What a Croc!

Believe it or not you can buy crocs in Dili – probably fake ones, but they’re decent lookalikes.  Still, this post is less about footwear and more about the reptilian variety.  They are here, my students assure me.  It’s easy to imagine there are just off shore, their knobbly dark brown snouts revealed as the waves recede then hidden as the waves flow in again.  It’s a game, snout, no snout, snout, no snout, until you realise that what you’ve been viewing as a toothy hazard is, in fact, simply a rock, innocently embedded in the sand.

The crocs, I’m told are mainly at Christo Rei.  And why not?  It’s touted as having the best beaches in Dili.  Why would the crocs want to slum it at some lesser coastal expanse?  Additionally all the adults swim at Christo Rei.  It’s only the kids that swim at the lesser beaches and not to put too fine a point on it but the adult Timorese make me seem normal-sized so you can imagine their kids are little more than half a mouthful to a ravenous reptile. 

Despite this, I have only met one person who claims to have actually seen a croc and, well, I’m not convinced she did, what with all those rocky illusions.  Then again, there are those whose claims may carry a little more credibility.  A helicopter pilot I met on a walk up a hill claims he’s seen them off Dili Rock.  “Not swimming there,” he said, “until April.” 

But I swim near Dili Rock, I thought and I haven’t seen any crocs.   “They’re there,” he assured me.  “I’ve seen them.”  Yes, apparently from 6000 feet.  Is that possible?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that the last time I went swimming visibility was itself quite the croc.  It happens.

In the rainy season, which we are blessedly in the middle of, we get a daily storm that flushes all the crap from the mountains and probably beyond out onto Dili’s beaches.  At the moment there’s a band of brown inshore and then the majestic blue that characterises the dry season.  It’s extremely uninviting.  There’s not a brown strip out at Dili rock, so I thought it would be fine.  It looked fine – on the surface.

Underneath though, the sand was swirling and I’d be periodically hit by anything from a shark to a crocodile to a hoard of marauding giant octopuses – read seaweed, twigs, coconut husks.  Nothing harmful – at least not physically.  Mentally my nerves were quite shot.  Sigh.  I haven’t been back since.  Damn the croc spotters . . . might not be swimming again until April.

The Anzac Spirit Lives, Breathes, Shops and Transports

If the Anzac spirit is about mateship, about doing something nice for someone simply because you have the capacity to do so then it is embodied in many of the expats that lay their heads on Dili beds for at least part of each month.

There are the young volunteers who, for a small stipend, give freely of their time and developing expertise.  There are the big burly blokes with tatts that organise an annual Christmas party for Dili’s orphans. 

These are people dedicated, for at least a short while, to making a positive difference to the country generally.  But there are people here who try to make the country different for those of us who may not have easy access to simply things that people living in Australia take for granted.

 I’ve experienced this first hand.  A friend of a friend, who I’d met briefly once, who found me at a seminar to say, “I’m going back to Australia for Christmas, I want to lend you my bike while I’m gone.”  And because I only have a motorbike, she delivered the bike to me in her car. 

A friend I’d known only for a few weeks who also went home for Christmas and offered to bring back whatever I wanted – even a bike.  Should I buy one in Melbourne, she told me, I should let her know and she’d bring it back for me.  She texted me the other night to say, “I’m heading back Monday morning, let me know what to bring.” 

Of course there is the friend who is bringing me a bike back.  Shipped up the eastern seaboard to his place, then carted to Dili via Darwin.  And the other friend who, having gone back to Australia now, has offered his PO Box and a second friend who still works here as a fly-in, fly-out, as courier for anything “except for drugs” J  Not sure what he thinks I do in my spare time.

I’m not the only one who’s experienced this generosity.  I went riding today with someone who told me how one of the Aussie guys brought her steak and bacon.  Yeah see, you’d just pop down to Coles. I can tell you that the bacon here looks something like a grey old sock that the cat’s been chewing for a good few months. 

I personally think that this is the true idea of mateship; that doing something intensely meaningful for someone else for no other reason than you have the capacity to do so.  I am certainly chalking up all these kindnesses and hope that some day in some small way, I get to pay it forward – or backward, or even sideways if it makes someone’s life easier.

And now I have to admit that it’s not just Australians.  Some American friends were talking about getting books brought to them.  As one put it, “It’s not just a direct route, sometimes it’s this huge long chain of people.” 

Yep, it goes something like this:

“Damn it I’ve run out of decent underwear / socks / books to read / text books / stationary items / insert whatever.”

“Really?  Hey, I bet you that my uncle’s cousins, aunt’s sisters, daughter-in-law could get that for you.  And let me see, hmmmm, if they gave it to my step-father’s first wife’s son’s girlfriend’s brother, I bet he could give it to his second-cousin’s, friend who knows this guy who knows the step-sister of the aunt of the brother of the guy that works in the UN.  There you go, problem solved.  You’ll have your decent underwear / socks / books to read / text books / stationary items / insert whatever.”

Perhaps Dili is living proof that adversity does indeed create a bond of humanity that transcends the mundane and borders on the truly altruistic.  Hurray for the best of human nature!!

Island Time

Since Timor itself appears to be quite the island paradise it seems a tad interesting that two-five kilometres off the coast lies another island paradise, Atauro Island.  To get there you need to take the ferry and it is here where our story begins.

The ferry leaves from the Port and hours before arrivals and departures the streets brim with Timorese carrying bags, children and often herding a goat or two.  The Saturday ferry, which we were to catch, usually leaves at 9am . . . usually.  This is Dili.  Usually a 9am departure might equate to 10:30am, but on this occasion it did not.  Instead the text came round:  “Ferry is leaving at 6.  Be at Hotel Timor at 5:30.”  We didn’t know why.  All we knew was that the Timorese man who bought the tickets for us was advising us to be there at 5:30.  The key here is Timorese. 

Locals may not be the best scribes or mathematicians but when it comes to knowing that the President’s called an impromptu public holiday for the next day or there’s a road closure for a procession, they are the people to listen to.  So we did indeed gather at 5:30am and the ferry did indeed leave at 6am . . .ish.  And to be fair the ‘ish’ was only ten minutes, which I’m guessing is something of a record.  Since only the Timorese and those malae with Timorese connections knew about the time change, some less fortunate malae missed the boat – literally.

The rest of us sailed on and experienced something that we all considered extremely odd – the choice of on-board entertainment.  Let me pause here and remind readers of the bloody and murderous twenty-five year occupation by the Indonesians.  And remember the Timorese only got their independence ten years ago.  Right then.  What film to show?  Finding Nemo?   Maybe even Pirates of the Caribbean.   Come on, have a guess.  I bet you’re wrong.  I hope you are.  But let’s not digress into a discussion of your mental state.  The first film was . . . John Rambo.  Yep, uh huh.  Sylvester Stallone pounding through the jungle killing people.  Killing people!!!  Killing people that were killing people that reminded us at least of the twenty-five years of Indonesian occupation.  The Timorese however, were apparently unperturbed.  I tried to sleep, hoping, probably against hope, that the violent messages wouldn’t reach into my subconscious.  Another of our merry band of eight women reported that some Timorese were really getting into it, clapping when the baddies were overpowered.  Perhaps it was a release . . . of sorts.  But wait there’s more . . . yep, uh huh.  Rambo III.  As one savvy non-viewer remarked, “Only the location changes . . .oh and this time they’re wearing head scarves.”  Ah yes, nothing like a bit of blood and gore to preface a relaxing weekend on a tropical island paradise.

Fortunately the island paradise was just that.  We stayed at the only accommodation on the island (since the eco-resort closed), Barry’s.  Barry is an Australian so you can imagine how relaxed the atmosphere is:  Australian + island paradise = close to coma quiet.  The accommodation was excellent, nice plump pillows, thick mattresses and mosquito nets.  The food was scrumptious – and there was lots of it.

So we snorkelled and swam and read and chatted.  At night we did pop-psychology quizzes on each other and on the other unsuspecting guests.  It was magic. 

The water was truly as clear as glass, which was just as well because for the first twenty metres or so directly off-shore it was weed, weed and more weed.  But then . . . look between the blades of weed and there were succulent sea cucumbers, all plump and wrinkly; white fish, blue fish, stripey fish, even a sea snake and a couple of eels. 

On Sunday after a swim, a snorkel and breakfast, we hired mechanical tuk-tuks and drivers to take us to the women’s co-op.  Women on the island make bags and dolls and jewellery which they sell to tourists.  They did good trade; mainly because their work is beautiful.  The quality is unsurpassable for the price; real value for money.  

Then it was sadly time to leave.  For the homeward journey we chartered a boat.  The price is exorbitant and the more in-the-know amongst our number complained most vociferously to the driver who assured us he didn’t set the pricing.  Apparently a new boat is coming on board (pardon the pun) with much cheaper rates.  The competition will be interesting to watch.

Back on Dili’s soil we vowed to make another trip soon . . . in fact, I think it was Monday morning when the email came round:  “I’ve booked Barry’s for the first weekend in March.  Who’s in?”  Pick me!!  Pick me!!

Oh Christmas tree! Oh Christmas tree!

In the weeks before Christmas something strangely disarming occured, groups of young men gather in the street.  Since there is over 50% unemployment (some say 80%), it’s not hard to imagine what might be going through their minds as the festive season approaches; particularly if you’re of a materialistic western bent that demands unaffordable presents for all.  Apparently though, their thoughts were less on personal destruction and more on external construction.  Miraculous as it may seem in a city where a large proportion of the population take shelter under their carts, as Christmas approached structures appeared.  Structures fit for a king – at least in the Biblical sense.

There are stables and stars and painted figures of Mary, Joesph, baby Jesus, the three wise men and definitely some sheep.  There is usually a star.  The industry and dedication is a marvel.  These are real structures!  There is money too, for the construction - $1000 for each sub-district.  With over 400 this equates to almost half a million dollars.  Well spent?  I think so.  Why?  Because sometimes the most precious gift you can give someone is hope.

I’m not religious; but it was uplifting to see the throngs of Timorese dressed in their best clothes trekking on foot to or from (we weren’t quite sure) the churches.  This is their faith and their faith gives them hope.  Their faith inspires them to build structures and yes, while they are religious the workmanship is practical, solid and something that the nation might embrace and truly build upon and with.  In short, seeing the ingenuity, the dedication, the work ethic that goes into these nativities shows that there really is hope for the future of this fledgling nation; and perhaps it’s up to the nations who embassies grace the best real estate here, to provide aid that inspires and excites rather than that which simply placates public officials with a not-so-surreptitious lining of their pockets.  Bah humbug!! 

Now back to the heroes of our story . . . .

We went out to photograph them and though the Timorese were at first cautious about Malae examining their work, a single word of appreciation had them stepping aside of photographs – and in some instances, becoming part of the frames themselves. 

One guy told us he was a taxi driver.  He’d stay up with his structure, music playing, lights beaming until about midnight when he’d turn everything off and take a few hours sleep before joining the yellow army of metal creeping crawlers that beep their way through Dili’s streets.   His display was amazing.  A friend, he told us, painted the figures.  They were excellent!!!  He had lights and painted sheep and a little Christmas tree that he pointed to and dolefully admitted, “Too small.”  He shrugged his shoulders, “I couldn’t afford a bigger one.  Maybe next year.”   I had to smile.  Not to patronise or belittle this worthy aim, but because not two feet behind the “too small” tree sat a pair of speakers that came at least to my waist (and yes I know I have a low waist, thank you for the reminder) and blared doof doof music!  But then, that’s Timor!