After waking up and using the bathroom (oh that bathroom!), I walk up the streets past the market, looking out of the corner of my eye at the merchandise, I see the breadrolls I'm after, make a sharp turn and buy them, before everyone from the market is all over me offering things.
I'm walking into another part of town and eating the bread. The Timorese are everywhere, buon dia, buon dia, kids are going to school, shouting hey mista!, I surprise some of them by shouting back wots your name? and they answer indeed. Most of them ask me for a pen, some see my own pen in my pocket and point at it. A girl almost gets it out, she is holding in her other hand another three pens. I try to ask her about that - "me one pen, you three?", she smiles, hides her pens and goes for mine again.
On a verandah there are three or four Africans sitting, I start the usual chat. They're from Ghana, and very keen on buying my camera. After seeing my indignation they're just asking where I bought it from and how much it cost. They are UN-people, of course, and having their day off. I ask them about a car going to Los Palos, hoping to hitch a ride. They don't 'have' one, but next door there is some agency, and their car is going there any minute. Quickly I jump the fence, thinking of Che and the way he'll spend his time waiting for me if I don't turn up. The neighbouring house has the most stunning view of Baucau, the mountains and down below, the ocean, with some other Indonesian islands on the horizon. It is freshly renovated, with a terrace and a table to the view. An Asian man sits there, I ask him about the car, he says yes, we are going to Los Palos, I pop the question for the ride for me, he says "I don't think so." and ignores me further, eventhough we're alone in a very confined space. I shoot some pictures of the view and head for the mechanics workshop. On the way out the Africans see me, hear about the Asian guy and point to him with their middle fingers. Yes, we're on the same team.Five minutes to eight Che appears on the bike, I jump on, after a general repetition of the words "stop" and "go". The first stop is a general store, we buy five liters of petrol in a transparent plastic container, 2,500 rupees a liter. I pay at at the counter, get a bottle of mineral water as well and we hit the road.
This motorcycle is more powerful than the scooter yesterday, things move even faster. We drive all the way we drove yesterday to the new town, then start covering new ground.
Venilale appears to be on a mountain top, the perfect destination for an hour's trip. On the way I ask the driver to stop several times, shoot some pictures, stretch my back. I offer some of the mineral water to him, he accepts it but is really amused. The scenery can't get any better - tropical forests, terraced rice fields, some colonial buildings, lots of native huts. Some really wild looking mountains, over 3000 m above sea level. A lot of people walking around, trafic is again mainly bemos and scooters. In many places road repairs are going on, there are some modern machines, but mostly the locals just fill up the potholes. Everytime we pass them, they greet, looking me straight in the eyes and ignoring the driver.
We encouter two military roadblocks, and Che visibly stiffens at both of them. This part of the island being the Thai military sector, it is the Thai army that has set up the checkpoints. They stop every vehicle, except for the UN landrovers, and ask questions. We are asked where we are going and where we came from, but after seeing me - the "mista" - the soldiers are satisfied and just wave us through.
In Venilale there is a crowded market, slightly different from the one in Los Palos. It's not undercover and there seems to be a lot of trade going on, much more merchandise and there's a generally better mood to it. Roosters are being traded, probably for fights that seem to be quite popular.
Again, I become the major attraction for the locals, they follow my every move. After just sitting on the curb for a couple of minutes, I am no longer interesting to them and can shot some photos.
We ride the bike a couple of kms further down the road, which has become just a narrow track by now, stop for ten minutes to rest. A couple of kids appear, plus some old men. They all watch me really carefully loading my camera with a new roll of film. On the way back through Venilale I take pictures of some buildings, some of them badly damaged but still showing their beauty.
The drive back is even more picturesque because of the ocean views down the mountains every now and then. At about half past ten we're back, I give the guy his well earned (he is a good, moderate driver) $10. He has never seen this particular bill and asks his boss. Boss tells him yes, this are ten Australian dollars, Che is happy and goes back to work on a motorcycle.
I walk back to the hotel, find the architect guy and give him the manifesto I altered the previous evening, by taking out the worst spelling mistakes.I decide to try my luck again with the UN people. It's lunchtime and indeed - my Austrian friends are in the same restaurant, joined by a female police officer, also Austrian. We chat a while, I decide to check out the two western guys on the next table. They look rich in their clothes, I enquire if it's ok to bother them and eventually find out that they are father and son. Son works for Unicef, father is on vacation and no, they cannnot take me with them, because it is an official UN vehicle and it's not allowed. Later on son explains that he's stationed in Dili and today is his day off and they have come to Baucau to have lunch and show daddy the countryside. Besides, the driver's family live in Baucau, so he came to visit them. After my polite question whether all this is permitted in an official UN vehicle, he tells me to shut up and be ready at 1 pm, when they'll pick me up.
I walk for another 45 minutes in Baucau, shoot some more pictures and - to my pleasant surprise - the Unicef Toyota appears, I throw the backpack in the back and jump on.The following ride is on one of the most spectacular roads I have seen. It follows the coast, climbs up hundreds of meters, descends again. All of this combined with views of the ocean and glimpses of far mountains.
The son (I never caught his name - Graig or something like that) tells us stories about the countryside, shows us the house, where the president of the CNRT lives, we take photographs.We pass another couple of road blocks and I ask what the idea is. According to Graig, that's just the way the Thai think they should operate - they're military, have power, so let's use it! Let's show them! We are just being waved further, but bemos and scooters are being checked.
After about an hour and a half we stop at a beach, my well-doers want to go for a swim and the son says that it's his only chance to feel at least a bit clean. Apparently Dili, being a capital, still doesn't offer urban comforts. I start asking them about accommodation in Dili and they scare me, by saying there is only one hotel, a container ship in the harbour and the rooms are individual containers. All this for only $150 per night. This is where the father is staying, too. To find anything else is impossible.
While I'm sitting on the beach, thinking bank-accounts and looking at those guys in the murky water, a white UN van appears with only the driver in it. He nodds, makes a turn on the beach and is hopelessly stuck in the sand up to his axle. After a lot of pushing and revving the van is more or less burried.
F & s are back from the water, they offer help with the Toyota and it is finally the moment to get out the rope I've been carrying for half a year. After the van is rescued I have a chat with its driver. My guess is correct, his accent is Canadian, he is a police officer and teaches at the Timor police academy and his name is Darell. And oh yeah - he knows a place for me to stay, next door where he lives, a room just became vacant and it costs $5 a night. In the home of a Timorese family. We make an appointment at Phill's Grill in Dili, 6 pm and he drives away.
