The drive to Los Palos is my first sight of the interior. This is the third world all right. People are walking along the entire road, every couple of hundred meters there is somebody with a load on their head. Most of them greet us and stare. We pass through some villages, no longer consistent of the neat lots of Com, but just local huts made of logs, twigs, leaves and corrugated iron. Here and there a stone building is to be seen, usually on a nice elevated site and in curious style. That's probably that famous Portuguese colonial architecture, at last. All set in spectacular lush vegetation with some glimpses of the ocean left far down below. I recognise the banana trees and, of course, the palms. There are a lot of animals - chickens, pigs with piglets, occasionally a horse or a buffalo. Again, the vicinity of the buildings is clean-swept, but the no-one's land is all covered in mud.
The road itself looks quite ok, Urco is driving up to 70 kmh and telling me of his previous missions. Angola, Albania. I wonder if being a Basque made him go to all this places but don't dare to ask.
We drive onto a high plateau with steep mountains behind it, past a military base with huge paintings of strong soldiers and signs in Korean, the home of our friends from last night's barbie. Quite suddenly, we are in a densely built up area which is the town of Los Palos, the poles.
Urco stops in front of a stone house with an IRC logo on it. It looks newly renovated, with a verandah, that continues in front of the adjacent buildings. It is needed - it starts raining, a nice tropical downpour. I have some coffee with Stewart and contemplate through the rain the police station across the street, set in a garden dominated by a flag pole with the light-blue UN flag on it, a one-way driveway with two gates around that. The old Indonesian signs with "Police of Los Palos" are still in the garden.We discuss the curious way of saying "good bye" used a lot in Australia - the "see ya later mate" exclamation, especially from someone whom you'll never see again, like an outback petrol station attendant.
When the rain stops I shout "see you later Stewart" and go over to the police, to register with them just in case it would be necessary, maybe to get a stamp for entering the country. The desk officer is from New Zealand, definitely Maori and very friendly and relaxed. We exchange our stories, he has been in Los Palos for six months now and after another one he's gone, back to NZ. Living conditions are horrible but the pay is good, he says, it is U$ 110.- per day, obviously taxfree, he's saving for a car. He was the first and last one of the UNTAET people to admit to be in Timor for the money. It's pretty quiet now, he says, the police has to work only on assault and domestic violence cases, no political things. I don't need any stamps whatsoever, they have none anyway. We say our byes and I'm on my way to explore this town.
The center consists of a divided road between two roundabouts, maybe 200 m long. On both sides of this main street there are terraced houses, all of them burnt down. On a corner there are some men hanging around, unlike in Com, they have got a pretty Western (for Asian standards) appearance - jeans, clean shirts, no rags. A couple of burnt down official buildings, according to the signs that are still intact - a post office, a bank. There is some traffic, mainly trucks, UN-landrovers and bemos. I walk down to the market, following the Kiwi's instructions, eventually hearing the first "Hey mista wots your name?" shouts from the children. I smile, they smile…
The market is another first - my first Timorese one. Just a covered area. On sale are: soaps, cigarettes (per one and per box), shampoos, oil, nuts, rice, small sachets with unknown content and vegetables. Beans and the like are being sold per heap, they are laid out on sheets in neat little heaps, probably one cup or so. I become the main attraction on that market, a head taller than anybody else, clicking away with the camera, wearing the aussie hat and looking at the merchandise like I've never seen beans or nuts before. Some of them I had never seen before, indeed. Although the market is crowded, not one transaction is to be seen. Everybody seems to wait for something, some of the people don't look very healthy, some are badly crippled.
I leave the market, go for a walk in the town. There are three sorts of buildings - the stone houses, most of them damaged, the shacks made of corrugated iron and the traditional Timorese huts. The streets are clean and mostly sealed, the yards spotlessly swept. There are chickens and children everywhere. Some of the children are coming from school, holding small notebooks and some books, most of them greet me without a hint of shyness. Actually, I feel less at ease then they do.
For lunch the Kiwi recommended the "new caf?", a place with two tables under a sheet of rusty corrugated iron. One is taken by three UN people, I sit at the other and study the menu, which is under $1 per meal - fried rice, fried noodles. A coke or a beer cost almost twice as much and are available. I order and listen to the conversation on the next table. The man does all the talking, the two women listen with a religious look to his speech. He's explaining to them that if you live in New York, $ 10,000 per month will be just about enough to enjoy that place, Paris is about the same and where else could one live anyway?
The ladies are digging in their rice and nodding. The man has a strong accent, I guess French, one of the ladies is definitely from India, the other a mystery. They finish and all of a sudden the man turns arround and asks me what agency I'm with, he hasn't seen me until now in Los Palos and he is the UN chief of the whole district. I tell him I'm a tourist, from Holland, and he doesn't believe me. The mystery woman is Belgian, she speaks Dutch and invites me to drop by at the UN headquarters for a chat. She also can give me some info on accommodation, which is beginning to be an interesting issue, as the day goes by. They jump in their landrover and drive away, I walk the 300 m to the HQ.The security won't let me in. Fortunately, I remember the Belgian's name, Pascale. That is enough for a visitor's badge, I walk into the building, see Pascale through some open doors, and head straight for her. Halfway someone starts pulling me back at my bag, it is the UN chief himself, Gianni, shouting "You can't just walk in here, this is an official united nations office and I work here!". Everybody around - about five or six - look a bit ashamed, obviously the chief has his own way with people. There are five or so computers, all new, all occupied and on all of them the Windows Solitaire game is being played.
Pascale comes and rescues me into a waiting area. She tells me about life in Los Palos in general, the hard working conditions, in particular the lack of computers and communications. She has left her room at the catholic convent this morning and is pretty sure it's still vacant, gives me the directions and has to leave for somewhere. I decide to spend the night in Los Palos and go back to Com the following day, if that room is so easy to get.
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