I wake up quite early again, having slept outdoors for the fifth night in a row. This time I make a lot of noise and jump on the jetty for a short walk. Sure enough, when I return Dave is awake.
We decide that I will go for a walk and try to get six locals to work - three who can stitch sails and three who are not mechanically declined. I get from Dave a needle and a wrench to show during the conversation.
One of the first buildings is the school - there are tens of children, playing soccer, running around. Once they see me they stop and come closer until I'm surrounded by a little lake of kids, all those smiles again. One of them is white-blond with blue eyes and really pale skin, I'd say Scandinavian or English, maybe the child of an expat.
Eventually I find someone who speaks English and make Dave's wishes known. He asks me why I brought the needle and wrench, and says he'll take care of that. I continue my walk.
There are about ten men and women building a new house, they have just put in the poles that hold the roof. One of the men is absolutely white blond and blue eyed, but he's busy building and doesn't speak to me at all.
The guitar boy jumps out of nowhere and comes along. I ask him about the expat - apparently he's just the local albino and as Timorese as the rest of them. And yes, that was his kid in the school...
My newly self appointed guide shows me the piles of new building materials, mainly wood, some new machines - fork trucks, a tractor, all state-of-the-art. There must be tons of wood piled neatly there, all from the Indonesian island of Surabaya. Certainly not humanitarian help from the Indonesian government.
The guitar guy introduces me to his family, I sit there, they offer me coffee and baked bananas, that taste strangely of potatoes. The whole family is around me, the eldest two men sit on chairs, the rest - about five or six people stand around and look at me. The grandma gives me an especially warm handshake, holding my hand for at least half a minute in her palms, looking straight into my eyes with that all-knowing wisdom.
š
The woodpiles are in view, a couple of vehicles drive up from the road, two definitely Western men get out of a car. I'm hopeful to get a lift to somewhere and run to see and speak to them, they are from the International Rescue Committee (IRC, like the internet chat-thing), one of them is Spanish, the other American.
The yank, Stewart, chitchats away, two days ago he was in Kansas City and is still jetlagged. A criminal cases lawyer - rapes, violent crimes and so on are his specialty. The other guy is more in control, taller, wears sunglasses and has altogether an experienced air around him. He is Urco, a Basque from San Sebastian. They're based in Los Palos and are going there in half an hour. It's about 45 km away, they agree to give me a ride there, but are definitely not responsible for me after that. The guitar boy is miraculously on my side and offers me a lift in the family-owned van to the boat seeing I'm anxious to go there and get my stuff; we drive to the port and see a lot of activity on the jetty and at least 10 people working under Dave's pidgin Indonesian-English command. The guy is so stressed out that he talks in pidgin to me, too. I pack a bag, meanwhile the IRC car arrives at the jetty, Stewart and Urco have a look at the boat, ask the usual questions. Dave speaks pidgin to them also, unaware. I sign off the boat, so that David is no longer responsible for me, God beware, and jump on the ute.
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