The End of the Road
And so, finally, I leave Dili on a drive out east with Eco Discovery. The release in tension in palpable within minutes of leaving city limits. Manny, my driver, is a lovely Timorese chap who speaks with an Aussie twang. He spent 30 years living in Melbourne and says he was involved in the resistance against the Indonesians remotely. He returned to East Timor after independence, seeking a ‘challenge,' he tells me, leaving a son in Australia. He was raised a Catholic, and still believes in God, but loves to play bad 80s Heavy Metal to 'get him going'.
Within half an hour we are breezing past blue lagoons with green mangroves and perfect white sand beaches. To our right, the hillsides are steep. There’s evidence of marble mining in areas and lots of white rock naturally studded into the hillside. Apparently there are seven different colours of marble in East Timor. The mountains suddenly become very steep in front of us, rising from sea-level to 1,500m in a matter of only a few lateral metres. Apparently the oceans bed does a similar thing in the opposite direction. There’s some of the world’s best, most diverse diving around the reefs close to land, and then there are steep walls that just drop thousands of metres to the ocean floor.
The diversity of flora and fauna is amazing. Close the mountains around Dili are white gum trees that stand out against the deep blue of the ocean. Before long we are out among the dry plains. And, boy, are they dry. Nevertheless, every so often we will pass an amazingly vibrant burst of colour on a naturally growing Bougainvillea. The villages we cruise past look desperately poor, the land around them parched, yet they have such stunning bougainvillea bushes, the blue ocean in their back yard and peace in their hearts. They wave as we pass. ‘Bon Dia, Bon Dia’. The brown arid hillsides, fuchsia blossoms and azure seas – those three colours will perhaps remain by abiding memories of Timor.
We pass kapok trees where beautifully soft cotton grows within a hard outer shell, tamarin trees, lakes where rock salt can be found bobbing on the surface, peanut plantations, silk worm farms and candlenut trees. There are rice paddies that are dry now but will, in a few weeks, be flooded with rain water and, soon after that, green and wispy. Entire villages will come out to work together. Communes in Communist China could have done no better in their heyday, surely? The earth looks so very barren but Manny assures me parts of it are amazingly fertile. There’s such a natural bounty to be enjoyed but the people here look so very, very poor. They make enough for themselves and no more. There’s no mass production.
We slow to watch a group of men butchering a Water Buffalo but the roadside. Manny calls out to them. They’ll be preparing for a funeral feast, Manny says. Water Buffalo is the most valued meat in East Timor and funeral feasts are BIG. Judging by the look of this poor creature, every bit of it is bound for the table platter. A short time after we pass a couple of rogue deer hunters who are selling chunks from a fresh kill (below). Manny purrs with excitement. ‘Ah, mate, I wish I could buy a leg. That’s great meat. They don’t have fridges where we’re going, though. If it wasn’t for that, I’d buy one straight away.’
Despite the very evident poverty, people are so friendly. Virtually everyone we pass waves. It really is infectious. Suddenly I find that it’s natural to bid passerby good morning, afternoon or evening in Portuguese.
We pass burned out shells of former Indonesian military outposts and checkpoints. Manny wonders how they managed to secure water for these guys. Often the buildings are in the middle of nowhere. They were trashed by Indonesian troops on the way and left in a dilapidated state to this day. The government controls them and intends to use them, but for now, the priorities are fire-fighting in Dili. Development is stalled. Ruins of older Portuguese forts are built up into the hillside and, occasionally, there are Japanese WWII bunkers next to the beaches. They are a visual reminder of just how troubled this countries recent (and not-so recent) history is.
The town of Manatuto is a case in point. In the local square, a flag rises from a plastic model of the island. The island itself rests on a series of skulls. I ask Manny the significance. 'It's to show the price we have paid for our freedom.' Just up the road, I catch these young lads (pictured) playing football in front of the local church. Football is not Timor's only sporting passion. Basketball and volleyball are also big.
Every so often Manny looks out to sea. ‘Ah mate, I’ll be out there soon,’ he says. ‘In my little boat, fishing. Some of the best fishing in the world.’ The seas are empty. He could have them to himself. I suspect he often does.
The land soon turns to red clay. There are cacti. This could be Texas, or Nevada. Villagers sell peanuts or white palm beer next to the road. This is their only means of earning cash. In amongst thickets of trees, there are corrugated iron churches. Beautiful, harmonious singing drifts from within.
We pass over wide empty river beds. They’ll be gushing this time next month. Occasionally there’s a trickle of water in the centre, spilling out from natural springs way up in the mountains to our right (south). Kids splash about and wave at us as we pass over the Indonesian-built iron bridges. Apparently it’s one of the few decent things they did for Timor. The Portuguese were quite a failure when it came to bridges, apparently.
We drive past the old colonial airport – now the barracks of the Timorese Army’s first battalion – and up into the picturesque city of Baucau.
It’s a beautiful place, surrounded by tall palm trees, and with the sound of flowing water never far away. The water pipes have burst and women are washing down in the trenches, taking full advantage. There are some lovely Portugese ruins, particularly the old market house which, currently, remains in a dilapidated state but, again, will (one day) be converted into something useable Baucau also has a lovely public swimming pool, built by the Portuguese and beautiful big Banyan Trees surrounded by wonderful Frangipanni trees and Bourganvillia bushes.
The town feels so lovely and green. And yet, soon after leaving it, we descend the 300 metres back down through the parched rice-paddies to sea-level and we are in the middle of the desert once more. On the way down, part of the road is falling away. Manny says that unless they do something soon, the constantly flowing water, coupled with the imminent rains with wash the entire thing away.
We pass an old guy who is walking down a long, straight road wearing just a big pair of dark sunglasses. ‘He looks like that American Negro, what’s his name….ah, that’s it! Ray Charles,’ says Manny. He looks in danger of bloody keeling over. Despite the proximity of the sea, this feels like a genuinely fierce place to be out walking in the midday sun. And yet, we pass kids walking miles to school in the heat of the day.
The day turns episodic. We pass a bunch of guys building a thatched roof house from dry green palm leaves. We stumbles across a cock-fight where we watch the razor blades being attached, money being exchanged and the crowd cheering as the bout takes place. I sample the local white palm tree. It’s tangy, and pretty foul.
Next we pass a guy who has rescued a baby monkey. Kids swarm around as he poses for the camera with the little simian in his hand. It’s barely bigger than his palm. Manny is amazed. He tells me he has a monkey at home. It rides on his dog’s back sometimes. They work in tandem to ensure house security.
Next we drop in on the local ‘Tarzan’, and old guy who climbs the palms to make the local beer. He drinks most of it himself, but keeps enough in hand to sell some onto locals, with whom he has become famous. He cracks open one fruit for us to see. It’s orange and stringy inside. I taste it. It’s wonderfully fruity. Manny tells me not to swallow just after I have already done so. ‘Ah, it’ll do you no harm,’ he says reassuringly. ‘But you’re just supposed to just take the flavour and spit out the rest.’
We pass a beach where several horses are taking a bathe in the great blue ocean - one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Shortly after this, we drive through several kilometres of thick palm thickets before, finally, arriving at Com. It’s half hour before sunset. It’s only a 240 kms drive but it’s taken nearly eight hours thanks to the stops to take pictures. Com is the end of the road – a dead end. I agree to lodge the night in a local’s home just shy of the pier that marks the end of the road. I am convinced this must be the chevy suko ([sic] – the local police chief) that Dan mentioned. The reason I think this is because the guy has a very distinguished handlebar moustache. USD 10, including meals, he says in Portuguese. Sounds like a bargain until I realize that digs will be simple. There’s no electricity, and the only running water comes from a pipe (connected to the spring) in a corrugated iron shack out back. Roosters squawk about in the dusty yard outside my window and I soon realize that the combination of factors means that it’s going to be a loud, sticky, uncomfortable night. Oh, did I mention the mosquito net didn’t close either? Let me say here and now that one should never rent accommodation on the basis of the owner’s moustache.
Nevertheless, Com is a revelation. I walk back down the beach at sunset. Rarely have I been on a beautiful white sand beach where the only footprints there are to follow are those of pigs and chickens. They wander down onto the sand from the simple shacks built on the front. I walk back out to a place called ‘Monkey Lagoon’. Normally you can see monkeys swimming in the green water but it’s all quiet now. However, the scores of swallows that swoop provide some measure of consolation. I am completely alone in this wonderful place. The sun is setting, and I feel like I have arrived.
Just walking back down the street is a spiritual experience. Girls sell lovely sea-shell necklaces for 50c a piece. Women weave tais and bid me good evening (before trying to sell me a bag or two). Everyone I pass says Good Evening with a wave and a smile.
I run along the beach as it gets dark and splash around in the ocean. After hosing myself down in the shack, I am treated to a delicious meal of rice and tuna out of the balcony. I chat with Anthony, the son of the distinguished father (who is continuing to speak to me in Portuguese, even though I can’t understand a word). Apparently there are 11 people living in this little place – 12 tonight. There are posters of football stars on the walls and the wooden front door.
I walk back down to the Com Beach Resort after dark. It’s the only place which has electricity and I can see a light shining in the distance. In the darkness of the village, I look up to see a quite breathtaking night sky. After a few beers at the bar, I head back home and sit for ten minutes on the beach before bed. I want to sing for joy. This is it. The end of the road; my own personal paradise. This really is it.
