Tell Them to Get Lost by Brian Thacker Sample Chapter

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Brian Thacker

Copyright © Brain Thacker 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.



A William Heinemann bookPublished by Random House Australia Pty LtdLevel 3, 100 Pacifc Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by William Heinemann in 2011

Copyright © Brian Thacker 2011

The moral right o the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part o this book may be reproduced or transmitted by anyperson or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any orm or byany means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under thestatutory exceptions provisions o the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording,scanning or by any inormation storage and retrieval system without the priorwritten permission o Random House Australia.

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Extracts reproduced with permission rom South East Asia, ed. 1 © 1975 LonelyPlanet, and Southeast Asia, ed. 15 © 2010 Lonely Planet.

Addresses or companies within the Random House Group can be ound atwww.randomhouse.com.au/ofces.

National Library o AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication EntryThacker, Brian, 1962–Tell them to get lost / Brian Thacker.ISBN 978 1 74275 195 5 (pbk.)Southeast Asia – Description and travel.915.90453

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PortugueseTimor




3

1

Dili

There’s a good tourist oce in Dili.

South east Asia on a shoestring, 1st edition, 1975

As yet there’s no tourist oce in Dili.

Southeast Asia on a Shoestring, 15th edition, 2010

‘How much or a taxi into Dili?’

‘Ten dollars.’

‘But it says here that it is only one dollar,’ I said,

showing the taxi driver my 35-year-old guidebook.

‘Okay . . . ve dollars.’ He shrugged.

I grinned and threw my backpack into the back seat

o his old beaten-up Toyota. ‘Do you know the Beach

House?’ I asked.

He stared at the book’s hand-drawn map o Dili

or a minute beore turning it upside down then

sideways. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. His big smile revealed

teeth that looked as though they hadn’t been brushed

since 1974.




4

Tell Them to Get Lost

There was only one Dili hotel listed in the guide-

book. At the Beach House, or the ‘aptly dubbed HippieHilton’, you could ‘unroll your sleeping bag on a

concrete foor or $US1 and stay as long as you like’.

It seemed unrolling sleeping bags on foors was quite

popular in East Timor back then. The book noted that

there were only a ew hotels in all o Timor, but that i

you asked nicely you may be allowed to unroll yoursleeping bag on a lounge room foor. There was also

another alternative on oer – one you didn’t really

have to ask nicely about. According to the guidebook,

local jails provided ‘emergency accommodation or the

intrepid traveller rom time to time’. Who needed an

emergency? Just throw a rock through a shop windowand you’d get a whole bunch o ree nights’ accommo-

dation. And even a ew bowls o gruel thrown in or

good measure.

My guess was that the Beach House was probably no

longer called the ‘Hippie Hilton’. All those ree-spirited,

ree-loving hippies had long gone home – and more thanlikely got themselves nice, sensible jobs and now lived

in nice, sensible homes and wore nice, sensible clothes.

The outskirts o Dili certainly didn’t look very ree-

spirited or ree-loving. Burned-out and abandoned

buildings dotted the dusty landscape, while the large

potholes in the road looked like the atermath o a bomb-ing raid renzy. Since 1974, East Timor – or Portuguese

Timor as it was known then – had been burdened by

tragedy. The old guidebook proclaimed the Portuguese




5

Portuguese Timor

colony was a ‘beautiul unspoilt country with a rare

opportunity to see an old ashioned colony’. There wasan inkling o change mentioned, but the description

made it sound all so innocent: ‘In late ’74, noises were

being made about cutting Timor loose or turning it over

to Indonesia.’ The Portuguese had indeed cut Timor

loose, but there had been no handing over. In late 1975,

East Timor had declared its independence, only to beinvaded and barbarously occupied by Indonesia a week

later. What ollowed was decades o hardline rule with

over 180,000 civilian deaths and a long, traumatic ght

to regain independence. In 1999, a huge majority o East

Timorese voted in avour o independence. The vast

army o Indonesian troops deployed in Timor decidedthat i the Timorese wanted their country back then they

would make sure there wasn’t much o a country let

or them. On their way out, they ripped the country

apart – destroying homes, shops, government buildings,

roads and powerlines and even poured cement into the

water pipes. The East Timorese were let with a brokencountry that wouldn’t be easy to x.

Dili looked like a city in transition. You just didn’t

know i that transition was that o a city being built or a

city alling apart. There were some signs o modernity,

however. Standing out in the midst o the dusty, bedrag-

gled buildings stood a brand-new, shiny car dealershipwith brand-new, shiny Toyota 4WDs on show. It was

probably there because every second car on the road

was a UN vehicle. And every one o them seemed to be




6


in a hurry to get somewhere. And hopeully not some-

where that involved rioting locals.I admit that I had a touch o trepidation about coming

to East Timor. On the Australian government Depart-

ment o Foreign Aairs and Trade (DFAT) Smartraveller

website, they warned travellers to reconsider their need

to travel to East Timor because o the ragile security

situation and the risk o violent civil unrest. ‘The situ-ation could deteriorate without warning,’ the site

continued. ‘Violence could occur anywhere at any time

in East Timor.’ The government recommends taking

‘particular care to avoid demonstrations, street rallies

and public gatherings’ which ‘may turn violent’. And

according to DFAT, there is a history o gang-relatedviolence, robbery, arson and vandalism in Dili: ‘Rocks

have been thrown at vehicles, particularly during the

early evening and at night. You should avoid armed

groups o people, including martial arts groups.’

Then again, that didn’t sound too bad. Although I

would be taking very particular care to avoid gang-related violence, robbery, arson and vandalism,

I would have to scratch my plan to hang out with a

martial arts group.

When I was there, at least East Timor was only on

the list o destinations or which DFAT advises you

to ‘reconsider your need to travel’ and not on the ‘donot travel’ list, which includes Aghanistan, Burundi,

Central Arican Republic, Chad, Georgia, Iraq, Somalia,

Sudan and New Zealand. Okay, New Zealand didn’t




7

Portuguese Timor

really make the list. But the Smartraveller website did

warn about ‘black ice’ while driving in winter and thatyou should also be aware that, ‘Not all railway cross-

ings have barriers, particularly in country areas.’

East Timor had more than black ice to deal with. The

Smartraveller website warned that, ‘Driving conditions

are requently hazardous due to poor road quality, poor

signage and a lack o street lighting.’ At least Dili hadroads. In act, in 1974, Dili had the only paved road in

the whole country, according to the guidebook. Mind

you, getting around wouldn’t have been easy, anyway.

There were only two petrol stations in the entire colony.

So those UN vehicles must have used a lot o gas,

because the driver and I passed our petrol stations beore reaching Dili.

I wasn’t surprised to see some serious loitering among

the locals when we hit the city, but I was surprised to

see pigs wandering down the ootpath on their way

to the shops. While the hogs browsed the store windows,

men squatted on their haunches in doorways and underthe shade o rangipani trees and small groups o young

women wearing tight jeans and bright T-shirts strutted

down the street arm in arm. The people looked more

Pacic Islander than Asian, with their dark skin and

black curly hair.

The pigs, with their little piglets in tow, also strolledalong the black sand beach, which was described in the

old guidebook as ‘airly dismal’. Now we were driving

along the oceanront, past large and grandiose homes




8


– except that they weren’t homes. These were the consul-

ates o the much more ortunate. On the beach side o thetree-lined esplanade, rows o vendors in tin shacks sold

coconuts, tropical ruit, sh and mobile-phone cards.

Ater cruising along the waterront or some time, my

driver stopped and pointed towards a couple o wooden

tables piled high with sh. ‘Beach House,’ he announced.

I couldn’t see anything that resembled a Beach House ora Hilton – hippie or otherwise. ‘Beach House is here.’ He

gestured wildly beyond the smelly sh.

The Beach House was there. Or what was let o it,

at least. A large concrete slab punctuated the centre

o the scruy beach. It was the same piece o concrete

where you could unroll your sleeping bag or a dollarand stay or as long as you liked. Except there were no

walls or roo. My driver had only been excited because

he knew where the Beach House used to be. I stood on

the slab and surveyed my surroundings. Right, so now

where do I stay? I wondered. My taxi driver had already

skedaddled and there were only a couple o pigs on the beach to ask where I might nd a cheap but pleasant

lounge room foor or the night. I walked back past the

sh sellers and noticed a hotel across the road over-

looking the beach. The Hotel Turismo looked decidedly

dishevelled, but at least it had walls. It could have been

around since beore 1974, but it was hard to tell i it wasold or just very dusty.

I walked through the garden o bright pink olean-

ders into a hot and stuy reception where the cheerul




9

Portuguese Timor

girl at the desk quoted me a ridiculous price or a room.

I wasn’t expecting to pay a dollar and stay as long as Iliked, but $US50 was a bit steep or a basic and, i the

outside was anything to go by, run-down room. In 1974,

the currency in Timor had been Portuguese escudos,

then the Indonesian rupiah. It was now US dollars –

although they had absolutely nothing to do with the US,

which was 14,000 kilometres away.While I was lling out the ludicrously detailed

registration card (Why did they need to know my

avourite colour?), I asked the receptionist i she knew

what year the hotel had opened. As she shrugged, a

little voice behind me said, ‘The hotel opened on the

twenty-ourth o April, 1967.’ The little voice belongedto the very little Joaquim Calluto, the hotel janitor.

Joaquim, clad in aded overalls and carrying a light

bulb in one hand and a broom in the other, not only

knew when the hotel had been built; he had helped build it

with the Portuguese owner – who had fed the colony

when the Indonesians invaded. Joaquim’s eyes lit up when he started talking about

the hotel’s ‘grand opening’. ‘The restaurant was ull o

people dressed in suits and evening dresses,’ he gushed.

‘The owner imported a whole crate o champagne and

the corks exploded when you opened them. We’d never

seen anything like it.’ Joaquim remembered the hippies ‘over on the beach’

in the ’70s, but said that not many had stayed at the

Turismo. Instead, ‘There were many spies staying here.’




10


His voice was hushed, as though they were still listen-

ing somewhere. The hotel had also been the avouredplace to stay among oreign journalists.

‘The Balibo Five also stayed here and one slept in your

room,’ Joaquim said. ‘Do you know much o them?’

‘Yes, o course,’ I said. Most Australians know much

o them.

Not long ater the old guidebook came out, an Aus-tralian news crew set out rom the hotel or the town

o Balibo. Although they were heading to the town to

report on the anticipated attack rom the Indonesian

army, they thought that, as journalists, they would be

protected. But the Indonesians didn’t want any news

o their aggressive attack getting out, so as soon as the journalists arrived they were red upon by the invading

troops. Four were killed on the spot and the th Balibo

victim was stabbed to death ater he attempted to hide

in a bathroom.

As Joaquim escorted me to my room, I asked him

whether lie was better during Portuguese rule, Indone-sian rule or independence. Joaquim stopped and looked

at me or a moment. ‘It is hard now,’ he admitted. ‘But it

is much better. We have our country back.’

My room wasn’t as run-down or as dusty as I’d

predicted, but the bars on the window were a bit o a

concern. Were they there to keep people in or to keeppeople out? Beore I went out, I made sure to check the

room or bugs. Both the creepy-crawly variety and

the creepy-spy variety.




11

Portuguese Timor

The old guidebook map o Dili was pretty much

impossible to ollow. Not only were there no streetnames, but I couldn’t get my bearings because most

o the places listed weren’t there anymore. There was

no tourist oce or TAT oce (a now-deunct French

airline) and the mention o only one bank didn’t help

when there was now one on just about every block. It

wasn’t until I happened upon the surviving government building that I nally gured out where I was on the

map. I gasped, or this was quite a milestone. This was

the rst place listed in the old guidebook that I’d ound.

The creatively named ‘Government Building’ was des-

cribed as ‘quite impressive, with a couple o erce

looking Timorese guards at the door’. The building wasquite impressive in that none o the paint was peeling

o, and there were still a couple o Timorese guards

(although probably not the same ones), but they looked

ar rom threatening. One was snoring away while the

other was too busy picking his nose to look ‘erce’. And

the building wasn’t that ‘impressive’ – although I oundit quite impressive that it was still standing long ater

the Indonesian army had run amok.

On the way back to the hotel – well, with that old

map I could have been heading anywhere but my hotel

– I passed the Resistance Museum, which was housed

in the suitably grand Old Portuguese Court o Justice building. The museum had opened in December 2005

to document East Timor’s arduous journey to reedom.

My one-dollar entrance ee got me two rooms ull o




12


exhibits I didn’t understand because the descriptions

were in Portuguese, though I did comprehend all theguns on display. The only thing in English was a time

chart o East Timor’s road to independence. The last

panel read, ‘East Timor. The world’s newest country.’

East Timor was just one o 39 ‘new’ countries that

have graced the world map since the old guidebook

came out in 1975. Some have fourished, like Slovenia,Antigua and Barbuda, Seychelles, Vanuatu and Estonia,

while others, like East Timor, have struggled, including

Angola, Eritrea, Djibouti, Moldova and Kirabati. East

Timor possibly had the most dicult struggle o all,

with the time chart chock-ull o events that involved

either civil unrest or Indonesian-led violence.One o the most inamous incidents was the Santa

Cruz Massacre. On 12 November 1991, a memorial march

to Santa Cruz Cemetery was turned into a blood-

bath when Indonesian soldiers opened re inside the

cemetery killing more than 270 East Timorese. This was

just one o many brutal massacres in East Timor duringIndonesian occupation, but this atrocity was caught on

lm and the subsequent allout brought world attention

to the confict and led the way to independence.

I asked the ellow at the ront desk to show me where

the Santa Cruz Cemetery was on my map. He stared

at it or about two minutes beore shaking his headand drawing his own representation on a scrap piece

o paper. I asked him i he remembered the day o the

massacre. ‘Yes, we all remember it,’ he said.




13

Portuguese Timor

In the inamous video o the shootings, the cemetery

oozed an eerie and rightening atmosphere. But as Iwandered into the quiet graveyard, it couldn’t have

been more dierent. The cemetery was bursting with

fowering rangipani trees and the blossoms’ sweet,

melancholy ragrance hung heavily between the white

and pale blue graves. It’s almost impossible to athom

such cold-blooded violence when you are surrounded by such peace and beauty. I’d elt the same way while

standing on the pristine green pastures in the battle-

elds o Somme and in the neat and pretty Hiroshima

Peace Memorial Park.

I didn’t stay long. A cemetery was creepy enough

without the shadow o an atrocious past hanging overit. As I walked out, I passed a couple on their way in.

They gave me such a sweet smile as i to say that every-

thing was all right. Things really were better. These

warm-hearted olk had their country back.

There were three restaurants recommended in the

old guidebook. My taxi driver hadn’t heard o any othem. But then again, my taxi driver Castro was only

20 years old. I wondered i he at least did know whether

to duck to avoid any rocks that may be thrown at

vehicles, particularly during the early evening and

at night, as the Smartraveller website warns.

Castro’s taxi, like many taxis driven by young olkin the city, was hotted up. Or as hotted up as you

can get with limited unds. The most prized addition

to a taxi in Dili appeared to be a novelty horn. Every




14


couple o minutes, Castro would pass another taxi and

exchange novelty horn blasts. Novelty headlights werealso popular. As in headlights o all dierent colours.

Castro’s headlights were purple. Like a lot o the taxis,

though, he didn’t have them on. This saved on petrol,

Castro explained, and he also drove incredibly slowly

or the same reason.

When it came to eating out, the old guidebook praisedthe Restaurant Baucau, where everyone met or ‘excel-

lent Chinese ood’. Not anymore they didn’t. We pulled

up in ront o where the restaurant was supposed to be

and it was now a rather gloomy and dusty shop selling

rusted car parts.

Next on the list was the Tropical Snack Bar, where‘reasonably priced western ood can be ound’. Five

minutes later, we pulled up in ront o the City Cae.

‘This is the Tropical Snack Bar,’ Castro announced.

‘Um, it has three signs saying City Cae,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said, beore dumping me on the street.

I stepped inside the restaurant and asked a waitress,‘Is this the Tropical Snack Bar?’

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding to the potted palms in the

corner.

I sat outside on the terrace, which was packed

with UN types, international aid types and human

rights organisation types. While the book suggestedI drink Mozambique beer or Portuguese wine in East

Timor, I didn’t see any Mozambique beer on the menu

– only Australian beer with a choice o Victoria Bitter,




15

Portuguese Timor

Melbourne Bitter and Foster’s. I decided on a glass o

Portuguese wine – though I think Mozambique winewould have tasted better.

As I was ordering my meal, a UN car pulled up to the

ront. I watched as a ellow rushed in and came out with

a sixpack o VB. Over the course o my meal, I noticed a

steady stream o UN olk buying large quantities o

beer. Must be hard at work protecting the country,I thought. Hopeully there wouldn’t be any violent civil

unrest while I was there, or the UN soldiers would have

all turned up a bit tipsy.

For my ‘reasonably priced western ood’, I ordered

the grilled sh and vegetables – with a black hair or

garnish. At ten US dollars, I supposed it was reasonablypriced, but it wasn’t reasonably edible. It was more like

garlic with a side dish o sh and vegetables. I couldn’t

even see the type o sh under the piles o garlic. That

made me an easy target or the gangs o robbers, arson-

ists and vandals on the walk back to the hotel – they’d

be able to smell me a mile o. The streets were gloomyand the smiling locals now appeared as dark, threat-

ening gures hiding in doorways. I couldn’t see their

aces. Or their machetes, or that matter.

On the way back to the Hotel Turismo, I stopped or

one more drink at the One More Bar to try to drown

away the overpowering taste o garlic. The big-screenTV in the upstairs bar showed Australian Rules ootball,

while Midnight Oil blared rom the sound system.

The bar was ull o Australian UN personnel drinking




16


Foster’s and eating Aussie pizzas that cost more than

they did in Australia.I sat down at the bar next to Craig, a UN police

ocer. He looked surprised, even shocked, when I told

him that I was a tourist. He insisted he had not seen a

single tourist since he had been in East Timor. ‘At these

prices, I’m not surprised,’ I told him. I only stayed or

one more drink because I would be getting up early tocatch a bus to Baucau. (I’d pretty much seen all o Dili

in one aternoon.)

‘Do you know o any nice lounge room foors to stay

on in Baucau?’ I asked Craig beore I got up to leave.

Tell Them to Get Lost by Brian Thacker Sample Chapter

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