Timor-Leste (vii): On a Deserted Island

Jaco Island was one of the things on my list for Timor that I was not so sure I'd be able to check off. The entire time I was there I asked people I met whether or not they thought I should make the trip. Jaco is a tiny uninhabited island just off the eastern tip of Timor in the Tutuala district. It's considered sacred to the people, so no one is allowed to live there. I'd heard of how spectacularly beautiful and remote it was, but that the road there was treacherous during the rainy season. The final 10 kms down to the beach from Tutuala, I was told, was a nearly impassable slope of rocks and mud. The responses I'd gotten were pretty predictable. Older, more sensible people (including my manager) were wary and advised extreme caution or to avoid it altogether. Those younger told me I had to do it no matter what.

Fortunately, after the drive to Ramelau and gaining a new respect for 4WD trucks, I was convinced I could conquer any terrain. So my last weekend in Timor, I went back and reserved another Prado and set off along the coast toward Jaco. The drive east from Dili was nothing like the road south. Timor's other major town, Baucau, is about two hours down the coast, so the connecting road is well maintained. It's paved and flat and only took about two hours to drive the 100 or so kms.

I grabbed lunch in Baucau and kept on east. Driving along the coast was beautiful and vastly different from the mountainous interior. Often the road was just feet from the ocean. The road led over sparse rolling hills dotted with small patches of trees and rice paddies. Water buffalo strolled casually across the street. Towns grew smaller and less developed. The road was increasingly overgrown and traversed by chickens and pigs. Homes were constructed of flimsier and more primitive materials. It was like traveling back through time.

A number of times, I stopped to admire solitary Mangrove trees standing just beyond the waves in the water. That image is something so foreign to me that it feels almost alien. Defiant of the hostile ocean, rooted in salt and sand, the Mangrove seems an anomaly to me.

When I arrived in Tutuala, the last point before the descent to the beach, I got out of the Prado to stretch and survey what I was up against. The road didn't appear terribly daunting at first. When I headed down, it did get pretty rocky, but really nothing worse than what I was facing en route to Ramelau. I made it to the beach and unfazed at around 6 in the afternoon. I found my way to the guesthouse, which was comprised of a few thatched huts. The fishermen that would take me across to Jaco would only do so in the morning, so I spent the rest of the evening walking along the beach and drinking warm Tiger beer. There were also a few Timorese guys on holiday from Dili there. They spent the night fishing on the beach and grilling a giant fish that they brought with them. They welcomed me to join them and I sat with them by their fire. They insisted I fish, which of course ended with me hooking one of them with the rod. They offered me some of their grilled fish, which turned out to be delicious and copious amounts of more Tiger beer covered in sand. I was fishing grains of sand out of my teeth all the next day.

In the morning at about 7, I found the fishermen who were to ferry me across. I gave them $5 for the ride and we set out across the couple hundred meters of ocean to Jaco. They indicated that they'd have to pick me up at 11am because the water would be too rough after that. So for the next 4 hours I had Jaco Island to myself. White sand that felt like walking on flour, vivid turquoise water rivaled maybe only by the glacial lakes I saw in Banff, dark undulating clouds rolling down from the mainland mountains. It was unlike anywhere I'd ever been before. The most remote place I'd ever been. A week before I was to head back home, having spent nearly 2 months in Timor, I was at a weightless apex before being pulled back down to reality.

At 11, the boat came back to pick me up and they were right. The water was alarmingly rough. I wasn't concerned about getting thrown in the water so much as losing my camera. Priorities. Once back on the mainland, I got back in the Prado and powered back up the rocks to Tutuala. I will grant that that slope would be much worse had it rained. I headed back to Dili and spent my remaining week at a very leisurely pace. I'd taken weekend trips almost every weekend I'd been in Timor so I was exhausted. It was a fascinating couple of months and I'd done and seen things I hadn't before. I've been home for as long as I was away and it's amazing how experiences fade so quickly, but these are stories I'll carry with me for a long time.

Timor-Leste (vi): Eat to Live

Despite what my Instagram feed may have looked like while I was out there, the real reason I went to Timor was for work. The project I support there is an agriculture and food security program focused on developing supply chains for rural farmers and building technical capacity. My previous project was also an agricultural program in sub-Saharan Africa, but much more policy and high-level focused. Whatever results there were for the Africa project always seemed very abstract and far removed, so the Timor project was a refreshing change of pace. I spent a couple of days in the Aileu office to visit a number of participating farmers and conduct interviews and take photos for a report. I was able to see exactly how the project was helping these farmers and hear from their mouths (through an interpreter) how it was changing their lives. This project may not have as large a scope, but there are real changes in income and health as a direct result of what's going on there. That thought makes sitting in an office in Bethesda 10,000 miles away a little less excruciating.

Many of the farms are located on steep, irregular mountain slopes. The drive to the few sites we went to were pretty rough, but my boss told me these were actually the most accessible despite the driving including a portion requiring the fording of a flooded riverbed. The second morning, I was asked to take a photo of the roof of a greenhouse whose roof was damaged in a storm a couple of months prior. This ended up involving me climbing up a 100ft rusted, unstable water tower in the rain to get to a proper vantage point while the local farmers watched from below laughing. I don't think I'm afraid of heights, but I was definitely concerned that one of the rungs would give and I would fall to a wet, muddy death. And then I stepped into a giant puddle of and ruined my shoes.

I also spent one evening hanging out in the market at Aileu. It looked more or less like all the other markets in Timor. A raised concrete platform lined with concrete counters. Fruit and vegetables laid out on tarps. Men playing cards on the floor. Side shops with the same ubiquitous set of household paraphernalia, colorful woven cloths, and packaged food. I made my dinner out of some 25 cent chicken satay and strawberry Fanta (disgusting).

Timor-Leste (v): Road to Ramelau

There's a mountain in Timor-Leste called Tatamailau or Mount Ramelau. It's the highest mountain in Timor at just shy of 10,000 ft. and the site of an annual pilgrimage celebrating the Virgin Mary. Hiking Ramelau is one of the first things I found as something to do in Timor in my research prior to flying out (it was also one of the only things). I had read several accounts of people making the harrowing mountain drive and hiking at 3am to summit just before sunrise. I immediately knew it was something I wanted to do.

Ramelau sits about 100km south of Dili. On Saturday, January 11, I went to a local car rental shop and rented a Toyota Prado (some variant of a Land Cruiser) because it was the only automatic 4WD they had (I can't drive stick, deduct man points). I needed a 4WD because that 100km drive was the most treacherous drive I've ever experienced. The road inland starts off fairly well maintained. Driving up the first mountains out of Dili it's mostly paved, but increasingly serpentine as it switchbacks up the slopes.

The first town after Dili is called Aileu (my project actually has an office here). It's about an hour in and past Aileu is where the road starts to get really rough. After Aileu there are frequent and massive gaps in the pavement and giant puddles from the nightly rains. A couple hours after Aileu is Maubisse and past this town it's basically just dirt, mud, and rocks. All of this is not easy driving, but I never felt particularly in danger. The final hour of the drive to the town at the base of Ramelau, Hato Builico, is where it was particularly terrifying. It was the same dirt, mud, and rocks, but now frequently above sheer drops and roads just barely wide enough for the Prado. It was on this road that I gained a newfound respect for 4WD cars.

On the bright side, the drive was beautiful. The interior of Timor is wild and exotic. Lush mountains and towering canopies for miles. And with every meter I ascended, the humidity and temperature fell. Around one bend along a slope I came to an impossibly green clearing as a small herd of horses grazed below. I got out of the Prado and sat on the slope for a moment to try and preserve how pristine that scene was. The mountain air was hushed save for the soft idling of the engine behind me. The horses seemed barely to move. I'm not sure how long I sat there.

Save for the few towns, there was hardly anyone else along the road. I did stop in Maubisse to walk around the town on what looked like a market day. I wandered the gravelly alleys while old shop women eyed me quizzically, children followed behind me, and an older man beckoned me over to take his picture.

In Hato Builico, a tiny village with a school and a few scattered houses, there is a guest house that I'd read about that travelers often overnight in. It's run by someone I knew only as Alex. When I arrived at about 5:30 in the evening, I was greeted by a younger man that I gathered was Alex's son. His English was poor and I never got his name, but we made our arrangement. I was shown to my room and told that dinner would be served at 7 and we would begin our hike at 3am. The guesthouse was quite large with what seemed like 15 or so dorms with several beds each. I was the only one there. Just down the road you can see Ramelau towering above the town.

I wandered a bit until I saw a group of kids playing on the soccer pitch below the guest house. I found my way down the hill and walked along the edge of the field with a mind to join them. When they noticed me as I drew closer, they all began running toward me yelling, "Malai, malai!", which basically just means "white person." They all wanted to pose for pictures. One kid kept pretending to shoot me with his toy Uzi. They all took turns kicking a dusty old volley ball to me and laughing hysterically when I missed the mark kicking it back. They were nice kids and it was oddly heartwarming.

As the light faded, I headed back to Alex's for dinner, which consisted of rice, potatoes, and fried bananas. At 8 when it was already pitch black, I just went to bed as there was nothing else to do. And I marveled at it being cool enough to need a blanket. 

At 3, I woke up and met Alex's son, who was to be my guide up the mountain. The start of the trail is little ways up the road from the guesthouse, so we got into the Prado and it failed to start. My heart sunk, but I tried it a few more times and it did eventually roar to life as I gassed it desperately. The drive from Maubisse to Hato Builico was treacherous, but the drive in the dark to the Ramelau trailhead was the most afraid for my life I've ever been. Driving up rocky slopes that veered sharply not knowing if I was just about to gun it off of the side of a mountain was disconcerting, to say the least. We eventually got to a point where the road was so deteriorated, we decided to leave the car and walk the rest of the way.

The actual hike up Ramelau in the dark was very unremarkable. Mostly because I couldn't see anything. After about two-three hours (I couldn't say for sure), we arrived at the summit. Greeted by the statue of the Virgin Mary and rapidly deteriorating visibility, I hurried to unpack my camera and capture what little of the sunrise I could see before the clouds obscured everything. After that short glimpse of the sunrise, there was nothing but a gray haze. I lingered for a while and let the sharp, cold air blow through me as drops of condensation formed in my eyelashes and on my sleeves. I waited to see if the cloud might pass, but it didn't.

When we had descended enough to get below the clouds at the peak, visibility opened back up to reveal a view that was pretty spectacular. I was able to see all the way to the southern coast of the island. The way down was breathtaking. Daylight revealing the undulating mountains and valleys dotted by distant farms and villages.

When we got back to the guesthouse, I thanked my guide and gave him the $40 for my stay and his services and got back in the Prado. As I made by way back along the road, it occurred to me how amazing it felt when I reached portions of road that were consistently paved. I take a lot of things for granted.