My mood is positively correlated with the amount of credit available on my internet stick-thingy

The thingy that changed my life.

Recently, and thanks to East Timor’s ever-so-speedy advances in modern technology, my life changed in a profound way:


I got internet access at home!

It is superficial, indeed. I never expected that an 8cm long stick-thingy could make me so unbelievably happy.

When we first arrived in Oecusse, the only available internet was at the Timor Telecom office – about 5 kilometres from my house, during business hours, subject to available generator power. At that time I had no means of transport and was completely reliant on getting lifts from Wade.

A few months after that a new “media house” opened in town – still about 5 kilometres from my house, but it was open at night (after the power came on), so if I couldn’t get a lift to Timor Telecom during the day, chances were, Wade would need to go at night to check his emails, so I just went along with him.

Within a couple of months of the media house opening up, my life changed for the first time: I got myself a push bike. Finally, I had some wheels! I had to learn to ride it first, but the first day I rode into town to use the internet was one of my biggest achievements since arriving in Timor. I was unstoppable! Except, that is, for the days when I rode all the way into town only to find that the generator wasn’t working, so no internet. Because I was studying at the time, this would often mean that my whole day of assignment research would be ruined. To avoid this situation in future, I got the phone number of the guys at the internet cafe so I could call in advance to check that all was working ok. That made life a little easier.

Some months later, my life changed again: Wade got internet at his office. Wade’s office is closer to home – about 2kms away – and much more accessible. To top it off, it was a really speedy connection so all the articles I needed to download for uni could be done in a fraction of the time than that at the internet cafes.

And then the advent of the pre-paid internet stick-thingy!

Up until a couple of months ago, a typical “To do” list on my Outlook Express would look something like this:

Google: Flights for xmas
Go shopping – food for dinner
Google: Rosella plant
Google: uni enrolment status
Pay Vodafone bill
Google: how to make ricotta
Google: online photography courses

We do adapt quickly. Now I am able to Google at my leisure, as thoughts occur to me.

I have now become so used to having my internet stick-thingy at home, that it has become a real pain in the arse to have to go to Timor Telecom to check my balance on my stick and top up the credit.

Just yesterday, I was feeling really depressed. Nothing I could do would lift me out of the doldrums. Not even the internet. I checked emails, I facebooked, I Twittered (the mainstays of my daily internet ritual) and then I was over it. There was nothing new to be learnt, no jobs to apply for, no inspiration to be found.

I could sense that my credit was dwindling and it was no surprise that when I dragged myself to Timor Telecom late in the afternoon, I found that I only had three dollars left.

I topped up: $50. That buys me 25 hours of internet time. I walked out of the Timor Telecom office, feeling a little lighter, my internet stick-thingy buzzing in my hand with new energy.

So, this morning I wake up, eat breakfast, kiss my husband goodbye for the day, get out my computer, plug in the stick-thingy and suddenly the internet is a whole new world of intrigue, excitement and stimulation. I find myself darting all over the place! Moving from one page to another! One downloaded video to the next! Chatting to friends! Downloading podcasts with ease! Suddenly, I feel alive again! The world is my oyster!

I feel alive!

Mana Gillian

In Tetun, Mana means sister. Maun means brother. Everyone who is female is your sister. Everyone who is male is your brother.


One of the conventions of Timorese conversation is to refer to people you’re talking to in the third person. Allow me to explain, with a simple dialogue.

Maria (for example) might say:   Bondia [good morning], Mana Gillian.
I say:   Bondia Mana Maria.
Maria says:  How is Mana Gillian today?
I may reply:  I am good, thank you. How are you?
Maria might say:  I am fine. Did Mana Gillian have a nice weekend?
I feel like saying:   I’m not sure. Let me just ask her ... (rabble rabble rabble)... She says she did.

It’s particularly confusing when they drop the first name all together and just use “mana” or “maun”, like this:

Jose: How is mana today?
Me: Which one?

(I don't mean to nitpick, but techically, there are approximately 750,000 people he could be referring to, given the female population of East Timor.)

The moderate yet unmistakable state of heightened anxiety of a lone female foreigner riding in a Dili taxi

It often begins before you even get inside. You start by examining the vehicle as it approaches: black or dark green taxis tend to look dodgier than yellow ones. I am unsure of the reality. Decorative paraphernalia on the windscreen and dashboard can have adverse effects on safety, passenger dignity, or both. If you can hear the music thumping before the car has even stopped, you know you’re in for a wild ride. Spotting even a trace of another human being in the taxi as it approaches warrants complete abandonment of Plan A, due to safety concerns. Them’s the Rules.

Deciding where to sit. The Rules say to never sit in the front. Some Rules dictate that females sit behind the driver, so he can’t see you. This has been tried, but resulted in total paranoia of being within arm’s reach of the driver should he wrap his arm around the back of his seat and grab onto a knee or ankle. Besides, any taxi which has half a dozen decorative paraphernalia of small, convex rear-view mirrors suction-capped to the windscreen can see in fish-eyed detail the upper-torso of whoever is sitting in that seat. I usually go with the back seat on the passenger side.

Next, you check out the driver. I usually start with a “bondia” (good morning) or a “botardi” (good afternoon) as I get in, just to gauge what I’m dealing with and to start on a positive note. I have always found this to be a good strategy; more often than not it has turned a disinterested, tough-guy face into a slightly less disinterested one. It’s important to note that this can also be too successful, especially if the taxi driver thinks you’re hitting on him and the entire trip ends up becoming a massive one-way sleaze fest. This has happened before.

Once you’re settled in your seat, and you’ve given the driver your destination, you sit back, knowing that the following questions are almost certainly going to arise, in this particular order, along with a slightly elevated pulse rate:

Did he understand me when I told him where I was going? (My Tetun can be a bit hit and miss.)

Does he know where he is going? (Many young drivers come to Dili from out of town to work.)

Is he going to demand extra money at the end of the trip? (The Rules say to work out the cost beforehand. I have learnt that doing it “Timorese style” and just getting in and planting $2 in their hand at the end is just as successful... but you never know.)

Why is he going so slowly? (Dili taxis are said to be the slowest taxi drivers in the world. Thankfully, this has the effect of reducing anxiety levels.)

Where the f**k is he going?? (This question arises quite often. Once, in my first few months, it popped up after the driver took a sudden turn down a dirt track and proceeded into a maze of unsealed roads (really just a whole lot of potholes joined together), turning his head and mumbling something vague to me in Tetun. We continued through this labyrinth, and just as I was about to jump out of the slowly moving vehicle and run into the closest house shouting “THIS TAXI DRIVER IS TRYING TO KIDKNAP ME!!!”, I spotted a familiar landmark up ahead. I gave the driver one last chance. We continued to the end of the track, where we turned onto a sealed but traffic-laden road and within a block I was at my destination.)

Can’t he turn that f**king music down? (In some cases I have been totally transformed in a Dili taxi, cruisin’ the streets with all the windows down, my sunnies on and the whole car vibrating to the rumbling bass– I’ve been a biatch-in-da-hood and even a funky reggaton gangsta. And I don’t like it.)

Touch wood, nothing has ever gone seriously wrong for me in a taxi in Dili. Most of the drivers are really very sweet and all they want is to make their money and get on with the next job. Most of them know exactly where they’re going and will take whatever money you give them at the end of the journey without argument. Some of them ask you if it’s ok if they stop off on the way to collect a dollar from an old security guard who didn’t have enough money to pay his fare earlier in the day. Some of them will pick you up late at night and take you home, even though they have already finished work and have picked up their wife and baby, who are sitting in the front seat, at which times it’s ok to break the Rules. Most of them love to have a chat, but are just as happy not to. Most of them have no interest whatsoever in lone female foreigners like me.

Desperate times call for desperate measures

All my friends and family who helped me out in my trip down “childhood foodie indulgence” lane a few months ago will appreciate this:

In a particularly desperate, shaky, gotta-have-cholocate-now-!-oh-shit-!-we’ve-run-out-of-chocolate-! moments today, I raided the kitchen and came up with something I might otherwise have scoffed at in my more refined adult life, had I been in another place: a spoonful of nutella, double-dipped into a jar of crunchy peanut butter.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Life’s like that in Oecusse.

I just went out into my (very overgrown) backyard to chase the neighbour’s chicken away, and I bumped into a watermelon, sitting amongst the tall weeds, ripe for the picking.

...

I went to the Oecusse market this morning. I have been living in Dili and eating hotel food for the last six weeks, so it was a much-anticipated fresh food purchase. I’m now eating the rewards for lunch. I made a simple avocado and tomato salad with thinly sliced Asian shallots and a tiny clove of garlic, finished off with some local sea salt, pepper, extra virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar.

I don’t believe I have ever tasted anything quite as fresh and bursting with flavour.

Sliding right back into the Oecusse lifestyle

A month in Dili presents a great contrast to the situation I now find myself. I’m sitting on our Oecusse veranda after an overnight ferry ride and the only things I can hear are lapping waves, a little family of chirping birds and my fingers tapping on the keyboard. It’s absolutely beautiful.

Getting off the ferry this morning wasn’t quite so peaceful. Being a seasoned traveller on the Nakroma, I have learnt that it takes approximately half an hour for the crowd to clear the lower decks, so if you’re too eager and leave your air-conditioned quarters on the top deck too early, you end up just standing in a crowd, queuing down the steep stairs, getting all hot and frustrated.

After waiting in my cabin until well after the horn had sounded to indicate that we’d arrived safely in Oecusse, I made my way freely down the stairs, satisfied with my timing, only to find that the lower deck was still full of people. This was unusual, because people usually push past each other trying to get off as soon as the doors open and the ramp is lowered. So, I pushed past everyone and eventually got to the front and I discovered the reason for the hold up.

The ferry’s ramp was lowered, not onto the corresponding ramp on-shore, but into the water about four metres from the shore. There was a channel of water about hip-height rushing between the two ramps, moving with the tide. Two men were holding onto a wooden board in order to make a bridge for people to walk across, but the tide was so high that this board was also submerged in water, so every time a tide surge came through, the men would have to hold it down to stop it from floating away WHILE THE PEOPLE WERE TRYING TO CROSS IT.

Added to this was the fact that the ferry’s door was lowered at an angle more than 45 degrees, so it was incredibly slippery and very steep.

I stood there watching in disbelief at the fact that some people were still attempting to get off the boat (and back onto it again – as it is common practice for young men to run on and off the boat unloading all sorts of supplies from Dili, including sacks of rice, bundles of clothing, gallons of water, boxes of 2-minute noodles, cooking oil, slabs of beer and coca-cola, chickens, roosters, goats, pigs, cows, buffaloes, building materials, sacks of cement, ceramic tiles, firewood, poles of bamboo, TVs, DVD players, beds, chairs, cupboards – almost all of such goods carried on top of heads or shoulders). I looked behind me and saw four men approaching, carrying a motorbike, like pall bearers carrying a coffin. They proceeded to walk it down the unbelievably steep ramp. Once they got to the bottom, they couldn’t seem to make their way onto the wooden plank because there were too many other people crowding around, trying to get on it. One of the many bystanders on the shore (completely oblivious to the role he was playing in blocking the way) indicated to the four men carrying the bike that they should bypass the bridge all together, and just wade through the water and onto the sand. So, they did! They entered the perilous, waist-deep swell, motorbike-on-shoulders and struggled their way through the waves onto the beach.

I decided I needed to get out of this dire situation and try to get off. I de-thonged and started to make my way down the steep, slippery ramp. The ramp has two, metal-ridged columns which allow some grip for the feet, but on either side of these columns, it’s just smooth metal. I stuck to the ridges. Two impatient men decided to overtake me on the smooth part of the ramp, both of them carrying massive sacks of rice on their heads. Completely and utterly unsurprisingly, the second man slipped, and, in perfect slapstick fashion, careered straight into the legs of the first man, knocking him off his feet. Both men and both sacks of rice fell into the water. The first man, after regaining his composure, gave the second man the biggest death-stare, as the crowd howled with laughter.

I eventually managed to get off without any trouble, but not without much head-shaking and tut-tutting at the lack of concern for OH&S.

This picture was taken a couple of weeks after the event in this story. While the problem with the boat ramps was still not fixed, note the canoe - possibly one of the shortest boat rides in Timor. I think the new, improved steel "bridge" that you can see being hauled in at the top of the picture might have been overkill though. Also note the many observers standing around, adding nothing to the experience but inconvenience.

A three-part story about a walk up The Stairs

Part 1 – Prologue: Ol’ Darty Eyes

I’ve been doing a bit of work in Dili for the last week or so, working for a local NGO. It is a short term contract helping some health workers to develop a training module for supportive supervision (we’re all learning as we go). I’m working in a small team of young men: two trainers and one coordinator (my boss).

I’ve dubbed the latter “Darty Eyes”. He looks quite friendly and innocent, but he has rather large eyes – the type that have a slight bulge – and he spends his conversations with body relaxed (leaning back in chair, standing propped up against door frame, etc) but eyes darting all over the place, as if he’s waiting for the cops to come bursting through the door. To top things off, every half a second or so, his eyes seem to always return to the same place: my boobs.

It is rather off-putting.

I have taken to shuffling around beside him when I’m talking to him, or holding my notebook across my chest or folding my arms in an attempt to divert him off-course – with marginal success. In his defence, I’m not actually sure that he even realises he’s doing it. For all I know, his other colleagues may be walking around feeling equally self-conscious about their chest-regions, although they are all men, so maybe they wouldn’t notice.

I’m not taking it too seriously though, because I think he is a genuinely nice person.

He has some other strange habits, too. Sometimes he breaks out into falsetto, android-like sounds for no apparent reason. When he arrives back at the office after lunch, he says “Hello!” in a very high-pitched voice that sounds as if he has just had his testicles squeezed a little bit too hard.

And another thing. He wears perfume.



Part 2 – Big Jesus

I went for a walk up The Stairs.

Doesn’t sound like much, but it’s the only way I can truly get close to Jesus. And, I’m talking about 500-odd of those uneven little buggers, so it’s not exactly a walk in the park.

The Stairs are divided into two sections. The first is a gradual but lengthy climb; the steps deep but short, like those at the Opera House, in groups of approximately 10 (this is an average – nothing about these stairs follows regulation). Divided amongst these groups, nestled into the side of the mountain are large copper depictions of the stations of the cross, so if you’re feeling a bit puffed out, you can look over at Jesus and give yourself a boot-camp style talking to, like this:

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT? AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT CARRYING A BLOODY CROSS, YOU LAZY PIECE OF SHIT! GET UP THERE!

It’s all about motivation.

The Stairs take a gentle curve around the side of the mountain, so you can never really tell when the whole thing is going to end. So you just go by feel. About the time when you’re so hot you could wring the sweat out of your hair into a glass and drink it, you finally see the top of the first section. Here, you find a large paved area where many people take the opportunity admire the view of the beaches and the Dili sprawl below, but it is also a chance to catch your breath, because the second section is pretty much vertical. But once you get to the top you’re rewarded with an even better view, as well as the sight of Jesus, standing on top of the world, arms stretched out to give you a welcoming hug for making the trip up to see him (although he is exceedingly tall and therefore out of reach).

Many Timorese enjoy this walk, and not just for religious reasons – I’m surprised at how many get really into the whole exercise thing. But some of them do quite unusual versions of the types of exercises I’m used to seeing. For example, I saw one young man doing push ups, but he was doing them extremely fast – about as often as ‘Ol Darty Eyes looks at my chest in an average conversation. They were very serious push ups. Everything is fast and earnest with the Timorese exercise regime. They tend to be slight in stature, so they have no problem throwing their bodies around. One day, when I was about to descend a particularly long and steep flight of stairs – maybe 30 steps - I was startled at the sight of a man who was jumping up towards me, like a frog, Two Steps At A Time (!), WITH HIS HANDS BEHIND HIS HEAD (!!) (Quite dangerous, I thought.) But he made it all the way to the top, to where I was waiting with mouth agape, and the little frog looked up into my eyes and gave me the most satisfied smile I’ve ever seen.

Today, I went to see Big Jesus. Today, there was no breeze. It was really, really humid. I decided that today I was going to walk up the stairs two at a time, as a way of punishing myself for all the sitting down I’d been doing for the week. I thought, “I don’t care how sweaty or puffed out I get. I’m by myself – no-one’s watching. I’m going to do it! I’m going to punish myself!!”

So I did.

Right up to Big Jesus I went, two stairs at a time. By the time I got to the top, I was sweatier than Mr Kerala cooking a vindaloo in a sauna.

I regained my breath, did a few stretches (just to fit in with everyone else looking limber and serious), said goodbye to Jesus and began the slow but satisfying trip down the stairs again, wobbling with lactic acid.

Upon my descent, I cursed the cheap, synthetic t-shirt that I’d bought in Bali for $2.00 that I’d decided to wear that day, because it was doing a very poor job of soaking up the perspiration running out of my pores like a tap, and was hugging my figure like a wet T-shirt competition.

It was at this point that I looked up and saw a familiar figure walking towards me: Ol’ Darty Eyes.

Bugger.

Remember Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Well the only thing missing from this eye-popping scene was the sound of horns.

“Botardi, Mana Gillian!” he said.

“Honk Honk!” said his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Maun [brother],” I said, folding my arms.

“It’s very hot today,” Darty commented.

“Honky honk honk!” agreed his eyes.

“Yes, it is,” I said, fanning myself with my hands.

“Have you been exercising?” asked the man.

“Honk diggity donk!”

“Yes, I have. Well, it’s been nice to see you. Now I must go. See you tomorrow.” I shuffled away and down the stairs, my cheeks burning with exercise and embarrassment.



Part 3 – Taxi!

Big Jesus is a few kilometres out of town, at the end of a long, winding and often lonely road. Once you get there, it can sometimes be difficult to find a taxi to get home. On this particular day I was alone and the shadows were already long by the time I’d finished my walk. I had a couple of taxi drivers’ numbers in my phone, but I hadn’t needed them in such a long time that I didn’t know whether they were still valid. One of the numbers was for a young taxi driver from Oecusse named Mundu, so I thought I’d try him first, in order to support the Oecusse cause. (Note that Mundu was working in Dili – I wasn’t going to ask him to drive all the way from Oecusse to pick me up. That would just take too long.)

I dialled. A woman answered. This conversation ensued, spoken in Tetun, as I will now translate for you in the only way I know how: Badly.

I said:   “Mundu? Taxi?”

She said:   Mundu? He’s not here.

I said:   Ummmm....

She said:   Do you want a taxi? I’ll call him. Where are you?

I said:   I’m at Cristo Rei.

She said:   OK. I’ll call him.

I hung up, uncertain of whether Mundu was going to show up or not. I sat on a sandstone wall and watched the red sun slowly disappearing into the horizon. Pretty soon it would be dark, and although there were a few people milling about drinking sunset drinks at the beach-side bar, it wouldn’t be long before they started getting into their cars to go home, the nervous-looking female sitting on the wall a mere blur in their peripheral vision.

I scrolled through my phone numbers and located “Helio”. Helio is another taxi driver whose number I acquired from a friend a few months ago. The first and last time I called him, he charged Wade and I five dollars for what would usually have been a two-dollar trip. He had become accustomed to malae (foreigner) passengers paying generously for his services. He reminded me of a cheeky monkey.

I dialled Helio’s number.

Helio:   Hello?

Me:   Hello. Are you Helio?

Helio:   Yes. Do you want a taxi?

Me:   Umm. Yes. Umm. I think so. Umm. I have already called another one, but I don’t know if he’s coming or not.

Then, noticing that some of the sunset drinkers were beginning to leave, I said:

Yes! I need a taxi. I’m at Cristo Rei. I’m waiting for you.

I hung up. I felt better. I felt a little bit guilty that one taxi driver might be making the trip for nothing, but I also figured that Mundu probably wouldn’t show up anyway, and I needed to put my own safety first because I didn’t want to get stuck.

A short time later, my phone rang. It was Mundu, confirming that he had been told that I was waiting for him at Cristo Rei.

Me:   Oh. OK. Umm. I have called another taxi... I don’t know if he’s coming...

Mundu:   I don’t understand.

Me:   Where are you now?

Mundu:   I’m at ANZ Bank [about a 10-minute drive away]. Do you want a taxi?

Again, feeling very guilty but with an overriding sense of urgency (and a secret hope that Helio was more than 10 minutes away), I said:

Yes.

Mundu:   OK. I’m coming.

A short time later, my phone rang again. It was Helio:

I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m leaving Comoro [a 12-minute drive away] now!

Me:   OK. (Read: Oh shit.)

I sat on the wall, looking at the empty road to my left for a sign of headlights.

Nothing happened for some time, but I eventually spotted two cars in the distance, winding their way along the road. One seemed to be in hot pursuit of the other.

My phone rang again.

Helio:   I’m coming! I’m coming!

Oh dear.

A couple of minutes later, in what looked more like a yellow, two-carriage, car-shaped train rather than two separate vehicles, Mundu, followed by Helio, rounded the last corner to where the malae was sitting on the sandstone wall.

I really wanted to give the job to Mundu from Oecusse, so I approached his passenger window and told him to wait for a moment, to which Helio’s response was to start beeping his horn in long, continuous beeps. The few remaining sunset drinkers were looking at me funny as I ran to Helio’s car. I apologised to him through the passenger window, telling him that I wouldn’t be needing his services. My broken Tetun excuses only seemed to make him angrier. I offered him two dollars as compensation. Then he was really angry, telling me that he’d driven all the way from Comoro. I could see that Mundu was getting agitated in the car up ahead. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just held the two dollars out and pleaded with my eyes for the driver to take it.

Finally, Helio said, “Give me three dollars!” I placed another dollar in his hand, apologised once again, and was relieved to see him smile as he made his u-turn to begin his journey back to the city.

I entered the safety of the back seat of Mundu’s taxi, still feeling guilty but relieved to be on my way home.

Mr Kerala.

We have a favourite Indian restaurant in Dili, called Megha India. The food is always fresh and delicious, but more importantly, it is made with love.

Mr Kerala (as we like to call him) comes from... well... Kerala. He is a moustached, rather stout man with a belly that makes him look like he doesn’t mind one little bit if he doesn’t get any customers for his buffet lunch – all the more for him. His sensible, short-sleeved business shirts do a not-so-effective job of disguising this protruding feature, made all the more obvious by the over-stressed buttons around his middle-region. He always displays a gentle film of perspiration across his brow, and a smile. And he is proud – so proud – of the food he prepares, single-handedly and lovingly in his oven-like kitchen.

Here’s how a typical visit to his House of Delectable Curries goes:

Upon entering the restaurant we are greeted by the smiling man, already looking slightly flustered, possibly because he has only just finished cleaning up his buffet lunch (you can take this statement any way you like).

He is VERY happy to see us, and informs us immediately that he has some nice fish that he has only just purchased and it is very, VERY fresh. (This is before we have even sat down.) I’m always happy to indulge him by remarking how hungry I am and how excited I am to be there, and how it’s been so long since the last time we ate his delicious food.

We sit, survey the menu and ask him what else is good today. After some negotiations about whether we want dry fry or curry, parathas or chapattis, he serves us drinks and then disappears behind a door where the magic happens. (You can actually witness this magic via a large letterbox style window at the back of the restaurant.)

While we’re waiting, I spy him through the letterbox window. I see him busying himself with chopping eggplants, chillis and onions, firing up the woks and frying mustard seeds till they pop. I see him mixing, kneading, slapping and rolling out the parathas and chappatis while the dhal is bubbling on the stove. He has four or five burners on the go at one time and he manages them as successfully as a professional plate-spinner. As he stirs, I imagine little droplets of sweat dripping into the cauldrons of bubbling curry, adding that special element of human salty flavour.

Timed perfectly with the last mouthful of our first drink, he arrives at our table, face beaded with sweat, smiling like a proud parent, bearing armfuls of his gastronomic offspring (well, you get the idea). He takes more drinks orders and proceeds to the bar.

The food is always remarkable, and I always eat too much. And I have absolutely no idea how he does it. Everything from scratch. All by himself.

Part-way through our meal, he does the courteous thing and comes to check on our reactions to his creations. I’m pretty sure he only does this as an ego boost to himself, because he is always showered with compliments at this point. He will often give away some morsel of information about a special ingredient used in the curry and how he brought it back from his village in India on his last visit, such as his special dried tamarind that will keep for years and years without going mouldy if you store it correctly. At other times he will simply make chit-chat, complaining about how he has had three light globes stolen from his restaurant’s front veranda in one week, so he has to unscrew them when he closes at night time.

Last time we were there, he had just returned from two months in India, and our gushes about how much we missed him were rewarded with some complimentary Indian sweets that he had brought back from his village. We also learnt how he has changed the position of his light globes on the veranda to one less obvious to passers-by.

When we leave, sometimes he scolds us for not ringing ahead and ordering his special fish curry that he needs 24-hours’ notice to cook. We promise to be more organised next time. We know we will be rewarded if we are.

A name by any other rose

After many months of forewarning, Tuk Tuk, one of my favourite Thai eateries in Dili is gone. So sad it was to drive past last month and see it empty. It was one of the most popular places in an (increasingly dwindling) line of cute little beachfront restaurants. I really liked it because it was a pretty green hut with lots of character, and the food was pretty good too (by Dili standards).

So you can imagine my excitement (and slight confusion) when we drove past again just last week to see some people setting up tables inside and a sign outside saying, “The New Tuk Tuk”!!

We made haste to dine once again on fish cakes and seafood red curry in little banana leaf parcels.

Upon our arrival at “The New Tuk Tuk”!! we noted the fresh paint job in primary colours and an unusual mural on the wall - a silhouette in red of a naked woman, looking like the lead singer of a heavy metal band with a background of drums, guitars and psychedelic swirls.

We then noted the menu -a laminated piece of white A4 paper, entitled: “Garden 88”.

This wouldn’t mean anything to those unfamiliar with beachfront Dili eateries, but it meant a hell of a lot to us.

Garden 88 is another beachfront restaurant just 50 metres down the road.  It is always empty.

As you can imagine, our suspicions were aroused at this point.

Still, we were hungry, so we chose a few dishes, and after being told “no have” to around half a dozen of them, we settled on some spring rolls, a papaya salad and some barbecued squid.

Our suspicions were further aroused when we noticed that “The New Tuk Tuk”!! didn’t appear to have a kitchen, and that our food was arriving through the front door, in the arms of an exhausted-looking waitress.

Our suspicions were finally confirmed upon the eating of the food which was, at best, mediocre.

To give you an idea about just how disappointed I was, think of “The New Tuk Tuk”!! as the Grease 2 of restaurants - Big hype, same name, but none of the stars of the original.

How can these people sleep at night when they know they are so blatantly capitalising on another’s success?

Bastards!!

****************************************

There is an ironic twist to this story.

I was grocery shopping the other day at Landmark Plaza. There is a Chinese restaurant next door. Guess what it’s called...

“The New Garden 88”.

Blood lust

Mestra Maria* (aka our Tetun teacher) is one of the most gentle and softly spoken people in East Timor.

It’s true!

In a recent class, we were learning about the word “to’o” (toh-oh). It means “until”. Maria told us that in Timor, when cooking, there is a saying: “Tein to’o tasak” - “cook until it’s cooked” (Good advice, especially when salmonella lurks).

We got the point, but just to drive the message home, she added, with enthusiastic actions to match, “Kill people until dead”, followed by an evil little chuckle.

She wrote the sentence on the board.

OK, yes, we understand.

And then, another example, again with actions, just in case we didn’t get it the first time: “Stab the pig until it dies.”

Another evil laugh as she wrote the sentence on the board.

And then: “Hit the cow until killed” (this one is really disturbing).

They do say it’s the quiet ones, don’t they?

*Name has been changed.