After lunch I think it best to settle the accommodation problem, for everybody said it is one. I decide to go with the catholics again, this being a bigger place then Los Palos, there surely is a convent.
Apparently, it is that new building with the garden still being dug. I go there, already knowing the important words, noice, quarto and I'm being directed to Sister Domingas, who is wonderful and speaks English and has the authority to put me in a room. There is a tri-lingual sign at the reception area, saying price for stay is 200,000 rupees per day, including accommodation, 3 meals and washing up. Signed in three places by the bishop Don Basilio de Nasciacao.
A priest shows me the general direction of the location of Sister Domingas, jumps into his brand new Toyota 4WD and drives off into the same direction.
After a lot of asking, a lot of smiles and obviously wrong directions from the locals, Jovanita appears out of a house. She proudly wears a UN badge and tells me she works for them - as an interpreter. She knows Sister Domingas and takes me there. It's the female convent, I'm asked to wait in front of a mural, while she calls Sister Domingas from the inside of the complex.
The mural shows a tropical island (Timor?), nice seas, a sailing boat under full sails speeding for the island and there is a big "Welcome!" under it. Definitely a good sign, a bit out of place, under a dark colonnade in a inner court of a catholic convent. But how very appropriate!
Sister Domingas appears, wearing a nun's outfit and orange flipflaps, looking like - one would say - a big mamma. She is wonderful indeed, she speaks English but prefers Italian, due to her couple of years in Rome. I start to recognise a pattern…
I tell her my story, looking sadder than I am. With her compassionate look she tells me that for her it is ok that I stay down there at that convent, but I'd better ask the priest, the one who sent me here in the first place.
She calls a guy who's idling around, he's the driver of their little van and they give me a lift back, even taking me first to the police station to get my backpack. They let me stay for only 50,000, because I don't want their meals and washing up.
Settled down for the night in a nice hotel room, with my very own bathroom (with a lock on the outside) and a 'normal' toilet bowl, I discover that there is no water. There isn't a mosquito net, either, but I decide to worry about that later.
The 4WD-priest is present again, so I ask him, he admits he is also waiting for the water. The men building the garden in front of the building have shut the water down. I really want my money's worth from this place, and need a shower anyway, so I approach the labouring men, and a young guy is pointed out to me. He is the architect of the garden, he even has a blueprint of what later will be the sign saying Dionisio de Baucau in flowers in front of the main entrance. He knows nothing about the water, nevertheless we start talking about his being an architect. He is quite willing to show me his office, I should return at about 5 o'clock and he'll take me there.
Somehow the water is sorted out, I have my shower and go for a walk, no worries on my mind right now. A little bit up the road there is a car mechanic's workshop with a new 4WD in the driveway, with NT plates. Outback Australia mate. One of the mechanics speaks English, we start talking. There are a lot ot motorbikes in various states of repair present, I decide to give it a try again and ask if someone would like to take me for a ride, I'll pay of course. Noone reacts. I remember a place called Venilale, I had written that name down when I was copying facts out of a Lonely Planet Guide that was lying around in the IRC office in Los Palos.
Confronted with a direct question, one of the guys says he'll drive me to Venilale for 150,000 rupees, that is AU$30 and way too much for a two-hour-drive in a country with $5 day wages. Eventually we agree on AU$10,- plus the petrol, tomorrow morning, 8 o'clock. All is being interpreted by the English-speaking man, the one who is to drive me doesn't speak a lot of English and lookes quite a lot like Che Guevara. He even wears a freedom-fighter cap with a red star and a free Timor T-shirt.
Having settled that, I walk uphill to eventually get a nice view of the town, shoot some pictures and generally wait till my 5 o'clock appointment. A scooter pulls up next to me and it is driven by the English speaking mechanic. He wants to take me for a ride, and show me Baucau New Town, where he lives.
I jump on and suddenly the town looks different, things speed up, there are no more steep ascends. The ride takes about 15 minutes and goes past a lot of destroyed public buildings, just staying vacant. Only a couple still have some rubbish around them, obviously a lot of cleaning up has been done.
People are walking everywhere, there is moderate traffic, scooters and motorcycles in the majority, some trucks and the occasional agency vehicle. Looking at the plates proves to be interesting - I see Geneva, some Portuguese, Singapore, a lot of Australian, mainly NT plates. One French. Some Thai, written in Thai, Baucau is in the Thai military sector after all. I try to remember the plates of that Korean jeep, but can't.
We pass a big bus terminal, almost destroyed but still in use according to the driver, a post office consisting only of walls, a stadium. Eventually, we're in a residential district on a orthogonal grid, small identical concrete houses. This is Baucau Kota Baru, Baucau New Town. It has been built by the Indonesians, it looks like a third world version of suburbia, some of the houses with broken windows. But streets are way too narrow for cars and anyway - I have seen less then 5 small family cars.
The guy shows me his house, we talk for a while. He has two diplomas for being a mechanic, has studied for some years and now owns that workshop. He's 24, I'm being introduced to his pretty wife. There's a kid sitting in the lap of another woman, it is his son. The other woman herself isn't mentioned. I am dying of curiosity to have a look in the house, to see how they live, but don't dare ask.
Three minutes later we go back, he is going to show me the supermarket first, which turns out to be just a normal market, about a 5 minute ride away. After having seen nothing new there, we ride back to the workshop.
Che and I confirm our date for tomorrow and I'm off to see that architect guy.I'm just in time, they are waiting for me. We get into a van, drive for not more than 300 m and are in front of an architects office, the sign reading Quinta Malavilha, Architectural-Consultant Plan & Design.
Inside it is quite dark, the town has no electricity before 6 o'clock. My friend from the gardens is not in charge anymore, there is a new guy with a much stronger appearance, obviously he is the boss. There is also an interpreter, with him the conversation is nice and smooth, although I still have to use some simplified language.
The lights go on. We spend about two hours talking, looking at the plans the office has designed. I ask them why in this climate everything is built out of concrete and so obviously unsuitable, considering aircon is a real luxury and strike a blank. With some sketches I show the boss architect what I mean and he understands and says there is lack of information on the subject. I promise to send them that Troppo Architects little book with all those principal schemes for natural cooling, cross ventilation and so on. Wrong move. They start asking me to send them also drafting paper, some tools, especially Rotring Rapidographs are in great demand, they have only one 0.1 left.
Eventually they show me a little manifesto of their own, the main goals of the firm being to have some control over the built enviroment of Baucau. I am even asked to help them by working on a master plan for that place which is very tempting and flattering, considering they don't know a thing about my abilities.
The temptation becomes even stronger when I'm shown plans for schools that are going to be built and a proposal for the Mercado Municipal, the building that had caught my attention already. It is to be turned into a five-star-hotel, only they couldn't say who would stay there.
After a while it is time to stop dreaming. We say our goodbyes, I promise I won't forget to send whatever I can get hold of.
The boss walks me to another restaurant, slightly further away from the center of the town and with $2 meals.
There are some Timorese patrons and an Indian gentleman, casting curious glances at me. I'm preoccupied with my food and with correcting the English of that firm's manifesto and cannot be bothered with another UN story.
