I have been in Timor-Leste for 5 weeks at this point. A month and one week. In that time I have taken rigorous classes in language, and the ideals of the peace corps. I currently am marked at the halfway point of training. In just a little over a month I have become conversational in this language, and on our most recent proficiency test, I was evaluated at Intermediate low. The amount of progress one can achieve when devoting the right amount of time, being in the right environment, and with good teachers is astounding. If someone showed up in America and was as conversational as I am while never before speaking english I’d be astounded. Everyone in Peace Corps tells us how proud they are of us, but at the same time has the attitude that we are peace corps volunteers- this is how well we should be performing, based on us and the amount of resources they are putting into our training. The recognition from community and family members awed at our language learning progress is enough though. Before I was worried about taking the leap of faith: Now that I understand much more of the language, it is far easier.
The moped had been stripped bare into its raw components and pieces. All plastics were off, the entire (small) engine lay disassembled on a plasticky blanket, and loose electrical wires were limp where they had been unplugged. The pieces of the engine were scattered haphazardly in the confines of the blanket, mixed in with a surprising variety of metal tools. The cylinder had been completely stripped of its parts, the crankshaft and connecting rod missing. The intake and exhaust valve were in the process of being removed. To do this, he put a metal T-shaped tool (normally used for unscrewing) on the spring part and started hitting it with a hammer. The spring went down. And down. And down. Until POP- it uncoiled, coming free from its bearings. With it removed the metal intake valve was able to come free. Repeat for the exhaust valve.
Both thin pieces of metal with flat rounded heads were encrusted in hard black stuff. They took a wire brush and some metal and scraped it off. They then put the two pieces back, without the springs, to test it. To do this they chose to use gasoline. But how to get it?
Apa went to the back, grabbing an old empty plastic water bottle and a plastic tube. He unscrewed the gas tank on the frame of the motorbike, stuck the tube in one end, and put the other in the plastic water bottle set on the ground. Then he started suction with his mouth, making a few attempts, and spit out some gasoline once it was successful.
He kept spitting every few minutes afterwards and I swear I think I saw him spit out a tooth later and say ‘not good’.
His son filled the cylinder with gasoline and watched for leaks from the intake/exhaust valves. There were some drips, meaning that it still wouldn’t hold pressure well anymore. ‘Mierda’ Apa said. I gave him a look, to let him know I knew what that meant. He laughed.
After a bit more cleaning in gasoline, as well as cleaning every other disassembled part, proved useful. Eventually it held fluid. The men seemed satisfied with this and started to pack up to continue the next day in daylight. All the screws were collected in one plastic box, the rest of the part tied as they are up in the blanket. I have no idea how they will know what to put where when reassembling this thing. The disorganization leads me to believe if they did not know what they were doing it would never run again- which means they probably have done this before. They know where things go. It is a sharp contrast to my carefully laid out steps of removal, each screw taped to a cardboard box with a little drawn diagram next to it of where it goes. It is enjoyable to see the chaos, to know that the engine is understood so well they don’t need to remember what screw goes where. I hope tomorrow I will be able to see this mission completed and the bike reassembled.
The next day as I was heading to class I saw the tiny engine block was mostly reassembled, but something was sticking. He began banging it against a rock repeatedly.
When I got back from class the bike was completely reassembled, and running. It had the strongest lifter tick I’ve ever heard though.
Every night on the TV during training we watched a TV show affectionately referred to as “India” Since it was a soap opera from India. Before leaving my first host family I wanted to capture the spirit of watching India on this old yet new TV.
~Three months later~
It’s been a while since I’ve written, sorry for the wait. I’ve moved to a new permanent site where I will live for the next two years. I have a lovely host family and a great home, with a secondary (high) school that values me as an asset. I work with three lovely counterparts that put effort in teaching and genuinely care. I am finally more settled into this new way of life and this new place. In between this time I was able to go visit Thailand for a week, and absolutely fell in love with the city of Bangkok. I plan to return to it during the next two years, and could even see myself living there in the future. The city is beautiful, modern, clean, yet still imbued with its rich history and culture. Yet somehow returning to Timor-Leste felt like returning to home. A home that is temporary for the next two years, but a home nonetheless.
There is so much rain here! You wouldn’t believe it. Like, so, much, rain. It starts with a soft breeze. When the wind comes you know it brings storm clouds with it. The sunny blue sky slowly darkens gradually over half an hour. And then, suddenly, it starts. You hear it before it arrives. Close your eyes and imagine standing besides a roaring river, 20 or 30 feet across with white rapids over smoothed rocks. That is what it sounds like when it approaches, amplified by the tin roofs. You hear it before you see it; a river imminently approaching, threatening to sweep you away with it. The paths, free of grass and downtrodden by many footsteps, turn into rivers of dirt. Potholes in the street become large mystery puddles threatening to get deeper at any moment.
It is one of these moments I find myself stuck; School has just let out and it is time to go home. The grounds leading to the gate of the school are slightly elevated and the only way out is completely flooded, the houses on the street in front turning into ones with a lake side view. The high walls surrounding the school campus make it the only way out. After much deliberation, stares from students, and feeling the rain begin to pick up even more, I take off my shoes and roll up my pant legs. The only way out is through.
Holding my umbrella and bag in one hand, shoes in the other, I start the long trek home desperately praying I don’t step on broken glass in the water too dark to see through.
I got a guitar recently. Cheapest built thing I’ve ever seen, running on the mere idea of what a ‘guitar’ is at its base form. Good for beginners. The strings leave hard indents in your fingers, the kind you need to build up calluses against to play properly. This is because the strings are built too far above the fretboard, with about 3 times the height of a nice guitar. Currently I just sit on the porch and practice- torturing the ears of whoever is unfortunate enough to be around me. Two years seems like an impossibly long time. I hope that in that time I can master a few new skills; to prove I’ve done something that sticks with me after all this is over.
Every morning I have coffee and an egg with bread, a mini breakfast sandwich if you will. Milk and dairy products exist here but are much less common and feel…. Like someone once heard about what milk tasted like and tried to replicate it with chemicals. Cheese costs more than your first born child. In Timor Leste I like to draw memories; looking through my sketchbook I think it is amazing I can point out all the different countries I’ve been to. 4 years ago I never had that and suddenly the number has grown exponentially. This picture is of the coffee pot and my designated malai (foreigner) mug. It pleases them to give me my own nice plate and own nice mug. It’s a nice gesture. They have welcomed me as one of their own children.
I know you, dear reader, are reading this because you are either friend or family. I sincerely hope you are all doing well. A lot can happen in two years, so make sure to reach out with any of your big life updates 🙂
