The Lost Boy

Dili to Bali

It was my last night in Dili and a few of the guys from my street wanted to have a small get-together. Unfortunately for my Timorese compatriots, they’d lost all their money at the afternoon’s chicken fight, so the elaborate feast that had been planned was reduced to three packets of instant noodles – and several bottles of tua sabu (palm brandy), of course.

The night wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. We ate, drank, talked and chilled. By the end of the evening I’d been given an Indonesian military hat and two T-shirts bearing the logo of a popular political party. It was a fitting way to end my first stint in Timor.

I was, however, exhausted. Earlier that day I’d walked about 10 kilometers to an interview. After that I had walked for another 90 minutes trying to find my new house, which I hadn’t fully moved into yet.

Though tired and sunburnt, I still had fun at my farewell gathering. About halfway through the night, we were joined by a guy, 28 years old, whose arms were covered in scars. He was also completely deaf. As far as I’m aware, sign language isn’t commonly taught in Timor. One of our group had known the deaf guy for years and so the two of them were able to communicate with a very basic form of signing that they had developed over time.

“I just know what he means,” said my friend. The deaf guy mostly signed about fighting and having sex. His arms were twice as big as mine and his pecs looked like rocks – a decent ally t have on the street.

A slightly awkward situation arose when one of our friends showed up, drunk and stoned, and tried to get me to go with him back to his house. There was a lot of tension between the deaf man and the newcomer to the party. Eventually the new guy left and there were a few dark words spoken and signed.

Even on a street as supposedly safe as ours, there are still dangers. It’s good for me to keep that in the back of mind. Problems seem to mostly occur when certain people get drunk, which is regularly. It happens in every country. The majority of people get drunk and just act dumb or fall asleep, but occasionally you come across someone who becomes very aggressive.

So that’s it. My three months in Timor have come to an end. I’m in Bali right now. I’ve been lucky enough to have been given a place to crash for a few days. By some strange coincidence, I was in Dili one day at my friend’s house, when a man and a woman came and spoke to us. The lady turned out to be a writer visiting Timor for a few days, so we swapped emails.

A few weeks later I found out that the woman is the ex-wife of a friend of mine, who runs one of the bars in Dili. It’s a small world. I’m staying at the lady’s house now, anyway, along with her 16-year-old daughter and an Aussie dude named Sam.

This lady is perhaps the coolest mum I have ever met – my own mother excluded, naturally. On the first night I was here, Steve Aoki was in town. Had it not been a Tuesday night, the hip mother would have come along, too.

I went down on my own to club Bacio. I don’t know anyone in Bali and I’d only been in town for a few hours. The club was packed with Aussie tourists wearing Bintang vests, so I didn’t feel compelled to talk to anyone there. It was a good release, however, to just drink and dance. Yes, I actually danced. Some people will be surprised to hear that.

Steve Aoki was pretty good until he started playing YMCA, Dancing Queen, Living on a Prayer and Sweet Child of Mine. He butchered his entire set by ending with an hour of rubbish music. You could tell it wasn’t cool by looking around at the people who were enjoying it. I was so unimpressed that I left and went to sit on the beach.

I soon realized that I was very drunk. To have returned in that state to a home at which I was a guest would have been rude, so I decided to wait it out on the beach. I was tired and took a quick nap. When I awoke it was almost morning and people at the house would be getting up for work and school soon. I found my way back and slept on and off for the next 15 or so hours.

Good times in SEA.