(By the) Water Everywhere

The view of Dili and the island Atauro from the mountains

It's been just about a month since last. I guess the delay in commentary stems from a perceived discrepancy between what might seem interesting to you, and what seems interesting to me. The last month has not been wild with adventurous meetings with Presidents and Prime Ministers, or fancy events. The last month has been about excursions into the interior, road trips along the sea road, the bum life of beaches and alcohol, good company and good food, lemon juice after lemon juice, and watching the moon rise, and the sun set. And, I can't resist but add one particular tale about the rain.

The first of these adventures was a trip far into Timor with Bernardo in search of a promised beautiful river with rapids and waterfalls. Stocked with food, water, and sunscreen we drove off early in the morning. I've mentioned several times that Timor is a beautiful country, but I find it hard to convey my enthusiasm for it properly. When you drive, you drive up the side of the mountain, in meandering curves, carving themselves along the ridge. On the one hand you have a shear drop, and on the other the rainforest rises. Its dense, untamed, and as you progress, and the road crumbles, and eventually disintegrates, you can only smile in awe as you are encased in wild vegetation. Coffee plants growing wild, and trees so tall they take your breath away. And whenever you look over the side of the mountain you see the blue sea below you, and the ridge of the islands in the distance. This is a remarkable feature; we spend so much time here, dealing with serious development issues, and forgetting about the world around us, finding it hard to relate to the news on BBC, or Sarah Palin's latest escapade. But on some days when the sky is clear enough, we can just see the other islands rising in the distance, and we are reminded that Timor is not in the middle of no where, but part of an archipelago. It eases the occasional homesickness.

The road to Gleno

One thing that is unavoidable in Timor-Leste is the amount of attention you attract as a foreigner. I'm on the worst end of this scale being pale, blond, and of the female gender it seems there is no end to the fascination one can instil. I have frequently felt awkward when driving along in a World Bank, or USaid vehicle screaming foreigner and rich, especially as the more Timor accustomed co-travellers grace the local population with waves and smiles. The neocolonialist wave, a gift granted by the benefactors from abroad. It always made me feel pompous, and self-conscious, and so I have frequently avoided eye contact, and hung my head in shame. Now, whether you wish to tell me that this is just a way to ease my conscience or not, I have started to review this perception. For one, as a sceptical face watches you approach, a wave results in the widest smile, and wave in return. A group of kids running as they hear a car approach are a bundle of giggles, cheering and in some cases so organised that their “Botarde” is synchronised and in harmony. This brings about a rather important shift in paradigm, when the wave and smile are no longer estranging, but rather binding. That the isolation of travelling in a four wheel drive dissipates as the window is rolled down and kids high-fived on the fly. And where the kids are ecstatic, the youth hulk about until a smile and wave are a recognition of their existence and smiles and friendly nods break out.

And so we drove through the country, waving, smiling, singing along to radio, until the self-dismantling road was only cracked rock, and we had been jilted about so much that our brains were rattling. (Read: Infrastructural development please?) After many reassuring “We are almost there now” “Its either ten minutes or half an hour away now” and “That last guy said 3 km, but now we have driven 6...” and of course the less reassuring “We are running out of gas” we were getting rather desolate. Concluding that we had enough fuel to go another 20 minutes before having to turn back we finally rolled into a valley, in which a beautiful turquoise-white-tufted river was coursing. Significantly relieved as rain clouds had started to assemble, and rain would make the road impassable, we dismounted; right into a gathering group of excited children. And adults. Flashing disarming smiles, we headed down the side of the slope, escorted by a handful of kids. They continued to follow us, and when asked the question “Where are you going?” only smiled guiltily and padded along. Reaching the rapids, and trying to navigate the river to get to the best side, our spectators too their seats on a nearby rock, just in case something fun was about to happen. The moment Bernardo hopped into the rapid currents everyone stood up to watch the action. Only when he had safely resurfaced and books were brought out to read by the water in the sun, did the crowd disperse.
 

View from the rock, complete with spectator

Notice the Waterfall in the background as well

See, here I am!

 
We made a quick escape scrambling over rock surfaces and plants as it started to rain, knowing well that when it rains in Timor, it pours. And when it pours, everyone gets out of their homes to walk in the rain.

Coming back from Liquica the following week, skirting a rock-slide occurring an hour later, that blocked the road for days, we drove into Dili watching the rain engulf the city from afar. Gradually Artuoru island disappeared, as did the horizon, becoming just a bleak grey wall. In the distance Christo Rei, the jesus statue, disappeared as well as the cloud rolled in over the country. The rain here falls in thick drops, and in quantities that baffle the mind. In no time at all the roads are flooded, and just a few seconds in the rain will have you soaked to the skin, and all perishable possessions, quite seriously perished. I have always stayed indoors under these conditions, and so have never before witnessed the peculiar spectacle that happened next. Driving into the town, you will see people running. For cover one might assume. But then you realise they are just running. Maybe they are going nowhere, maybe they are hurrying to meet their friends sitting on the curb of the road being soaked. As visibility decreases and all you can see is the next ten metres, it is the most peculiar thing to witness Timorese of all ages come outdoors with tremendous smiles on their faces, with their hair and clothes plastered to the skin, ankles, and eventually knees immersed in the water on the road.

The kids place themselves by the biggest puddles, squealing with delight as the big UN vehicles splash them, kicking up water to splash back. Young people, literally either sitting in the deepening road rivers, or dancing, I kid you not, dancing without music in the rain. Young men wiggling their hips while the girls giggle. Mothers and their children walking leisurely along in the rain, grandparents stoically, and more with dignity further from the splash zone. I'd heard talk of this, but never seen it, and I'm telling you; there is nothing quite like a city dancing in the rain. People jubilantly head to the seaside, where everyone is jumping into the sea, which has become indistinguishable from the sky. People play football as torrents of water are ripping branches from trees. Cars are stranded in the parking lots that are quickly becoming lakes, and a UN delegate is frantically yelling into his walkie-talkie as their car has stopped, blocking all traffic, and large Australian men have to get out to push, opening the doors so the water rushes into the car. It is almost as if the rain creates a different time and life. People leave themselves behind for the storm and indulge in the coolness, and the overwhelming nature of the water.

The rain is relentless, and slowly the road has flooded so that the water has reached the pavement, a good 30 cm up. And shortly after the pavement is no longer visible, and people are wading through the streets, between the four-wheel drives and the yellow taxi's, their knees under water. Currents are forming, and you can see miniature waves, and frothing water, as two roads join. And all of this wonderful chaos is gone again jut half an hour later when the rain stops. And everyone goes home to dry, and the all that is left in the streets is misplaced trash and branches that have been ripped from the trees by the pressure of the rain.

Traditional housing in Ermera District

So, what else do kids do for fun? Well if you are from the privileged foreign aristocracy, partying is a likely option. Each week it seems there is a multinational gathering somewhere in the city. There was the white party, which involved copious amounts of food, and seemingly endless amounts of wine, Timorese dancing by a group that represented Timor at the World Expo, and an infamous tossing of red wine at a Brazilian dressed in his finest white garments. Call me neo-colonial, but once you get past the food, the fancy clothes, and the utterly un-Timorese party, there is so much pleasure in engaging with people from so many places in the world. One conversation with an Englishman, another with a German, Portuguese, Brazilian, all three, New Zealand, Japan, Indonesia, Norway, Belgium, and the list goes on. Over a glass of cooling wine with your bare feet in the grass, under the star speckled sky you ask the obligatory questions, “What's your name?” “Where are you from?” and “How on earth did you find yourself in Timor?”. Gradually of course everyone has perfected their story, but it is still interesting, and everyone still shrugs and wonders, how on earth we ended in Timor? And best of all, everyone is just as excited as I am about the fact that there are easily over ten countries represented at gatherings like this, and for once, I am not the development and politics geek in the corner boring everyone. Everyone is talking about land law, infrastructure, the Chinese investors, and child mortality. And everyone passes their cards around promising to get in touch about some niggling question regarding work. I am already highly addicted to it all. The week before this was a party on a balcony by the beach talking about international cuisine, and the week after this a goodbye dinner for Ingrid who is going home to Norway. This week? A 30 year birthday party and a goodbye to the mass exodus that is the international community going home for Christmas.

Fish frying on the Dili Beachfront

As an alternative to this hectic nightlife, is the beachlife. It usually gets dark around 7 in the evening here, which means that there is a good space of time to hit the beach after work. Perhaps for an evening swim in the sunset, on a beach devoid of people, or just to sit with a cold beer talking about the challenges of working the development industry as the waves rustle in the sand. Or it can be dinner, Timor style, with packets of yellow rice boiled in coconut milk, and fish and corn grilled on the beach as the moon rises behind Christo Rei, leaving artificial light redundant.

Sunday, Sato the Brazillian/Japanese dive instructor held his final dive before leaving Timor, and apx. 20 people hustled into cars, with much heavy equipment and drove up the coast to the diving area K-41. I don't dive, but Ingrid and I heartily brought snorkels and swam out to the colourful reefs that are less than ten meters from the coast. After fighting the strong current and waves, and satisfying our need to look at colourful fish, we ate passion fruit in the shade of a tree, while waiting for the divers to surface. The atmosphere when so many people gather and hang out with food, drinks, camera's and wild stories from the water is wonderful. People you have never talked to before prove full of stories, and inevitably, people you have met at other random occasions turn up to. For example a familiar face from Capoeira, a neighbour, and of course aforementioned Roberto who sends his regards to Inge. After lunching, we drove on to the next site, which is called the Secret Garden. The tide was out, resulting in much precarious walking on sharp rocks, and an unfortunately scratched knee, but once in the deeper water it felt like swimming in an ultra vibrant screensaver. The corals and fish were almost artificially beautiful, waving in the blue water. Ingrid and I hovered at the surface and watched the 20 divers drop further and further into the depths. The water exploding in bubbles, and a serene atmosphere as the last flippers became invisible.

The reefs are beautiful, and utterly unspoilt. There are not many people around, and you feel like you are floating undisturbed. Timor may not have so many resources, but the nature consistently leaves me short of words. It's addictive, and I really hope that both government, NGO's and tourists of the future will make every effort to ensure that it is maintained in the best possible manner.

Sunday night a group of us congregated on the beach once again with a fire and three coolers for wine and beer, to say our goodbyes. There was a guitar, and music, and though it started to rain just a little bit, we survived by moving the party into the nearby gazebo. And that's it for now. I'm heading to Bali tomorrow for two weeks of vacation, but I'm sending you all warm Christmassy thoughts. Timor is an odd place in the Christmas season, everywhere nativity scenes are being constructed, life size, with sand spread on the ground, this picture is from my neighbourhood last year when I visited in January. Take care, and have a fabulous Christmas and New Years!