Dili Dally (part 2)
DILI, EAST TIMOR
FEBRUARY 15
Hotel Turismo doesn't serve breakfast, but Mark made me an espresso anyway. He borrowed the hotel truck to take me on a tour of Dili.
First we visited the market, where Mark bought the local produce that he used to cook with. We went deep into the center, where the soldiers can't go without permission and even I hadn't had the nerve to go yesterday. The Timorese merchants were friendly, hawking their wares as we walked by. The rickety wooden tables were covered by tarps for the rainy season. Mark was too tall and had to walk with a stoop.
We got back in the truck and drove up into the hills, past the burned old frames of Portuguese buildings and into the lush, green countryside. Mark had been in Dili for a few weeks and he was still amazed at how beautiful East Timor was. He was pleased to have someone to show it off to.
After lunch, we took off again, past the old Pelni office to the seashore. As we left the Dili outskirts, I marvelled again at the colonial architecture. It had obviously been beautiful once and should probably have been a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Now, restoring it would cost a fortune.
A man with a backpack was standing by the roadside, his thumb out. Mark pulled over and chatted with the guy.
The fellow was a German traveler. He'd come in from Kupang overland, braved the border yesterday, and was going back today. He hadn't had a single problem.
"Do you think it would be okay for a woman to take the same trip?" asked Mark.
"Of course. Why not?" responded the German.
"If you don't get a ride, and want to try again tomorrow, I'll go with you," I said. "I'm at the Hotel Turismo."
The German agreed, and Mark and I continued on to see the dramatic cliffs and surf of the northern coast. As we drove, locals waved at us from the small towns and villages. They tried to sell us Australian fruit, no doubt imported via the Arktis Atlantic. We waved back, but didn't buy anything. We were still enthusiastic about the produce from the local market.
I spent dinner with Anahi from Argentina and her morgue friends. Anahi was a forensic anthropologist, and it was her job to disinter bodies, identify remains, and determine if a war crime had been carried out. More than once, she had to remind her friends to tone down on the macabre. I was still eating.
FEBRUARY 16
I got up early to go and talk with Bernadette's harbor master friend. En route, I was (as usual) accosted by entrepreneurial children trying to sell me phone cards, newspapers, and currency. The kids of East Timor are all mathematics experts -- East Timor has no currency of its own and the kids can calculate prices in three currencies, at the official exchange rate of the day.
I dodged the kiddies and found Renato Ambrosio. He was a lovely, polite Timorese man who understood what I was trying to do, thanks to Bernadette. There was an Indonesian ship due in later in the day, and it was headed to Java. He'd be happy to put in a good word for me and maybe the Captain would agree to take me on board.
I didn't really want to go to Java -- it was too far west. But I could double-back across Bali, Lombok and Sumba to go to Komodo Island and I'd only lose a few days. Everyone was paranoid about the Indonesian sailors, but everyone I knew had been paranoid about each ship I'd been on to date, so that was nothing new.
I promised to call Renato later in the day and walked back to town.
In Dili, the simple act of making a phone call required superhuman effort. There were few land lines, and fewer payphones. Most people had mobile phones, but I didn't. I couldn't figure out why kids were always trying to sell me phone cards, as there didn't seem to be any phones to use them in. I had to either go directly to the phone company, or to the lobby of the UN just to call Renato back. He was out of his office all afternoon, so I spent a tiring day running back and forth to various telephone access points. Finally, I gave up and went back to the hotel to beg Mark to take me to see Renato.
Usually Mark just swiped the truck, but he actually had permission this time as several supplies needed to be picked up. We talked to Renato, who apologetically informed me that the ship had been delayed. Perhaps it would arrive on Tuesday.
Tuesday! I was dismayed. The wharf had no lights, so loading and unloading only occurred during daylight. It could be Wednesday or Thursday before the ship left, and then it might take as many as three days to return to Surabaya. I would never get to Komodo at this rate.
The other problem was that in spite of the thrilling frontier atmosphere of Dili, I'd had enough.
I was confused by the UN on one hand, talking about the beauty of democracy while jacking up prices and prancing around in SUV's. On the other hand, the cynics pointed out the flaws in the situation, and wondered how the locals were faring in the new economy. I'd also had enough of swatting mosquitoes, worrying about malaria, and the incredible humidity.
"To hell with it," I said to Mark. "If you'll drive me tomorrow, I'm going over the border."
He agreed. The German hitchhiker had given us both more faith in the land route.
We went to the post office to mail my postcards. I'd spotted it on the day I'd tried to go to the Pelni office.
"Look, it's right there, Timor Post," I pointed it out to Mark.
"You're right," he said. "I'm sorry. I thought it was somewhere else.
It was. I was hotly embarrassed as I tried to ask the local newspaper to send my postcards by airmail.
We ran errands all afternoon, picking up cabbages, carrots, candles and ice cream. I did a lot of waiting in the truck, watching the locals go by, and then suddenly I noticed something odd.
One in every five cars or so was plastered with illegal Spider-Man stickers. I tried asking a few people about it, but they just grinned and responded in Timorese. Later, I showed my old Marvel Spider-Man business card to Mario and inquired.
Spidey sticker on car
"Look at this," I said. "Why is it everywhere?"
"I don't know," he shrugged, right before putting the kibosh on my border plans.
"You CANNOT go through the border. Maybe nothing will happen, like with the German guy. But maybe something will. You are blonde, you stand out. The German was stronger and you are an easy target. I am telling you, do NOT cross the border."
Mario split his time between Dili and Darwin, but he was from East Timor. I was unnerved that he was so adamant, but Mark cast the deciding vote by flat out refusing to take me to the border. If I wanted to go overland, I'd essentially have to run away from home. To make matters worse, Jo the AP reporter who lived upstairs, had told me about the last tourist who had crossed the border. She had made it to the first big town in West Timor, and received a machete in the head for her efforts at cross-cultural understanding. And the militia was negotiating with the UN this week. If that went well, I'd sail through. But it might not go well. I could be the only westerner in sight when negotiations went sour.
Martyrdom appeals to me slightly, but not enough to risk a machete in the head. I agreed to go to the airline office in the morning.
I sat up late with Mark and Mario, watching the hotel residents stumble home drunk. Some were accompanied by non-residents.
"We should rename this Melrose Hotel," mused Mario.
FEBRUARY 17
The Merpati Airlines office was closed on Saturday mornings so I tried to solve the problem the same way I always do -- over the internet. But the Merpati website didn't list any flights to Kupang. There was a Monday flight to Bali listed, but I didn't want to go to Bali. Everyone agreed though -- there was a Monday flight to Kupang. I'd buy my ticket on Monday and fly in the afternoon.
It was raining again, and I was tired and miserable. Mark took pity on me. It was his day off, so he offered to drive me to the market town of Maumbisse, 70 kilometers away in the hills.
The roads were tiny, really meant for one car and certainly not for the UN's SUV's. The rain made the roads slick and we couldn't see the usually stunning views because of the fog. Mark drove carefully around the winding roads, but I was getting motion sick, and trying hard not to let my anxiety about the conditions show.
We went around a particularly harrowing curve, and I was biting my tongue so as to not start whining about the big ditch on the left, when Mark drove right into it.
We were perched at a dangerous angle, and both left tires were soundly ensconced in the mud. We crawled up and out of the right-hand door, and surveyed the mess.
About 25 local children decided to help us with our survey. They alternated between giggling and looking worried.
"We're not getting out of here without help," I said aloud, regretting it a second later.
I gave it a try myself, rocking the truck back and forth in first gear and reverse. All I managed to do was turn the water we were stuck in from muddy brown to a diesely black.
Fortunately, the roads were lousy with those UN SUV's I was always complaining about. The Portuguese army hauled us out with a Ta-Ta and a towbar.
The first 35 kilometers on the twisty road took us about three hours. We were forced to turn around and head back to Dili at the town of Aileu.
Our entire trip -- a roundtrip of 70 kilometers -- took us a grand total of six hours. No wonder the UN used helicopters.
Later, we went to Oasis, the local disco. It was absurd and amusing, with drunken westerners hopping about, dancing in that uncoordinated way that only drunk, nerdy white people do. The locals didn't buy drinks, but they were there in force, watching the band and socializing. The band itself was a Timorese band featuring a large gay lead singer who pranced around and tapped the tambourine while singing Rolling Stones covers. It was bizarre -- like all of the west's pop culture had been encapsulted in a special MTV bomb that had been dropped onto this tiny, poor developing country.
The good liberal in me, the one that watches "Star Trek" and believes in the prime directive of non-interference in developing cultures, was appalled. But surely, suddenly having western culture thrust upon the East Timorese was better than the massacres that had been occurring under Indonesian rule. I asked Mark to get me back to the familiarity of the hotel. I was confused by the politics and bored with the drunkenness.
FEBRUARY 18
I had my final dinner with my three favorite UN people -- Bernadette, Anahi, and Tim. Bernadette was going to a bridge opening in the morning, Anahi was off to her usual day at the morgue, and Tim was off to the border to negotiate with militias.
Dili appealed to me. As much as I hated the humidity and the weird insects, a large piece of me wanted to stay and help. I'm good with sorting things out, and comic books could actually do some good in this land where many people loved Spider-Man but couldn't read.
Mark joined us after he finished cooking, and Bernadette finally learned why her dessert had been so late three nights earlier.
Bernadette had ordered a pie and ice cream with her dinner. She hadn't meant for it to come with dinner -- she'd wanted it for dessert. But when Mark questioned the order his Timorese assistant had brought him, she'd been insistent.
"No, she wants them at the same time," said the waitress.
After arguing for a bit, Mark had accepted this. He knew he was right, but there was no getting out of it. The waitress was sure.
Bernadette had sent the pie back, of course. The ice cream would melt before she finished her main course.
Rather than make Mark angry or risk embarrassment, the Timorese help had just hid the dessert. This was their way. It came to no good, of course, when Bernadette started asking where the hell her dessert was. Mark hadn't argued. He'd known immediately what happened and the waitress had confessed all. The mystery of the missing pie was easily solved but the greater mystery of Timorese quirkiness remained.
FEBRUARY 19
The Merpati Airlines boss was out -- my note from Lorenzo would do me no good. And there was no flight to Kupang. Ever. That explained my inability to find it on the Merpati website.
Exasperated, I bought the ticket to Bali for later in the day. I'd use one of my three airplane "lifelines" I'd allocated myself for dicey regions. I thanked Mario for picking me up off the street and taking care of me, and Mark drove me to the airport.
A few hours later, I sat on a breezy verandah in Kuta, the most touristy beach on Bali. My hotel, with its air-conditioning, swimming pool, and free welcome pineapple juice, was just down the street. Dili seemed very far away.
NEXT: Lombok, Sumba, and Komodo Dragons (lock up your goats).
