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.

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.

A day in the life...

Another day in the life of C-line (please save the yawns for at least after the first line of this article)…

Today I woke up bewildered and groggy (as usual) to the pleasant sounds of the Doctor cooking breakfast banging an array of pots and pans in the process, sounding similar to a tone deaf orchestra. If only she had been cooking for me, (although at 5:30 in the morning I believe I would have been very ungrateful), no, instead she was cooking for herself and the dog, Benji who lives next door and seems to be constantly pointed up the wrong way. Now Benji, on this particular day, seemed a little more aroused than usual and so tracked down a hole which belonged to another random drifting dog. After just a few minutes of the ‘front paws in the air position’, Benji was edging to dismantle but was stuck, glued to the other dog in a very uncompromising position. Just having gotten up at this stage, I found it a little early to be watching two dogs looking very embarrassed and confused, bums stuck together, resembling quite closely to ‘cat and dog’ the cartoon. Finally, little kids on passing thought it was a hilarious scene to be intercepting and through rocks at the dogs which caused havoc, as well as a loud popping noise…Ahh….Dismantled.

I went to my first death a couple of weeks ago. I was told (fetched, would be more appropriate) by my local warung (café) owner, Maun Cau, that it was the chief from Timor Telecom who had died and that I was required to pay my dues to him. I spend most of my days at Timor Telecom so as to use the computer there. This is because my office, which is the District Health Service Department often has long lapses in no electricity, which means everyone sits around the office smoking cigarettes and complaining about the lack of resources and infrastructure, which limits their ability to work (not much different to when there is electricity...) And even when there is electricity, it’s a battle to get on to the one and only computer for 8 people and once you’re on, the gossip women click their tongues together and start a good hearty session of, which man is buying which woman in Gleno today.

So, to get back to the story, I felt a pang of sadness knowing that the chief of T.T. had conked out and that I wouldn’t be seeing his cheery face at the back of the office, playing computer games. So I set off with my box of candles (as a token to the family of the deceased) and walked the km or so through pitch-black dirt roads, making sure that a stumble through a large puddle was had, before arriving to the appropriate house. Upon arriving, I was shuffled across to the open casket room by Maun Cau and made to join the praying choir. As I peaked through the room, not wanting to get to close to the coffin, the praying stopped for a short pause and a sudden wailing leaped out of a woman who had thrown herself onto the dead man’s body followed by howling from many participants in the crowd. It was almost as if a rehearsal had been had before the wake where a sing song of wailing and bawling family members had practiced the weep together. The woman extended over the dead person’s body wailed in an in tune rhythm, as if stuck in a trance, followed by the rest of the family. It all lasted approximately 10 minutes and by this time I was thoroughly squashed inside the room, with no escape route to save me. The intensity soon got to me when the two little sons originating from the chief, were screeching, ‘who’s going to pay for my clothes now?’. Under these circumstances the right and appropriate thing to do is to cry and be mournful but of course, me not liking to abide by the norm, only bursts of repressed giggles could be ushered by my mouth and therefore I left the room as quickly as possible.

Sitting outside in the ‘waiting room’ seemed a lot happier. Men were smoking, gambling, drinking, being merry while inside, mostly all the women were howling, loud enough to wake the spirits in far proximity. The dead person’s ambulance arrived shortly after, which was off to get the coffin from Dili. On its departure, it managed to get stuck in a ditch and so 20 or so men came out to pull the ambulance out of its troubles. Of course, this was impossible for them to do, (thank god, as they were pulling from the front and would have certainly gotten squashed if the ambulance had made it out) and so the idea of using another car rather than man force was created. I new at this point that my dues had been payed and so I went back to the room to say, …well, good bye I guess to the dead man. This time I went right up close to the coffin expecting to see a familiar face staring out at me, but in fact it wasn’t the chief from T.T. but instead the chief from the bank whom I had never met before and wasn’t to keen to meet him on his death bed. Thanks Maun Cau, I bet the reason he bought me was so that I could pay for the candles!

First time for everything

A little update (and my first every blog!) from the ever so green swamps and sexist mayhem of Gleno. First, an introspective of my Easter weekend… which was to say the least, quite unusually religious for my normal gala. Cut out the drinking, the parties and the celebration, what are you left with? A Jesus enthused procession with what appeared to be 500 people, plodding and slogging through a 5 hour long climbing road up to Letefoho, the highest village in Timor. I was foolish enough to think that I would be fine not having had anything to eat that morning or the night before (due to the lack of food available apart from uncooked bread dough). I licked my sweat for vitamin supplements which mixed well when torrential rain poured down onto me, throughout the day. Unfortunately for Jesus, head spins was the only heavenly feeling I felt during the whole escapade. Maybe this was due to the fact that I didn’t take off my thongs for the journey like I was told to do by my many walking colleagues. After walking up to the highest hill in the village (by this point I felt I understood what Jesus had gone through, seeing only black and blue spots clouding my eyes) and laying to rest the cross that people had lugged with them, we then proceeded to have mass in the rain, shivering but content to be in a ‘bum to the floor position’.

Sunday was also without exception, a day to be remembered. Getting up (with no chocolates to be had) at the crack of dawn with little to do, I proceeded to get attacked by a goat in my front yard while I was trying to gently usher him out. He chose to disobey me and instead threatened me with his hooves. Laughing hysterically, I let him be… In the afternoon, Joel and I sat down with a troop of neighbourhood kids, to drink the cherished Timor drink of ‘Tua Sabu’. This is palm wine measuring at 50 – 70 percent in potency. It also tastes like piss water and has been found to lead people to blindness (hence the term: blind drunk). Drinking with kids is not something I value highly but in Timor, it’s hard not to as kids are everywhere, especially when I’m around… Many seem to find it normal to come over to my house and play, EVERY single day. I’ve even gotten asked by some if they can move in as there’s an extra bed… Nice try sweetie pies! I don’t think so! Space is needed to be had right now.

Anyway, so the going story recently in Gleno (my village) news, is that I’ve been found shagging Joel in my works’ toilets. Now first of all I’d like to say that since I’m living with Joel would it not be more convenient to shag at home then at work, where nosy people could not interrupt… (Not mentioning the fact that my work toilets are far from being clean…). So now all the men in Gleno look at me as if I’m the village slut (which isn’t very different from before since every girl who’s got white skin is considered to be as such). But the bonus is that I get comments now, which get yelled out to me from the safety of distances, such as “where you going? Home to ‘rest’ then…? How ‘bout we (me and my buddies here) come over later on and help you ‘relax’…”. Now I’m sure some of you are thinking this sounds quite appealing, especially with some sexy looking Latin twang men, but unfortunately taking up people on such an offer would lead me to getting kicked out of my job and probably East Timor. And I don’t like being treated like a sex machine that does little else apart from serve men’s LIBIDO. Apart from all the drama, life is taken up by small things. I often go and eat at my adopted family’s warung (café) and crack up people through my ‘eccentric western ways’. I’m much funnier here in Timor then I am in Australia somehow, which I’m sure has to do with the miscommunication that occurs through my speaking of Tetum. My work consists of at the moment finding funding for a computer project I have helped to initiate. This is becoming harder than I thought or was led to believe and so I will be lucky to get the project started by the time I leave. Hopefully with a little luck someone will pull through. OK will promise once again to update more frequently and all the rest. Keep on bringing on the updates as I love reading the goss, Am signing off here, Cuddles and Kisses, Luv Celine