The Road to Railako

The mountains in Timor make driving a queasy experience © Brie OKeefe

Its day 6, and we’re zigzagging up a mountain in a taxi missing 2 sets of door handles on our way to Railako, a town in the districts outside of Dili.  Although perhaps I should say mountains, as I lost count after climbing and descending 3.  Always famous in my family for my queasy stomach, I’m currently resisting the urge to grip the dashboard with both hands as if to steady the car, or throw my head out the window to get more air.  Even worse that the threat of being sick, I worry about the impression I would make on behalf of our organisation if upon arrival at the next interviewee’s house, I shoot out of the car and vomit before sheepishly making introductions.

 

Brie O’Keefe

 

I ask Chico, one of our in-country staff how much further.  “Only 30 minutes!”, he says cheerfully.  I try to smile away the green tinge I know my skin must be taking.

 

The drive is majestic.  We climb up through winding roads that drop away to nothing at one side, and extend sharply upwards on the other.  On this trip, we’re on the inside lane, making me feel relatively secure.  But this road is hardly wide enough for two sets of cars, and I know the trip home will be slightly more unnerving. 

 

It’s the dry season here, and despite the dust coming up off the roads, there is still much green in the jungle rising up the mountain.  Chico points out large coffee bushes sheltered by gigantic eucalyptus trees, and begin explaining the differences between Timorese coffee cultivation and other areas.  Chico’s family owns a coffee plantation further inland in Hermera, and as we drive by the small huts along the road, we often see coffee beans spread on burlap sacks, drying in the sun before being sent to the city to be roasted.

 

As we climb further, we see whole mountainsides that have been burnt, and are covered in a dark ash.  Chico tells us this was done deliberately, to allow easier access to large trees for firewood, and to improve the quality of the soil for the next rainy season.  It seems even in what seemed to be an initially pristine paradise; poverty shows its effects on the environment.  In a similar vein, we pass by working crews along the roadside burning grass and bush.  They are part of a government work programme, and they receive $2 per day to clear away brush and debris.  It’s not enough to live on, Chico explains, but its something. 

 

We begin to descend again sharply, and in the valley below I see my first terraced rice paddies in Timor.  A startling green against the dusty dry area around it, I see people dotted along the terraces, minding the crop, while cattle and water buffalo graze nearby.  Chico tells me of an American who settled in this village, marrying a Timorese woman, and buying houses for both himself and a large quantity of his in-laws.  There are rumours in the village that he is with the CIA – why else, they say, would he choose to settle here?

 

Jo and I giggle at the thought of the CIA monitoring this sleepy village, and the car drives on.  I’ve seen it many times in my life, foreigners finding a home in a place very far and very different from their own.  My parents settled in Canada’s aboriginal communities in the far North about 28 years ago, an equally isolated and culturally foreign place – living in places that had no road access, or where we were one of only a handful of white ‘southern’ families.  But the North was instantly their home in a way that their native Toronto never was.  I can understand what would draw this American here beyond an international intelligence initiative. 

 

We climb upwards again.  Throughout the mountain roads, different goods stand in piles by the roadside, signalling they are for sale.  Bundles of home-made twine from coconut fibres, brooms made from brush, large water bottles filled with a white liquid Chico tells me is palm wine.  Due to the lack of petrol stations, in other places these same water bottles are filled with petrol for motorbikes or scooters.  Piles of firewood, in neat stacks like Jenga towers stand hoping that people will stop.  The air is cooler her, the children slightly more dishevelled, and life is hard here too, but in a completely different way than in the cities. 

 

We arrive in Railako to meet Ms. Jelia and her five children.  We’re hear to speak about the disappearance of her husband in 1991.  She stands proudly with her 5 children, all in private schools or university, and she has prepared us Timorese coffee, roasted peanuts and banana fritters.  Once again I’m amazed at the hospitality and kindness we’ve been offered since we arrived here, and the tenacity of each person we’ve met.  I take 3 deep breaths once I step outside the car, and begin to feel the nausea fade away.  We shake hands, practice some English with the children, and get to work.

 

Brie O’Keefe