Discomfort Zone

The Oxford Dictionary on-line defines discomfort, the noun, as “something that causes one to feel uncomfortable” and discomfort the verb as “make (someone) feel anxious or embarrassed”.  If I was compiling an accompanying thesaurus, I might suggest substituting discomfort – both noun and verb – with ‘Timor’. 

At the moment we are melting through numerous power outrages.  It seems more correct to say that we have no electricity with sporadic and apparently unscheduled bursts of power.  Since our house is not terribly open to natural breezes being at home is quite uncomfortable and I’ve consequently taken to spending much time elsewhere.  This does little for my budgeting process; since cooking in an airless kitchen followed by eating under an unmoving ceiling fan is not the most enjoyable of events, I have taken to eating out.  The upside to this is meeting more interesting people.

The other night at The Dili Club, a welcoming little establishment that offers a variety of options from an Aussie meat pie to a Thai curry (though only Tues-Sun for the Thai dishes), I met an interesting Russian man who works for the UN.  We spent an enjoyable hour or so exchange banter about our amusing experiences of Timor.  We mused about the dogs which have a propensity to create the most amazing cacophonies, often spanning suburbs in their geography and a couple of octaves in their vocal range, at 3am or thereabouts.  We laughed about the traffic and the snail’s pace that taxi drivers adopt and how driving down Beach Road is physically longer but quicker than the driving down Comoro Road.    I told him about the cats in my ceiling and he told me about the peeling church bells that make his walls vibrate.  Then I went home . . . to the darkness and the heat and yes, the discomfort.

The lack of electricity certainly plays a major role in the discomforts of Timor, but it’s actually not what might tip someone over the edge.  What strikes me is that it’s the little things; the unexpected taste of tomato sauce; the odd tang to the bottled water; the saccharine bent to the bread – available in one variety, white.  It’s comparing your favourite brands with the cheaper Asian version and realising that if you buy two-minute noodles as opposed to packet pasta, you can afford the family block of Cadbury’s chocolate and that, at least is guaranteed to taste like home.  Then there’s the internet.  My dongle is a godsend.  But it too has proven unreliable – or more specifically, Timor Telecom has lived up to its less-than-favourable reputation.  My Russian friend was telling me about a survey that someone had done to find out the worse country for internet connections.  Indonesia had apparently won the title, but here’s the thing, you had to log on to the internet to be a part of the survey.  Right, like that’s going to happen in Dili.  It might.  It does sometimes, but essentially you don’t know when or where.  It’s like internet by stealth; it’ll work when you least expect it.

Though the erratic internet is more than annoying, the most uncomfortable thing for me is the traffic.  People might joke about the road rules and their adaptation from Portuguese regulations, but the reality is that riding in Timor traffic is an unnerving experience.  Though we might grumble and curse and even wave a select finger at other motorists, Australian drivers luxuriate in a veritable safety bubble.  In Timor the only thing I can advise is to truly expect the unexpected.  And therein lies the most discomforting thing of all – you just don’t know what is going to happen and when it might occur. 

This is as true for the availability of the internet and electricity as it is for a chicken or goat running onto the road.  At least, though, the chickens and goats can’t be expected to know better.

Pedestrians make a point of not making eye contact with drivers; they simply step onto the road, expecting that you will either stop or should you be unfortunate enough to hit them, pay compensation.  Drivers of all nationalities (and dare I reiterate that the worst offenders are marked with big UN’s?) fail to look before entering traffic, fail to give way at intersections, fail to overtake only when it’s safe to do so and basically, fail, fail, fail.  It is horrendously scary to be faced with an oncoming truck – on your side of the road!!!  But they don’t care.  If you value your life, clearly it’s up to you to protect it.  And of course, you do.  So there is doubly no reason for them to modify their behaviour. 

Sometimes I see an underlying arrogance, the idea that “I am doing what I’m doing and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.”  Someone suggested that it’s about living in the moment.  That sounds very Zen; after all, the present is really all we have.  But that’s not quite what was meant.  The Timorese live in the moment because death is so prevalent that there might not be a next year, next week or even a tomorrow.  Unemployment is at 50%; education levels are low; opportunities are minimal.  There are some who grit their teeth and do whatever needs to be done; one of my nightime students is still in high school; another comes twenty minutes late on Wednesdays because she’s also studying biology at the national university.   The majority though haven’t even had the opportunity to glimpse a better life; old men, young men, boys pushing vegetable carts and calling out to households to buy some lettuce for twenty-five cents, a cabbage for fifty. 

Perhaps behind the ‘arrogant inattentiveness’ lies not a nation of narcissicists but a nation of people suffering from a terminal lack of control in their own lives. 

It’s that lack of any control that I’m sure could eventually send someone barking mad – indeed there is so much barking in the wee small hours that perhaps it isn’t the dogs at all, but malae and Timorese alike who’ve lost themselves to the futility of wishing, wishing, wishing that they could escape the discomfort zone in which they live. 

Search for connection

Dili is not the place to connect.  I’ve tried it; it hasn’t been successful.  Despite paying lots of money to young men on street corners, I have failed to achieve the kind of lasting connection I was hoping for.  There’s the initial click, the flash of recognition and then just as I’m feeling confident things are going to move nicely in the desired direction, I’m spurned, tossed off with nothing to show but a terse “Problem Loading Page”.  And then, “the connection was reset”.  Reset?  I didn’t touch a button, didn’t even murmur in the mouse’s direction and yet, my connection was ‘reset’?  Oh but I know who reset it.  We all know who reset it:  Timor Telecom.

I swear there is a room full of men no doubt harbouring a lifetime of pent-up frustrations.  They’ve seen their country invaded, their friends and family killed or prematurely dead from diseases that would be considered trivial in western cultures.  They watch, day after day as malae slip into an easy lifestyle that is well outside the affordability of native Timorese.  And so, they exercise the only control they have - disconnecting all those hoping to connect with their loved ones across town or aboard. 

Skype conversations and chats are ended prematurely; usually at the most inopportune moment; potential and existing relationships left hanging in the balance.  What did he/she mean by that last comment?  And how will I ever know?  And so you vainly try, try, try again.  Connect.  Connect.  Connect.  And it does.  Oh, you think, yes!!!! Yes!  Yes!  I’m in.  You even get as far as having the page load, as entering passwords and just when you’re teetering on the edge of connection . . . . “Problem Loading Page”. 

It’s like Timor Telecom is a bully-boy bouncer and you’re a drunken sot throwing ill-timed, un-coordinated, scatter-gun hook punches that land largely on thin air.  Despite your total inadequacy to impact the bully boy, you are bounced nonetheless; left hanging in cyber space wondering why?  Why?  Why? 

What’s even more irritating than being unceremoniously dumped is being granted a pseudo-connection.  We’ve all had it at one time or another.  There’s feigned interest, lots of searching and waiting; the modem cheerfully announcing you have the option to ‘disconnect’ implying you would think, that you are, by default, ‘connected’. It’s a lie, all a damnable lie designed to fleece you of your pulsa or internet credits and send you once against searching the street corners for a late-night pulsa seller.  For in truth nothing has changed.  Your web pages still won’t load.  The “connection has timed out”.  You check again and again and again.  “Disconnect”  That’s the message; as though you have any power.  You don’t.  You aren’t connected, you’re just being led to believe you are and all the while those anti-social, anti-connection people at Timor Telecom are high-fiving each other or doubling up laughing at the idiocy of the malae that just keeps trying. 

“Oh yes, Malae, try, try, try again.  There’s a charge for every connection and ooops, you just dropped out.  Oops, and again.  Oops, and again.”

I can just imagine one of them saying, “Have we got enough for a carton of Heineken?”

“Not yet.  At the moment we’re looking at Bintang.”

“Hmmm, better hope this one’s desperate.”

And as they hope for a better-tasting beer and I click, hoping for the merest hint of connection with the outside world, we all remain largely unfulfilled and still desperately searching.

The end of the beginning – or beware the falling cats

This week marks my seventh week in Dili, Timor-Leste.  It’s not long and yet in some ways it's a lifetime – sometimes figuratively and sadly, in places like Timor-Leste often literally.  For me, it marks the end of the beginning. 

Two of my classes finished last week and I will only gain one more.  In fact, I’ll be teaching the same evening class as previously, except at a higher level.  I was promised no evening class as having one means I work five nights a week which makes a mid-week social life difficult.  Sure the youngsters can stay out until all hours, but we . . . vintage folk prefer earlier nights and more staid activities.  On Monday we had a feedback session on their end-of-course exams and one of the girls asked after class, “Are you teaching an evening class next term?” 

“Yes,” I said, still bemoaning my ailing social life.

“What level?” she asked.

“Seven,” I said.

She beamed and clapped her hands.  “We have her again,” she told her friend.  Her joy was humbling.  I’m not sure exactly what I did to deserve such enthusiasm, but I am sure that it’s definitely students like that that keep me upright at the end of a twelve hour day. 

This term though, I have lost a class and so instead of having four classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, I’ll only have three.  This equates to a five and a half hour break between 10am and 3.30pm.  I’m hoping it dilutes the effect of finishing late by giving me time to recharge or plan or shop or clean.

I feel more in control in terms of what I think I should be doing – always a bonus.  I am certainly not getting as lost as I have been known to in the past. 

I have also moved house – ironically into a neighbourhood dominated by big arse four-wheel drives.  And yes, most appear to have those two most terrifying initials – UN.  The possible upside to this is that I’m surrounded by domiciles housing men with guns.  The possible downside is that their firearm abilities might well mirror their driving abilities.  I’ll keep you posted.

The house is in the Portuguese-style and is bubble-gum pink.  The loungeroom is also vivid rosé, though fortunately my bedroom is cream with a mottling of peeling paster.  It’s in an area called Delta Two that is in a side street off one of the main roads and until now my vehicular nemesis – Comoro Road.  Fortunately there is a set of traffic lights at the intersection which makes getting across the traffic much easier.  Otherwise, I’d be taking a picnic lunch to eat and ear plugs to muffle the vigorous horn honking from locals incredulous at my lack of driving skill.  “What is she waiting for?” I can hear them asking, “An embossed invitation in the mail?  Doesn’t the woman know we don’t have a formal postal system?”

The supermarket is also across the junction and in visiting it today, I realised that I have always ridden in the exit.  No one has stopped me though, so perhaps the exit is for motorcycles and the entrance is for big-arse four-wheel drives.

My lone housemate is Adam, an English guy who’s a diving instructor here.  After I’d moved in he told me that although I’m meant to have my own bathroom, his is under repair and so we’ll be sharing until it’s fixed.  That was no biggie in the “things you need to know about the new place” stakes.  What I wasn’t expecting was:  “The cats in the street get into the roof.  Sometimes, in the middle of the night, they’ll start fighting and er, sometimes, they fall through the panels.”

Good to know.  Especially since the beasts, no doubt hearing that a newbie had moved in put on a stirring performance at 2am.  Not that I could see it, thankfully.  But I heard it in all its howling, screeching glory.  I also felt the tremors as the terrors tore around the ceiling; watched the panels ripple under the thudding of their paws.  I rolled from side to side on the bed, hoping to miss any plummeting puss.  Fortunately the ceiling panels held.  Must remember not to feed the locals felines.  I don’t want them getting too heavy for what looks to be very thin chipboard.

On Friday I hope to take possession of my desk and my move will be complete.  Not only that, I will truly feel more settled, more focused and more organised.  Until then, I shall sit in bedroom and tipping tap away in air-conditioned comfort.

Saints, souls and a horse race

Being a lapsed Catholic when I heard that Tuesday 1^st of November was a public holiday and knowing that there is a large contingent of Aussie ex-pats in Timor generally and Dili in particular, I immediately thought that “The race that stops a nation” had expanded its holiday reach.

Apparently not.  Far from participating in gambling and alcoholic beverage imbibing, the public holidays allow the predominantly Catholic Timorese to celebrate All Saints Day (November 1^st) and All Souls Day (November 2^nd).  Most large businesses close, though many smaller shops, including the supermarkets, some market stalls and of course the pulsa (mobile phone credit) sellers remain operable. 

Many people travel to their districts of origin to honour ancestors and family members gone before.  Some take the Monday off and in fact class attendees were a bit thin on the ground.  Those that stay in Dili visit the cemeteries bringing flowers and candles.  Dili is not exactly rife with blooming flora and so flowers are plucked from wherever possible – some plants are stripped bare in raids reminiscent of Valentine’s Day in less religious communities.  Some residents resort to fake flowers which are in greater supply.

It’s a respectful time when locals remember those gone before.  For many it must be a very emotional time; their loved ones have not always died of natural causes.  One of my students told me that her father had had his throat cut.  She said it so matter-of-factly.  She was sixteen when it happened and as the eldest went back to her village to help with her younger siblings.  She works in immigration now, but has never been outside of Timor-Leste.  If she scores 3 or above in her IELTS she’ll get a trip to Australia next year.  I hope that I have the skills to make it possible for her.  She studies hard and despite a difficult life has maintained a playful sense of humour.

Death is common here.  Other teachers tell of classes cancelled because someone in the workplace has died.  In an unforgiving landscape with limited educational and medical resources it becomes all the more tragic that people have died fighting for what they believed in – whether that be national independence or private political beliefs.

The country needs stability and perhaps All Saints and All Souls days are small reminders of how the sacrifices made can so easily be in vain when those left behind perpetuate intolerance and violence.

While remembering the dead can become a ghoulish re-wounding where the anguish of loss is eternally revived, it can also spark a recognition of who you really are and what is ultimately important in defining you as a person, your family and perhaps even your nation.

And so instead of imbibing or having a flutter on that ‘other event’ at Dili Beach Hotel, I moved house.  Living with the locals has been an eye-opening experience.  They live in a way to which I am unaccustomed.  It’s been challenging and ultimately I am glad to be sharing with an English-speaker, strangely grateful to hear the strains of Star Trek through the walls.  It’s given me perspective on those migrants to Australia who cluster with their fellow countrymen and women, speak their own language and follow their own customs.  We can look at them, expecting that they can adopt our ways.  They can – and they can’t.  Being in that situation myself, it is so comforting to hear an Aussie accent (though to be fair they’re not exactly a rarity here); to walk into Dili Beach Hotel to the strains of Cold Chisel or Men at Work or some other quintessentially Australian band.  It sparks some recognition deep within my DNA, comforts me and oddly enough even reminds me why I am here and what I am hoping to achieve.  Short bursts of home recalibrate me; allow me once again to reconnect to my own roots and therefore my own humanity.

Though some here might frown at the “Aussie bars”, just as some Aussies might tsk tsk at Greek and Italian Clubs or the knots of the Chinese and Sudanese, if rekindling our connections to a mother land grounds us and empowers us to move forward, how can that be a bad thing?

Perhaps, in my strange Australian way I did spend the last two days honouring, if not the dead specifically, at least those who have helped shape Australian culture and thus helped make me who I am and remain necessary contributors to who I am yet to be.

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.