East Timor
Again, I ended up on the edge of the world and in the middle of nowhere. My plane to East Timor was filled with Timorese Catholic nuns. I certainly wasn't in Islamia anymore. A group of chanting schoolgirls hitting drums met the nuns and I followed the multicolored UN crowd to the visa line. Dili's airport was a backwater place. I seem to remember Rhinelander, Wisconsin, having a bigger terminal. I grabbed my pack and had my prayers met - there was a working ATM. Then, to a taxi. We arrived at the hostel shortly. I could have walked it in thirty minutes, probably, had I known the way.
"Ten dollars,"
"It's five,"
"Ten,"
"It's five," I said "Look me in the eyes and tell me it's ten."
"It's ten," he said as his eyes closed involuntarily. I couldn't believe I actually caught him lying. I gave him the ten anyway. Fuck it.
After dumping my pack, I decided to walk the city. After 45 minutes, I crossed the whole thing. I passed the port, which fit about two small ships at a time. I passed the national government building, a white-washed colonial structure. I passed the foreign grocery store, where a Korean gentleman and an Egyptian peacekeeper were in line. That was it. Dili was one long beautiful beach, with Timorese hanging out watching the horizon. Couples snuggled. I few hawkers tried to sell water and coconuts. Some old men played cards. They all stared at the foreigner and smiled shyly like a toddler when I waved.
How on earth was this sleepy, tiny little place the center of violence? And why are there so many UN cars driving around? It's practically a village - it's hard to believe it would fall apart in the UN left. Or maybe I'm wrong. History seems to show that rebel groups cause massacres quite frequently here. It was only 2006 when a thousand people were killed.
I walked further up the perfect beach a few miles to the massive Jesus statue, which had stations for Jesus' walk with his cross. About fifty joggers, both foreign and Timorese, passed me on my walk. Quite a fit place - weird - it's very rare in the third world to see joggers. New, but empty restaurants and bars lined the beach up to the statue. Naked children, without parents, filled the ocean. The only adults were couples, romantically sitting on their motorbikes counting the waves.
After my climb up to the savior, I caught a taxi back. Antonio, my driver couldn't speak English but invited me to get drinks with him anyway. I took his number to be polite, but certainly didn't feel like making awkward broken conversation with him. Instead in the evening, I caught dinner with an Aussie couple.
The next day, I tried to find something new to do. I went to see a graveyard that was the site of a massacre. It was a graveyard. I searched for a museum on independence, but couldn't find it. I heard it wasn't any good anyway. Out of sights, I hit the beach. And another day came to a close.
And that was that... East Timor: low on adventures. I guess its much like my time in any micro-state. I guess that's what the place needs though. A little breather from people dying.
"Ten dollars,"
"It's five,"
"Ten,"
"It's five," I said "Look me in the eyes and tell me it's ten."
"It's ten," he said as his eyes closed involuntarily. I couldn't believe I actually caught him lying. I gave him the ten anyway. Fuck it.
After dumping my pack, I decided to walk the city. After 45 minutes, I crossed the whole thing. I passed the port, which fit about two small ships at a time. I passed the national government building, a white-washed colonial structure. I passed the foreign grocery store, where a Korean gentleman and an Egyptian peacekeeper were in line. That was it. Dili was one long beautiful beach, with Timorese hanging out watching the horizon. Couples snuggled. I few hawkers tried to sell water and coconuts. Some old men played cards. They all stared at the foreigner and smiled shyly like a toddler when I waved.
How on earth was this sleepy, tiny little place the center of violence? And why are there so many UN cars driving around? It's practically a village - it's hard to believe it would fall apart in the UN left. Or maybe I'm wrong. History seems to show that rebel groups cause massacres quite frequently here. It was only 2006 when a thousand people were killed.
I walked further up the perfect beach a few miles to the massive Jesus statue, which had stations for Jesus' walk with his cross. About fifty joggers, both foreign and Timorese, passed me on my walk. Quite a fit place - weird - it's very rare in the third world to see joggers. New, but empty restaurants and bars lined the beach up to the statue. Naked children, without parents, filled the ocean. The only adults were couples, romantically sitting on their motorbikes counting the waves.
After my climb up to the savior, I caught a taxi back. Antonio, my driver couldn't speak English but invited me to get drinks with him anyway. I took his number to be polite, but certainly didn't feel like making awkward broken conversation with him. Instead in the evening, I caught dinner with an Aussie couple.
The next day, I tried to find something new to do. I went to see a graveyard that was the site of a massacre. It was a graveyard. I searched for a museum on independence, but couldn't find it. I heard it wasn't any good anyway. Out of sights, I hit the beach. And another day came to a close.
And that was that... East Timor: low on adventures. I guess its much like my time in any micro-state. I guess that's what the place needs though. A little breather from people dying.
posted by American Dilettante at
7:58 AM
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