April 11, 2006
Visa Runs
I had been dreading the visa run for an entire week. The work visa process had turned into an impossible six-month bureaucratic nightmare that ended three days before my tourist visa expired with me stomping out of a commissioner's office. Frustrations then skyrocketed as I meandered my way through getting an emergency Indonesian visa, booking a same-day return bus fare to sit in a hot over-crowded careening vehicle for over eight hours. Before I left, my-coworker joked at my semi-stoic pessimism and suggested that for all I knew, the love of my life would be sitting next to me on the bus. When an overweight 50-year old pushed his way beside me on Friday morning, I was simply certain that I had offended some spirit or another (or at least a prominent politician) and they were having their satisfaction in revenge.
It turned out to be an awesome day - who knew? Between meeting a friendly UN Media officer who had traveled from Kupang, West Timor to work in East Timor in 1999, to the incredibly easy border crossing, inclusive of coconut-water rice and curry meal with the bus driver, reading a science-fiction novel for a few hours while sitting on the beach in the no-man's land between the borders with two border patrolmen as personal guards, then chatting up custom's officials about the best type of 4WD to drive around the foho (mountains). A perfect vacation. Even better - though I did not meet the love of my life apparently I fulfilled that role for someone else. Marriage proposal # ... well, I can't remember ... -- an Indonesian inspections officer (quite handsome, I might add) was terribly disappointed when I spun the usual fib of married with two kids, and, most gentlemanly-like, suggested that if I had not been married he would have been more than pleased to spare me from singlehood. It was kind of cute. He didn't even inspect my bag.
Posted by storbert at 1:24 AM | Comments (1)
March 10, 2006
Tsunami Rumors
Last week I traveled to Same, in the Manufahi district of Timor. It rained, it rained hard, and it didn't stop for the four days we were out there. But the minor annoyance turned frightening, however, when the Darwin, Australia weather service called in to Dili warning of a heavy monsoon storm with an incredible low-pressure center - so low that they put out a cyclone warning - moving up towards the Timor heartland.
Within an hour I begin getting texts from friends in Dili querying, basically, whether or not I dead. In point of fact, I was actually down with another regular case of the stomach flu and would have rather been less than conscious. Thursday afternoon we left Same a bit early to avoid the storm and make a quick stop past Ainaro to talk to the radio, but upon reaching Ainaro receive word from Dili again that the cyclone warning has moved to early Friday morning and also moved towards Ainaro. As most media people do, we like to share the bad news, so we went to the radio station but found it deserted. We then stopped by the police station to see if anyone knew the radio volunteer's houses, and then did the mad-dash bouncing through the dark, rainy streets of Ainaro directed by one friendly officer, who spends most of the trip asking who the malae is, where she is from, and whether or not she can speak Tetun. I mumble the answers, far more interested in finding a safe, dry spot to curl up in and nurse my aching innards. Upon finding the radio staff, my co-worker relates the weather reports from Darwin and suggests that people should be warned about how to stay safe in heavy winds. The radio, however, was not open and hadn't been functioning due to irregular power. Shrugging his shoulders, he says that people will just spread the news and they don't need a media announcement. The police officer, listening intently, chimes in that he will let the church know and anyone else he can find of our weather news. We go back to rest before dashing to Dili the next morning, all slightly worried that the warning would never get spread - not by word of mouth in the midst of a heavy downpour.
In Dili the next day, we find out that the rumors of 'anin bo'ot' [storm, lit: big winds] and the possible rough seas [tasi sai], have been translated by a large portion of the population in all of Timor to: TSUNAMI!! Luckily there was no mass panic, despite many NGOs canceling work for 2-3 days, and when the rain stopped life went back to normal. That evening, though, I went to a salon to get the mop on my head trimmed a bit. In the midst of the Indonesian-style head massage, I hear the lady next to me recounting the panic in her neighborhood:
"Everyone was talking about big winds! We were all so scared and we brought the children inside but then later we were scared because people started talking about tsunami! We just thought it was rumors and no one knew if it was just lots of rain or if we should go to the hills, but then our cousins in Ainaro called and said that they knew there was a big 'anin bo'ot' coming, it was really big and the seas would rise and it could have been a tsunami! They said they were sure because the Americans had told the police there! Everyone was scared so we ran to our uncle's house that is inland with big walls."
Sitting silently next to her I wondered if I should say anything, but instead I made a mental note never to down the coverage (if not the accuracy) of word of mouth. What I really should have said was:
"Damn Americans. Should never believe a word they say anyways."
Posted by storbert at 9:43 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 3, 2006
Raining Monkeys
I was standing in the radio station in Baucau watching a light drizzle come down despite a sunny sky when a youung woman told me the following story:
"When light rain comes down during a hot day - this is when monkeys get married!"
My reaction was to look at her and say "uhh, huh", but all the staff agreed: when it rains during a hot day, the monkeys will get married and then they will have a festa and dance all night.
Sometimes I just love Timor ...
Posted by storbert at 9:42 PM | Comments (0)
July 27, 2005
Ahi han hau-nia quartu
I have reached a turning point in my blog writing. I could say that this is some sort of introspective breakthrough, or perhaps that I've actually developed a life, but both of these statements would be false. On the contrary, I have developed a keen awareness of my idiocy. Therefore, henceforth, so on and so forth, WHATEVER, I am going to try and be less of a reflective freak and tell more stories. This past Monday night tells me that such a goal should be easy.
See, I almost burned my house down on Monday night. In a fit of divine retribution reminiscent of scenes from a bad horror movie, I leave my room (newly painted, much slaved-over room that requires a different, and much less interesting story) to get a cold cheese sandwich (mmm, dinner) and return to watch my curtains, chair and Dad's stolen button-down (sorry about that, Dad) go up in flames. Yes, IN FLAMES.
Ok, I guess I need to give a bit of a backstory here. Dili is a city that doesn't quite run well enough to have constant electricity. Thus, the more remote parts, and the part where the less affluent live, aka where I live, are usually without power for at least some portion of the day. If ema boot (lit. big people) have their power go out they complain to their friends in political power and the power gets, ahem, rerouted. Trust me, this is as good as it gets here. Anyways, our neighborhood has the unfortunate timeslot of 7-9 pm . . .as in the time when I am actually home and wanting a bit of R&R and maybe a hot cheese sandwich instead of a cold one . . . and thus I have begun the laborious task of finding candleholders in this massive city. When I say they are hard to come by, I am only half-lying. I could easily find ones in pastel flower-shapes, but so far my standards haven't sunk quite that low yet. So, having created a nice array of candles, I come home one night to no power, light my candles as normal, and wander to my lovely cheese sandwich.
. . . and return to flames. Well, more specifically my house-mate noticed the flames and gave an admirable shriek. I put out the fire. Everything went back to normal but my nerves. Those went back to normal after I ejected from the house (and an ashy/soaked room) to hang in the local Australian ex-pat bar and did my personal fire-control with a beer and a scotch.
Now I wish I could say the story ended there. I wish it did, and it would have except for the most enormous bug I have ever seen, which happened to be a massive flying cockroach, that decided that after a house burned it was a perfect time to check out our bathroom. But whatever. Life sucked anyways, so I wasn't really all that surprised.
So, that's the story. I'm going to stop now without analysis, because really I don't give a damn anymore. Psychoanalysis is worthless here. I'm a freak anyways so it wouldn't really be worth a damn anyways. Well, I hope someone reads this and gets a kick out of it. I sure did (a beer and scotch later). Perhaps you will take pity on me. If you do, send me a decent scotch. That's harder to find here than a normal-looking candleholder.
Posted by storbert at 7:15 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack