Razor bread

Leaving Timor was surreal. Because of how things panned out, I flew from Oecusse to Dili, had a day's errands and layover there, flew to Bali, had a spare day and a work call, and then flew back to Singapore.

It felt like a dream, especially since I was drifting in and out of sleep on all the flights and my mind couldn't really anchor itself on any one thing while I was still awake. The scenery was changing too quickly.

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I looked out the window of the airplane as we approached Singapore, thinking we were over Malaysia but recognising nothing. I frantically checked my cardinal directions as the plane flew big circles and just as I thought that we were definitely in an imaginary place, we flew in over the Singapore harbour.

I looked down to see a fleet of huge oil tankers and massive cargo ships, more than I had ever seen in my life.

That old Talking Heads song jumped into my head: "This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife! How did I get here!?"

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I've hung out a lot with an old friend (one of my oldest) these last few days in Singapore.

We don't see each other very often, but it's always felt easy to be comfortable around each other again.

I used to talk with him about music, girls, food, The Future, you know, when life was perhaps simple. Now we talk about how Singapore is broken and why we're never coming home.

It feels like the final nail in a coffin for my youthful innocence.

back Into the wild

Well, friends, it's over. I don't really have much to glow about that I haven't already said on the Kopernik blog, but for the benefit of folks who don't read it (you should read this one), Timor was great. I will miss it there.

I didn't expect it to be such a good time, I didn't expect to enjoy myself so immensely, to be so close with the FEEO folks, to meet such neat and such terrible expats, or for Timor to be such a strange and fascinating place.

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Now it's back to Singapore limbo for a bit before Ghana. My Indonesian is (terrible but) now better than my Chinese, I haven't cut my hair in half a year, and everyone tells me I've lost weight (is that possible?) (I don't want to lose weight!). It's time to get razor blades and rabies shots, restock my supply of nuts and update all the program packages on my ubuntu machine (:

I'm so tired these days. I've been falling asleep in every car and aeroplane I get into, which is strange considering it didn't happen in Oecusse.

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It probably means nothing to you, but I'm extremely pleased with the title of my last Kopernik blog.

"Nada dan irama" is a Timorese joke in Indonesian for "you're welcome" in Tetum, and ending on this note makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

plasticities

The one line I get most often here is "are you Japanese?" to which I usually answer, "no, I'm Chinese, from Singapore..."

Recently, I've started to answer this question with a hint of sadness in my voice, but it's not why you think I do. Indeed, when people ask me "are you Chinese?" I snap back, "yes, from Singapore!"

I thought at one point I really wanted them to think I was Japanese so I could tell them I was from Singapore instead, but perhaps I just want to be Japanese.

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It's one of those super busy work times, hence the silence. Work blogs up soon.

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Michael is a really difficult name to spell, if you don't already know how to do it. Indeed, the correct spelling of it might be one that makes the least sense of all.

People in Timor struggle with my name, and often come up with creative new ways to spell it. I actually really like it-- I've seen such great inventions as "Maiquel" and "Maycell", all of which are more phonetic than "Michael".

My favourite so far: "Maiko". Maybe I'll change my name to that someday.

old timer

I cheated and back-dated this one so it seems like I haven't left a long gap between posts.

If it's any consolation, I chose a binary time an date.

In other news, I got an immunoglobulin injection to make me completely rabies proof.

Awesome T-shirts from Timor

Have I told you yet that the coolest clothes end up in Timor? I guess they filter in from all the places that donate old clothes to poor countries.

Old Obey, D.A.R.E, and Linux T-shirts, fake brand-name stuff, old "Singapore: Garden City" T-shirts that are so vintage even I want a piece of them. Here are two good ones I managed to get pictures of.

zomg!1

Here's a lesson in empathy I didn't plan to learn. Two nights ago, I was walking home from dinner, enjoying the cool night after the evening rains. I had actually turned down the offer of a motorbike ride home.

On the say home, I was bit by a dog. The little son of a bitch ran up from behind me as I was walking away from his house and bit me without warning on the leg. I was surprised and uncommonly upset, and looked back in anger, shouting at the dog as it retreated. Then I took out my phone to shine light on my leg. Although the bite hadn't hurt very much, I was bleeding.

After cursing out loud for a little bit, I stood stunned for a few moments: the reality of being bit by a dog in just about the most remote place possible to be bit by a dog was really ruining my evening.

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I realised in that moment --maybe realised is the wrong word, because I felt and understood and experienced-- what getting bit by a zombie feels like. In all those beautiful, violent, poetic movies that we love so, we feel dread and sympathy for someone after the perhaps get through the zombie attack and realise they are wounded, and have but hours or even seconds before the infection turns them into a zombie themselves.

Still we don't really know what it feels like or what goes through the person's head. Well, I knew right then, as I looked down at my bleeding leg. It didn't help that I'd read up about rabies in the past and knew about how it attacks the nervous system and how the vaccine has to be administered before it becomes too late. This was it. I was going to die from rabies in Oecusse... After an intensely painful corruption of my consciousness as it took over my nervous system.

It's interesting to note that many zombies as portrayed as humans might be if they had rabies: think of 28 Days later or Zombieland (excellent movies by the way).

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The rest of the story is slightly less dramatic, if at times panicked: I came to my senses and went to the hospital, where I found they didn't have any vaccines. I tried the UN mission next but had trouble getting in without ID and without referral. Finally, they let me in and I got a vaccine by an Indonesian doctor and a Zimbabwean nurse, who were just as surprised and taken off guard by my arrival as I was thankful for their help.

I felt relieved, but also sad and guilty, it seemed like a privilege to be treated (I felt) so well (or so fortunately): I don't think every person in Oecusse, if put in my situation, would have had the same luck and the same outcome as I did.

Well. This is a story for the grandkids: how I didn't die from rabies in Oecusse. The excitement isn't over, however: the post-exposure schedule for the vaccine means that I will need an injection five days after I arrive in Ghana.

Stay tuned for more excitement and adventure, here on Monkey Music / Woon's Tunes

Quickly,

The latest in Oecusse. Well, the latest you can read. New news is in the works already!

I smell a jinx

Perhaps there is absolutely no connection to the blog post, but the price of petrol in Oecusse has recently tripled, almost overnight.

I kid you not. It's because of sudden problems with petrol crossing the border from Indonesia into Timor.

Petrol stands that used to stock barrels and have hundreds of litre-bottles out for motorcycles stood empty and derelict. I think the problem has eased as prices are coming down slowly.

The post-apocalypse of oil starved Mad Max wasteland didn't come, and my petrol tank is still full from before.

Anyway, cheerios.

"On the ground" as they say

Life imitates works.

I've recently been really busy, an haven't had time for too many adventures outside of work. I've done a bit of snorkeling and socialising, but I spend most of my time doing things like this and this. Well, they are adventures in their own right I suppose.

Sorry for the long gap. I'm doing a double release to make it up to you. Another work blog is also hot in the press, and you'll be the first to hear when it comes out.

Banking on a fact

On an uncharacteristically lavish saturday afternoon, I found myself on a boat eating nice food (I ate an oyster, which I found isn't my favourite food: they had loads of extras and I wanted to see if I liked them or not. I hear they are really nutritious), drinking so-so bottle wine (I've always been more of a box person) and Australian (south of the beer line*) beer, diving in the sea and hanging out with some Dili expats.

*It is not certain where the beer line is exactly is, but some facts about it cannot be disputed: Germany is north of the beer line, Spain is south of the beer line.

I'll spare you the details of the afternoon, but here is an interesting story I picked up. Quinn is English descended, I believe, and grew up in Zimbabwe, doing Safaris first and later becoming a contract pilot (flying in Brazil, South Africa, and Timor among other places). He was adamant that the quality of life and value for money are unparalleled in Zimbabwe and really enjoyed living and growing up there.

This challenges my dystopian picture of the country, and he's not the first person to tell me this. I met another Zimbabwean on a flight to Ghana once who told me the same. Anyway, White Africans are another story for another time and something I don't know much about anyway. On to the story:

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Blown somewhat out of proportion by international news, hyperinflation only lasted a few years in Zimbabwe. Certainly, the inflation was terrible (being able to watch shop employees change the prices of goods in real time) but it isn't as much a key part of history as we might perceive.

An interesting feature of those time was an economy that developed organically in Zimbabwe that is (a little) reminiscent of a movie that some of you might have seen: the gasoline economy.

Because Zim dollars had such an unstable value and were worth less and less every second you held them in your hand, Zimbabweans settled on a different currency. They would buy petrol as quickly as they could spend their money, sometimes storing up hundreds of thousands of litres. Because petrol is relatively durable, held its value (and often appreciated) it was a safe way to store . People would trade a few litres of petrol for services rendered and thousands of litres for big jobs.

I think it's absolutely brilliant that this system evolved on its own without planning or agreement, or government approval. It seems to have spread virally, if you will.

The neatest thing about this is that it is an (possible the one) instance in history that a currency had great practical value. Paper money, other than the numbers printed on them, aren't good for much other than scribbling notes on, wiping up messes or snorting...stuff through. Petrol, on the other hand, is used everyday. Compared to the utility of petrol, coins and bars of gold and silver are but shiny paperweights.

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I'm trained in economics and also an instinctively practical person: I often have a hard time reconciling the need for a quickly, easily portable and tradable currency with the fact that we (today) are, in fact, exchanging bits of paper with ink on them (or worse yet, electronic records of them). That governments "guarantee" their dollars isn't the most reassuring thing for people (such as myself).

Needless to say, I was terribly excited to hear this story. It made the whole day on the boat worthwhile.

blogging from the hip

You haven't heard from me for awhile because I've been (believe it or not) really busy. This describes some parts of life here, and the last week has been super extra crazy. There will be an entry for that soon.

still kicking redux

I'm still kicking too, by the way, after almost a month of drinking solar-disinfected water. I haven't bought a plastic bottle in a month.

I also refuse styrofoam, which is waaay too commonly used around these parts. You should refuse styrofoam too (watch just 1:20 of this, starting at 1:00).

Okay. PSA over, on to the story.

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Whilst this happened a few weeks ago and has since filtered down in my memory, at the time it was one of my most visceral experiences. There are no pictures (you'll soon see why), not that I particularly wanted to take any.

It all started when I got home one night, and a strange man who was talking with the security guard came up to me and asked me for ten dollars. Because of the time of night, and how sketchy his story was, I awkwardly extracted myself and went to bed. The security guard told me the next day never to trust that man: he's "not okay" in the head.

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A few days later, I was sitting in the park watching some kids play, jumping and swinging from low branches on a tree. They performed some real feats of strength and flexibility. A small child came over to hang out, and sat on a low wall in front of me.

It took me a few minutes to notice, and when I did I was horrified: his left foot was badly infected. He'd suffered some kind of injury to the ball, but the infection had spread to the whole foot: it was painful for him when I touched the top of his foot near the ankle. When his foot swelled too big for him to put a sandal on it, he limped without one. The soft skin had been punctured, and the wound was leaking and dirty.

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After almost freaking out, I managed talk to Aldo (the boy) through some of his friends who could understand my terrible Indonesian. No, he didn't want to go to the hospital. Yes, his parents knew about the foot. I told him he HAD to go to the hospital TODAY and offered to take him. He refused, and got up to go home.

I wanted to pick Aldo up and carry him to the hospital, but I made the better decision: to go to his home and talk to his parents.

Now, who else would has father be than the sketchy man who asked me for money? This is the part that made me saddest. They were a huge family of five kids, four plus parents (twenty three, nine, six and less than one) lived in a tiny wood-and-thatch house (out of place in a really nice part of town). The father and mother chewed betel nut and smoked cigarettes constantly, and there was a huge pile of glass bottles in the yard.

They told me that his foot had been injured a week ago, but he had refused to go to the hospital. The only reason I heard from any of them was that the boy was scared. I told them their son would have to go to the hospital TODAY and offered to take him. They agreed, and their son burst into screams and crying. I'm sure you could hear him from town, and nobody could do anything to console him, and he almost passed out from bawling so hard.

His father could neither intimidate or convince him to stop and to go to the hospital, and the mother at one point started laughing at him. They eventually put him, limp, onto a motorcycle and took him. I followed.

I really don't blame the kid for not wanting to go to the hospital. Growing up in a home where the parents clearly lack concern for their children's health and education, I'm sure he had a horrible idea of needles and saws and lack of anaesthesia. Well. He was right about one thing.

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I was glad I didn't take Aldo to the hospital alone. At least this time, they didn't use anaesthetic. I watched a doctor cut a hole to drain and disinfect the foot, and had to help his father hold his feet still while the doctor worked.

It must have been intensely painful from the screams. Pus and blood flowed freely. I watched the doctor flush the wound with antiseptic (using a syringe to push iodine under the skin) and then put some antiseptic-soaked fabric under the skin of the abscess. Scalpel, syringe, gauze, forceps, bandage.

Fortunately, after you've watched a goat slaughtered, you're ready for anything, and I managed to see the whole thing through.

We left with his foot in a huge bandage, and some antibiotics. When they rode off home, I was convinced the boy hated me. He certainly didn't look happy. His parents were strangely grateful for two people who'd watch their son's foot swell to twice its size and not done anything about it for days. I was simply in shock that all this happened before lunch on Saturday.

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When I checked back on Monday night to make sure Aldo had been taking his meds and had gone for a checkup, I found only his mother there, who told me that her husband was too drunk from the night before to take him to the hospital today; they would go tomorrow.

I was stunned by how matter-of-factly she said it. Could she have taken him? The father came back later, and seemed not to think it a big deal that he had missed the checkup.

They went the next day, according to the mother.

I saw Aldo at the port after a week away from Oecusse, and he looked good. I don't think he hates me (he waves at me when he sees me now, and it doesn't look like he's waving his middle finger) . Except for some scarring, his foot looks normal, and it no longer pains him.

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I'm not sure how to feel or think about this whole ordeal. On one hand, I'm pretty sure it saved Aldo a foot, and I hope it taught him, if not his parents, the importance of getting injuries and illnesses addressed early. On the other hand, it's put me in a much closer and more awkward situation with a couple of people I want nothing to do with.

I can't believe they have such a huge family and both parents squander money on smokes, betel nut and booze, are equally terrible at raising (and taking care of) their children.

I feel very slimy interacting with the boy's father. (I won't elaborate) He's pretty good at sneaking into situations that make it difficult for me to say no, as well as at using guilt and sympathy. He makes his son do the respectful handshake with me, which makes me angry. His son should be cursing his father, not thanking me.

I don't want thanks or anything from them at all. I really didn't want to be a part of this whole fiasco in the first place. It crossed my mind to look the other way, but Aldo might have lost his foot.

As much as I want to be far far away from them, I worry about the kids.

Solvatten scramble

Something I forgot to link in the previous post. I constantly forget attachments to emails and sometimes when I write sentences I accidentally the operative verb too.

I imported some things into Timor. It was a wild ride. I'm going back this weekend to do it again, but I'm older and wiser this time.

General dispatch

my favourite picture so far this trip: a mason / carpenter in Oecusse town

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Solvatten scramble

I imported some things into Timor. It was a wild ride. I'm going back this weekend to do it again, but I'm older and wiser this time.

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Indonesian is one of the most fun languages I've ever learned. It's a really cheery language, at least I feel it lends itself easily to pleasant conversation.

It's structured unlike any other language I've learned, with a whole host of pre- and suff- ixes and particles that modify words and expressions that I still don't understand: bits like per-, me-, di-, ken-, -kan, -nya, -an (okay, I know that one), and yang (I know that one too, but not that well) that keep popping up everywhere.

Indonesian is truly a joy to speak. Jokes are funnier, and cuteness is more precious. Different languages lend themselves to different things: Korean is great for complaining, French is great for complaining (and poetry, I hear), and Indonesian is simply a bundle of fun.

I just love the singsong lilt and how sheerly cute its direct translation to English is.

I like imagining that when I say "saya" and "anda" (the formal expressions for "I" and "you") I have a proper Queen's English accent and when I say "aku" and "kamu" (the informal ones) I say "aaah" and "yeww" like a proper southern gentleman.

Swahili is likely as fun (usi vute mto wangu*) but I didn't have the time to learn and enjoy it like I have with Indonesian. I also think that speaking Indonesian helps me with my chronic mumbling because of how sharp and defined the syllables are.

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Atauro adventure

I'm really not the kind of person to make the effort to run away to an island to snorkel and relax and for a change of scenery, but when the opportunity presented itself to tag along with a group of fifteen that I hardly knew to Atauro island last weekend, I decided I would do it.



















all the cool kids in the back of a truck. At 4am. Honestly, you didn't expect pictures of happy snorkeling land did you? That would be so typical

It was a great time-- I'm very glad I went and was sad when it was over. We swam in the sea (the water was unbelievably hot), climbed coconut trees and played beach soccer and lots of Loaded Questions-and-Taboo-like games. We got to know and like each other and had a bunch of fun.



















another favourite picture: napping next to some Timorese women on the upper "locals only" deck (sneaked up before the captain got there and before I knew it was locals only) of a fishing boat going back to Dili

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One of the families on the street I live on was building a new fishing boat the other day. It takes about three days to make one. First, they cut down a whole tree, and pare the trunk down to the longest and widest straight single piece they can.






























After this, they carve out the inside by wetting it and attacking it with machetes and thick straight iron pry-bars. They also cut and shape the outside to make it more streamlined. Eventually, they will put outriggers on it to make it stable in the water. Here are some similar boats.











picture is actually from Atauro. The bags sitting in the water are net-bags filled with seaweed

To cut down a big tree, you need a big chainsaw.




















2012 edit: although, I hear that sometimes, a small axe will do fine (:

True life

As if to confirm everything I'd learned and wrote about in this previous post, I got to take photos of a bunch of awesome stuff the just the very next day.

I left the house late and the sun was already blazing down. Walking past the nearby swamp, I noticed a few men casting nets. Despite the heat, I decided to turn around and get my camera.

The men were really nice, and were totally okay with me taking photos of them (I asked). After chatting with them about how their day was going and what they'd caught, they carried on fishing and pretty much forgot about me, allowing me to take a whole bunch of photos before I thanked them and left them later.

They're so incredibly skilful at throwing the net. It flares out perfectly with the flick of the...wrist? the arm? I can't even tell how they do it.

The sun was really intense. I was burning up just sitting there taking photos. It must have been tough working under the sun.

untangling a net in deep water

The water looks terribly dirty, but I ate fish caught in that "lake" at a friend's house and they tasted fine (actually great: they were boiled with chiles and Thai basil), I wasn't sick the next day either.

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Pretty soon, my four favourite troublemakers showed up.

The little boy has taken to hugging and hanging on to my leg, and the rest of them are in stitches when I peel him off and hold him upside down. He's always super happy to see me around these days and constantly asks me to take photos of him.

Closer to town, I investigated some music I heard, and found a whole gaggle of kids in a tree, banging on cans and singing. They were shy at first, but after I showed them the first photo I took, they were excited for me to take more. They even let me shoot a video of them.

unfortunately, I'm having a lot of trouble uploading this video. Perhaps I will do it properly at a later date with a back-link to this post.

The fun continued until a grumpy old man showed up and took the lead singer and his sisters home.

lagi bibi

little baby goats

wake me up at five am

with wild jungle cries

Have courage

I've always liked a good photograph --I've even been awed and moved by them-- but I've never really understood the photography that goes into shooting a good photo. Everything that I snap that's remotely good is pure luck.

Just the other day, I was talking to Pyl, a French graphic designer who's recently got into shooting pictures and video, who's doing a movie here in Oecusse for EDC, an American NGO.

He's a good teacher and speaks about the subject very well for someone who's only been at it for a year or so.

I learned a lot of things about photography that I had never understood before and with it I found an appreciation for photography as a craft in and of itself.

Pyl showed me some awesome examples of what you can do with very simple cameras. To make short of it, photography is about balancing just three things: shutter speed, aperature, and sensitivity (also known as ISO. you can buy film in different sensitivity, but with a digital camera you can set it with the touch of a button).

All there is to photography is being able to use these three things to create the effects and lighting you desire.

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The real lesson I learnt from him is how to be a good photographer. This, he in turn learned from a friend who used to do shoot photos for the UN. The whole trick is courage.

Counter to all intuition, you'll get better photos in most situations by being open and forward with the camera than trying to conceal it. A fair number of people don't mind being in photos, and others often forget that you have a camera with you if you sit with them for long enough. This allows you to get really natural shots of families working in the fields or sitting at home.

Also, your body language is much more natural and unsuspicious when you're not trying to conceal a camera. You might also be more likely to annoy people if they figure out you're trying to take photos without them finding out.

It's also possible to tell from peoples' body language whether they will be alright if you walked up to them and BOF! (French for "pow!") took a picture inches from their face.

Chances are, if they aren't comfortable, they won't even let you get close. Chances are, if you smile, you can get away with it (almost anything, really).

Also, a really good bet to fall back on is to ask: "bele sai foto?" Sometimes, it pays to be more aggressive: "sai foto, ya? okay obrigado!" The important part is being clear about what you want.

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I spent last saturday morning on the road with Camilo, who works at FEEO. I took some photos from the back of his motorbike as we rolled on bumpy Oecusse roads.

We visited the welding shop to hurry them on the jobs we're having them do, and we drove around a bit, and bought some corn from the nicest old lady I've ever met (to use when we learned how to make corn shellers).

Alas! I was too shy and mentally tied up in the things that we had to do that I forgot to get good pictures of the two most important things: the nicest old lady ever, and Camilo. I didn't really get any good photos that day.

I promise I won't disappoint next time. I wrote you a haiku to make up for it. (scroll down)

bibi bebee

little baby goats

jumping around Oecusse

pooping everywhere

Double feature

I'm not on my computer for the first time in a long time, so I can't include some recent pictures, but rest assured I'll put them up the second I'm able. I'm in Dili right now trying to import some stuff. It's complicated and slow.

To make things worse, some kids stole all my bananas this morning. They were really agressive, and pretty much accosted me and robbed me in broad daylight: I couldn't say no to them. Keep your bananas close in Dili, friends.

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Since I don't have any pictures this time, you can enjoy a picture heavy blog I wrote for Kopernik, and another one I forgot to link to.

(I particularly like the title "post in translation")

still kicking

Been drinking (solar-irradiated) tap water for two days now, with no problems or discomfort.