Jacqui Birchall, East Timor – The path of most despair - Site of death and oppression since 1975, East Timor had little to offer one intrepid traveller – except perhaps the satisfying knowledge that her very presence was a burr in the side of the authorities.
In the Hotel Tourismo, Rico, a young man at the front desk, speaks excellent English. He joins me for lunch. He is attractive, attentive, talkative and curious. I should be suspicious.
It's not difficult to get into East Timor, the former Portuguese colony occupied by Indonesia since l975, and the sight of such atrocities as the 1991 massacre of between 100 and 200 Timorese. No visa, for instance, is required, and flights are easy to get from Denpasar, Bali or Jakarta, Java. But withstanding the pervasive presence of Intel, the secret police, is not as easy. I found the experience draining, and I know now that I would have been better off travelling with a friend for moral support. But I recommend a visit: Foreign visitors really annoy the Indonesian authorities.
The airport in Dili, the capital, is small, clean and bright. It is also the domain of plain-clothed, hard-eyed Intel men, who survey all incoming passengers and take note of non-Indonesians, who are rare and therefore obvious.
The streets of Dili are occupied mainly by soldiers. But the few children and teenagers I meet are friendly, curious and giggly. They cross the street to greet me in the usual Indonesian manner. "Hellooooooooo Mister!"
"Hellooooooo Mister!" I respond. They collapse in giggles. We try to talk. They examine all of my possessions and agree to let me take their photo. When I ask them where the Cathedral is, they point to a large, new, ugly building. This is a haven for the Timorese, where the Bishop and priests of East Timor provide sanctuary for the oppressed, for the freedom fighters of Fretilin, for the wounded, for the dying.
Back at the Hotel Tourismo, Rico joins me for dinner. I ask him about shopping and about beemos (small buses) to Bacau, a town where many of the atrocities have taken place. When I try to leave the hotel in the darkness of early evening, Rico and the hotel driver join me. Their presence prevents me from having contact with any Timorese. When I return to the hotel I am greeted by two serious, plain-clothed men carrying briefcases. They greet me by name and ask me about my plans to visit Bacau. They want to know which beemo I will be travelling on. How long I plan to stay there, and so on. Surpirised and naive, I answer all their questions. Somehow, I don't even seem to have the wherewithal to ask them who they are.
The next morning the hotel driver insists on taking me to the bus station. When a young man rushes forward to take my bag to an almost full beemo, he is sharply rebuffed by the hotel driver. I am placed in an empty beemo. Because I need a front seat to combat motion sickness, I don't mind, even though I know that I'm in for a long wait - beemos will not leave until they are full.
Then two men climb on board. One sits beside me and one across the aisle. Fellow motion sickness sufferers perhaps? The one beside me speaks excellent English, tells me he is a journalist and asks me if I am one, too - a question I will be asked many times. I tell him I am a teacher. He tells me he is one also, and discusses teaching techniques. He talks about loving a Balinese woman, something unacceptable between the Muslim Javanese and the Hindu Balinese families. He is pleasant company.
In Bacau he shows me the way to the Hotel Flamboyant. Once the pride of Portuguese East Timor, it has been used as a detention and torture centre and is now run down and dirty. The cold-eyed, monosyllabic hotel manager shows me various rooms. All have broken windows, wet floors and dripping ceilings. All the baths, sinks and toilets are covered in thick, brown grime. I decline each room I am shown. Is there anywhere else to stay in Bacau? My journalist/teacher companion sadly shakes his head.
I decide to leave my too heavy bag on the hotel steps and to explore Bacau on foot before returning to Dili on the afternoon beemo. Bacau was once considered a resort town by the Portuguese. Now it is quiet, run down and poor.
After a few minutes my companion tells me he must leave. I am vaguely disappointed - he is a great interpreter. I look up find myself in front of the Catholic church. I am lucky enought to have the name of the priest and he takes me to his home for lunch. Young, attractive, from a wealthy family in a land far away, he is living in a town where war crimes, government interference and shocking poverty are prevalent. I admire him greatly.
On the beemo back to Dili I am once again accompanied. This time the man's English is poor. He displaces the young man next to me, engages me in conversation and offers me a cigarette and sex later that evening. I point to my pseudo wedding ring and he feigns sleep. He later tells me that he, too, is a teacher and that he lives in Dili.
Nonetheless, he fails to recognize the Dili bus station when we arrive and insists on trying to climb into my taxi. Goodbye, Mr. Secret Policeman, I say, and leave him, chagrined, on the side walk.
The next day I spend my time with a German couple who have rented a car and a driver. (In East Timor all rental cars come with government drivers.) We stop to view the prison, the largest and most modern building in East Timor, which spreads out above beautiful white beaches. Later we pass East Bacau, a fragile and desperate shanty town set up to house Javanese brought here with false promises of land and government housing. The government wants to make the Timorese a minority in their own country. In Bacau we visit the old, enclosed market. Rake thin Timorese men and women, with betel nut stained mouths, hollow eyes and sad, tired clothing surround us. I ask if I can take their picture. But when I attempt to take my new friends into the church to meet the friendly priest, our way is blocked by an English-speaking Indonesian who stands with arms outstretched. He forbids us entry and tells us he is a farmer.
Outside of town we stop and speak Portuguese to several old men, their stilt houses rising high above them, while passing soldiers in big trucks yell abuse at us and wave their AK 47s. In Lospalos, another town with a history of atrocities, our driver takes us to the police station, where we are obliged to register our presence and to get a surat jalan - a pass allowing us in the area. I look at the wall behind the officer's head and see that in this, the eighth month of the year, only 28 people have visited Lospalos. The town is small and dismal, with the same forlorn air that permeates all of East Timor. Lunch is not good.
Back in Dili I grow despondent with the high prices and the constant presence of Intel. Canadian travellers cheques and charge cards are not accepted in East Timor and I find myself unable to pay the hotel bill. The hotel owner intervenes at the bank, shaking his head over the difficulties of financial transactions here.
One reason for my visit is to deliver to someone in Dili a book listing all of the atrocities that have occurred in East Timor since the Indonesian invasion. When I do, my contact points out government spies, most of them working as tour guides and drivers. I am told that foreigners are checked as soon as they make their reservation to Dili.
Two days later I fly out. Even though I have come to East Timor from a troubled township in South Africa, I am cowed by my experiences. Nothing I have seen before matches the tragedy and desolation that is East Timor. There is no music, no joy, no chatting throngs. Just a sense of despair, oppression and death.
Recently I attended a symposium on East Timor in Vancouver. One afternoon at a presentation at Simon Fraser University's downtown campus, I found myself surrounded by 10 or 15 Indonesian men. All carried note pads and tape recorders and took extensive notes. After the presentations, the Indonesians began to harangue and to discredit the conference. The Indonesian Consul was seated in the front row of the lecture theatre. During the question period I stood up to challenge them.
Why, I asked them, if everything is so good in East Timor, why was I always accompanied by Intel? Why was I not allowed in a church? Why can't tourists rent cars without a driver? The men yelled abuse at me. The consul in the front row shouted and waived his fists at me. My legs felt shaky. I found it hard to believe I was in downtown Vancouver.
Notes
Accommodation Dili is limited. There is the hotel Tourismo, the Hotel Dili and the much more expensive Hotel New Resende Inn. The Hotels Tourismo and Dili are the cheapest at around $27 a day. There are losmans (B&Bs), but I didn't find one suitable for a woman travelling alone.
[Jacqui Birchall is a Vancouver teacher.]