A scale weighs out coffee in Dili © Brie OKeefe

Yesterday was our photographer Marcus’ last day in Timor, and we spent the morning bustling about to get some last key shots before we deposited him on the plane, and got down to the busy business of transcribing and organizing the interviews we’ve done, recording the names we’ve met, backing up files incessantly before heading to Bali on Saturday. Through a small miscommunication, we believe we’re heading to Yayasan Hak, a local Human Rights NGO to take a photograph with Julinho, a survivor of the Santa Cruz massacre, and a medal given to him by the Timorese government for his involvement as a Youth in the struggle for independence. But we realise we’re going in the right direction.

Brie O’Keefe

“But you said you wanted coffee!” said Chico, as we pull into what appears to be an abandoned warehouse in a large industrial yard. Its true, Marcus and I had expressed the desire to pick up some Timorese coffee to take back, but that was only time permitting, and since we’d been told it was only possible to buy green unroasted beans OR ground coffee, we weren’t really that keen. Although all of us wanted to make sure we could get those final tasks done before the flight, we were already here, and so we cut our losses and headed inside the darkened warehouse.

Beneath the rusted panels making up the walls of the warehouse, we enter a dark room filled with gigantic sacks of unroasted coffee beans – burlap sacks traditionally used in the West as decoration on the walls of expensive coffee houses. Seeing “Café de Timor Leste” printed on the side of a giant sack actually filled with beans in such a primitive setting brought home where our ‘decorations’ were actually from.

The warehouse was made of three rooms and was run by a staff of 2. The first room we had entered was where green coffee beans were weighed and measured from giant unweighed holding sacks into sacks holding precisely 100kgs. He tells us coffee is hand sorted in East Timor, with larger beans separated from smaller by workers in the countryside before it is brought here.

Before roasting, coffee is weighed into large sacks © Brie OKeefe

To the right of this room is where the roasted coffee is kept in individual bags holding 1kg of 500g. It is sold roasted or whole, and the whole room gives off the most inviting odour. Despite the remote location, and the lack of any sign on the building either Tetum, Portuguese or Bahasa Indonesia, we quickly see that his room is a buzz of activity, as people drop in regularly to buy freshly roasted coffee to take to their homes or offices. The shirtless man at the desk tells us all the coffee we have bought was roasted yesterday, and we are practically drooling at the gorgeous chocolately smell of it.

It is beyond this room, that we see the most fascinating part of the warehouse – the roasting room. Standing at two opposite ends of the long room lie two ancient, and formidably large coffee roasters. A man dressed only in tiny shorts with a large cloth draped over his head squats before one, scraping stray coffee out from under it, and generally maintain the beast of a machine. All of these rooms are lit only through light that pours in through the windows, and there is ancient feel to this place, with all the machines standing in an eerily still and quiet form, its difficult to imagine them whirring to life with the flick of a switch. In fact, I find it hard to believe this place even has electricity to power these machines.

A worker cleans a coffee roaster © Brie OKeefe

Nevertheless we buy several bags of coffee and leave. Marcus, as a child in a candy store, can barely contain his glee at the coffee, and quickly creates a device using the packaging where he can inhale great whiffs of the coffee as we drive towards our next assignment, discuss in detail how exactly he will grind and prepare it once we get back to London. We sheepishly thank Janu, our driver, for the wonderful if unscheduled stop, and head on to our next assignment, having had a brief moment at playing tourists in Timor.

Brie O’Keefe

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

Today on the way to an interview we saw something we’d only heard about: the pig patrol.  Dili, it seems, has always been overrun with pigs.  In a city with refugee camps and limited sanitation facilities, they presented a public health disaster.  Enough was enough, decreed the government, and mobile slaughter units were created to round up and kills the pigs on sight.  It was a disturbing sight, workers dressed all in yellow leapt from the back of a pick-up truck with long metal spears.  Mortally (and inhumanely) wounded the pig so it would die (eventually), tossed it in the back of the truck and moved on.  The whole process took approximately 40 seconds, and for a moment, just a moment, I got a glimpse of the brutality that lays below the surface in East Timor.  It can become all too easy to kill, it seems, and there have been times in the history of every country, where human life has not been much more valuable that than poor pig’s. 

Brie O’Keefe

In Dili, our interviewees greet us warmly, and allow us, for one or two hours, to intrude into their lives, pose them for photographs and leave with hopes more than promises – we will try, we say, to get the world to care.  I’ve thought a lot about how to blog, or even how to write about what we’ve been told here, and the truth is I can’t, for now.  I can’t write about them, their bravery, their tenacity, their honesty, as a hurried blog from my hotel room.  Part of me wants to hold their stories in my heart forever, protect them, and keep them from the cruel and indifferent eyes of the world.  But I know that isn’t what they would want me to do.

Gloria and her daughter are patient while waiting for the interpretor ©Brie OKeefe

As this visit has progressed, as we’ve moved from one person to another, and taken in their sorrows, their tears, their lives, I’ve noticed several survival tactics employed by my psyche that have helped me keep going.  After each interview, after I’ve given my complete attention, all the empathy I can find, all the sympathy, sensitivity and respect I can possibly give, I take notes, I make sure the recording was good, and I forget.  I forget them because I cannot possibly concentrate on the next interview if I hold them all together in my mind.  The minute I leave their compound, they are gone from my mind.  This isn’t to say however, that they aren’t in my heart.  But to my mind they will return, slowly but surely, after I’ve gathered all of the stories, spent some days nurturing my soul, and I will think how I can best honour these people who’ve trusted me and given me the privilege of being another international messenger of their lives and reality. 

The other tactic, a slightly more pragmatic one, is that I sleep.  Its almost as if my mind, to keep itself sharp and ready, shuts itself off, and I sleep deeply, every night from 10pm to almost 8am, and then struggle to wake up.  I have heavy heavy dreams that seem to combine the urgencies of a stressful city life in London with my tropical setting – the tube runs across Dili harbour, and my passport is my oyster card.  There are large knives in children’s hands on the South Bank… although perhaps the strange mixture of allergy medicine, anti-malarials and Chinese herbal supplements (for digestive health!) could have something to do with this. 

Brie O’Keefe 

We’ve driven 2 hours outside Dili to the town of Liquica, site of a famous massacre, but also a district, like so many in Timor, of fishermen, farmers and families.  We arrive in the full heat of the midday sun and are greeted by sleepy houses with roosters, pigs and children running about, palm wine and biscuits sold by the roadside, and the large church, where we’ve come to interview the local priest, and a survivor of violence on their experiences, hopes and dreams for Timor.

Brie O’Keefe

We’ve been here 4 days now, and the 10-12 hour days of interviewing, driving, logistics and transcribing are beginning to take their toll on me.  The management of a photographer with his own set of needs, 2 drivers, 2 interpreters and our media officer and myself requires careful consideration, not including the well intentioned hospitality of our hosts.  They interrupt our interview, as one man is describing his near escape from death, to insist we have coffee.  Frustrated at the rhythm of our interview being disturbed, hot and tired, I leave Jo and Jose so that he can give his story with the respect it deserves and so I can meet with our drivers, spare interpreter and photographer to have another of the seemingly endless discussions of timing – if we go there now, and you follow us, what time?  When?  And lunch?  The driver says….  Have you told them?  My head spins at the logistical inertia it seems inhibits our every move.

Jo and translator Domingas interview Jose ©Brie OKeefe

We invite Jose, the survivor we’ve interviewed, for lunch before we move to his house to photograph his family.  In Timor, most restaurants and hotels have been set up exclusively to cater to the large amounts of UN, international NGO and peacekeeping forces that are stationed here.  Because of that, restaurants outside of Dili, like our sleepy Rose restaurant, only take orders placed ahead of time – a reassurance for us that in this sleepy village with little business our food will be fresh.  It also gives us a local view on exactly who’s who in the international presence in Dili:  we dine with 3 Cuban doctors, 2 UN office personnel, a scattering of other NGO staff and several Japanese and Chinese business people or government officials. 

Towards the end of our meal, a large convoy of heavily armed Australian peacekeepers arrive.  They buy some cokes, and leave, before returning again to speak to us.  They explain they’re currently surveying the district’s infrastructure, and want to know if we can help them gather information about which districts have access to running water, electricity, and basic health services.  We apologise and explain that we’re from London and work only in Dili, but direct them to Carlos, the Portuguese language teacher we met in a nearby school, on the 4^th year of his placement in a Portuguese programme for Timorese teachers aimed at improving quality of Portuguese taught in local schools. 

The Australians are in full camouflage gear, and after leaving again, return briefly to take our cards and photograph us – sheepishly explaining they needed evidence of speaking with us.  They are wide with the gear they carry, and heavy with automatic weapons.  Although I can see they are used to it, they sweat in their heavy clothe sin the noon heat.  They stop and speak to us and we ask them about what their daily work entails, and as some of them are on their 2^nd or 3^rd deployment to Timor, what has changed since then.

“Well, the riots of 2006 were pretty full-on” explains Matt.  As he speaks I try to decipher the tattoos across his fingers, but fail.  “The riots in the hospital between different regional groups were difficult.  But things are a lot better now”.  I’m struck at the differences in the language we use to describe the same phenomena – as NGOs we use words that show we are seeking to understand and explain social reality.  We use words like “civil unrest” where these Australian peacekeepers say “riots”.  They use language of immediate – they seek to manage, control, and police and their language reflects that.  There is no causality in the word ‘murder,’ whereas the NGO term might be ‘extrajudicial executions’.  We may say ‘cycle of impunity’ where they say simply ‘continued deployment’.  Their words are the facts laid most bare, and I enjoy hearing how their mission and perspective on issues is reflected in how they express themselves in English. 

Matt discusses with us what he’s read about the history of Timor and its relevance, and yet strangely defers to our knowledge as ‘experts’, despite his 3 years of experience in the country over our 4 days.  I sense from this peacekeeper, as he explains his work, and shyly tries to assert his opinion on what is happening here, that we both want the same thing:  Peace, development, poverty reduction.  We part ways with the Aussies and go on to our next tale of survival, while he goes on to find out exactly who does and doesn’t have water in Liquica.  I hope we both find what we’re looking for, and yet I know if we get answers we’ll leave with only more questions, more work to be done.

Brie O’Keefe

Sunrise in Dili ©Jo Barrett

In East Timor, I’ve been able to abandon my alarm clock for the sound of roosters crowing in the morning.  That sound I previously associated with barnyard children songs and peter pan has now become forever entwined with the long lazy beaches, flowering trees, and imposing tropical mountains of the island of Timor Leste.  While walking through the town on my first day, I noticed the crowds of preening, crowing birds on every corner, pecking their way throughout the city, and although I should have known what would happen, the symphony of cries, the pure cacophony that welcomed the dawn still surprised me at sunrise this morning.

Brie O’Keefe

Timor’s unspoilt natural beauty is striking – as soon as the plane touches down along the shore in Dili you are presented with rolling tree-covered mountains leading down to long strips of sandy beaches meeting broad blue waves.  In my experience, poverty has always been marked by serious environmental degradation – one of my strongest memories of travel was arriving in North Korea to find no trees, bushes or crops in sight.  The starving people had consumed all of it, including leaves, for food.  This is not the case here.  Lush green jungle lines the mountains even in the dry season.  The city is alive with food for sale on every corner.  The green promenade next to the ocean is lined with fish, vegetable and coconut vendors that shout the prices of their wares to the groups of people lazily making their way along the seashore on their way home or to meet friends.

Trying to capture the atmosphere of the world’s newest nation is difficult to describe.  10 years on, Dili has had more than its fair share of political and economic crises, but the current atmosphere is one of buzzing optimism.  Internal refugees within the cities finally feel safe enough to go home, businesses are being set up, and investment from countries like Japan, China, Australia and other international organizations are noticeable in some of the shiny new buildings throughout the city.  The eternal elasticity and indomitable nature of the human spirit is present everywhere as those who have suffered unbelievable hardship prepare to dig their elbows in and rebuild again.

While there is an excitement throughout the city, evidence of poverty and the past conflicts are everywhere.  In the courtyard of every church lie tents housing internally displaced people.  The burnt frames of cars and SUVs hijacked during various periods of violence have been left where they were abandoned, and are now often used for practical means – I passed one covered with a UN tarp to store cabbage, another one draped with fishing nets.  As I look at this practical use of what is now nothing more than a metal frame, I can’t help but think of what those burnt frames represent: human nature at its worst, law and order abandoned, precious resources wasted in the greed for power fuelled by violence.

As this half-island nation is less than 10 years old, basic things we take for granted in even the most basic developing countries present logistical nightmares.  Timor is a country of only one petrol station, 3 atms, and internet connections are few and far between.  There is a stadium, but an empty field is marked “Future installation of the Dili postal system” – there is still much to do. To add to the strangeness for us westerners, Timor’s beautiful beaches, unspoilt reefs for diving and amazing mountain views seem to hold little value to people who are looking for sustainable employment and affordable education.  Who needs a beach if there’s never money for a vacation?  Although tourists are beginning to come, there is a long way to go.

The evidence of an international presence in Dili is everywhere – the streets are full of UN jeeps, the refugee camps within Dili are draped with IOM tarps (International Organization for Migration) and UNHCR tents (UN High Commission for Refugees).  Whole families live in single tents laid out in neat rows on the grounds of churches, international NGOs, or occasionally religious schools – anywhere neutral that has a gate that can be locked in times of violence.

Given the wide, open and beautiful smiles I receive on the streets of Dili whenever I walk around, it’s hard to believe that violence can break out at any second.  But during our first briefing meeting at our work we were warned, that although they expected everything during our visit to go smoothly, the situation in Timor is always volatile, and we should be aware that things could change on a moment’s notice.  It’s the legacy they say, of a violent past and a current administration intent on making peace with Indonesia, despite the troubled past between the two nations.  This failure of justice fuels a climate where violent action will have no consequences.

Tomorrow we begin work – and I worry people won’t want to speak to us, having done too many interviews with international agencies promising change, and seeing little result.  I am eager to see what is behind those large broad smiles of the Timorese, to hear of both their heartbreak and victory, I want to see if I can’t take those stories home with me, instil them in the spirits of the UK public and make them take action.

Brie O’Keefe

I’m going to East Timor to join my colleague, Jo with a photographer to find and document the stories of the Timorese people 10 years after their vote for independence from Indonesia, and bring those stories back to the UK to share with the public, activists and use them to pressure the UK government.  Upon my departure I was nervous about what we would find, and now, sitting in an airport in Bali, I’m only slightly more reassured.  I worry that we won’t be able to do justice to the trust and confidence that will be bestowed on us by these people sharing their painful experiences, or worse, that we will have little effect in the UK, that the UK government will find it all too easy to ignore Timor and its problems, as they have been doing since 1999.

Shortly after take-off, the pilot comes on and outlines our route.  We will take off and turn towards the Netherlands, continuing further southeast over Poland, the Ukraine, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan and India, before crossing the Bay of Bengal and Thailand.  The enormity of the distance I’m travelling hits me for the first time – and as  I wake and sleep throughout the flight, I watch the travel map marking the progress on the screen in front of my seat.  I’ve been extremely lucky to travel often in my life, and this map appears to be tracing routes of my past adventures – the rainy weekend in Krakow spent eating pierogies and large sausage, the camel safari in Bikaner, where we were unable to find a single cup of coffee after 3 days in the city and the trak through the jungle in Thailand, where I swam in a jungle waterfall after climbing a rock wall covered in mud.  I begin to get excited to be on the road again, despite my exhaustion. 

We pass over Afghanistan.  Its so silent and dark on the plane, I wonder how we are able to pass so quietly over Kabul, that we are so high we are able to move unseen over modern conflict zones, unheard and unnoticed by the passengers aboard.  Our modern lives are often full of these contradictions – I can watch Indiana Jones 4 while eating a piece of date cake while 35,000 feet below me, Afghani, UK and British forces continue their 7^th year of armed struggle without an end in sight. 

But as we land in Bali, 28 hours after I’ve left my home in London I’m greeted by our Country representative Theo, and multiple emails from Jo saying Timor is brilliant. I find new energy to keep travelling.  Theo and I discuss the campaign, what Timor needs, what change we think we can affect in such a short amount of time.  I swim in the pool and look up at the stars – a sight so rare in London, and I feel refreshed.  As the scattered stress of my chaotic life in London slips away, I feel happy that after months of reading, studying and learning all I could about Timor in preparation for this campaign, I’ll finally be there, and experience it firsthand.

The Jesus Statue in Dili (Catherine Scott/Progressio)

Standing beneath Dili’s imaginatively named ‘Jesus statue’ you can see all the way along the coast and miles out to sea. At over 30ft, the imposing figure of Christ is Timor’s answer to Rio’s Redeemer and tells its own tales of Timor’s unsettled past.

This Jesus is a relic of Indonesian rule, and has all the scars to prove it. Arms outstretched, the imposing figure is in serious need of some TLC. He stands atop a spherical dome which doubles as a globe – though a number of the continents which once made up the grandiose world map have noticeably rusted and dropped off. The flood lights at each corner of the statue, which would have illuminated Jesus for miles around, have been ripped from their plinths. There is an air of sadness. It seems few visitors make the 15 minute trip to see Jesus anymore.

Yet, visit Dili Cathedral on a Sunday morning and it’s a very different story. From 7.30am crowds flock to mass and by the time we arrive at a quarter to eight we can barely get in the door. The pews are packed. Those who arrive late have to perch on the very edges of their seats. The stairwells are full; some people poke their heads around the main doorway; others sit on the floor. The sea of heads seems to go on and on into the distance.

Jo Barrett

Like the Jesus statue, Dili cathedral could do with a lick of paint. Most of the light bulbs which make up the rudimentary chandeliers have blown, casting a dim light over the priest. Some of the pale blue ceiling panels are starting to peel off, while others are stained with damp. The stations of the cross are so modest you can barely make them out.

But, none of this deters the congregation. They have clearly taken care to dress in their Sunday best. Their shirts are clean and ironed. Their hair is washed and brushed. They wear sturdy, neat shoes. And they listen, many intently, to the service.

Today’s sermon focuses on reconciliation. The priest reminds us that nothing is possible without acceptance and understanding and that the Timorese must endeavour to reconcile with each other – and accept the challenges of a long and bloody past – if they are to move on. The priest finishes and people begin to sing. As they do, I cast my eyes out of the open window and notice a young girl, half naked, playing in the dirt. She soon disappears into a white tent, stamped with the now familiar blue letters of the UN’s refugee agency. The UNHCR still provides shelter for hundreds of internally displaced Timorese, more than two years after their houses were razed to the ground in the devastating internal fighting of 2006.

Despite the palpable neglect of these once formidable symbols of Catholicism – the statue of Jesus and the nation’s largest cathedral – religion is still very much alive in East Timor. It is really little wonder.

In mass, for the first time since I arrived in Timor, I could feel the legacy of 24 years of Indonesian occupation and ten years of truly fragile independence in the air. I could see the weariness in people’s faces. And when they sang, I could hear the tiredness in their voices.  But, still they come to church, week after week and year after year. Something keeps them coming back and I don’t have the sense that they are likely to stop.

I don’t know if it will be this decade or next, but I feel sure that in generations to come, when the Timorese are finally up on their feet, crumbling Dili cathedral and the neglected statue of Jesus will be top of the list for a makeover. After all they have been through, the Timorese people still have so much faith.

Jo Barrett