Festa - malae danca!

So ya’ all missed the big Festa that was on 2 weeks ago. Maun Cau invited me, said he’s whole family was going to be there for it, which they all were: all 80 of them. Me, being the only one not in the blood line (and having white, fluorescent skin) signified I was the guest of honor. This meant I was to sit next to the brides and grooms (not one but two couples). I tried to dodge the situation by trying to escape to the kitchen but this just made Maun Cau more determined for me to be right where everyone could see me.

Now an East Timorese Festa takes a little while to get on its way; around about 4 hours to be exact. Now this means that you are sitting around for a very long time lined up against the wall, with tables in the middle of the room that have all the substances you wanna be digging in to but as tradition says, you must wait. Waiting for what, you may ask… I am unable to answer that. It may be the fact that we’re waiting for people who arrive 3-4 hours fashionably late, whom live just down the road.

Women unfortunately, are not allowed to drink, which is a real shame as at least we shouldn’t have to be sober to endure the men’s drunken cacophony…! So after hell passes over, we are finally served dinner. By this time, I’m ready for bed but I persevere through the sleepy haze (not mentioning the fact that I’m on top of a mountain in isolation, with no lights to draw the path home that’s approximately an hour away by foot).

I make a quick and sudden escape to the kitchen, where the real party is happening and where all the women are hanging out cooking for all the men and the guest of honor (me). This causes a riot as people are battling with each other to make a seat for me. I sit next to Joel’s Tia (adopted family) and lend my services in giving her a massage which attracts a surrounding group of old ladies and laughing kids. A little later, Anchor (Portuguese alcohol) is hushed around the room drunk by all the old Tia’s. I end up with a glass and I thank god for the power of my will. Then, the dancing starts. I get shown how to do it in the kitchen, which I tell you what, learning to dance surrounded by fire is not a good idea. Still a little rusty, I take to the dance floor, with my first partner, a backstreet boy back up dancer look alike (if only I was 5 years younger) who teaches me the part I missed in the kitchen.

Now, there are distinct, strict rules to be complied with when it comes to dancing here: all girls will be on one side of the room only; no opposite sex mixing off the dance floor should be had; boys are to ask the girls to dance and not the other way around; there is to be no talking, no laughing and certainly no smiling on the dance floor, dancing is a serious matter and not to be taken lightly; as soon as you hear the last note of the song you must let go of your partner and find a seat as soon as possible (very much like musical chairs); girls must sit down to be asked to dance, if you are standing you may not accept to dance. In spite of all these rules, I had an absolute blast once I got the 3 step foot system worked out; almost had to fend the boys off with whips! Everyone wanted a go with the foreigner so that the next day they could all brag to their friends…

So it was an all nighter for me, probably did a good 4 hours of dancing non stop with disco nanny on the side lines cheering me on. The men throughout the night got rowdy, picking fights with each other then easing back into dancing alternating from the two states of being aroused. By the time the sun rose I was absolutely dead. Couples kept on going, dancing to the same songs over and over again. I really don’t know how they do it, especially the girls with no chemicals going through their system to keep them awake. I was feeling rather cantankerous and searched for Maun Cau asking him when he was planning on going home. Of course home was there for him, for at least another 6 hours and therefore I scabbed a lift on a bike (forcing me to hitch up my skirt like a Kings Cross hooker) with a guy looking like a death rocker (as close as you can get in Timor). As we rocketed down the hill, slithering past the many large looking rocks on the road, I prepared myself to fall thinking about how to hold my skirt in the process. Luckily no such thing happened and I found myself freezing, wondering if I was still in Timor with frost covering the verdure surrounding the road.

On market day, four days later, Maun Cau comes to extract me from my house and brings me to his Warung (café). Disco nanny is waiting for me there, bearing a huge smile and a present for me: a live chicken. She bought it down especially to give to me. The chicken took one look at me and felt safe. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I am a vegetarian.