East Timor, Timor-Leste, East East

Edwin had already made us each a delicious banana pancake for breakfast before the bus came to collect us at 5.10 the next morning.

We had done our 43rd full scale idiot check of the journey (which from experience involved two of us shaking out alll our bedding, checking every surface in the bathroom and crawling around on the floor, preferably before we put our rucksacks on).

It was time to go…

We hugged our Indonesian film star goodbye and got on the Pink Paradise Bus (‘marketing’ I thought – the account I had read of this particular bus route said ‘a challenging 12 hour journey’ …it didn’t mention paradise).

We drove all over Kupamg picking people up from their homes and  eventually arrived at the bus station at 6.20 where we were issued with our tickets. We were on our way to East Timor.

The journey to the border took seven hours on rough roads with a driver who was only a couple of points off being awarded ‘Georgian minibus driver’ status – and when I say awarded, I more mean sent off to a detention camp where he would only be allowed back on the road when he had learned how not to terrify and endanger his passengers…!

When journeys are as tough as this I do three things.

1. I plot how far we have come every hour on our map – which gives me something to do, shows me progress and gives me an idea of how long it’s actually going to take rather than ‘the advertised journey time’ (…nerdy)
2. I eat sweets – usually mints but we have discovered a lemon sweet with salt in it since arriving in Indonesia and they are VERY distracting (…comfort)
3. I write (…practical)

I couldn’t write on this bus because there were too many hairpin bends taken at break neck speed.

Every time I tried to look at my phone a wave of nausea would wash over me and I grabbed another sweet and went back to staring fixedly out of the window.

…but this wasn’t my first long drive feeling scared and sick and I have stronger ‘hideous journey’ muscles now than when all this started…I even entertained the possibility that this driver was worse than all the other bus drivers we’ve had, and it’s just that I’ve just got used to the jolting, swerving terror – induced by driving on the wrong side of the road with sheer drops, no barriers and more pot holes than road.

In one of my distraction efforts I took bets with myself on the crazy factor of your average Aussie bus driver. How many blind bends would they overtake on I wondered?!

I bet none …and crossed my fingers.

At 11.00 we had a twenty minute respite at a serve yourself buffet restaurant – we were all surprisingly hungry considering how sick Rosa and I had been feeling…the great news about that stop was that the nun who had been sitting in the row behind us moved into the front to join a lovely young  woman called Fatima who was working in reforestation in East Timor.

The conversation between the three of them took up the whole of the rest of the journey, two and a half hours of ‘the place of God in modern day Timor’, ‘the increase in fuel prices’, ‘the latest movie releases’, ‘what was the best type of goat for rough terrain’, ‘favourite holiday destinations’ and just how much they ‘loved their politicians’ …his focus on these topics slowed him down enough for my sickness and fear to diminish a little.

I drifted off into my own thoughts – how would we try and find a way from East Timor to Australia?!

We had our list of what we were hoping for but we already knew there was only a very slim chance of a sailing boat and an even slimmer chance of a cargo ship. That didn’t mean we weren’t going to try but we needed to face the reality too…

Who would help us find a propellor plane…?  Maybe the Honorary British Consul we were staying with would be well connected and up for helping us?

The conversation in the front had moved onto ‘their favourite Christmas hits’ and I drifted off again…

Coming to East Timor was a big deal for me.

I was finally visiting the country I had written a song about twenty five years ago – I thought about the people’s 24 year struggle for independence and the bloodshed this land had seen….

The Portuguese had been the colonial power on the island for over 400 years, with the Dutch having claimed the western part of the island.

In 1975 the Portuguese had left the country to its own devices when the people back home overthrew one of the longest serving authoritarian (virtual) dictators, Antonio Salazar in 1974 (…great evil villain name)

The Portuguese needed to focus attention back home, effectively cutting and running, and leaving East Timor to its own devices.

After nearly  a year of internal  conflict and figuring out who and how to run the place this little country declared independence from Portugal and a few short months later, Indonesia invaded, on December the 7th 1975.

I knew about the occupation because of the actions of a small group of women who smashed up a Hawk Jet. A war plane that was being sold by the British government to Indonesia to commit genocide on the people of East Timor.

The women only smashed up the parts of the plane that were to be used to trace, track and kill people… and the most extraordinary thing was that having had the courage to break in to a British Aerospace hanger in the middle of the night, and the skills to do the damage, they then rang the police and handed themselves in.

They wanted to go on trial because by that point in the conflict a third of the people in East Timor had been killed and the women believed the greater crime was being committed by the Indonesian government.

I happened to have the radio on six months after I first heard about that inspiring act of courage – it was the day of the verdict for their court case and I sat, knees clutched to my chest, wondering how a jury would respond to the evidence that had had to be shown (the woman had left films showing some of the worst atrocities of the war, inside the cockpit, ensuring they were seen by the jury).

They women were found not guilty and as I wept with the utter joy of all that that meant I promised myself that I would write their song. I had never heard a story that had inspired me more – those women had faced ten years in jail for their actions and that jury of twelve ordinary people had agreed that their actions were justified. It gave me hope for the future of standing up for what is right…

As I discovered more about the thoroughness of what the women had done my determination to do as good a job as I could increased. They had written to their MP’s, signed petitions, actively campaigned on the back of ten United Nations resolutions calling for Indonesia’s immediate withdrawal. When nothing changed and the people of East Timor were still dying in huge numbers, this group of thirteen woman began to plan their action. They took a year over the detail with those in the group who were able and willing to go to jail eventually heading into the aircraft hanger.

It took me nine months to write the song, to gather the newspaper articles, the letters they wrote to each other in prison, watching press footage …and then the time to sit and create.

I have been singing ‘With my Hammer’ for twenty five years now and it has had a big impact on my life…it has inspired me and the actions I have taken, and I hope in some small way it has inspired other people who otherwise would not have heard about the courage and bravery of those thirteen woman.

…and here I was, actually coming to East Timor, a country that almost didn’t exist – I’d been prepared to miss it for a hideous sailing boat experience, and looking back on my ‘everything happens for a reason’ moment, it felt right to be coming here.

These people had kept the flame of independence alive for 24 long years …and they had won – it was a completion of sorts and it mattered to me.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the exchange in the front getting a little heated. Was ‘celebrity love island’ or ‘I’m a celebrity get me out of here’ better telly!!

Luckily it didn’t come to blows and we reached the border safely – we said goodbye to our driver who (thankfully) would not be crossing the border…there was another ‘Pink Paradise Bus’ waiting for us apparently …

The lovely Fatima showed us the way through the maze of buildings – where the actual border line was between Indonesia and  East Timor, she helped us with all the forms and customs declarations and after two hours of queues, stamping and processing (including a new one on all  of us …standing with your arms spread like a monkey inside an X-ray machine). We were done.

It was a precious moment for me and Theo because of the campaign for independence and the incredibly brave struggle of these people to get their country back – but also for our little family, this really was the end of the line …whatever happened here our next stop was Australia.

PS – there is a chance that the bus driver, the nun and the reforester were discussing other topics – my Indonesian isn’t quite what it used to be…