After a bad night's sleep because of the noise next room, the mosquitos and the fan, I wake up really early. I want to go for a morning walk, but find that the doors are locked, there is no escape. After trying to sleep for a couple of hours more I hear the locks. I walk around, there are some people up. Buon dia, buon dia. Now I can see my whereabouts in daylight. It is an Indonesian military camp, taken over by the Timorese, who don't have houses anymore. Again, it's a strict orthogonal grid, all the houses are the same, although small diferences are to be noticed - a couple have aircons, some are painted, some cleaner than others. One has a newly built second floor.
The one I slept in was being swept by the women in the family, when I returned from my walk. I never figured out how many people live in it. The adjacent houses were actually connected by internal doors, so it was rather dificult anyway.
The houselord asks me if I want breakfast, I don't refuse and he is off on his bicycle to somewhere. He returnes with some delicious pastries with banana filling, there is coffee, it's a good treat. Asking me about my plans, Nando offers to accompany me for the day, I like having a guide and we decide to go first to the airport, because of its proximity and check with the travel agents over there, or whomever available.
It's a nice walk, just about not hot. Nando asks me what time I went to bed and says, that he himself went at 4 am, because they were watching "blue movies" during the whole night. He makes some gestures to confirm my gravest suspicions as to what a "blue movie" actually is. Well, at least that noise is explained.At the airport there is no one, except for a couple of Portuguese UN soldiers, who don't even speak English.
We decide to head back into town, after I copy the flight schedule (2 flights a day to Darwin, none on Sunday). Outside there are a couple of Australian joggers, judging by the hats, a girl and a bloke, wearing sneakers, shorts and singlets, the woman showing off her body pretty much. On their back dangle automatic guns, sophisticated and modern looking with lots of plastic. The couple are obviously military, patrolling the airport and their whole appearance gives me the giggles, which isn't helped by the way Nando is staring at that woman's breasts. I ask them, laughing, about any flights today, any travel agents and almost stop giggling. Yes they say, there will be a flight at 1230, which is in 4 hours, and if I came an hour before the flight I might have a good chance of getting on. I thank them and start laughing again, not being able to help it. They give me a strange look and jog away. After seeing Nando's pancake-sized eyes again I become hysterical one more time.We catch a bemo to the center of Dili. After a ten minute ride I'm in one of the most depressing places I have ever seen. I have never been in a war zone before and the sights are quite shocking. Now all the destructions are on a much larger scale, multi-story buildings are deprived of everything but their outer shell, block after block. Only a couple are repaired, one is a huge white palace-like structure, the governor's or government's palace, with big UNTAET signs on it and the roof (corrugated iron) being painted green right now. That's the place that first had the Portuguese in it, then the Indonesians, now the UN. To the average Timorese it's probably just the change of some meaningless sign anyway. Soon the CNRT will take residence and the big black Volvos will replace the Landrovers.
At the moment, Dili has probably the population of Darwin and that's the end of the comparison. I start feeling more and more depressed, especially seeing the contrast between the Westerners and the Timorese. Eventhough in Dili it is to be seen in a lesser degree than anywhere else, it's the most striking. Somehow in the remote villages the UN cum sui represented a world willing to help, they were like ambassadors from a better place. In Dili it is just vulgar rich as opposed to poor, west vs. rest, as seen everywhere outside the 25 or so lucky countries.We get off at the market. The first impression is that everything is being sold here. Looking closer I see that the merchandise is limited to foods and small household things. I walk and shoot photos, Nando with me and there is a never ceasing chorus of "Hey mista! Hey mista!". We get to the meat section, where huge chunks of fresh meat is lying in the sun and not really being fresh anymore. Salesmen are waving sticks to scare off the flies, the smell is horrible, not to mention the whole sight.
A salesman shouts, "Hey mista, buy this!" and shows me a huge piece of dark red meat with even darker unhealthy looking spots. I go to him and ask him what exactly he thinks I am going to do with his cadaver. He looks at me, thinks for a second and gives me a shrug, with one of those million dollar smiles.
Chickens are being sold, too. I ask Nando whether there is a chicken fight to be seen. I'm, of course, influenced by all those movies on Asia and keen on having a look. Nando starts smiling knowingly and asking "You really want to see a chicken fight?" His smile is of someone who doesn't really take it seriously. He wouldn't have a clue where there is one and doesn't stop chuckling for a while. I would expect that reaction if I had asked him for a brothel or the local sex shop but not a chicken fight.
There are occasionally non-Timorese around. Some Asians, shooting their cameras at machine gun speed, an African family buying boxes of cigarettes. There are quite a lot of Indonesian Muslim women and my guide expresses some curiosity on their daring to be in Dili. But noone really minds them, they actually sell medicine and their stands look like small pharmacies.
In the crowd, I almost bump into a UN woman, probably European or Australian, we exchange an awkward smile and she disappears. Nando is highly excited by that and starts commenting on the lady, asking me question about my opinion on her. He tells me that he quite likes Australian women because they have big breasts. Imagine this guy on a beach in Southern France... I buy myself and Nando a Coke to cool down, it's in a European sized can and the text is in French.
We leave the market and walk around the town a bit. It is not a pretty sight, although most of the rubble has been cleaned up. There is still the occassional rampaged building with all the debris inside, a couple recently renovated - a hotel, a Telstra office, but the overall impression remains. And on top of that there are the vehicles - lots of 4WDs, the ever-present bemos, scooter and bicycles, and occasionally a sedan, usually big ones - Mercedesses, Fords, curiously enough some Lancias, the black Volvos of the CNRT. The plates are a real Babylon, from all over the world, making Dili the most cosmopolitan place to be. If you're a car plate.
It's time to go back to the airport, I'm really utterly depressed by the sightseeing and just want to get out of here. We finally catch a bemo, walk the couple of hundred meters from the airport gate to the terminal and see a lot of activity, where just three hours ago there was absolutely noone. Sure enough, there is a travel agent, the flight departs in an hour and there are seats. I have to fetch my backpack from Nando's place and am told to leave my passport at the counter, get the bag, pay and jump on. I ask the little Timorese lady why the passport should stay there, she tells me straight away that I can trust her, she won't run away with it and looks me deep in the eyes.
We race for a taxi, there are suddenly none. There were heaps of them everywhere before that - urban folklore, Dili. A friendly Landrover stops and gives us a ride, Nando shows a big smile, he has never sat in one of those before, aircon and all that. Three minutes later we jump off the truck, run for the house, I pack my stuff, give the whole family something like $15 and run for the road, after all I've got a plane to catch.
I offer another Coke to Nando, trying to finish my Indonesian money, he actually prefers a pack of cigarettes, which is probably just as bad for the health. They are cheaper, anyway.
A cab brings us to the airport, it's noon.
The lady at the counter is still there, mentions again that I could have trusted her and left my passport with her. I've prepared my $200 but it's not enough. Pointing at the sheet of paper with the prices doesn't help - it's $350, take it or leave it. Reasoning and pleading don't help a single bit, either. While we're arguing, a guy takes my backpack and starts carrying it somewhere. I stop him, he apologises and puts it back. Eventually I pay that leech, the guy goes again for my backpack and assures me it'll be on the plane. I'm asked by someone else to step on a scale and they weigh me. The number is right, I'm allowed further.
A bit nervous because of the absence of a entry stamp I pass customs, pass border control and am in the transit hall. There are about 25 to 30 people, again the usual Dili restaurant crowd (no Timorese), this time enhanced by the presence of two or three - er - blond "city-chicks" in mini skirts and spice-girls shoes, incredibly out of place.
Three minutes later we're on the plane, I sit down and there is a scream in my ear "I told ya I see ya later mate!". Stewart, aping his best aussie accent. He's off to some 'security and safety briefing' of the IRC which is held, rather inconveniently, in Djakarta. But all outgoing flights are via Darwin. We chat a bit, he tells me that the last time he saw me, I was being driven away in a police landrover and he wasn't really sure that is a good thing.
After takeoff I'm on the right side of the plane for a change and the treat is an aerial view of Dili and later on of the island with its mountains and coral reefs. It's 12:30 pm, a stewardess brings me extra peanuts because I tell her I'm hungry, I'm reading Time and Newsweek. Chatting with a Swedish UN-gentleman, who's still carrying his UN-badge, even on the plane.
In a while the clouds cover the sea and next thing we see are the waters of Darwin Harbour. Australian border control, officials in their shorts and long socks, 30 minutes wait for the agricultural quarantine ("Have you been outside Dili at all?") and suddenly I'm in back in my favorite town on the planet. Stewart, his companion and I share a taxi to the CBD ("See ya later mate!"), ten minutes later I'm walking down Mitchell Street, looking exactly the way I looked in Timor just a couple of days ago - unbelievingly, too. Backpack, aussie hat on top. Not one shout "Hey mista wots yor name?!", not one turned head.
Receptionist at the hostel puzzled - "I thought you were still with us?" - "No, I just came back from Timor." - "Oh, ok. It's 15 bucks plus a key deposit."It's 3 pm. Time to read a book at the pool and sulk.
