Missing the War - By Metres
Today is a day of study. You see, the plan is to earn my PADI diving certification by Friday (today is Tuesday) and I have never come near a compressed oxygen tank in my life. It’s gonna be intense.
I spend the morning in the rather poky interior of Dive Timor Lorosae, Dili’s biggest and (supposedly) best operator. I watch videos, answer questions in the chunky PADI book that I had fork out 30 USD for and try to digest it all. At lunchtime I head upstairs to Castaway for lunch. There is a table full of very ugly Chinese prostitutes to my left. I can’t imagine them operating anywhere other than under the cover of darkness, frankly. Sure enough, they are getting stares from every other customers as they rabbit away in Mandarin. At the head of the table sits the boss, the pimp – a dapper looking Chinese chap. I can only imagine what it must be like for these girls here.. Why are they here for chrissakes? A strife-torn little island in the middle of nowhere. China is busy, and bustling and alive. This place is quiet, sleepy (aside from the rock throwing and occasional murder) and fairly desperate. It must be hell for them. Still, they look happy enough gabbing away and chatting together.
After another afternoon of sitting in a darkened room, answering quiz questions that will prepare me for my final theory exam tomorrow, I head out to the beach and get yet more pictures of kids frolicking in the surf (pictured at random on this blog). I eventually hook up with Dan, who picks me up in a borrowed jeep. Apparently he has a car of his own which he has been trying to track down. He gave it to someone when he left two years ago. He doesn’t know where he now is to ask for it back.
We drive back to the little village where I am to lodge for the night. Dan has secured me a room for USD 10 a night in the little guesthouse next door to where he used to live. There’s no air-con and the room is tiny, but it all seems quite pleasant. Things get considerably less pleasant moments later when he head back to Alfonso’s place. Tony, Alfonso’s giant, Ronaldo-esque brother-in-law, today watched his workmate get killed by a mob. They came into his office asking after a certain chap. That chap got wind of what was up and fled out back. Unfortunately, out back was a group of 30 people who first stabbed him, and then smashed his head in with a rock. Tony is clearly struggling to take it all in. He’s such a big, strong guy, but he was powerless against the gang. He keeps telling us just how close he was when it all happened. ‘Just there, in front of me.’ A matter of metres.
Feeling very melancholy, Dan and I hook up with Bryan at a little beach front café. A little boat heads out across the bay against a pinkish dusk sky. ‘This could almost be an idyllic little scene,’ jokes Bryan. On the way back to the guesthouse Dan tells me about a chat he had with a bunch of visiting WTO worthies just before he left Timor. They were unimpressed by Timor’s underdevelopment. Dan got angry and felt he had to say something. ‘It’s not undeveloped, it’s unspoilt,’ he said. He implored them to see the positives. Apparently he’s comments were not warmly welcomed. I see a thread to Dan’s behaviour. He is a mission to market this country, and positive thinking is the basic foundation of everything he does. I can only admire his spirit.
I spend the evening on the balcony of my little guesthouse. The stars are shining above, there is a distant sound of someone strumming a guitar, and the occasional burst of conversation from down in the dusty street. The sound echoes. It reminds me of the hubbub around an apartment block courtyard. I can see silhouettes of bushes and palm trees, and the feint glow of a bulb from a couple of the shacks across the street. Roosters cluck away and dogs prowl. In the distance, there are the sounds of motorbikes and helicopters. It feels like the place might go up any moment.
Tonight I’ve been a little tense here by myself. At one point I heard glass smash and assumed the mob was here. I hurriedly flicked off my lights, put on my shorts and made ready to leap over the balcony and leg it. Another time a car pulled up in the driveway, and the dogs began barking. Again, I assumed it was a hit squad and retreated inside, set to run if needed. The helicopters are flying overhead almost constantly and a couple of streets back, the gangs are probably running riot.
It’s been a melancholy night. My feelings of sadness at the suffering of fellow human beings are probably intermingled with a feeling of confusion about what the hell I am doing here. This is all a great experience. I’ve had tasters of Vietnam, of sub-Saharan Africa, of gangland Sao Paolo, but that isn’t – ultimately – why I came. I came, at great expense, to launch my freelance travel writing career. How can I recommend this place? Going out after dark is impossible and, currently, the only fellow travellers you are likely to meet are UN bureaucrats and NGO workers? The diving is my only hope. I hope to see some seriously magical things under the sea, and hope to spin something tenuous from that. For the time being, East Timor doesn’t feel like the most logical place to be. There are moments of excitement, I suppose, but mostly I feel as if I am gaining an appreciation of what it is to live in a peaceful society.
