottle is 75c.  My 290g box of Nutri-Grain cost $5.30.  The only reliable staple, two-minute noodles sell for 20c and are a must for any household.  Jars of coffee are anything from $5 to $10, but you can buy thirty sachets of pre-mix (with complementary box) for $3.00. 

It’s a lottery; a crap shoot; a lucky dip; whatever you like to call situations where you have no control.  It makes life interesting – and certainly crystalises what you really do love and miss. 

Well, that’s it.  I’ve no more words tonight. 

“Sorry.  Finish.”   ;-)

God rest ye merry gentlemen . . . women, children and the one-eyed dog

There are many things about Christmas that irk me – mostly financial.  It seems to me that money is often an acid that erodes real connection.  Gifts.  They’re meant to create closeness, to show the people that we love – and some we don’t – that we are glad they are in our lives.  The reasons for this vary from, we do actually care about them to well, they’re our boss and so it’s absolutely politic to show some sort of gratitude.  There are so many ways that Christmas is about keeping up appearances rather than peeking behind the facades; it’s not a time of truth, but one of concealment.  We hide our true selves behind the wrapping paper and the indulgent banquet.  We drink too much.  We eat too much.  We smile too much.  And when it’s all over, we’re glad.  Bah humbug!

And yet, there’s something that can melt even my cynical heart – Christmas Carols.  Hmmm, let me be more specific here.  I’m not talking about false festive cheer that is piped through shopping centres and even in Dili, supermarkets, reminding people of their obligation to spend, spend, spend!  I’m talking carols by candlelight with live singers and all the inherent mishaps that happen in reality as opposed to pre-taped, pre-edited footage. 

On Friday night we were treated to the beautiful voices of the Dili Choir.  About one hundred and fifty adults and about fifty children gathered at the Caz Bar.   Though the excitement was too much for one little Timorese boy who slept through the entire evening, most of the children listened with delight.  They even joined in on Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.  Adults of all vocal skills sang to fill their hearts with festive cheer – both emotional and alcoholic. 

The thing that gets me about Christmas Carols is that it doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m with, they take me to a place of pure humanity.  The effect is not reserved for me alone.  Everyone seems a little softer, a little more approachable, a little less inhibited about belting out a tune when they’re usually so self-conscious about being ‘pitchy’. 

In earshot of a singing choir, all my Christmases seem to meld together and the really strange thing is that even though I can see the flaws in each scenario, what I feel the most is warmth.   And so it was on Friday night.  What passed through my mind was a montage of trees, tinsel, baubles, presents – both received and given – food and faces.  Of course there were the awkward moments, the undercurrents of suppressed animosity, the scowls and snippy remarks of barely disguised unrest. All of these images appeared then wafted away.  I realised then, that for me Christmas isn’t about merchandise or whose Christmas light display is able to light a not-so-small nation.  It’s about hope.

More than anything Christmas brings the gift of possibility.  We can hold a box, its true identity concealed by cheery prints with reindeer, santas, holly, ivy, Christmas trees, candles or a selection of innumerable festive icons.  The content of the box is a mystery to us.  It could be anything.  In that moment before we tear off the paper and remove all doubt, there’s hope.  As we breathe deeply and let our notes, tuneful or not, fly freely into the crowd, we imagine we are truly a part of something greater than ourselves; and there’s comfort in that.  Knowing we can tap into the human collective allows us to dream of all that might be possible.  We can watch small children shimmy up a pole – no safety harnesses, no mattresses to soften any falls and be reminded of our own times of fearlessness.  Oh what we can do when we forget to be afraid – or better yet, never develop the fears which extinguish hope and possibility. 

Christmas can be a magical time; a time when, even for cynical adults, fears are replaced by possibility and hope; a time when even a one-eyed dog in Dili can snuffle his way through a crowd, sniffing out enough food scraps to sate his hunger and perhaps even a spare hand to offer an affectionate pat.   Hope your Christmas brings real connection to loved ones, the world at large, and most importantly, to your own dreams.  May the sparkle of tinsel, baubles and Christmas lights blind your fears and make anything possible. 

What? There’s no beer chilling?

Malae who have been in Timor-Leste a month or more have probably come to realise, and grudgingly accept, that the Timorese are not planners.  They live in the moment.  And while the more spiritual amongst us might applaud this as an ideal, there are times when a smidgen of forward-thinking wouldn’t be amiss.

At this end of the year such occasions arise quite frequently for the Timorese; a bit like they do for Australians in the first half of the year.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I speak of that time-honoured tradition of the public holiday.  Religious, military, historical or otherwise, every country has them; little holidays that become the choc chips in the ice cream of the working year.  Ahhhh, the sheer bliss of it all, kicking back with an esky and (for those of us who imbibe) a couple of cold tinnies.  Now here lies the Timorese challenge.

Firstly, the President has been known to have a few reds with the imported beef and feeling sated and smug, to impersonate Bob Hawke in calling “any boss who sacks a worker for taking the day off a bum”.  Or for those too young to remember Mr Hawke’s now renowned comment, the President declares a public holiday – though in this case it is official as opposed to the unofficial working reprieve proffered by dear ol’ Bob.  The interesting thing about this is that despite the fact that the Timorese are rarely up-to-date with their homework, they are all up-to-date on Presidential declarations of days off, no matter how late in the evening they occur.  Teachers have on many occasions turned up to teach a class only to discover said class is at the beach.  Stupid malae, they just don’t run with the ‘in’ crowd.

But the thing that fascinates me is that not everyone gets each public holiday.  It’s not just that service industries work, it’s that certain government ministries do or don’t take particular holidays.  The UN, bless their rattan sandals, have their own public holidays; perhaps so they have the beaches to themselves.   When a public holiday looms in the distance, teachers are advised to ask each individual class if they are in fact working that day and thus attending their English class.  Of course, since the Timorese are not planners, the question requires greater definition of ‘looms’ and ‘distance’. 

In Australia, for example, a looming public holiday is one in November that all and sundry will have duly noted somewhere in January.  After all, there’s a barbecue to arrange and beer to chill.  In Timor it doesn’t quite work that way.  Let me give you an example.

This week there are two public holidays – 7^th and 8^th November.  The 7^th is the anniversary of the Indonesian invasion; the 8^th is the immaculate conception (and don’t get me started on just how immaculate that was since Jesus was apparently eight and a half months premature – or conversely three months overdue).  I have four different classes on these days.  The evening class, which is at the school was cancelled.  The UN apparently work through and ANZ was taking both days off – good for them, clearly what all those fees and charges aim to cover wages on these days of decadence.  That only left my class at the Justice Facility.  If you think the name implies government ministry, you’d be right.  So I fully anticipated that they would be having Wednesday off.  Last Wednesday (one week before said public holiday) I asked the two students that turned up, “Next Wednesday is a public holiday.  Are you on holiday or working?”

They frowned as though I’d just insinuated that Santa Claus was a myth created by the materialistic west to instil the concept of want, want, want, into children at the youngest age possible.  Then they   duly consulted their notebooks and apparently their electronic diaries.  “No, no,” they assured me, “We are working.”

I wasn’t convinced.  The problem I faced was that if I believed them and turned up and they didn’t, they’d be charged for the lesson and it would be taken off their overall number of lessons.  If they gave me twenty-four hours notice, the lesson would be added onto the end.  I didn’t want them to miss a lesson over such a trivial misunderstanding so I explained my misgivings to my boss who immediately saw the challenge and agreed to email their course co-ordinator.  The reply was swift and unequivocal, “We’ll be working.”  Righto then.  I pencilled them in.

Roll on Monday (two days before said public holiday) when six students showed up to the class.  At the end of the class, I gave them their homework and cheerfully added, “See you all on Wednesday.”

Ah, now I bet you’ve guessed what’s coming . . . Exactly!  A chorus of “We’re not working Wednesday.  It’s a public holiday.”  And, I might add a couple of expressions that gave me no pause in considering the thought that was bouncing between them: “Stupid malae teacher.  Doesn’t she know anything?”

I wonder if the forty-eight hours that followed were enough time for them to buy and chill the beer?  I shake my head.  This would never happen in Australia.