Adventures in East Timor - A Journal of Email from Owen and Avenel Hicks

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Below are the 5 most recent journal entries recorded in the "oandaeasttimor" journal:

November 20th, 2005
09:51 am [Link]	Becoming Memories The tags on the bags say PER. That means we're going home. The heart is shifting, the strains put into reverse. We are separating from new friends and family to return to where the roots go deeper. The final Timor photo, taken as we taxied into an awesome sunset, shows two UN helicopters sitting near the end of the runway, forlorn looking birds huddled down for the night. I had thought I was off to Darwin for medical tests and then back to Dili. The agenda changed. A cursory 'Well, see you in a week or so, I guess' was my parting exchange at the Dili airport. That was it. I am sitting at a small desk, one of two in the study of our house in Perth (currently occupied by my son and daughter-in-law). The technology has an audible hum. The lap-top is connected to the internet and an unquestioned power supply. The internet is so fast, high speed broadband, I am startled at the split-second between 'account number' (I'm internet banking) and 'password' and I forget it. But this isn't Sugar's Internet Cafe, Dili. No rapid $US dollar drain as the minutes tick by. There is no generator waiting to kick in when the inevitable happens. Here access is 'continuous' and 'untimed'. I must have that password written down. I amble through the house to get my diary, to the back where we're currently camped in the spare room, past the scene of the soon to be enacted home birth. It will be like, but not like, the birth of Kennedy, to Zelia and Joe, in their tiny dwelling in Dili. 'He was born there on the couch, where you're sitting', says Joe. I have a dream, or is it nightmare. I'm stuck in the monstrous supermarket. The floor sparkles. The shelves in long isles are stacked full of brightly coloured foods, the packaging snatches at my attention. The site is a feast, a gluttony. I can have... I can have... I can have... The path along the refrigerated cabinets is so long I could use it as a running track. Such a chill on the air, with soporific music filling any empty space. And attractive plastic people with trolleys piled high with stuff, food, and things. Can they possibly store all that in their homes? Can they consume fast enough? 'Hey, no need for the rush is there?' There's much much more to go around than we could possibly need. But it's not a dream. I'm returning to reality. It's Coles Subiaco! And my health - we're now back in the land where health care rules and medical specialists have tests and technology for challenging almost everything life-threatening. I'm grateful to be told by 'one who could not possibly be challenged' that my heart is fine. The problem is not life threatening and probably emanates from my stomach. A lot has 'emanated' from my stomach over the past 18 months one way or another. 'Keep taking the medication. If you don't have any problems over the next three months, that's almost certainly what it was.' I'm relieved and sort of satisfied - 'oesaphageal spasm'. I can even give it a name and have a dash at spelling it correctly. Staying in touch with friends in Timor? They seemed so far away, and then I got a message! It didn't seem possible but there it came as I stood out the front of my daughter's house - grass, gardens, front fence, our shinny new/secondhand (but it looks like all the first hand did was polish it) car. Joe, on his dodgy mobile with its faulty display and so often exhausted phone cards, had sent a message to my Australian mobile number - 'Mr Owen r u ok now?' He'd just made me feel a whole lot better. It was the normal time for us to be having our Tetun lesson. In Perth it seems we're talking from a different world to busy people of another land, but as reality gives way to memory we are rapidly re-learning the language. We walk for a morning coffee, on smooth concrete footpaths fronting multi-roomed houses, with clean water, uninterrupted power, lawns and gardens, fences and gates, to an alfresco delight of latte and muffins. But there is silence as we walk, a feeling that people are hiding in the houses. Hiding in the comfort. Occasionally a dog barks, even more occasionally we do see someone on the street. But there is no 'Bondia, diak ka lae?', no littlies at the front of the houses insistently calling 'hello Mister', grinning from ear to ear, thrilled by just a hand-wave of recognition. For the ultra sharp in recognizing lines from musicals: "Let the memory live again." It will. So it's goodbye from her (Avenel), she who went back to Dili and packed and said the goodbyes for us both while I went quietly mad in Darwin, forbidden to fly until the results of medical tests came through, and it's goodbye from me too (Owen), at least for a while. We hope you appreciated our Timor-Leste journey and got some insights into our community experience where materialism and luxury had little opportunity to take away from life's highs or soften life's lows, where people really mattered and life was lived in the present, and where the meaning of life remained a mystery.
October 7th, 2005
12:03 pm [Link]	Snippets on progress The taksista smokes. They sometimes ask, but passive smoking comes with the territory, with the dust and the rest of the air-borne nasties. I don't object. A young boy skips, bounces, flounces along the side of the road. He's oblivious. His pristine white T-shirt (how do they get them so clean?) carries a simple message in large black letters 'Human Rights'. The taxi radio blares "Here I am.... will you send me an angel?" but angels are in short supply. The taksista notes my interest in the music, digs out the tape box, 'Scorpion'. It was a big hit but I'm well out of my era. We're on our way to lunch, a new little Indian place. There's optimism - starting up yet another food outlet. But it's great food, and 'help-yourself'. The breads are magic. At US$2.50 for lunch they are unlikely to survive. An already tired sign tells us that as of next week lunch will be $3. They underestimated how much Westerners can eat and their lack of self-regulation regarding what's a reasonable portion for $2.50. The 'price hike' will make an incremental difference. But the people are working. Patrons are eating. The venue has the popularity of the new. ...... A noise from the past. "Swish ... swish ... swish ... swish". What is it? I know that sound. A sprinkler? A sprinkler, on the end of a hose. A sprinkler in Timor! The first one I've seen, watering a little piece of garden, green grass of sorts, with some flowers, at the front of the Post Office. Courtesy of some international aid agency, obviously not preening itself via big billboards (as some do), Dili now has some public playgrounds with brightly painted play equipment. And parents take their kids to play. Gardens and children's playgrounds! This is progress. ...... It's a Saturday. We're on our way to one of the two ATMs in the country to get money to pay the landlord some of his rent in advance. He's desperate, again! But what's this, in our little street, with its broken uneven surface, its clogged and stagnant drains, its rusted graffitied corrugated iron. A poster is nailed to a tree beside one of the tiny kiosk/corner shops. There's a bit of a crowd and people are gravitating. Mums and dads carrying babies and little walkers taken by the hand. For a couple of days the shop will be a temporary immunization clinic. The polio outbreak in Indonesia has prompted a vaccination programme here. Yes! That is just so good to see. When we get back to our patch we meet Jacinta, checking, has she been down the road with her two? "Yes Mister. Ami ba hotu. Carmelita ho Satudina hemu aimoruk." (It seems 'we all went' and 'Carmelita and Satudina drank the medicine'.) It's an oral vaccine. In Tetun you don't 'take' medicine (aimoruk), you 'hemu' (drink) it, even if this involves swallowing tablets. Some things are not for photos (you might have noticed) but the crowd at the temporary clinic were happy to be in a picture. ...... We accumulate packaging in the spare room, cardboard boxes - we buy milk, juice and beer by the box. Some we've fashioned into paper-trays and book-ends for our make-shift study, but supply outstrips demand and Bertha doesn't throw them out. We were having a guest to stay. The boxes had to go. Their disposal incidentally means bliss for the kids. Cardboard boxes of assorted shapes and sizes are lots of fun - they become dress-ups, are climbed into, walls and forts appear, and then the boxes transform into a full drum kit. The 'cues' from yesterdays makeshift pool table (a square piece of board covered in cloth for the occasion) become makeshift drumsticks. It was the noise, I should say music, that attracted me to the back of the house. In a kids private place on the other side of our kitchen wall, and beside the pigpen, five-piece percussion with popular vocals was hitting the local music scene. The kids were going right off. Little boxes! ...... A good game of cards is an absorbing filler at any time of the day or night. There might be something of a card school hierarchy across the three or so games in progress on the, what was it again, CPG (that's right - communal patch of ground). One is played, sitting on the plastic chairs. There's got to be comfort and status attached. Another deals out on an outdoor 'sleeping platform'. At a third, the players are sitting on logs, lumps of concrete, or on the ground. There is sometimes a little money involved. Sometimes games are gender differentiated, sometimes sorted by age, but it's not unusual to see a game with males and females across three generations engrossed, often with their support crews over their shoulder. They play a lot. They laugh. They win. They lose. Sometimes, but not often, they get cross. There are occasional disputes and they won't play. But generally it's very cheap fun. ...... As we do a relatively comfortable bounce through the craters into Mascarinhas with one of our work colleagues, at the wheel of his biggish 4WD, I'm re-telling a taxi driver's lament about the road. "The government doesn't use this road" said the taxi driver insightfully. Our work colleague, responds with "Well of course, nobody lives here". It's dark. Many of the houses are trashed but at this moment the power is on and there are lights in some of the windows. I'm about to 'but...' when he goes on 'Nobody important in the Government lives here.' Then I understand, we're a marginal electorate of a different sort. ...... Enjoy the photos. Remember the old camera was 'aat'. We bought the new one, just the model we were after, surprisingly from the tiny duty free shop at the Dili Airport. To us the broken camera was an expensive mishap. But we bought a new one! We could just go out and buy another one! To the locals this would be almost beyond belief. And how could something so small be so expensive? If only they knew. This situation is indicative of others. I have felt the look of envy from people we've come to care about, people we have come to know. The look is directed at us and has no convincing answer. ...... ps: This email is coming from Darwin, where I am 'locked down'. The medical insurance people won't give me permission to fly until further tests are done. Had a bit of a health problem a couple of weeks ago - not the plumbing but the pump this time. What next? No cardiac services in Timor so here I am. But really I'm fine. The only thing they won't let me do is get on a plane. I hired a push bike for a few days. I go walking morning and evening. I've been to the pictures! And I do like the luxury of the hot and cold water in the hotel and 'cold rock' ice cream over the road. But I now have a little bottle of 'wherever you go it goes' pink stuff to spray under my tongue if the need arises. Owen Hicks
September 15th, 2005
10:43 am [Link]	September 4 - a day to remember. At the risk of losing all sympathy regarding my ailing stomach, I was going to tell you about the traditional drink, the one that makes you strong, the one that wards off evil spirits, the one decanted from ..., wait for it, .. a deer's fetus, a snake, a baby crocodile and a crocodile's penis (there they were in the jar), pickled in assorted spirits such as local 'tua sabu' (distilled palm wine) and whiskey. I was going to tell of how circumstances in a remote village necessitated how I looked at, smelt and yes, partook of this concoction. Just a snippet from a weekend full of adventure around the second biggest town, Baucau. But such pleasures were overshadowed by a Sunday night that started so full of promise. September 4 1999 was the day they announced the result of the referendum on independence for Timor-Leste. 'I remember it well', says my work colleague, 'two days later they burnt our house down. It was burnt to the ground. We had to hide in the hills until it was safe.' September 4, 2005, was a Sunday and coming back home after a delightful weekend in the country, we found the organization of a celebratory 'festa' in full swing - to be an all night affair, despite tomorrow being the first day back at school after the holidays for some of the kids. The sound system was being tested to the limits. A party for the local community, the 'aldeia', was to be attended by the 'xefi'(sort of the mayor of the local area) and other dignitaries. And the location? That patch of ground beside our house. As I approached the house I was met by two strangers, Timorese but foreign to these parts. They stood erect, had sharp features and flowing hair, beards and fine moustaches, warm twinkling eyes. Weather-beaten, worn looking, they were from the hills, from the Ermera district, not at all city folk. They were visitors, relatives of the family. Somewhat austere, these men had presence. A formal greeting was in order. We grasped hands, 'kaer liman', not a boorish 'shake', but a meaningful grasp, 'kaer', as is the traditional way. I was reminded of characters in 'Lord of the Rings'. They would sit, silent, as back-row observers, during the festa to come. What would they think? Invited to the party, along with guests who had joined us for dinner, we were obliged to occupy the front row of the green, mauve and pink rectangle of plastic chairs. 8.30pm and arrival of adults began to heighten the anticipation of a patient audience of fifty or so under 10s. Eventually, after a few speeches, notably the 'Xefi' reminding us of the purpose of the occasion, it's time to eat. Rice, noodles, a bit of veg, and water to drink. Sort of 'loaves and fishes' without the fishes. There is no meat. It is poor fare, but as with the Biblical meal of old, everyone seems to get enough. The table occupying the centre of the square is cleared away. The dancing begins with a traditional Timorese version of the Circassian Circle (you know roughly how it goes), with the little ones in the middle. It's pretty chaotic. The sound system, even closer up, booms. We move on to what's best described as 'demonstration dancing'. Formal Latin, stylish and sexy, four couples grooving with amazing finesse on a 'dance-floor' of dust, bits of rubble the size of blue-metal bruising feet and taking the high polish off spivy shoes. They're dressed to kill. New sets bring new dancers. There are more on the 'floor'. I'm asked by one of the 'ema boot' (important people) if I would agree to him asking my wife to dance. It's all very formal. More dancing sees young men jumping to 'request the pleasure' from generally eager young women. I'm happy to sit with young Geraldo on my knee. His smile's a winner. He's gleeful to be with the 'malae' but eventually wriggles off to his own mischief. The 'Striders' of Ermera sit in the shadows. The eyes of the very young are becoming heavy. They're being taken off to bed. One of our guests has to leave early, the other, staying with us, but returning to Perth in the morning, calls it a day. We keep up appearances till 11.30pm then its time to lie down at least, the music promising to deflect sleep. Avenel's asleep, I'm 'semi', the music's blasting, the dancing goes on. And then at 12.35am ... it's painful to recall ... 'all hell breaks loose', the party 'goes ape'! I hear the first rock. Fighting breaks out. Punching, shouting, wrestling, running, crying. Rocks hitting tin. The breaking of glass. Anger in the air. Fast and furious. From the bedroom window I see the 'DJ' duck a missile and rapidly rescue his gear and take cover. This could have been the end of the sound system. Bertha is storming up and down bellowing, probably trying to quell the riot, people wrestling at her feet. The wooden shutters on our bedroom window give us a degree of protection. Three young men are sitting on our front step. We don't know whether they're our last line of defense or just taking a breather. They move on. Our guest in the front room, opening onto the porch, needs rescuing and, when it seems safe, makes a quick retreat into the main part of the house, where she beds down for the rest of the night. I contemplate getting out to shift the borrowed car parked by the front door. 'Please, please don't trash the car', I'm thinking. We're safe enough in the house, but it's high risk to be outside. Moving the car would be a tricky manoeuvre. The little Suzuki is on its own. Some other AVIs, recently moved in nearby, text us to check we're ok. 'Yes, but keeping our heads down.' The battle rages. Some time later a truckload of police arrive, mercifully too late to do more than round up a half a dozen or so offenders and take them away. By 1.35am I open the shutters to an eerie stillness. Silence. During all the commotion there was no power failure. The lights stayed on. They are left on now, but nothing moves. The party is over, early. What were we celebrating again? We're not quite out of the woods yet. There is the risk of reprisals. Somewhere back there we went into emergency mode - passports, money, mobile phones, valuables, clothes and shoes ready. All set. We can go quickly if needs be. Time to lie down and rest out the remaining hours. And as dawn breaks the stillness prevails. This morning nobody is sweeping. We drag ourselves out of bed. The car has survived. We're taking someone to the airport. As we leave a few people are emerging from houses but there are no greetings, no eye contact. At midday we get the goss from Jacinta, one of the local women. No one had to be taken to hospital. The police took six men away. No one had been drinking. These were events of passion. The wrong man danced with the wrong woman. Someone had to wait too long for his chance to dance with the girl of his dreams. Not infrequently 'baku malu' happens in these circumstances. And life would go on in Mascarinhas. Owen Hicks
August 29th, 2005
07:13 pm [Link]	Imagine - Friday night with variations. By candlelight this note begins, to be transcribed later when electrical appliances are again using my bare feet to pass errant electrons to the concrete floor. The extravagance of earthing electrical wiring in houses isn't a high priority in Timor-Leste. For most houses it's just one wire, one globe, and one switch, in the one room, but 240 volts (give or take serious voltage fluctuation) none-the-less. I'm not really complaining, but I never thought keyboard work could be such a tingling experience. Better put the thongs on ('thongs', 'xinelus' -in Tetun, love that word, sure beats 'flip-flops' - I think there's a China, 'X[sh]ina', connection there somewhere). 'Preparing to hibernate', it tells me, but that's not what the laptop should be doing, rather it should be trying to recover from the flattened battery of another 'power-free' afternoon at work - oh how I love the concept of 'positive re-framing'. It dies, recovers, dies, recovers. Hang in there you enduring gem of technology. Up flashes the message 'The system has recovered from a serious error' then Mr Toshiba delivers once more. Yes! Friday night, with variations. Power off at about 6.30pm, no change there. The recently purchased emergency light (we're fighting back) lasts just 20 minutes given no opportunity to recharge since last night's blackout. And it's party night again in Mascarinhas. The plastic chairs are in place in the open space behind our house - a different family group so our lot are passive spectators (there are some parallels with passive smoking - the volume could be injurious to health and sleep deprivation is inevitable - it probably won't stop till 3 or 6am - still it'll drown out the roosters). The synthesizer/wurlitzer blasts "I can tell by your eyes..." (Rod Stewart eat your heart out) with the 'melodicity' of heavy earthmoving equipment. Delayed by the black-out, until someone could locate a generator, the sound system is now back in full force, feedback and all - the show must go on. And now we're getting "When Irish eyes are smiling" and I'm left pondering an Irish connection. Where did that come from? One thing I can do in the dark is practice the guitar, but my attempts at Mason Williams' 'Classical Gas' unplugged are no match for the slow, with lots of trills, vibrato/fortissimo on the earthmoving equipment, so I give it away. With what sounds like "Blame it on the bossa nova" in Portuguese techno, and "If tomorrow never cooomes...", in off-key English, it could be a very long night. The day began just a little out of kilter. Joe, our Tetun tutor, joined us for our weekly 7.30am lesson, more of a free-ranging Tetun conversation these days, cultural advice and the exchange of colloquial expressions, but well worth it. Two little challenges we wanted to run past Joe. One involves a request from a colleague for a Timorese 'small fortune' (a relatively modest amount by Australian standards) for medicine for her sick mother. Joe urges detailed interrogation at the very least, and uses words like 'bosok' (lies) and 'naok-teen' (thief). He softens but still argues for the inquisition. Easy for him. The second challenge, closer to home, we have a water crisis. Until yesterday we were blessed with an electric pump that pumped (power prevailing) well-water into various storage vessels at the back of the house. It seems the 'Sanyo' as it's known for obvious reasons, is 'aat' (bad, broken, doesn't work), 'mate' (pronounced ma-tay) (dead) in fact. We need a new 'Sanyo'. The question is who should pay? Again Joe lays it on his own people - 'The landlord is responsible'. 'He should pay'. But I know it's not going to work that way. By evening, the neighbours instigate 'kuru bee' (fetching water) for us. By candle light, Mama Bertha and Bapa Xistu even appear with a long length of hose that by some miracle can be attached to running water. We will be able to wash in the morning, then there will need to be serious talk with the landlord. 9.05pm and 'I can hear it in the wires' (the Wichita linesman has been doing his thing). No not the party, the power is back on! Sorry, that musical reference will totally lose some. The perspiration melt-down continues. With the power back on we can have the fan back on. Returning to the party and 'Take the ribbons from your haiiir, ....', hang on we've heard these guys before! ... Now 3am and I'm semi-conscious. Peace? No way! The party kicks on. ... 6am, why stop now. Then as day dawns the partygoers shrink from the light. Without a 'ruh aruoo' from a single rooster, the almost-silence of straw yard-brooms heralds an already fatigued day. These parties are not wild drunken brawls but rather formal sedate events where people of all ages sit for hours on plastic chairs, usually in a couple of rows, marking out a square of dirt between the houses. There's a bit of dancing, they really know how to groove, a bit of improvisation on the 'look mum no hands' keyboard, some variable karaoke condemning old favorites to no longer be favorites, a bit of food (including the obligatory rice), and occasionally some great local music - all night. You've got to admire their endurance. And on Saturday, would you believe it, a re-run. Another 12-hour party, 6.30pm till 6.30am, within a stones throw on the other side of our house. I surmise that a collective hiring of the earthmoving equipment is seeing it party-crawl through Mascarinhas. Saturday's marathon is celebrating a five-year-old's birthday, so little wonder the kids couldn't keep their eyes open in the back of the pick-up on the way to the beach on Sunday afternoon. Owen
August 9th, 2005
06:18 pm [Link]	hong kong and back Hi all, Two months ago we spent 10 days in Hong Kong - an experience. Owen gave a paper at a conference on evaluation in higher education, which went pretty well - and I tagged along, which also went pretty well. We stayed in a very convenient hotel and soaked up some relaxation and sightseeing. Watched some dragon boat racing, went for a sail on an old junk, wandered through the flower, jade and fish markets (live fish that is in plastic bags). Loved the street markets selling anything and everything day and night. I spent the best part of a day in the fabulous Hong Kong Museum of Art. Enjoyed the luxury of hot water, handbasin, air conditioning etc. Thought automatic toilets, taps AND soap dispensers a bit unnecessary though. I had a brief panic when packing, finding something respectable to take to wear to the conference dinner. Arrived in Hong Kong to be suddenly surrounded by dressed up, made up women - found myself going off buying lipstick. In Timor there are hardly any mirrors, and not even plate glass windows in shops to catch your reflection. The hotel had mirrors everywhere - very disconcerting. We really enjoyed things we don't have in ET. Hot water, shower, air conditioning, comfortable furniture, fresh milk, different fruit, English language TV and newspapers. We pondered the things that don't even exist here and were reminded how poor ET is even for a developing country. In ET no traffic lights, street lights, buildings over three stories, public phones, trains, cinemas, theatres, museums, shopping malls - lucky to find a flushing toilet let alone one that does it automatically. Bit of a contrast with our little house in Mascarinhas. It's in a rather poor area, but its centrally located and once off the main street, you wouldn't think you were in Dili. It's very cute, but the kitchen and bathroom are rather rough. We are in a cluster of 5 or 6 houses belonging to the one extended family - as often happens here. Having a house to let to the malae is quite a family business with various members looking after the house and running a little shop and vege stall out by the road. While we're not exactly part of the family, we have fun chatting as we come and go, the kids are usually keen to see us, and we're happy to feel we're making a contribution to several livelihoods. Besides I'm sure we provide a lot of amusement with our struggling Tetun and the funny things we have and do. I don't think we've committed any major faux pas yet! The house is in good condition (for Dili) and painted yellow inside and out. We've a nice front verandah and great back courtyard. No running water in the kitchen, but we do have a waist-high workbench the length of one wall. This is a bonus as a lot of houses have really low ones. There's a tap just outside the door so it's easy enough to fill a basin for washing up, so we don't really miss the kitchen sink. There's no hot water, but we now actually enjoy (most days) sloshing down with the cool water from the mandi. It's generally early to bed and early to rise, as the roosters start up between 4 and 5am, then the neighbours get up and sweep the yard, wash and cook at 6am. The pigs and monkey make the most unbelievable noise when they want to be fed. By 8am if we've managed to sleep in, the heat usually gets us up anyway. The main downside is that though the house is pretty basic for us, it's still absolute luxury compared to those around us, and I feel a bit like we're living in the manor house. Regards, Avenel Hicks

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