forgetfulness...

Why is it that I forget people’s faces so easily these days? Quite often I get accosted in the street by someone who looks like they know me and I should probably know them but can’t for the hell of God recognise where I know them from… I therefore have to pretend to remember them and in the mean time, while I’m trying to detect where we have met before, I try and ask skilfully crafted leading questions. This seems to occur more and more for me, including the other day while I was in a completely different district: Maliana. Now this is a good 5 hours away from where I live, who would of thought I would meet someone who not only came from the same district as where I am living but whom also came from the same village (only 2000 people live there) and who of course recognised me. I couldn’t say the same for him. The usual chit chat was had where I showed my complete ignorance to his existence, asking quite ridiculous questions such us, “oh, so you live in Maliana then?”(no C-line, actually he’s your next door neighbour whom you see every day…).

I also get a lot of waves and calls from people driving past on the street hanging off trucks whom I’m completely obliviated to knowing. Of course I reply back with a big wave and a smile, happy to feel like a bit of a movie star for a small instance. Cries and shouts of my name seem to differ quite a bit, which often means I forget to reply… I go by the name of Zelia, Seli, Sally, Sil, Salin, Sal, Sel, Celi and any other variation you can think of. At least it enables me to blame any stupidity that I undertake (like marrying an FBI agent as the rumour has it) on my many twin sisters.

So my trip to Maliana the other day, involved having to catch 4 different rides to get there: A Mikrolet (very mini bus), a van (which broke down twice along the way and was in fact leaking gallons of water, as we later found out), a semi-trailer (the largest one in Timor which swerved through very curvy roads and made my stomach turn such as on a roller coaster and to finish off the extremes, the smallest mini you could get your hands on, no seats, cramped in the back, hands and nose glued to the back window, head banging on the roof as soon the car moved.

Leaving on Saturday afternoon, we got to Maliana by nightfall, not realising we had made it until my friend Gebs, who I was meant to meet at 4:00 (two hours later) hailed me down as we zoomed past in the white mini. I tumbled out of the back as he opened the door for me, inhaling air as it was finally available in big quantities… Not having told us what he had planned for us we walked what felt like 20 kms past all the rice paddies, herds of cows and goats, past the local alcohol venders, (which we didn’t get to stop for) past the flowing river and up a mountain (all with my loaded up backpack and flip flops and not seeing a thing as night set in) to finally reach the monastery/school that he had gone to when in High School. After visiting the head brother then off to the nuns and finally to the Indonesian priest for all their blessings and approval, I finally was placed with the schoolgirls in the dormitories. I got my first real experience of what it feels like to be in a boarding school, with communal showers and toilets, where my white skin didn’t go unnoticed… I was hushed off as soon as I settled in, (being questioned by 30 very curious girls) to the nuns house for dinner. Three nuns and me sitting around the table eating apples (a rarity in East Timor), chatting about cultures, love, Italian men…

Of course, being a monastery, a 6:00 am rise was enforced so as to get to an 8:00 mass, half of it being in Bahasa, therefore meaning a lot of day dreaming was had as well as having had time to solve all of the problems of the world (unfortunately it was all forgotten as soon as holy water was splashed onto me). Gebs in the afternoon, took us to his house after some very stern pushing on my part, as he was embarrassed to show us such a humble home, made of very simple material: wooden pickets. I was grinning from ear to ear being finally able to meet Gebs’ family and seeing who had made such a great person (of course, having had 2 glasses of local booze did also help with the feeling of blissfulness). We left on a very high note, catching a lift with a Chinese East Timorese man who was very offended when I approached him in English but who warmed up along the way as he slammed on the accelerator around very steep curves.

The trip ended with the last hitch which was a packed Anguna (small truck) full of Dilified East Timorese people (city slickers) going up the mountain for a big festa. I almost felt as if I was amongst a crowd of wogs, which did bring up a little tear to the eye. Everyone was so clean-shaven with trendy clothes, made me feel like a rascal in comparison. A small pop in the tyre was heard and a release of gas was consumed resulting in an abrupt stop and a rush to change the tyre before night set in. Got back to Gleno, just in time to get my fare share of Tua drinking and risk once again, possible blindness.