A Million Steps for A Million Fish

Two months have turned over since the people of Ermera got their own California hipster fit with a tucked in tee, open shirt, and a rolled-up beanie. Life is good here. The praises I sang of Ermera in the last story ring as true as ever, though they now come with more context than a few hours walking through the forest. The forest walking has increased dramatically since the move up in the mountains, with there being no minimalist sans-serif-branded coffee shops selling $7 pour overs, Disney-experience inspired craft cocktail bars selling riffs on riffs of classics, or concerts for Post-Brexit-Prog-MathRock-Avant-Jazz-PrimusCore band concerts for me to spend my time at. There are exactly four directions to walk from my house, and they conveniently line up to the cardinal directions. Most mornings I walk east as it is the only direction I can go to avoid the village center where I’d need to greet every child in every horde for the simple right of passage. What a lovely morning walk it is! A partially canopied trail wide enough for exactly one Ford-350 King Ranch 7.3L V8 SuperCabR LARIATTM Edition, though at times only 0.64 of one. I like this path. It’s consistent, it’s reliable, and it’s also the most direct route to where a few of my friends live in Gleno. I’ve lived in this village of Ermera up in the mountains for 45 days and have not used English outside of social media for equally as long. Every walk on my favorite path pairs with a contemplation of, “hm, what if I just walked to Gleno”. This thought stayed only a thought until the day came that I ran out of canned sardines. I finally found my reason.

              When I pitched the idea to my host family they scoffed and told me it’s too far. Even better. The alternative of getting to Gleno is hopping on a truck that’ll circle town for an hour recruiting passengers with the desperation of a new MLM member of sophomore fraternity brother before it begins the circuitous and at times perilous road journey I wrote about in my last story. All things considered; walking should be just as fast. Early, but not too early, one Friday morning I set off on foot with an empty trekking backpack eager to soon bust at the seams with cans of ‘dines. The first obstacle I find on my mission is the weekly bazaar, of which is the one chance villagers have to buy fresh fruits and vegetables; so naturally everyone and their ama is piling up and down the hills to make it in time. Counter directional to this uphill flow for leafy greens was me and my backpack darting down through the families without missing a single “Bondia!” to every man, woman, and child. After an hour, the crowds evaporated, and I was alone.

Rural housing development in Timor-Leste is remarkably consistent. Follow any road and you will find someone’s home every 1-3 minutes of walking. This results in a combination of feeling isolated in the middle of the jungle while never being truly out of civilization. On this shaded and dusty road, every family I passed by was beyond excited to welcome a foreigner to their home to sit and chat. The offer would usually begin with a small child out front sprinting across the farm and into the home like Paul Revere to alert the family that a malae is coming. Tuur halimar is the Tetun word for sitting and hanging out and it is a cultural staple around here. The first person I had the pleasure to chat with was a craftsman working on wooden furniture. It was very talented work, but I wondered much being this remote effected the logistics of getting his products to people. I guess if you build it, they will come. One day I hope to return to embark on a personal Odyssey of carrying one of his desks and chairs up the mountain. Today’s silly expedition will be for sardines only.

“Kolega tuur lai!” was the definitional phrase of this walk. It translates to “Friend come sit first”. How busy could I be to turn down a little chit chat amongst friends? I’ve learned the importance of small talk in Timor and am grateful that this reverence has afforded me countless conversations and connections I’d never have otherwise. How else would I have learned about the economics of producing and exporting Elephant’s Foot Yam? A topic I learned about only by talking to a group of fellas processing a harvest on the side of the road. I even learned a new joke on my way. The capital city of Dili has a private/public transportation system of bus routes listed 1-10. When someone asks how you’re getting somewhere, you can say “Sebelas” Indonesian for 11. Funny because 11 looks like a pair of legs. It gets an uproar every time. Most of the small talk is just that, small, but it’s value of subtle but real connection is greater than the breath needed for it.

Santa made a welcome appearance.

My middle school director conveniently lives halfway between my village and the city, making his house a perfect rest area; not that I needed one after all the previous tuur halimar-ing. After a lovely helping of coffee and cookies, I was back on the road. I was approaching the bottom of the mountain where the air was getting warmer and the flora increasingly lush. The differences were subtle, but noticeable. I had one last ravine to cross; it involved going over a bridge so obnoxiously creaky I felt compelled to apologize to the neighbors for using it. After this final hill, I reached the start of the river valley that hosts the town of Gleno. Transitioning from the enclosed and intimate environment of my mountain forest to the open plain was a surreal experience. I felt naked and exposed. It was as if one of Plato’s cave dwellers made it out of their hole. I had lived here only a month and a half ago, but it all felt so new and foreign. Fortunately, the novelty shook off as I walked. Equally as fortunate was the skinniness of the river due to the onset of the dry season. I crossed it with no problem and officially found myself back in the ol’ stomping grounds.

Look at all that expanse, you don’t get that up in my village.

The sardines would soon be mine, but first I had to see my friends. I saw in our group chat that they were all hanging out at a café in town. Loving a good surprise, I didn’t tell any of them that I would be coming to town. What a beautiful surprise it was seeing their faces as I walked up to the café. After going so long without having anyone to complexly use my primary language with, I could not shut up; though I am sure all the coffee offered from the people on the mountain boosted the chattiness. I also found myself constantly mixing in both Tetum and Mambae words in what must’ve come off as pretentious, but genuinely just felt natural. This is what I’d imagine it’d be like to have a friend come back from studying abroad in Barcelona and start talking like that. All-in-all, check out “hanging out with friends” pretty decent activity.

No matter how much fun social hour was nothing could get the canned fleshy beauties off my mind. After the café we all went to the market where I promptly cleaned out a store’s inventory of sardines. With that objective finished, I got some cookies and milk, a truly regal delight, and shared with my buddies over more catching up at their place. With the sun crashing down towards the mountains, I could see my time waning. After the farewells, I was back off the way I came; over the river, up the mountain, and into the orange sky. The ascent would be very different than the descent. In addition to being significantly heavier, I would have the fear of my angry host mother fueling every step upwards so I could avoid coming home after dark. Everyone who was sitting on their porches were now inside. Taking their space in the place were the families returning up the mountain to their home after a day of shopping, working, or visiting people down in the valley. I walked with two groups for the time. The first was a family with ages from the very young to the very old, who was very excited to have a foreigner walk with them. Multigenerational households aren’t the norm in the US, but their standard here, I’ll write more about this in the future. After they arrived at their house I found another group, this time students at the coffee college in Gleno, walking home after school. Horacio, one of my friends I just visited, happens to be their teacher. It’s a small world around here. It happened to be one of those days when the sky transcended from its typical inanimate beauty and into a personality encountered. The orange became a violet that then reflected off the bulbous clouds and straight into my sweaty eyes as I raced up this mountain before the violet turns black.

I did not make it home before dark. My coffee professional friends turned off onto a smaller path to their home and I marched along as the last bits of fading iridescence brushed through the foliage. The only sounds I could hear were the incredibly obnoxious Indonesian maximalist EDM blasting on the speakers of the two young men trailing me by 20m. They eventually found their way home then it really was just me. Both alone in the forest, while also surrounded by homes and life. The shade trees that protect both me and the coffee from harsh sunrays, do an equally well job blocking out any moon or star light on this road. I was not worried because this is the part of my site that I walk along every single day, I know this route as well as I know exactly where my phone is when I wake up. Despite the darkness, I made it home, only with the final challenge being an upset host mother. That was until she was distracted by the shock of scores of tinned fish pouring out of my backpack.

I write this two months after it happened. This is because I have been extremely busy settling into my new site and starting work. I’ve pulled many 50-hour weeks of physically demanding instruction, not including the other time spent on lesson preparation, project planning, and Instagram. One can read this story and come away with the conclusion that I spent far too many words to talk about going on a walk. While true, one of the lessons I’ve learned thus far is to appreciate the small details that often go overlooked. Without most of my usual avenues of entertainment, walking and reading are how I spend most of my free time. A dysphemism for entertainment is distraction, and with the absence of such forming a vacuum, it has become far easier to navel gaze my heart out. One can find mountain life to be a bore, but I’ll forever live with a line from my mom in the U.S. “only boring people get bored”. To me, this place is the Vegas strip on Super Bowl Weekend.