Trouble Coming
Another morning on the balcony, writing on the laptop as the sun rises, sipping fresh coffee from a thermos flask that is brought up to my room, alongside a couple of fresh bread rolls and a slice of processed cheese.
Diving this morning looks to be off. Steve is sick again and Mark tells me that if he doesn’t get back to test run the company’s new boat this afternoon, the weekend’s trips will be cancelled. I tell him I’m really keen to finish the course today and there’s a bit of tension in the air. We head off in the mosquito filled army jeep and I’m still not sure of the plan.
At the roundabout opposite the airport road and refugee camp, a police patrol has stopped cars and is checking documentation. We breeze past. Mark waves at people left right and centre. I’m not sure if they know him but he’s sticking to his line that he’s invincible from trouble on account of his good relations with the locals and the waves seem designed to prove this. He spots a NGO car behind us, beeping. It’s World Vision. ‘No bloody vision, more like. Those guys are the worst,’ he jokes. ‘Most of the UN drivers from Africa come here and get given big cars to drive before they have even learnt how to bloody drive,’ he explains.
The dive site (pictured) is dry, desolate and parched – just like yesterday. A couple of guys are loitering under the shade and we bid them good morning, presumably in the hope they don’t raid out car when we are underwater.
The first dive is a struggle. My eyes hurt and I can’t seem to clear water from my mask. Mark lends me his and things swiftly improve. As we head down to the reef, a metre-long fish snakes its way towards us in the manner of a shark. Mark looks at it and points, shrugging his shoulders to indicate that he had no clue what it is. He stares at us, we stare back. He moves behind us. We turn around, it backs off slightly, but before you know it it’s back. Again and again it returns to check us out. One time Mark even moved towards it aggressively and it quickly retreated but, once again, returned for more a few moments later. Later on the surface, Mark admits that he has never seen anything like it before and he reckoned it was almost certainly a shark of some variety.
We plummet to 19.9 metres, a full 1.9 metres lower than I should go. Mark is a great instructor, in that he doesn’t let piffling details like this bother him. Likewise, I am constantly staring at the pressure guage, worrying as it heads down to 50 bar and below (indicating how much air I have left). You are supposed to surface with no less than 50 but Mark isn’t bothered. The higher you rise the less air you use and as we were already on the way up, he knew I’d be fine. I believe him. Despite his tattoos, and his fascination with engines, and automatic weapons – all stuff I would normally take to indicate a bit of a meat-head – Mark exudes a reassuringly authoritative air when he’s underwater and I fully trust him. In fact, I couldn’t hope for a better instructor. Steven would have worried me. Mark, by contrast, is fantastic.
We take a break in the van. I sit clutching my forearms, which were badly burnt yesterday. The sun is fierce. I feel like I am in the middle of a desert. Mark doesn’t seem so worried. He’s soaking it all up, telling me about his girlfriend and the fact that he will have to buy her family 10 cows when he marries her. He’s heading to see the folk for the first time next week. Apparently, if they like him he might have to offer slightly less than 10 cows. They’ll be taking the boat to Oecussi (an enclave province in West Timor, completely isolated from the rest of the country) next week, assuming his missus gets out of hospital before then. She’s crook at the mo. Hell tells me one time he went with a couple of Aussie soldiers to the hospital when one of them got sick. They had to take automatic weapons, he said. The hospital isn’t in a nice area, apparently.
Before I know it, I am a PADI certified diver. The fourth and final dive is kneecapped slightly by the fact that I have lost one of my fin straps. Mark, ever the gent, agrees to lend me his super expensive pair and heads into the water with one foot jammed into one of the fins. He soons realizes the folly of this and, five metres underwater, loosens his BCD jacket, takes off one fin and jams it beneath the strap and his body. He dives one footed.
Mark hands me my temporary certification with some fatherly words of caution about not jumping in at the deep end and not getting caught up in the macho-ism of some divers. Stay safe, he says. He hands me a pink envelope which I must send to PADI in Australia. He advises me to wait until I get to Bali to put it in the post box. Timor’s post service isn’t all that, he explains.
Dan is there to congratulate me with a firm handshake. I am, officially, East Timor’s newest qualified diver. We head off to a late lunch at a place called Sagres Garden. It’s a little converted villa out in the countryside. For the first time this trip, I walk in and there’s a wonderful burst of air-conditioning. The house has a sleepy Mediterranean feel, appropriate perhaps given the Portuguese connections. Indeed, the place is stuffed with Portugese wines. Our host is a lady called Lurdes. She is big in every sense and reminds me of a quintessential Mediterranean matriarch. She ensures we are well fed and that I am bought straight to the bosom of the family. She talks about things, and people, as if I was already familiar, and already a friend - a common occurance in East Timor. She worked formerly as an interpreter in government circles and seems familiar with all manner of senior people, President included. She tells me that the President is a lousy photographer, but a wonderful poet.
The food is, sadly, only so-so. The fish, for all the talk of freshness, is tough and tastes old. There is nobody else in the restaurant, or indeed in the apartment complex out the back (where there’s a little deck where some of the local kids come and eat soup and a swimming pool for the expats who rent here). Nevertheless, the place is nice – really nice. It’s great to experience a bit of the Dili high life, if only to realize that there is a high life and it isn’t all corrugated shacks, overpriced beer and fear. That said, most of the conversation is about Timor ethnic problems. Lurdes believes that Western Timorese are lazy Johnny-Come-Latelys. Only the easterners have that real Timorese zest, passion and revolutionary spirit. ‘I’m probably biased’ she says. ‘You’re definitely biased,’ replies Dan.
Alfonso and I ride out west on the Commara Road to Merpati Office (where I book my return flight) and Maria’s office at Eco-Discovery Tours. I have managed to blag a ride into the east tomorrow with one of their drivers. Unfortunately, Maria tells me the return journey could be tricky. The customers, apparently aren’t too happy with a freeloader coming along for the ride and have asked for some cash.
We head back via the Australian Embassy where I plan to register my details before I venture into ‘the districts’. I’m half hour late. The place is closed. As I am scribbling a fairly frantic-sounding note, a couple of the senior embassy staff come out and I duly accost them. One chap tells me that Baucau is lovely and that the guesthouse in Tutuala, in the far, far east has recently opened. Suddenly, as we are chatting and elderly bloke emerges behind the metal barriers. He’s Barry Brown, the First Secretary and Consul. He has the look of a real old-time diplomatic type - and slightly sinister for it. He talks about potential social unrest in Dili with the nonchalence – nay the jollity – of someone who has 1) seen it all before, and 2) is far too important to fear such events. I reckon he has friends in High Places, clearly, and given that, it’s worrying what he says next. ‘Keep your eyes open. Things could get volatile next week,’ he says. ‘You mean with this delayed UN report?’ I ask. ‘Yes. They only delayed it so they could bring in reinforcements to Dili,’ he says with a bronchial chuckle. ‘You’re probably better off over there in the east.’ He very kindly gives me his business card which has his mobile number on. I thank him and make my way into the murky evening with Alfonso. For the first time, the skies have clouded over and it’s grey and a bit depressing.
After a celebratory beer back at Castaway Bar with Bryan, Dan and Alfonso, I turn in for the night. I was supposed to head up into the hills for a barbecue with Dan’s friend Shane but I am wilting after the diving and a little bit scared by the prospect of the return journey. I have an early start tomorrow, and a perfect excuse. The night, therefore, is instead spent in solitude on my balcony. Power’s off again. Just the occasional sound of conversation from across the yard, a barking dog or a cockerel confused by the occasional headlight. There’s trouble coming, I can feel it in the air. I’m OK though. I’m outta here tomorrow. I can’t wait.
