A couple of minutes later father and son are dressed and ready to go, too. I share with them my newly aquired information on lodgings in Dili, they make me repeat the number a couple of times and become silent and unfriendly.
Near Dili, the road climbs again a couple of hundred meters above sea level and then we see the town from a bird's view. It is situated at a large bay, Dili harbour. There are a lot of ships, even a big catamaran (which, as I was to find out later, offers day cruises for only $200 a head). On the far right cape there is a large statue of Christ, not unlike the one in Rio.
From above the town looks neat, in orthogonal blocks, many trees, a blue lagoon, a couple of Indonesian islands across the water.
I'm dropped off at some travel agents in downtown Dili. That shop is closed, after all it is Saturday afternoon, but there is a mobile telephone number on the door.
At the caf? around the corner there is a strange cross-section of humanity: some medicos do mundo (according to their t-shirts), soldiers, a couple of guys only describable as outback aussie blokes, a backpacker reading "The Beach", some Timorese. Nearly all of them have mobile phones. A shiny sign says Segafreddo. I ask how much for an expresso - it's "two and a half", a chocolate mud cake is "three". 5500 rupees, not too bad. Too bad it was in dollars. Well, civilisation again.
The waitress tells me that there are still no public telephones in Dili, meaning Timor. Also the prepaid phone cards are in extremely short supply (later I spoke to a man who sold them double price, bringing them in from Darwin). In other words, asking for a call on one of the mobiles would be quite an insult. I decide to wait a day or so untill the agent opens.
After resting for a while and paying my check with that I'm-ripped-off feeling I walk in the direction of Phill's Grill, which appears to be about 2 km further. It's too hot even for a 200 m stroll and considering my saving of $145 I take a taxi.
Darrel comes exactly on time and takes me into a part of town I wouldn't have gone myself into. He says it's perfectly safe, and the rumours I've heard are only partly true.
When we arrive at the house the family cleans out the room - one of the daughters sleeps in it, obviously not expecting business today. I don't really mind and have a look around - my first Timor interior. White tiles on the floor, badly put, whitewashed walls and a strange office-like suspended ceiling. Some shabby furniture and in a corner the family's pride - a stereo installation, a tv, video and a video disk player, with disks as big as LP's but with the CD-look. Some long gone system. The houselord is a student, in Java, Indonesia, and isn't sure how he will go back to his university. He is living there with his girlfriend and some relatives - brothers and sisters. I don't ask about his parents. His English is not bad but his brother's is even better, so he does all the talking. Somehow I have to keep repeating to myselft that I'm not an intruder here, but a paying guest. It is obvious that I'm causing some inconvenience.
I walk over to Darrel's place, they call him Mister Darrel with a lot of respect. We discuss some of the aspects of life on Timor. He misses his family in Canada and has just one more month to go. Seven altogether.
He is really annoyed with the professional level of his collegues, especially the African police officers. They should be taught as well, just as the Timorese students in the academy. One of the incidents involved an announcement by a Ugandan officer, declaring granate launching practice the following day at 6 am, obligatory for all students. Darrel is really wound up about that, shouting that police is something different than military, when will they ever learn?! A policeman doesn't have to know how to launch granates, but has to read the lawbooks and know people's rights...
I leave Mister Darrel to calm down a bit and ask Fernando, the houselord's brother, where to go for dinner. It is Phill's Grill - the only place in the vicinity, also known for its late-night trouble. Nando takes me there with a couple of his friends, but they won't sit at the table, "not done". It's a restaurant for non Timorese. So Nando and friends sit down on the sidewalk and wait for me to have my food.
I sit at a table, order some fried rice and look around. The public is the same as at the caf? downtown. Next to me there is a very French gentleman, middle aged, complaining about his Pernot or something. I join him on his table, we start talking, he even buys me a drink.
He is some sort of consultant, lives in Paris and absolutely hates travelling out of there. And here we are, sitting under the stars in Dili, East Timor, at Phill's Grill, eating fried rice with Tiger beer. We're passing the time quite pleasantly, a million miles from places as Los Palos or Yako, much closer to Paris, because of monsieur's accent.
Suddenly the trouble appears. A Timorese guy starts throwing glasses and ashtrays, the people around try to restrain him. He dashes for our table and grips the ketchup bottle. I pull myself away, afraid he might smash that tomato sauce on my head, but he throws is at the bar. My French friend doesn't even raise an eyebrow. Probably the usual thing in Paris, who knows?
The troublemaker manages to free himself, doesn't stop shouting, runs for his motorbike. He throws one last stone at a window and zooves away into the night, leaving everyone stunned. Perhaps the most stunned are the uniformed Portuguese policemen, who are having dinner with girlfriends. Everyone's eyes are on them now, asking "why didn't you do anything ?" The policemen shrug and ask "do what?" I tell the Frenchman how safe I feel because of the police's presence and make sure they hear me. All I get is another shrug and a dirty look.
Nando and Co. come into the light between the tables and ask if I'm all right. "We were afraid for you". I'm quite touched by their concern and decide not to let them wait longer, we say our au revoirs and I follow my Timorese friends into the darkness.
Darrel is still up and I ask him what he thinks about the incident. He says the Portuguese have always been a problem, by the rules they should have held that guy until a patrol comes by and detains him.. But of course, they couldn't be bothered.It has been a long day, the bike ride to Venilale seems ages ago, but has taken place this very morning. I decide to call it a day, even if it's still 9 pm and go to bed for some reading. On the table in the room there are some magazines. I read one of them, it's the Jehowa's Witnesses' periodical.
Good night.
