The lack of posting going on here is due to me spending a week out in the wilderness. Although I have never been keen on traveling and darting about from country to country, cramming as many destinations into each week as possible, I still get a buzz from living in new places and experiencing different cultures. Last week was my chance to see what life is like for many out in the districts of Timor-Leste.

I was in Matenu, a small village in Ainaro. From one day to the next I had no idea what was in store. It was the kind of trip that many people would hate. We traveled for five hours in the back a pickup truck. There were about twenty of us: fifteen adults, five or six children, one buffalo and a pig. The truck dropped us off a hefty walk through the hills from our final destination.

We slept outside in makeshift marquees made of bamboo and tarpaulin. The ground was hard and the temperature dipped dramatically after sundown. In the mornings we bathed and swam in a river with kids splashing about all over the place.

During the day we drank coffee, whisky, palm brandy and beer. Sometimes we even drank water. Being out in the hills, the combination of altitude, caffeine, alcohol and heat meant that we were all out of our minds most of the time. People from neighboring villages and sub districts arrived until there were at least a hundred of us, with numbers swelling up to three hundred towards the end of the week.

Many of the people in Manetu harvest coffee. They also grow potatoes and other vegetables. But people came from miles around bringing pigs and buffaloes and goats and we ate like kings. It didn’t take long to get used to the sight and sound of animals being slaughtered and chopped up for cooking. Pigs in particular scream for their lives like a human would, but I had never eaten pork that tasted so divine.

The main activity during the week was dancing. By day we danced outside to the beat of a drum, while at night the generator powered a sound system and we danced under cover until the sun came up. Everyone danced: the old, the young, the men, the women, the guy with one arm, the people in traditional Timorese dress.

At other times I walked through the hills, stopping off at huts now and then, invited in for cups of coffee. For seven days I didn’t see another foreigner and the Timorese welcomed me into their lives with big smiles and shots of palm brandy, which, by the way, tastes much better than palm wine.

There’s so much more to tell, but after a week away I now find myself with a mountain of work and freelance assignments to sift through along with dozens of emails to reply to and follow up. But still, I had a great week and haven’t for one moment regretted my decision to leave Thailand.

Returning to Dili was a deflating experience and I felt disassociated from the city. Many things just didn’t seem right. It was like coming down.