Back to Scaresville
I don’t sleep well. The gaping mosquito net is a worry but the worst thing is the stickiness. I wasn’t able to have a shower last night on account on the moon not coming out in time to light the iron wash shack out back. It was dangerous back there. I decide to get up at about 5am. It’s dark outside. I sit on the beach and watch pastel shades spread themselves across the horizon. Pigs from the local homes root around in the sand. The ocean laps the shore and I am alone to watch the sunrise.
The kids soon emerge, up to empty to litter baskets or take a wash. A brother and sister play on a makeshift swing that has been built on the beach. One of the girls selling shell necklaces is back but seems more interested in soaking up the golden glow than harassing me, which is good. I sit there watching it all, trying to work out what to do. In the bar last night, Manny’s tales of Tutuala Beach made the place sound almost mythical. However, getting there is going to be a nightmare, and I won’t make it back to Dili before Tuesday evening at the earliest. It will be an adventure – hell it may even be a story in itself – but it’s going to be difficult.
I still haven’t decided by the time I take a swim in the ocean. The sun has just risen over the headline at the end of Com Bay and the interplay of light and waves on the scaly surface of the aquatic life is amazing to behold. It’s a wonderful scene down there. There are scores of fish milling around, buffeted by the waves, some big, some small, some scared and some really rather curious. The world is aquamarine and turquoise. The bed of the ocean is rock, with occasional patches of sand and coral. I pull myself through the water feeling thoroughly aquatic myself. Other times I just hang above a particularly interesting rock or coral and just stare at what’s below. There are fish everywhere. It’s absolutely gorgeous. A group of three kids watch me from the shoreline. Occasionally I surface and give them a wave.
Somewhere in there I decide that I have already had such a good time that heading back to town today wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I guess I just lose my bottle. I want to avoid the discomfort of a bus ride back. I want to avoid the waiting, and the heat, and the prospect of getting stranded this side of that pretty knackered looking road at Baucau. I haul myself out of the ocean and run to where Manny and his customers said they would be having breakfast. I offer fifty bucks to sit in the front of the car. The deal is accepted and I head back for a quick bite – bread rolls with pineapple jam, and fresh coffee – before packing up and heading off, leaving behind my little guesthouse (pictured).
It’s a real wrench to leave Com. It’s such a lovely place. The people all wave as we move off. Manny explains that they have nothing to live off other than the stuff they grow, and the few dollars they make on selling tourists their tais and homemade sea-shells. Perhaps for this reason, the place is a blueprint of primitive paradise. Sure, there’s some kind of entrepreneurial energy from those making their tais (pictured) to sell to what few tourists there are, but there’s also great peace and happiness. I don’t think I’ve been to a happier, more relaxed and carefree place.
A few kilometers out of town we pass a little freshwater spring which is just a picture in this morning light. It’s Sunday – the kids only day off from school – and they are out in force, washing in the water or playing. The water is genuinely crystal clear. We wave, the villagers wave back.
Shortly after leaving Com, we spot movement out at sea and slow to take a look. Soon it becomes clear we are watching an entire school of dolphins at play. One or two suddenly leap out of the water and do a twirl. It’s all happening in the distance, but it’s truly a mesmerizing moment. Next, a couple of Banteng cattle appear from the side of the road and gallop in front of us. Their face and gait is that a deer but Taffy, the rugged Western Autralian hotelier that I’m sharing the car with assures me they are cattle with the confidence of a man who knows his bovines. Taffy and his partner/friend Kim talk of walking out of Com yesterday. They headed east on buffalo tracks to find beautiful white sand beaches untouched by human foot. I wish I had had the bottle to stay at do it myself.
We head past those same huts, made from wood with either corrugated iron or thatched roofs that rise from dusty, barren patches of rocky earth. East Timor is truly the Third World. I only twigged that after coming here and seeing it for myself. These homes have no running water, no electricity. Maybe, if they are lucky, they might have a battery powered transistor radio to pick up word from Dili. Maybe.
Close to Lautem we pass a stream of villagers heading back from the Sunday morning church service, dressed in their best garb. They walk beneath flowering bougainvillea trees. It’s a colour explosion in a dry, dusty landscape. They wave, we wave back.
We pass a couple of lorries (and one 4x4) seemingly stuck in one of the few flowing rivers. One chap is attempted to jack up a truck while keeping his head above water. It’s quite a sight.
Manu spots a white flag on a wooden pole outside one village. It indicates a child under five has recently died. It’s a somber moment in an otherwise joyous day.
We stop to buy peanuts and I am drawn to some siren-like singing drifting from one of the nearby shacks in the middle of the forest (pictured above). It’s a Sunday service, though it takes me a while to work it out. I would never have guessed this place was a church. One guy is on guitar. There are songs, a bit of chat, and more songs, and a bit more chat, and more songs. Manny, a short while later, complains this is reason he stopped going to church. ‘There’s too much singing,’ he says. ‘It just takes too bloody long.’ He spends his Sundays out on his fishing boat these days. Nevertheless, for me, being beckoned into that church shack and watching that group of ladies sing in Tetum in heavenly harmony was truly a holy moment.
Shortly before Dili, Manny looks out to the blue ocean and spots a giant, two-metre long fish skipping through the ocean. ‘Holy shit,’ he says, repeatedly. ‘Look at that,’ he implores us. It’s another magical moment. It’s a beast. It’s yet another example of how alive this place is. This is Third World, but Christ this place is not hungry, or thirsty or strangled. It’s teeming with life.
Coming back over the mountains close to Dili, Manny explains that the road – the A1 – was built in the late nineteenth century. It was hewn by hand by local people, working under colonial Portuguese direction. Many perished. Apparently the cowardly Indonesians used to drive around bends on the wrong side of the road for fear of toppling over the edge. On our way back down to sea-level we pass a spear fisherman, wearing his homemade coconut shell goggles, using his forearms to haul himself up onto the road. I stop to take a photo. He poses for the camera, large beads of sea water rolling down his torso. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more striking, dignified-looking bloke than that guy.
Just coming back into Dili, we pass the Prime Minister's house, a humble thatched complex with washing hanging out back. Next we head over to the Jesus Statue at the end of the Crocodile snout peninsula. There’s a real Sunday holiday vibe – loads of expats lounging under parasols, or rubbing on sun-tan cream. A few locals sit in large groups and chat. A few are standing on the edge of the fringe reef way out in the lagoon. Apparently, scores of alcove chapels have been built in the cliff face that leads to the Jesus Statue. This is a holy place. Today, it’s also feels like a party place.
Back in Dili, I head back to my guesthouse to find that there is a massive crowd of locals and south Asian blokes gathered at the cock fighting stadium. Even up in my room I can hear the huge roar of the crowd. It is a genuinely sporting spectacle. I wander through the melee to discover that Dan’s friend Tony is the referee. He shakes me hand after stepping out of the ring. Already, I feel a part of the event.
Over a coffee a little later, Dan tells me that this, in essence, is his theory about Timor. You can see cock fighting elsewhere, he says, but you can’t feel as much part of it as you can here. As a foreigner, you can wander down to the ring and shout and bet and mingle, and you will be embraced as part of the group. It was the same for me at Com. He’s right. As a tourist in Timor, you don’t have to operate on the outside, looking in.
Nevertheless, it doesn’t take too long for the nerves to set it once more. Manuel, Tony’s brother, says that he is frightened ahead of the big UN report tomorrow. He says the whole village feels nervous. He expects the city to erupt. Dan tells him not to worry, that it’s all rumours, but the tension is infectious. After 48 hours of nothing but smiles and waves and warmth, we are back in Scaresville. God bless Dili.
