Sayin "Yes" to Gangstas Paradise

I'd been talking to my Secret Asian spawn lately about  the need to say yes to things. Resisting the urge to pull back or turn down offers, just because initially they seem uninteresting or frightening or foreign.

Pull back is what I'd done when a nurse in Timor Leste asked me along to her choir practice.  

Choir? No thanks. I'll keep it between me and my bar of soap if it's all the same to you.

But then I thought maybe I should practice what I preach. I wasn't going to do much of anything other than eat, sit and go to sleep, anyway

So, I said "yes".

I said "yes" to a choir of mostly expats that rents out a hotel meeting room and sings once a week.  It's not gospel and no one strives for perfection, though they made it to the semi finals of a local competition. It's just a guy and his keyboard and a bunch of sheet music and 15-30 folks.  It's pretty democratic.  There is some structure, but people seem to just yell out songs to sing and if there is enough agreement, that is what they sing.

We started out with a new rendition of "Let it Be" which improved after 4 or 5 tries.

While we were finishing up a man strolled in with 6 or 7 Timorese guys. They were milling about when some one said, alright it's time for “Gangstas Paradise”.

Apparently the late-comer is leaving the choir and tradition holds that when you leave you get to pick a song to sing.

He also volunteers to teach English to the locals. Since they were young guys he'd been working with them on the lyrics to “Gangstas Paradise” and asked them to come work with the choir on it. They were also going to translate the rap lyrics into the local Tetun language.

So, we all reviewed our parts and after a few false starts put together a pretty rocking rendition.  Or at least as rocking as an acapella group of middle aged expats and a non-native speaking Timorese could be.  It was musical melting pot. There was video taken and I’d hoped to have it to post for you , but alas it hasn’t come through yet. I really wish I could see the final performance at a local bar in a few weeks time.

In addition to some friendly acquaintances, I found myself invited along to a book club and hiking group.  And all this because I said ‘yes’ at a point where I’d usually say,  ‘thanks, but no’.  

CrocoDili

Back to Timor Leste for a visit. This was my third time there.

I met with an expat therapist who sees primarily foreigners, but some locals often around the issue of trauma and loss. She passed on that in addition to feeling typical grief, she often has to,help them with the community’s perception of them.

If a Timorese suffers something bad, yes, they may feel guilty, but they also have to deal with what their neighbors think.  The communities are close and the general feeling is, if something bad happens, it is because you deserved it.  Your spouse is cheating? Maybe you took money from the till. Lose a child? Children are still too pure, so it must be something you did as a parent.

The country is 95% Catholic, but this sort of reap-what-you-sow, primitive mentality runs older and deeper into the realm of fatalistic animism.

Large saltwater crocodiles ply the waters between Australia and Timor Leste.  Mostly they hang around the sparser populated south coast, but not uncommonly they're spotted on the north near the capital.

The crocs are seen as the arbiter of God's law here.  A few times a week the local papers write about a child who didn't come home after swimming, or a fisherman snatched from his boat by a croc.  

Afterwards the community cluck-clucks and wonders about the victim or the survivors whose only sin may have been they let a child swim in crocodile infested waters.

But, it keeps people in line. People say, "I've lived with a pure heart. I’ve got nothing to hide. I can fish without a problem, or I'll let God decide if what I've done was bad enough and they swim or fish regardless of the news article they just read.

“If the crocodile comes, it won't come for me.”

Rum and Coke Reprise

Sitting in the Esplanada hotel. Realizing that it could be one of my favorite places on earth.  There is a constant sea breeze, good food, a stream of interesting people and often live music.

Long time readers may remember my fawning over this place a year ago, but my trials at getting a rum and coke.  If you don't you can read about it here.

This year I was in the same mood. There was a band playing some great cover tunes.  I thought I'd try again.  Maybe to see if they'd remembered anything.  I called the staff over and asked for a rum and coke.

“What kind of rum would you like, Bacardi or Bundaberg?”

Hmmm. This was promising! The place may be stepping up! I chose the latter.

I was sitting with a view behind the bar, so I could see what happened. I watched her go and pour a shot of rum and pull a can of coke out of the fridge and put them both on a tray.  She told the other bartender to ring up what she was making. The other woman snapped something like, “serve it with ice!”, because the first bartender went and got a glass of ice. And put it on the tray.  

Then the second bartender barked, “serve them together!”  The first bartender got a third glass and dumped them all together and brought it to me.  Success!

Language and Interpretation

Should you find yourself at the end of the line in Dili one day, you’ll likely need a place to stay.  There are only a few flights per day to and from the place, so if you land you’ll have to at least spend the night.

I highly recommend the Esplanada Hotel.  It’s owned by a nice Australian guy and right across the street from the beach.  It’s recently been renovated with nice clean and functional rooms.  Mini fridge and satellite TV if you like that sort of thing.  Most of the channels were news channels, though, so kind of a downer if you’re trying to escape the plagues, war and terror.

They’ve a great open air bar and restaurant open from dawn until about midnight. It overlooks the beach and there is live music most nights.  The staff is very nice and they try to please.  They have a hard time though anticipating and think outside the usual. 

For instance, I went to the restaurant to listen to the band.  Being in the tropics with reggae-like music playing, I fancied a Rum and Coke.  So, when the waiter brought over a menu, I waved off the menu and just told him, I’d like a rum and coke. 

“Okay”, he said.

He came back a few minutes later with the menu opened to the specialty cocktails section.  “What kind of drink did you want.”

“Oh, it’s probably not in this menu.  I just want a rum and coke.”  And away he went.

Minutes later another waiter came over, again with the menu.  “What do you want, again?”

I kind of laughed.  “A rum and coke.  Do you have rum?”  He nodded.  “Do you have Coke?” he nodded.  “Then there you go.”  And back to the bar he went.

Would you believe another waiter came over?  Yes, she did. This time with the other two waiters to back her up. “Sorry, mister.  One more time.  What you want?”

I almost broke down and ordered a froo-froo drink from the menu, but I bit my lip and persevered.  I’m sorry to say, I reverted to the age old tool…. Louder and slower.  “A Rum and Coke.  Do you have Rum?’

Nod.

“Do you have Coke?”

Nod.

“Do you have ice?”

Nod.

I smiled “Do you have a glass?”

Smile and a nod.

“Mix it all together. That is what I want.”  She and her henchmen again went a way to confer.  She returned with a great result.  So good, in fact, I ordered a second.

Look closely at this photo. What does it mean? I posted it elsewhere.  It is hung all around the hotel and I’d been puzzling about it for days. 

I asked friends for help in interpreting.  Response ranged in topic from men and women, to the Beatles, to Elvis, to Zombies to inflatable dolls. 

As I was checking out, I nabbed the assistant manager/maintenance guy and let him know I’d been wondering about this sign all week and he pointed out that they were Fire Exit signs.

“Yes, yes. I got that. But, what does it mean?  What is going on in this picture?”

“I don’t know really. A few months back the building inspector made us re-label all our exits and he picked out these signs because he thought they were quite funny.”

Which reminded me of another fact I learned earlier in the week.  70% of the population of East Timor is under the age of 25 years old.  These children are raising themselves.  You have to love a building code inspector with a youthful sense of humor.  

What's up Dili?

So, what’s up in Dili, Timor Leste?

You may or may not recall the revolution that came to a head here in the late 90’s-early 2000s when Timor Leste gained it’s independence from Indonesia.  It probably didn’t outshine the O.J trial or the Monica and Bill show at the time.  It seems that when Indonesia finally got its freedom from the Dutch, they assumed that Timor Leste would want to go along.  But, they didn’t

Way, way back the Portuguese controlled the eastern part of this island and so, the island is now some 90% Catholic compared with the rest of Indonesia which is 85-90% Muslim. They still speak Portuguese here, as well as a language called Tetum and some Indonesian and some English, but they strongly identify with their Portuguese roots.   Kind of funny, I think.  Inflating one colonial power’s roots to rebel against another’s but there you are.

Timor means “East” in Indonesian.  Leste means “East” in Portuguese.  So, we’re in East East today.  The Tetum word for the country is Timor Lorosae.  Which also means East-East. Linguistic creativity is limited.

So, the country has 200,000 people, or 2 million depending on who you ask.  I’ve asked several locals and haven’t gotten the same answer twice.  Wikipedia says they have nearly 1.2 million people. From what I’ve gathered, there has been a downturn in the population after the UN pulled out of its peacekeeping and development projects.  All the accompanying people have moved on as well. It’s a pretty quiet place.

Young children swim naked on the beach after school.  They really have a blast. Men row or wade out into the surf and pull in some fish, haul them up to the beach road and sell them strung off coconut leaves by the side of the road. Those that they can’t sell they roast over a fire at the market down the street.  A poor man’s carry out. Mom’s and children fan off the flies in the evening sun.

One of the first things you notice on the road on arrival is the taxis.  They’re yellow, just like many places in the world, but the similarities end there.  They are garish and amateurishly decorated with day-glo green painted wheels and all manner of external accessories. Spoilers seem popular, as do parking mirrors affixed to the roof.  Most comical are the decals/sunshades, like “Suck on it” and “F(*k  it” and “Awesome”.  Very few have working A/C and all through the town they troll looking for customers with a toot of the horn and a yell out the open window.

Met a man in a bar who is involved with helping this young government set up its medication procurement and logistics.  Figuring out why they have a 15 years’ supply of medication that is going to expire in 2 years’ time.  Figuring out how best to ensure the population is getting true medication and not just some knock-off because it was cheaper or because the supplier was a friend of somebody.  Figuring out how to convince the people in charge that the real issue is patient health and not just a well stocked supply cupboard.  He says, “I often go into meetings  and let people know that I make decisions based on three words.”  and he writes them on the whiteboard, “Will, ‘Patients’ ‘Die’? and I’m often looked at with a perplexed look.  What do patients have to do with anything?”

He’s done this sort of work for several countries in this neck of the woods and tries to guide governments toward the decisions that make the best sense for the general health of the population.  He has come to accept a rather disheartening conclusion that “It is the right of any sovereign nation to kill its people in any way it sees fit.”  This was a couple beers into the night, but a rather sobering thought.

Made the rounds of the local hospital.  Met one of three psychiatrists in the country.  One of them is leaving next month to return to Portugal.  So, if there are 1.2 million people, he’s one in a million. He did some training in PNG and Australia, but he’s fiercely proud of his Timorese heritage.  

“Send them all.  If any person needs me here, I’ll see them?"

There is a psychiatric nurse in each of the districts and they all consult with him if they have problems. Most of the GPs like many in the world are too uncomfortable seeing psychiatric patients.

He tells me they don’t see much in the way of behavior disorders in children, perhaps they’re the ones out swimming naked in the surf. But, later he said he’d received complaints from teachers and asked for referrals, but hadn’t seen any yet.  Mostly when he sees children, they have autism or developmental problems.  He doesn’t find there are eating disorders here either.  We’re all too hungry.

Depression is a problem, as are marriage problems.  Schizophrenia rates have been rising in his office. Some patients have had problems for years, but only now have come forward.  Curiously this coincides with the newly instituted government policy where patients with severe mental illness receive an allowance for care.  They can only get the money if they are certified by a psychiatrist, and so they all come to him to get their paper signed.  

He offers them treatment, but “they just want the money.”  The families take the patient back home and do what they’ve done with them for the past 10 years, which is shackle them to a wall or keep them in a cage to keep them out of trouble. It is sad, but one consolation is that family support is something many in the US don’t have, so homelessness and victimization of the mentally ill is less.

He’s a very spiritual man.  There are a stack of New Testament bibles on his desk and there may have been talk about asking for forgiveness when I walked up to his office.  There are only 7 psychiatric meds available in the country, all of them antiquated. And it will be some time before there are any more, so there would be an urge to turn to the spiritual, I suppose.

There may be some hope.  Plans are on the drawing board for a new acute care psychiatry wing. My colleague though has yet to be consulted for any input.  

A Funny Way to Run and Airline

Off to Dili.

Caught a 5 AM flight via Bali.  Flight time changed to 5:45 am the day before.  I am aware from others that flight departure times may change minute to minute, and it’s an international flight, so I make a plan to arrive at airport by 3. I’m out the door at 2:15 AM.

Arrive at airport before it opens.  Along with hundreds of other like minded individuals. We wait in a fairly orderly queue out front. Apparently, all of Sriwijaya Air’s flights leave at the same time.  At 3AM, they open the doors and we all file in through an initial security checkpoint. This one to check that you’re not bringing in a bomb to the ticket counter.  

Beyond this is the ticket lobby. there is no line. No queue. No corral. Just an open lobby.  And all of us file in and go no where. We promptly fill the lobby. There is no one behind the counter.  It’s just dark.  And still, more travellers file in and crowd and shove and finagle. It is uncertain what happens next.  Maybe it will be like a Who concert.  It is getting tight.  

At 3:20 AM, one worker strolls up to one of 12 counters.  The hundreds of people all shuffle and heave over toward him and we wait again. The first person in line has some sort of problem, so his check-in is slow.  Another worker comes.  Another counter opens.  Another shift in the crowd.  

This goes on every 5 minutes or so for the next 20 minutes.  And with each new counter, there is a new problem, so no one moves very fast.  By now, all of 5 people have checked in.

Then 90 minutes before our flight, in stroll the real professionals.  10 women saunter in.  All coiffed and matching and heeled with a matching bag to boot.  They climb behind the counter and over the luggage belts and replace all the trainees that have been struggling for the last 45 minutes. The line clears in minutes.

We board.  There is no announcement over the PA, instead a woman opens a door and yells, “Denpasar, Bali!” at the top of her lungs and we all get up.  The man at the far end of the jetway is caught be surprise. He's unsure where to send us.  He yells down to the plane crew.  “Where is this plane going?”

It is remarkable.  We all leave on time.

We fly through Bali and arrive there about 90 minutes later.  We all get off the plane.  They bus us to the other end of the long terminal.  We get off.  Those of us going to Dili are told to go to Immigration, so we do.  We stand in a long line. We pay some money and then we stroll back through airport and wind up back at the exact same plane we just left.  Such are things on Sri Wijaya Air.  “Your Flying Partner!”