First Day in Dili
I am traveling to East Timor today with an Hong-Kong based US photographer by the name of Daniel Groshong http://tayophotogroup.com, pictured below). He has just published a wonderful book about the country (Timor Leste – Land of Discovery), made during his two years spent living in the world’s ‘newest nation’. I am hoping he’s going to prove an invaluable guide. And sure enough the contact-building begins early.
At the airport, Dan and I run into an American chap called Bryan (pictured below) and an English lady, Tracy, heading back home to Dili. There’s lots of cynical but light-hearted banter about life in East Timor. It reminds me of a lot of the stuff I hear about China. Apparently 32 of the countries most dangerous men recently escaped from jail in the west and are now on the loose in the mountains. These were the guys responsible for much of the worst of the brutality in recent years. And they just walked out of jail. This kind of thing happens often in Timor, I am assured.
The Merpati flight to Dili is, very surprisingly, one of the smoothest flights I’ve been on. Apparently most of the pilots are ex-military and love descending over the mountains with little room to spare, or landing at full throttle, etc.etc. but our chap is obviously feeling a little subdued today, ‘cos he does thing by the book. The plane is a small one, but there are still a good 100 seats, mostly filled by foreigners. The Pakistani chap next to me works with the World Food Programme, and I suspect most of the others have similar jobs. Perhaps I am being presumptuous but I suspect I am one of the few who is going to Timor Leste on holiday.
We walk from the plane to the visa counter. It’s a little shed where two chaps take 30 USD of each person in exchange for a flimsy bit of paper which is stapled onto the top of one of my passport pages.
Dan has had a local guy named Alfonso (pictured) come pick us up. Alfonso is lovely. He constantly smiles as we drive back to Dili in his Duke’s of Hazard modeled taxi cab (white go-faster stripes on the bonnet, red padded seats that recline almost to horizontal, windscreen fashionably cracked), reminiscing about days spent with Dan dodging bullets in that building, almost getting killed over there and watching his friends home getting burnt down just there. Dan explains that the district we are driving through, close to the airport, was one of the main problem areas during the troubles back in April/May and is still tense now. Big trucks full of Malaysian police officers cruise past. Many buildings have turned to rubble and there’s a general sense of dilapidation. We pass two refugee camps, bang in the middle of the city – scores of tents, with various UN insignia’s written thereon, surrounded by wire fencing. Dili is dusty. I was surprised back on the plane to see how brown and arid the mountains were. Apparently they turn green come the rainy season, which isn’t far off now. Right now, it feels like Western Australia – just with more poverty and more problems. I guess we aren’t that far away geographically, but WA still feels like a world away.
Despite the fact we’ve just had cold spag bol and a green, gelatine kryptonite-esque substance on the plane, we head to the Castaway Bar for lunch. The beach front road is littered with the villas of rather senior-sounding people – ministers, diplomats and the like. The embassies are largely concentrated down here, along with the rather plain, white government building which lies a little father along the front. There are big fences surrounding most of the buildings, but high society still has a very open, accessible feel. You can virtually see right in through the front window of the UK Embassy, for heaven’s sake. There’s no hiding away in up market districts in Dili. There are no upmarket districts, I suppose. This is as good as it gets.
Despite the salubrious sounding addresses, there are plenty of rubble strewn properties and places that just look like they haven’t been touched in decades. Castaway itself is something in between. I had pictured something quite sexy and glamorous, but it’s a simple affair and, given the extraordinary prices, rather disappointing, I have to say. It’s a place for the foreigners. A big pizza costs 12 USD, a simple sandwich 6 USD. There is a great sea view at least. We are joined once again by Bryan. He’s currently in charge of helping the Timorese government set up and anti-corruption department. He used to work for the UN and talks about the whole UN mission in East Timor as being a waste of space. His argument seems to be that the essential nature of beaurocrats is the same the world over – not really interested in changing much, more interested in looking to be busy while doing as little work as possible and maintaining the status quo.
We drive to the South Korean-built Memorial Hall where Dan introduces me to lots of old friends. They are essentially refugees to whom Dan has given a home – on the floor of his office of his photography project (out of which, his book emerged). He introduces me to Joao Vaz, a young-ish guy, whose mental scares are clearly visible through the lenses of his eyes. His face has a permanent wince and his forehead is wrinkled. Dan explains that Joao helped his fixing photo shoots for his book. Back in May his home was burned down by the mobs that roamed the country and he fled for the relative sanctuary of Dili. Now he picks up scraps of work with the various NGO’s but basically lives on subsistence on the floor of Dan’s office. I’m quite stunned. I really don’t know what to say. Call me naïve, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with this, at least not so early. I realize that there’s a lot I need to learn.
As far as Dan and Joao are concerned, Joao’s home and village were attacked by Western (Timorese) mobs, on the basis they were Easterners. A big UN report into the is due out any moment and senior politicians are expected to be implicated in orchestrating some of the violence. However, as we travel around, even more ideas and theories emerge. The problems are blamed on political trouble-making by some and economic jealousy by others. Vigilante property reclamation – essentially, houses that were occupied while their owners fled Indonesian brutality are now being stolen back – is another theory that surfaces. Indonesian bribery is even suggested – a means of ensuring that East Timor doesn’t ‘succeed’ in its nation building quest. The argument goes that if East Timor becomes a successful thriving country, it would risk many of Indonesia’s other wavering territories going the same way and seeking independence.
Dan and I stop at the recently-moved bus station. Apparently there were too many ambushes on buses coming out of the East (by the Westerners, more closely allied with Indonesia) so it was shifted several miles out of the city. ‘Mikrolets’ head off with guys literally hanging onto the side as their transport screams down the street. Pigs randomly wander as they please between the vehicles. It’s quite a scene.
Dan and I take a walk along the beach. Finally I begin to appreciate Dili a little. In front of us there is a headland shaped like the head of a crocodile poking up through the water. From it’s nose rises a giant statue of Jesus (pictured). The crocodile is apparently a sacred animal in these parts. One UN guy who spotted one and shot a few years back was apparently hounded out of the country within a day by angry locals. The sea is remarkably blue and the evening sunshine quite lovely. Boats bob up and down in the harbour on the gentle swell. The beach is disappointingly dirty, but after China, I’m not really surprised or appalled by this. It seems this is the way in any developing country and East Timor – there is no doubt – is very much a work-in-progress.
The most wonderful feature of the beach is the kids. One group splashes about in the waves and scream ‘Mister, Mister, hey Mister’ at me when I threaten to take out the camera. The scramble for a place in my viewfinder and pull funny postures. When I show them the image, they run straight back into the ocean, screaming with delight as if victory is complete. There is such joy in their play. They are all completely naked, their skin radiant and shiny. They look so healthy, and happy. It’s infectious. Apparently the beach used to be full of kids like this at sunset. Now parents are too worried and, clearly, only those who live here risk it. Still, there’s not a trace a fear in the eyes of these kids – just pure, unadulterated happiness, the kind of which it’s almost impossible to find back home.
I think it’s at this juncture that I realize Dan’s inviting me here to Timor was part of a plan. He wants me to help him sell the country. He’s no PR guy, but he wants me to love this place as much as he clearly does, and to do what I can to tell the world about it. He points at the ocean, the kids and says, ‘Look at that, it’s all here, everything you need to know, and enjoy, about Timor.’ I remark that people in Timor seem to smile a lot. ‘A smile seems to go a long way here’ I say. He seizes on it. Yes that’s a great line – there’s your introduction. When I twig that I am part of a plan, I feel a little uneasy. I guess I want to discover Timor for myself. And I want to see the good. But, right now, there is a lot of bad that I am having trouble reconciling. My head is swimming with it all.
Dan and I head to Hotel Timor – the most upmarket of Dili’s accommodation options. Dan again runs into countless people he knows. One is Mr Bello, who greets us lugging a camera on his shoulder. Mr Bello is apparently one of East Timor’s finest journalist. He’s skulking around looking for a story. Apparently, a chap was stabbed to death this morning near to the refugee camp that, jarringly, is just across the street from where we currently sit in the best hotel in town. Bello is looking for shots of the obvious reprisal killings that may imminently take place just outside the door. Everyone is waiting for things to kick off. The mood darkens as two bullet-proof vest wearing Aussie cops wander in. They ask what I am doing in Timor. I tell them I am on holiday. They laugh long and loud. I confess that, actually, I am hoping to write a story or two about Timor – but only light fluffy travel stuff. They laugh again. They leave telling me sarcastically that I am ‘sure to find plenty of stories’ though I suspect they may not mean material of the Conde Naste variety.
The lobby restaurant of Hotel Timor is like Starbucks. Young folk with laptops sup cappuchino’s from over sized mugs and generally laze around. The refugee camp is only a few metres from the front door. Apparently it was put there because it allows easy access to the port should the need to escape arise. I finally emerge into the sunshine to discover helicopters flying overhead. I suddenly feel a little like I am in Saigon, ’75. I feel like a war reporter. The Hotel Timor reminds me of those romantic sounding journalist havens you find in war zones. There’s something terribly Graham Greene about it all.
Dan and I head to the spot where he used to live, located down a dusty little track at the eastern end of the city (passing Alfonso's son, pictured right, on the way). We sit on the verandah with his old neighbours – all four generations. As the kids, scuttle around, I immediately recognize a shot from his book. This feels like the real Timor. Just across the street is a dusty little cock fighting ring where the locals gather on Sundays. The road is lined here with old corrugated iron onto which graffiti has been daubed. There are trees and lovely dappled sunlight. Pigs and roosters trot around on the dust road. It feels very third world, and simultaneously very quaint (if that doesn’t sound too much like a contradiction in terms). We sit and drink fresh local coffee and I suddenly relax.
We are careful to leave before it gets too dark. Alfonso, our driver needs to get back before the roads become too dangerous. Bryan lives in a compound with barbed wire across the top of the gates and about 15 white UN cars in his back yard. There are scores of local folk hanging around washing pots or firing up the wok. These are apparently yet more refugees that Bryan has allowed to stay. He’s also letting us stay the night too.
I end my first day in Timor having a rather sobering chat with Dan on Bryan’s balcony which overlooks the sea. The moon is out and the light shimmers on the bay. He tells me stories about the fun and games he had getting into Timor back in 1999 when Indonesian repression and brutality was at its worst. He had to fly in with a dodgy ex-CIA guy who just dumped them on the runaway before soaring off again. Completely illegal. He headed up into the hills and had a terrifying face-to-face encounter with an Indonesian Special Foreces death squad which had just killed a Dutch journalist and massacred a bunch of nuns. I just listen. I am struggling to take it all in. I was supposed to be coming here to write fluffy, fabulous travel stories about what a wonderful off-beat, cool destination this place is. As it is (or at least as it sounds), I wouldn’t recommend it to my worst enemy. Bali already feels like a long time ago.
