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September, 2003 - The Fruitless Quest for Uma Lulik
We began planning for a weekend of adventure completely different from the one that actually happened. I and Hana, an intern here with Care (from Slovenia but attending the University of Toronto), got together on Monday and decided to climb Matabean, East Timor's second highest peak. We invited any interested of Care's Timorese staff to come with us and they were excited - apparently always up for any weekend of fun. By Thursday, the plan had changed to a visit to Jaco Island - Timor's picture perfect deserted isle off the country's eastern tip. On Friday afternoon, the plan changed once again. We would visit Viqueque for the weekend, a town in the Southeast. We left two hours later.
Much of this planning and plan changing was carried out in Tetun. Now, my Tetun is coming along fairly well, but I'm still only able to understand the general gyst of a full-speed conversation, rather than the nitty gritty details. (Hana is fluent having been here for over a year). So this planning stage was only the beginning of what was to be a weekend exercise in confusion and bafflement for me. What I did understand before leaving is that the reason everyone wanted to go to Viqueque was because there was a ceremony taking place - one that happens only once every hundred years. There would be 5000 people attending this Uma Lulik ceremony - a ritual to open a traditional village religious home. I was keen to go to the ceremony too. We set off in the night - normally a no-no in any developing country where unlit roads only wide enough for one car wind through mountains and are ridden with stories of road-block creating, money-demanding bandits. We stopped only once to eat the rice and vegetables from waxy take-away paper that we had picked up in Dili before leaving, and otherwise enjoyed the journey. Two of Care's administrative staff provided endless giggling sessions in our car, and singing too - to the mind-numbing renditions of timeless classics (read Bryan Adams, Cher and Shania with poorly pronounced lyrics) that played on our cassette player alternately with oompah-muzak songs that made me think there was a monkey sitting on my shoulder. Most entertainingly, one music cassette was accented throughout and between songs by amazingly real noises - planes flying overhead, trains approaching (there are no real ones in Timor), car horns honking, chickens clucking, babies crying, cats meowing. More than once these sound effects fooled me. We arrived in Viqueque at 2am and banged on Herman's door, waking him up. With no phone system in Timor, it was impossible to give this Dutch ex-Care staff warning of our impending arrival, but he took the unexpected midnight arrival of 10 guests quite well, happily hauling out a case of beer and a couple of pack of cigarettes for the masses. He was skeptical though, that the festival we claimed to have come for, actually existed. He hadn't heard a word about it. Mid-morning Saturday, I began to have my doubts too. Our convoy had become separated and, alone, our little Hilux sped (as much as one can on pot-hole ridden roads) out into nowhere. We drove for 2 hours. I'm not sure how we knew which way to go, but at every possible turn, our driver stopped for directions. From my perspective, he was met with a whole lot of blank stares, but when I asked for clarification, I was simply told not to worry. So I tried not too. At any rate, I was immensely enjoying this tour of Timor. The countryside was beautiful - palm trees, villages and mountains looming in the distance. As the road worked its way south, we began to catch glimpses of the Timor Sea across flat rice paddies dotted with impressively tall coconut palms. We came to a wide, nearly dry, rocky riverbed which we crossed. Here, we asked directions, but this time gave up. Were we lost? Was there a ceremony at all? Where were our companions? Never mind the fact we hadn't seen a single other car in our two hour journey from Viqueque. Where were all the other 4999 Uma Lulik revellers? By some chance, we met up with the other two cars in our group (Hermann had joined us with a third car) and were suddenly on our way to an Uma Lulik festival with the aid of two local youth. Things were looking positive! We drove a short way into the mountains and were forced to stop due to bad roads, bad certainly being an understatement. We would have to walk from this point. Everyone else began to industriously pack up all their things. "How far is the walk?" I asked. "It is not within our culture to ask 'How Far'. So keep you mouth shut up and just go along" came the reply with a genuine smile. OK, I could do that. I noticed people bringing their bed rolls. "Are we coming back here tonight?" I asked. "That depends." OK, I'll bring my overnight things just in case. Then everyone, looking happily reading to roll, put their things down and sat down under a tree. "Are we waiting for something?" I asked. "Some people, maybe". OK. At this point, I have an epiphany along the lines of understanding that I will simply smile and follow. Assume nothing, be prepared for anything. Eventually we left, winding up over the gullied road on foot through a hillside aldeia. Hana, Hermann and I playing pied piper to the village children. Leaving the village on the other side, we saw remnants of the road that once was (during Portuguese time? Indonesian time?) - a giant concrete bridge that had simply keeled over, refusing to be used anymore. The ex-road narrowed into an otherwise agreeable walking track. Only about 20 minutes into our walk, we came to a cluster of pristine looking huts, with a handful of old timers sitting on the platform of one. We approached and were invited to sit with them. As per my new resolution, I simply sat down and relaxed as well, asking no questions. We were served sweet coffee and fresh peanuts - chewy when not roasted. While munching, I noticed beautiful roof top decorations on the huts around us - they were fashioned to be the forequarters of cows with small white birds sitting on the tip of each horn. I requested permission to take some photos and was subsequently sent off on a tour with one of the local men as my guide. It turned out that these huts were Uma Lulik - the religious centerpieces of traditional villages that we had come to see the opening of in a festival nearby (by this time I had heard estimates of anywhere between a one-hour walk and a five-hour walk ahead of us). My guide told me about the religious importance of these homes, and how these new ones were built only in the last couple of years as the people were now free to return to the highlands after spending decades of Indonesian forced relocation on the coast. Their Uma Lulik opening ceremony would take place next week. So much for the festival that happens only once every 100 years! Back with the group, I was told that we were going to head to the beach. HUH? What about the Uma Lulik festival? Well, as it turns out, the Uma Lulik festival we had been destined for was just a small one. It would be much better for us to come back next week for the bigger festival in this particular village. Besides, if we went to the small festival and didn't return for this bigger one next week, it would be disrespectful to our hosts here. So it was decided to scrap our plans and make a party on the beach. Fine with me! At least this was a plan I could fully grasp and comprehend. But we couldn't go until after the villagers offered betel nut to the melay. So Hana, Hermann and I all shared our first (and hopefully my last) betel nut chewing experience. For future reference: Place betel nut in mouth. Chew without swallowing. Take spiky green leaf in hand. Place a sprinkle of lime powder on the leaf. Fold the leaf into a neat little package with the lime inside. Put this in your mouth and chew as well. Swallow only saliva. Try not to grimace or else the villagers will laugh at you (I was unsuccessful on this point). Spit when permitted. Immortalize the moment by taking photos of each other with mouths stained red. Rinse with lots of water when no one is looking. The beach was great fun. We acquired a few chickens, papayas, bananas, some super-mie (requisite developing world fare of instant noodles) and tua (Timor's local palm wine), and feasted. I was served my portion of tua in a plastic cup fashioned by sawing off the bottom of a drinking water bottle. Luckily, no one was offended when my reason for not drinking it was explained - the rim of the 'cup' had chicken's blood on it, having been cut with the same machete that had hacked up our chicken friends only moments before. Someone else drank mine instead. We paddled in the surf (fully clothed - they don't wear bathing suits here), then Hana and I strolled down the beach to dry, seeing the remnants of what once must have been a grandiose beach resort. There are so many remnants of better times in Timor - the cities were apparently once beautiful, if not even affluent. There is even a lonely pay phone sitting undoubtedly in disrepair in Viqueque's treelined laneways. We reflected on this as we walked back to the party, gazing out across the Timor Sea imagining we could see all the way to the Australian coast. After using it as a plate, I introduced our Timorese friends to the Frisbee. It was wildly popular, and a couple of them caught on quite quickly. In fact, one of the local youths who had taken us up to the Uma Lulik (and now stayed with our invitation of food and drink), was a complete natural, throwing forehands and backhands flawlessly every time. Great fun! I was happy to finally have Frisbee throwing partners! We were getting ready to leave when our new local friends suggested we take a quick walk into the forest to see a natural oil source. Apparently, oil just bubbles out of the ground! We didn't really believe our local friends but thought nothing would be lost by having a look. Incredulously, we were led to a veritable source of warm, smelly oil, black as night, just bubbling out of the ground and running away in a little river towards the sea! I was stunned! And not only that, but about 20m away was a gas source - a pile of chalky-white, rubbly rocks incessantly burning from natural gas that emanated from below. Here, in fact, one could take a stick, create a little friction by dragging it against the gravel, and simply start a fire! It is unbelievable to me that these resources should just sit here unused! Jose, one of Care's employed drivers, simply shook his head and cursed his government. Back at Hermann's, we all showered, ate dinner and collapsed with exhaustion in front of Hermann's one prized karaoke VCD. Everyone was too tired to sing, we just contentedly watched the words go by on the screen in front of a changing back drop slideshow of images of affluent European homes - chalets, palaces, suburbia. Lit only by the full moon on the drive there, the Sunday daytime drive back to Dili afforded beautiful views of rice paddies, jungle, dry mountains, desert like scenes and just about anything else this diverse country has to offer. We stopped in Baucau for gas poured by hand and funnel into our gas tank by a robust young man with a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth - a centimeter of ash dangling directly over the funnel. After surviving this by luck, we stopped again for fresh fish grilled on a stick and served with chili, lime and katupas at a simple road side stall. Here, I asked the little girls weaving palm leaf katupas packages (into which rice is poured and then cooked in spices and coconut milk) to teach me their art, but it was far beyond me. Everyone had a good laugh at me as I tried though. I was almost sad to be back in Dili - it had been such a nice weekend - full of suspense and surprise, good food and good company, adventure and new experiences. No worries though, we will just simply have to get on with planning our next outing! > See photos from East Timor. > See photos from Bali. > See other East Timor journal entries. Back to top |
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