As you all settle down to your thursday afternoon thanksgiving feast know that I, being on the other side of the dateline, have already gorged myself, drifted into a food coma, had a full night's sleep, awoke and had leftovers. This was my second full thanksgiving of the year since my mom did up a beautiful pre-thanksgiving dinner last month when I was in the states. And if you now count leftovers this morning it is probably my fourth, and by lunchtime should be my fifth t-day feed of the year. Not too shabby.

Marshall Islands thanksgiving is much like one in the states. We gather all of our friends and family together and eat till we blackout, then drink until there is an argument and all go home to happy to sleep in the fetal position. Here though in the absence of family or a local thanksgiving celebration all the white people get together to celebrate. Basically we do this for any reason at all and thanksgiving is a damn good one. It is also another opportunity to indulge is promoting america's superiority at holidays to our non-american friends.

This year I volunteered to cook the turkey, not that I really know what I am doing but hey put it in the oven and wait right? I was first in the store after the cargo ship arrived and can guarantee I bought the largest bird on island, 23 lbs, so I was off to a good start. I picked up all the tools and ingredients and threw the bird in the oven yesterday at lunch. Unfortunately, (ya right) I was informed when returning to work that we had a company baseball game that afternoon and would have to leave work early, ah shucks. Still believing I would be home in time thought this is no problem for the bird. Well apparently the electrical company had other ideas since while we were out at baseball the power on the island went out. Fortunately this didn’t cause me too much stress, as I didn't even know until I was driving home after and a friend called worried about the turkey. I arrived home to find the power still off. Just when I thought it was the end, pop the power cracked back on. Well at this point there was nothing to loose and didn't know if it was ruined so just proceeded with the cooking now scheduled to be 2 hrs late.

Eventually it got up to temperature and was hopefully done. It looked good anyway and thought it will have to do. Now for the hard part. The flexible tin disk the turkey was in was too weak to pick up so was forced to remove the entire oven rack then take it out to my car for the drive over to the house were everyone was. Solo this was quite the task but managed to get it done although not without spilling turkey juice all over the oven, floor, carpet, table, stairs, car seat and floor. Driving down the road over speed bumps and cutting taxis didn’t help either. By the time I arrived I was exhausted and covered in sweet after gripping a 180 degree bird while driving a stick shift in the cab of pickup in the tropics. All ended well and maybe the best turkey I ever had but I am sure the exhaustion and novelty contributed in some way. All 19 people also seemed to enjoy it so was at least edible. Glad to see that I wasn’t sick this morning either which is a good sign. The stuffing I made with Mom’s recipe using sausage was a big success too. and the gravy from turkey drippings, at least what was left after spilling on the my kitchen or car was tasting too, I guess salt fixes everything. This morning is an induction ceremony at work for our new to us backhoe and sewer snake machine, welcoming them into the family of other rusty tools soon to be neglected and ruined. At least we got diabetes snacks: a cookie, soda, muffin, and cake.

Thursday was a Marshallese holiday, and what better way to spend the day than pouring concrete. Two friends building a church here offered me a local wage of $2/hr to help pour concrete for the day. I couldn't pass it up that kind of bling. Anyway I needed a change from my office job, get a tan and try and work off my fat belly. Not sure one day will do it but at least I got to work outside for a change.

I am back from my US tour (10 days of awesomeness + 4 days on the airplane or layovers just getting from place to place). I had a true departure from the Marshals on friday eve as I tried avoid friends forcing a few too many on me before getting on the plane. It didn't work as friend managed to get a couple beers and shots in me, so I stumbled to the gate. Was all fun and games until I woke up halfway through the flight to Hawaii with a terrible hangover and a old sock of a continental airlines omelet in front of me. I thought for sure I was going to have to bless the mile high barf bag for the first time but managed to hold it off. After the annoying transfer in Hawaii, avoid at all costs I managed to make it to Albuquerque where things got better fast. Phil and Liz took me over to my new house, first time I was actually in it since I bought it in June. Pizza and chatting about the latest tv shows and I was on my way to full dose of Americanness.

Hey all, hope everyone is well. I had a good weekend. Took a trip over to a nearby island with a small group of friends. We had more than a good time and more than a few drinks, not necessarily in that order. I slept outside on the beach which is the best, at least until it started raining. In the middle of the day went for a quick finishing trip where I excelled in not only loosing a big fish but loosing the lure and line, watching it snap off the rod as the fish ran. Fortunately it wasn't actually my fault because it had been setup incorrectly but I still felt bad. I did however redeem myself by scoring a monstrous tiny little mackerel. Basically a pan fryer, haha. Later of course after cooking it late, after everyone was already full it got left out and quickly scarfed down by the bravest dog. Anyway after returning to Majuro I moved house. Yes thats right, my beach bungalow was just not enough for me anymore. Well really it was too much. I was lonely in a 4 bedroom house 30min from town all by myself. So last week I found a nice small place just on the edge of town, 5 min from work and have now made the move. I have traded beach for convenience and old bungalow for sleek new appliances. I am happy with the move and now more comfortable in a clean and more sociable place.Looking forward to my trip home in two weeks. Will be home for a week, then going to wedding in Indiana and 3 days in DC before coming back. Will be a whirlwind tour.Hope all is well. lv jesseJesse Shapiro

jessepants@gmail.com

I am not a flower hater, but this past week we organized total flower annihilation. Now before you think I am the devil hear me out. The flowers happen to be on the airport runway which also happens to be the main rainwater catchment for the city water supply. Unfortunately for the population it hasn't been cleaned for at least 10 years! However, as fortunate as this is for the local bird and bee population it had to end. Fortunately for me it is a high visibility activity to start up regular cleaning, code for maintenance program. We even had a bobcat from public works to help with the domination of nature and destruction of every last flower. Wow was it a lot of stuff. In fact we only finished half and have to go back for more this week. We had all 55 employees out cleaning and then threw a bbq in the afternoon once the plane needed to land. Last week I spent in Ebeye, the second island I am working on. The place is hard to sum up but is next to a US military base and houses all their local employees. It is basically a slum and neglected by everyone. Most of the services run on a minimal level (in America this would mean unsafe, insufficient, and dangerous). Following up on my last trip there I again hung out a bit with the leadership. The wealth difference is outrageous. Picture a slum of makeshift housing, kids everywhere, and sweltering heat then see this picture. Yes, it is the newly arrived massage chair of the local leader.

lv ya, jesse

So I noticed a bad smell in my house last week. Once I noticed it and the hours passed by it seemed to get worse and worse. I searched high and low but couldn't locate where it was coming from, partly because it was so bad it was hard to smell without heaving, in order to find it. I figured it was a dead mouse or rat since I had recently seen one and put out traps and poison. The poison is supposed to make them thirsty, so they go outside, then kill them. I was really hoping there wasn't a dead rat in my roof or wall. Anyway the next day the power happened to go off and I was home when it came back on. Just as it did I walked into the kitchen and boom, like a wave the smell hit me. It was clear it was coming from the back of the refrigerator. The fan on the back, now on, was sending the smell out right at the entrance to the kitchen. So I took the back off and searched around with my flashlight but found nothing. I called the landlord and the next day she sent a guy over who couldn't find anything either. So two days later they all came over with another guy. This time they really got deep inside the back and low and behold found the rotting, maggot filed shell of a former crab. Now how the hell did a crab get in the back of the fridge?

This morning was the opening of parliament. Hirobo and I went to put in some face time and maybe get on tv. Didn't really work out but got to take some fancy pics. First picture is Hirobo on left and the President of Marshall Islands on the right. I am the white one. Next picture has the Minister of Public Works in center. Last picture was during a visit to one of the water treatment plants here last week. It was hard work so fortunately was surrounded by coconut trees and a hammock to take a load off. wooo....

All last week I took my first trip to Ebeye. Ebeye is in the Kwajalein atoll located in the western chain of atolls (I am living on Majuro in the eastern chain) and is about a 45min flight. You get there by a flying to Kwajalein and taking a boat across to Ebeye. Kwajalein is a US military base where they still test missiles and such. In fact there was a test while I was there. They blacked out the island after 8pm and tried to shoot down a missile fired from california. Apparently though something went wrong and it was headed for a popular area so they blew it up mid-flight. Don't worry though it only cost the US taxpayers 100-200 million dollars. While on Kwajalein we also were lucky and got to go to subway on the base. The only fast food for thousands of miles.Once on Ebeye I was introduced to the parliamentarians representing the island and the traditional king. I soon found out that my counterpart is well connected and knew them all personally. Great news for me and getting things done. We took a tour of the water and sanitation systems which I am sure I will be updating more on that over the year. Lets just say it ain't too good. See picture of the kids playing basketball on the road to the dump. Yes it is burning too in the background and also happens to be the only baseball field on the island.The next day the Iroij, traditional king, invited us on his yacht to an outer island, Elip for a ceremony where they handed over a boat. It was interesting and we definitely travelled in style. See the picture below of me and the king on the ferry boat to the island with the boat to be handed over in the background. It was small, only 100 or so people on the whole island. They didn't have a dock so we had so get off the big boat to this fiery boat then jump in the water and walk ashore. Once we were all on land we were welcomed into the village by the whole community by singing and shaking hands. We had to shake everyone single persons hand including the kids as we entered off the beach. Then we were given a lei and a fresh coconut, not a bad way to visit a place. Next was speeches and big meal. Check out what I had to try and eat with my own personal community member fly swatter. Was a bit strange eating a whole meal with 100 people watching and a women waving a banana leave over my food the whole time but at least it was not for me but for the king. After that we walked out to a lake on the island which was a bit strange for it small size then headed back. On the way back we saw whales and dolphins. The Marshallese told me this was a sign that something big and important was about to happen. I told them that maybe the water and sanitation system would start working. They all laughed hysterically.

went out to eneko island last weekend with for the night with another advisor and my supervisor from Australian who was here visiting. It is a small island, or as my friend Nick says, ilet since it is still part of the Majuro Atoll with maybe only two families on it. Small, i kayaked from one end to the other in about 10 minutes.. Anyway it was great weather with rains on and off. Caught a double rainbow just after snorkeling

Anyone want a drink? This is a shot of one of the Majuro water reservoirs. Yumm.Work is going well, had a visit from my boss and AusAid this week and looking at upcoming projects here. I am a bit more settled in my house now, had the delivery of my a couch last week and now have a great place to sit. Also had some fans and screen doors installed so am starting to feel more relaxed at home, no internet yet though. Although, I did see my first rat, he ate all my cucumber and tomato seedlings, Ahh. Will be going out to a small island this weekend and be back just in time to download and watch the end of Le Tour about a day after it actually happens. Go Cadel! Then will be off on tues again, flying over to the second island I will be working on, Ebeye. We get to go through a US airforce base which is there and apparently there is a subway and good shopping, like a little mini amerika. My counterpart says I will have a traditional welcome out there which is cool. He knows the senators and I am sure means a big party with lots of food. Anyway will let you know how it goes.

Due to popular demand here are some slightly better shots of my new home for the next year. This is the back porch onto the beach, the sunrise this morning, and me. Things are well here, has been quite rainy. Had our first miny crisis at work today when one of the drinking water pumps failed. It was installed 10 yrs ago and never had any maintenance done, not even a change of oil. Woops. Off to it...

The week I arrived here in Majuro there happened to be a holiday, fisherman's day. Its supposedly the only place in the world to honor fishermen with their own holiday. The big event of the weekend was the annual Billfish tournament and I managed to get myself onto a boat on sat and sunday. It was awesome to be on a boat with true locals who really knew what they were doing. We brought in marlin, yellowfin tuna, barracuda, and others. Check out this fish we caught on day two. It was the smallest one.

Went for a sunday morning ride down to the end of the island, only about 30 miles rt with two new friends, possibly the only other bike enthusiasts on the island. Saw an unussal sight. Anyone ever seen a boat built out of a wheel barrow and 4in rigged insulation. Paddle made of palm tree branch.

The end of my first full week has been great and I on the high end of optimism. I am sure I will soon learn really what is going on here and get jaded and pessimistic, but for now it is all smiles. Besides the first week flying by there has been tons great initiatives happening here that I will get to be a part of. I have been fortunate to walk in here with multiple wheels already turning with the development of the sector and improvement of the water supply and sanitation systems. There is a policy process that has already begun and at least two donor funded projects that are expecting my input to finalize. My counterparts at the Water and Sewer Company also have some good energy. Like me they are also somewhat new and young and believe we can really do something here. It is the weekend, so see ya!Here is a picture of one my counterparts Wani in our office.

The view from my new place on to beach and ocean. Well really it is the lagoon on the interior of the atoll. See google earth to see what I mean. Sorry for the picture quality as it was taken from my phone. Will send better copy once I get my bags unpacked.Life is tough.

lv jesse

Hey all, so I am back, online that is, and decided to get this blog going again. Of course this means that I am in fact gone back overseas. So...

Here I am in the Marshall Islands. enjoy and keep in touch.

This blog is a closed story arc. The experience of me ,Terrance Clarke, as a Peace Corps Volunteer in East Timor 05-06. It runs from Pre-staging in Austrailia to evacuation in Bangkok a year later. It was taken down at the request of my country director who I respected and had some valid points but has passed it's time of potencey. I have cleaned up the spelling, added in some hindsight and cut a few posts that were too ignorant to stand, but otherwise this is, the is.

I am posting this now as part of a third goal effort with the 50th Anniversary of the Peace corps. Anyone considering volunteer service in the corps and would like some feedback a sounding board please feel free to contact me at tcstory@gmail.com. If you are thinking of joining please take my blog with a grain of cynical salt, I have a grimly comic world view and was a volunteer at a dark time in Timor's history. In the end I would not have missed it for the world.

Those wishing to support Timor's continuing reconciliation effort with Indonesia please visit etan.org. Returned volunteers or prospective volunteers who enjoy these stories might enjoy a site I frequent called thirdgoal.org.

Chronological blogs begin with the end. If you want the full effect start with the first post called Darwin. Poor bastards...

Good travels my friends,

Maka nee dizzle hau nia calizzle.

Terry Lyes

Tctheliar

Terrance Clarke

I have not slept for quite some time. My mind has started to play with the edges of reality. I am not tired. The sun is rising. Instead of watching it I sit on the top of our hotel’s roof and allow it to silhouette me. I stand at the edge of the roof; lift my arms and cast a long shadow onto Dilli.The place is a ghost town. Everyone has left. There is no movement that I can see, even the roosters are dulled in their cries. It is too early in the morning, and too late by far.I once sat near the Ministry Of Education in the cracked center of this city. I reached for a handful of dust to wipe my hands, a poor man’s sanitizer. There was ash in the dust. And I thought, “This is a city that knows how to burn.”And the colors of dust and trash and stone slip like poetry in my head and I know what I want to say but have never had the words. I came here to experience a simpler, more authentic life and instead found this. This city.Dilli, the garish gem in a discarded crown. A homely girl missing her two front teeth standing in too large spiked heels and trying not to be a child, afraid to smile, but never afraid to dance. And I’ve never liked cities. Born on a farm raised in the burbs I like the feel of air around me I like the space and the trees. But this place.

And though I am only two stories up, I have been awake long enough to dream the city, to see it all stretching before me. And there is where the urchins found me disconsolate and sang me a song. And there is where I saw a pig as large as a buffalo. There is the bar with the prettiest girls and there is the hostel with the books. And there is my office and there is the ministry and the training hall and the art commune. And will they all burn again?

I try to imagine it, Dilli in flames, burning, empty and alone. My mind puts the fire out. My mind fills the city with spring and flowers. I’m not sure if this is before, or after. Never? I see paved roads and sidewalks free of dust and trash. I see trees and flowers and well groomed dogs. People stop and chat under colored awnings and the urchins have school uniforms and notebooks. They are buying Dosi, with the ease of someone who knows there will be another nickel. And they are all, they are all Timorese. And I can’t look anymore. I open my eyes.

My colleagues are awake now. I can hear them packing and preparing to go. And I am lost. Ripped, rift and bereft. Raise a glass, raise a glass to the only city I have ever loved. To Dilli, may she never burn again.

I sat, silent, amazed at the beauty. I have been overwhelmed by the grandeur of this island, the beaches and the mountains and the sky. I have been shocked by the contrast between rich and poor and with the rush of hunger and anger. But this…

Last night. 54 people were told that they are going home. That we are going home. That the plane is coming at 5 am. They yelled and sobbed and laughed and drank and danced. I wanted to be sober, untired for each moment. It has been long since I have wished I was born with no eyelids, with eyes on my hands, with no need to sleep. The moments here shine like dew in moonlight and I would not miss a single one. And so I stood apart, took vigil.

I gave myself excuses. There are rebels in the hills. What if they come, who will speak? Who will be able to? But my excuses sound hollow, they taste like bitter copper and cannot stand. I am grown old in age and protectiveness. This is my group. And so I watch as the selves my brothers and sisters put away 10 months ago came out. The light we have to shield in the presence of another culture poured forth and it is so bright. There is a scene in a play called Our Town by Thorton Wilder. Our young woman Emily has died and is seeing the life she left behind. She asks the stage manager who stands aloof in his omniscience. “Does anyone realize life as they live it? Every, Every minute?” and he answers, “Saints and poets maybe. . .they do some.”

I watched as people cried and clung to each other one minute only to spin and stomp and scream the next. I wonder if they know how beautiful that connection is. How miraculous it was for them to come, unknowing here, to give up all just to try and help. No one can see that from the inside, leave it to hind sight and those without. I dipped in just a little, too greedy to resist. But I am too far gone, and see the shadow as well as the lights. I watched the doors and followed those who wandered out, making sure they made it to their rooms instead of braving the beach or the roads. I provided a shoulder for those inconsolable and a bag for the angry to punch. I watch and say to myself. No more. This is all they will have to stand.

Sometime during the night one of my sisters staggered up to me. She has put on lipstick. Her hair is conditioned and smells of apples. She is the person I met almost a year ago but she is more. I remember that we walked once skipping stones into the water and she told me of her dreams, her sweet ride. I remember her so angry that she slammed her fist into a wall and crumpled at the knees from the pain. I remember her dancing with children and how she smiled. “Do you think they know how much we love them?” She asked leaning on the table heavily. This is an outsider question and tonight I am an outsider. I shrugged. “Those fucks” she swore shaking the table “Those fucks!” And in the instant I hugged her I connected again. I held her up for a long moment as she breathed into my chest.

More people found me; sought me out in my corner. Raised a glass and told me the truths that people drunk on emotion cannot hide. They say that I helped them, that I was there for them. They remind me what I keep forgetting. That I am here. I am a part of this, brother, volunteer, author, mentor, liar, jerk. I am a part of something larger than myself. And I wish I had told her. I think. No. I believe that they do.

Hello everyone. You probably have been watching what’s going on here, or reading about it in the news. That means that you have more information than I do. What we have here is rumors. The only thing that is sure is that we are all consolidated in Dilli. The Peace Corps fears with a rebel leader armed in the hills that the one Airport that can get us safely home is in threat. Other organizations have already called things off and gone home.

The Peace Corps program in East Timor has been suspended. All volunteers will close service. If things quiet down some of us may be offered reenrollment. But this is very rare. Preparations are being made to evacuate us over the next couple of days to Bangkok where we will poked and prodded by doctors until we are fit to be released back into the wild.

I don’t know how this will be ended. Dilli is near deserted and we are closed up in a hotel called 2001, the same one we spent training in. We hear there is a rebel army in the hills, we hear they will come and burn this place to the ground. But our leaders say this is not likely. We are to remain vigilant and prepare for our close of service.

“Is rice, this. Is shit. Soldiers you know.. Is big. People Timor Weste is hate people Timore Leste. Is say, people Timore Leste is drunk is ugly is beat they wives is steal food. Timore Leste same. Say Timore Weste they is lazy, they is stupid, they is drink all time. Time always everything everything, this. But now is soldiers. Big with train from Austrailia. Timor weste soldiers, Timor leste soldiers. Is train is get guns.

Indonesia, good soldiers. Austrailia good soldiers, Timor shit. Everything Everything. Timor Weste say, why officer millitary, work, guard, march only only, no officer Timor weste. Timor Leste say you no good, no smart no officer. They fight, but people Austrailia see. Timor no can fight, Austrailia see. Now gone..Kitchen, kitchen. Timor leste eat here. Timore Weste eat here-soldiers. Timor weste has rice pot. Timore leste have rice pot different place. Cook big plate rice feed everybody. Two, one timor leste one timor weste, pot pot different place. No eat together. Happy happy everything everything. Pot breaks Timore leste. Now people. Officer millitary no have rice, ema bott no rice. No problem, take pot timor weste. Now timor weste no rice. Eat rice, no cook. .Rice hard Timor Weste. Rice cook Timor leste.

Soldier Timor weste angry. Soldiers Timor Leste say is good you wait soon is good. But Timor Weste get up walk. March in Dilli. Go to president Sanana. Say is rice, is work, is no fair. President he Timore leste. He says, you bad, you fired, go home.

Timore weste is angry, is shout. Is no fair. No go home. Have guns, they have doors, open doors. They go get guns. Go to hills.Shoot, baku bang! Burn! Now people scared. Everything Everything.President he say come back. But people in hills no . Want scare people. Now houses burn. Tasi Tolu burns. Boom!

People Timor shit. Sometimes we go we burn. Sometimes we go we hide. Hide in hills before. Dilli burn before. People timor shit, no good!. Need people Austrailia. Part Austailia. Malae come good. We say yes sir! We work!

I haven’t told you guys about Eusabio. I have made it this far and considering our situation I almost made it the whole way. Damn.

Eusabio is an odious man. Truly, an awful guy. When I was in my terrible sales job if one of us reps ran into someone truly odious my boss would say, “You can’t teach a pig to dance, it frustrate you and it annoys the pig.” It was our way of saying, while you must sell everyone if one or two are awful we don’t want to do business with them. Eusabio fit into that category.

He was a teacher trainer in my first real training, or he wasn’t. He was there for the first couple of days then gave me an earful and disappeared. He wasn’t on the rolls with the ministry. This happens sometimes. There are itinerant Timorese who wander from training to training pretending to participants for food and training pay.

He was the type of person to sit in a training with his arms crossed and snort when heard something he didn’t like, and that was always. The first thing he said to me was while he was as he stormed out. His English was pretty good. “This never work, never. People here shit, no good! You think it works but you Malae we want you think that. You money, always money.”

And then he was gone.

I saw him again at a Malae bar in Dilli right after Christmas. He was either drunk or stoned; a short man with a thick but ill kept moustache. I didn’t recognize him but he recognized me. “This Malae he buys me beer! You remember Malae is Eusabio. Good training. Good cakes!” I bought him a beer and he proceeded to tell me that the Timorese people were shit and things here would never work. He was in favor of annexation by Australia. “They come here, we go-we say Yes Sir, everything, everything! We work! Thing work. They leave, now shit.” I walked away after paying for his beer. I was in a hard enough spot without listening to that stuff.

I haven’t brought him up because if I start focusing on negative things I catch a spiral right back to can’t sleep-ville. There is an element of his externalized self hatred here in Timor. “We’re shit, things are not good, we’re no good”. But never have I seen it concentrated with such vigor. I ran into Eusabio again today.

I was on my way back from Baucau. It was our final call. Come in to Dilli. Most of these end in evacuation; just a matter of signing the papers. We caught a sweet ride with Jessie’s NGO. I hopped off on the outskirts of Dilli because I saw Alfonzo, my consultant, and I needed some time.Alfonzo and I talked, he had a DVD player in one hand and a bag in another. His family was already gone and he was going to take his motor scooter out as soon as he had tied up some loose ends. Did I want to come and see his house? You know, before? The question hung in the air. I was supposed to be in the Peace Corp Headquarters NOW. But I decided to take the time. “Great” he says and hops on his scooter ”I will be right back here.”

And here wasn’t a bad place to wait. There was a mass exodus of Dilli going on. Buses and trucks teeming with people, pigs and goats strapped to the side all manners of valuables from mattresses to television strapped to the top. I stayed at the side of the road almost out of sight. There were indicators of trouble all around, the corner vendor for phone cards was selling them at double their value. The beer vendor had slashed his prices and was waiting to get rid of his stock so he could stash his cart and leave.

And as I waited for Alfonzo to come back someone shouted my name, well Malae. It was Eusabio, rumpled and damp in the humidity. He had a huge pillowcase for a bag, it looked to be filled with packets of cigarettes, nesquick mix a coffee and bottled water. He had a katana at his side.

“Malae! Malae!” and he is approaching me; I have nowhere to hide. He takes me by the hand and leads me to the beer vendor. “He is buying me tiger half price.” The beer vendor is already selling his wares for half but soon Eusabio had one for a quarter. It was hard to stand in the way of someone so dedicated I paid for the beer. I started to walk away. He had already drained a good portion of the beer and began to castigate me.“Now we is burning we is hiding. all malaes they go. Other malaes they come is have guns. Is shit. Is no good.”

We were in the shade of a large tree, I had only been waiting ten minutes so I turned and pulled out my pipe and took a seat. Eusabio was worked up. I listened to his ramblings until I found a suitable ride in. Alfonzo had taken too long. I wish I had stayed for more. At the end Eusabio had gotten another beer off me and was shouting as I got into a taxi. The driver told me he was crazy and then quoted me a price for in Dilli travel ten times what it had been the week before. I didn’t argue. I have no ideas what below is true.Please do not take my attempt to write broken English as anything but what it, is the best I can do.

There are some crazy thing going on here in Timor. I am in a place called Baucau. Jumar has called to say goodbye. He says that there is a mass exodus going on in Dilli. That it is no longer safe. The Peace Corps are with the embassy working out what to do next. You may have heard about some shooting and violent riots. We are currently unaware who is actually in control of the government.

If you are worried, that is good. Worried is good, prayers are good. Fear or panic I would say are not necessary. The peace corps has forty years of experience in this sort of things and will back us up with force if necessary. We are safe. The talk in the streets here in Baucau is more scared and sad than angry. Huge buses are coming in loaded with pigs and goats and people. I imagine Dilli as a ghost town by now.Soon we will hop a truck and head right into the heart of it. Back to my city and I will see what has happened to her. I don’t know when I will write next but I will write. Until then remember that we are safe. We are protected. Try to get some sleep.

If you do pray, spare one for the people of the city of Dilli. They do not have an organization to come and get them. No plane will come to take them someplace safer.

No reason I bring this up moms. Okay, that’s not true. Well, this may be the last time I get to a computer proper so let’s put our cards on the table. I’m up late, Travis and Rebekah have passed out with Jay. We are in a situation where we are no longer allowed to move freely about the country. So I’ll be in Same for a while.

I would put details about why that has happened here but I am getting a lot of different stories. Two volunteers have texted me saying they heard Dilli is in flames. Jane from the clinic texted and told me not to try and get to Tibar because something was going down in the way station called Tasi Tolu. She used the word grenade.

Jumar and Duarte are being recalled by the UN. But I cannot leave with them. People in Same are tense, but nothing is going on here.

So let’s have a cheerful chat just in case. No, not a last will and testament. . . To my brother I leave my ridiculous clown pants. No. Let’s talk about what happens when a country goes tits up and the Peace Corps needs to get out of there. There is a system, and there are people who are trained to execute it. Remember the Peace Corps has not lost a person in an evacuation for a very long time. It’s all by the books.First, what is an evacuation? Well I only know what we were trained in. I’m not sure what the decision making process is. But what happens is that all of the Volunteers are evacuated to a nearby, Peace Corps friendly country. For us that would be Australia.

But there are steps to be followed. I’ll describe them below.

First there is an Alert: An alert is something that the country director or security officer can put the country on, it means have a heightened awareness but continue on with your day.

Second there is Stand Fast. In a stand fast situation Peace Corps volunteers are required to stay in their site. This may be used in a large country when one area is in civil unrest but no Peace Corps volunteers are there, or if the roads become unsafe. Volunteers on the road, like myself, are handled on a case by case basis. In this instance I am staying right here in Same because the rumors are emanating from the place I spend most of my time.

Step three is Consolidation. We have this in two stages. There is district consolidation and country consolidation. District Consolidation calls all volunteers to their nearest consolidation center. These were chosen for their ease of access and historical safety. District consolidation points are furnished with extra food, water, medical supplies and cash; enough for a siege. This site is usually the home of one of the longer term volunteers. When we get a consolidation call we make our excuses pack a bag and go.Country consolidation means do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, get to Peace Corps headquarters in Dilli. Every volunteer has a consolidation bag with necessities that they can grab and run.In the case of a consolidation all bets are off. All Peace Corps rules are superseded by the need to get to a place where we can be safe. We are allowed to offer great gobs of cash to rent a car. We can drive, we can buy and use a motor cycle or steal a horse or travel at night. Any route is open, constant contact is mandated. In the worst case the helicopters with embassy marines will come and get us.History has told us that the situations that lead to a country consolidation are extreme. The process is costly and it is rare that they are not the precursor to a full country evacuation.

We got the stand fast call last night. This came along with the calls to Jumar from the UN headquarters and his boss. Duarte and Jumar were called back in and we said good bye as if it was good bye. That was tough. And then they drove off. Jay is here.

As a show of faith Travis and I have decided to build a desk out of bamboo. We are taking a break. Even as I write this he has become frustrated with something in the house. When he gets frustrated he throws things in the back yard. “To the back yard with you!” he yells and something flies out the door and off the porch. Today it has been a couch pillow, a broken chair and a pair of pliers. He is nervous.

Rebekah sits straighter than usual her hand is on her chin, she is biting her lip. She is nervous.And I am a goddamn wreck. Not sure when I get to post this. One bit of good news, Jumar considers my stand fast time, district time and he paid me my total per deim in cash before heading in, including an anticipated five days. So I’m a very rich man. And I am in a place with a Warung. Sitting here isn’t doing any good I’m going to take these rangy strangers out to lunch.

With the Standfast in Same and little access to internet the blog sort of fell apart. Not that I stopped writing, I just didn’t have the ability to post it. And with everything that was happening it became increasingly difficult to keep up with e-mails home and also a coherent narrative. The below is cobbled together from e-mails, half written posts and memory.

I was stood in Same with a fist full of cash, the first time it was for two days. We kept ourselves busy building a desk and swimming in one of the fast flowing streams. I kept pushing the Peace Corps for information and none was forthcoming so I turned to my UN contacts and the Australians. They told me there had been some violence in the city. That people were leaving and there were rebels in the hills. But each of them had a different story.

Things quieted down and the UN was allowed to move around again while the Peace Corps was still on stand fast. I convinced Nina that one far flung district was just like another and she allowed me to travel onto our next port of call, provided Duarte drove me. The next morning Duarte arrived eager to get on his way. He told me that Tasi Tolu, the bus station between Tibar and Dilli, had indeed burned. He thought it was a tribal feud and not rebels.

We packed up our gear and headed further into the districts. I was really looking forward to the next site. Troy and Tabitha were some of my groups most dedicated and selfless volunteers. Because of my tendency to grab a big metal pole and stand in the lightning they had always steered clear of me. But when I sat down in a nice shirt and spoke competently about Entrepreneurs they approached me and invited me to their site. They were working on a movie night. Ten cents per visitor, affordable for almost any family, The people who came would get a nice snack and a movie played on one of the largest Tv’s in town. The only catch, and the reason Troy and Tabitha were doing this at a loss, was that the audience had to listen to a lesson about health or economic development.

Their site was as far out as Moun Dylans in the mountain, it took them a full two days of travel to get back to the capitol city. When I went to Hatibaliko Dylan and I had walked the most treacherous parts of the road. Duarte drove them like we were running from a shot gun wedding in Hazard county. We would fly around curves only to find ourselves presented with a total collapse of one lane and nothing but sheer drop where the guard rail had been. Other times we would be driving around a curve and I would see where the pavement had been laid on top of a soft rock that was eroding from underneath, so the whole thing had melted to one side like a vinyl record left on a radiator. It was harrowing. Duarte’s cheerful singing only served to make it more so.

The ride ended abruptly. A 200’ four lane suspension bridge had dropped about 16’ of it’s pavement into the chasm below. I had never seen anything like it. This was a fully modernized bridge, and we could see the yellow lines on the asphalt slab that had collapsed resting 60’below. There was no way to cross. A large group of Timorese people stood on either side of the chasm looking down and shouting things across to each other. Duarte called in the development and we found out that the only other route would take us around to the other side of the island an additional travel time of 16 hours. So I called Troy and Tabitha and made my apologies.

Duarte and I headed back but as we approached Same again I got a call. The stand fast was reinstated. This time it was four days. The first day we waited, polled our fellow volunteers and contacts for news. The next night we bought beer and danced to Ricky Martin so thoroughly that Jay put his ass through a glass table. The third day we explored Samé.

By now things had changed. Truckloads of people were coming and staying with family. The restaurants became crowded and the markets became packed. We stayed out of sight at night but wandered around during the day. Jay had a special talent for finding people drinking. It was like this double edged gift from god. He had gone wandering off during the day, and when we texted him he just said he was alright not to worry.

This was the third day. We were seeing more and more people carrying Katanas in the street and loud music would play all night. Everyone had a theory about what was happening in Dilli. But no one would really talk to us unless we were buying something. I had often felt unsafe in Timor, but it was mostly driving and animals, I had never felt unsafe around people until that night.

Travis, Rebekah and I were walking home from the market, we had purchased enough vegetables to make spaghetti, and even found tiny fresh tomatoes. As we crossed over into their neighborhood Jays voice rang out.

“Hey! , Ya’ll come over here sit a spell have some Tuaa.” Jay had waved whatever magic wand allowed him to conjure up people with too much alcohol and time on their hands. He had invited himself to a Joven drinking party. We went into the house, the only real adult there was an old man who had suffered a stroke. The boys had covered one of the walls with a Che Guevera flag.

I am sadly lacking in the memory of this encounter. I remember the boys, in increasingly loud voices telling us that the people of Timor were bad. That they would kill each other, burn themselves. That they needed Austrailia to come back and make things peaceful again. One boy kept pointing to the old man, who had soiled himself, and asking if we had medicine. And I remember saying over and over that we did not. I don’t remember how we got out of there except that at one point two boys were blocking the door and insisting it was not safe to go outside because it was dark now.

We left Jay and headed back to Rebekah and Travis’ house. We cooked the spaghetti and told stories to distract ourselves. Jay eventually showed up and wondered why we had wandered away. The next day Duarte arrived and I got permission to return to Tibar.

We went through a check point on the way back down the mountain breezing through as several other cars and trucks were being searched. We were seeing more and more people packed in Angunas heading away from Dilli.

I convinced Duarte, this wasn’t hard, to stop in Balibar and visit my family there. When Joaon saw me he gave me a hug. We sat and sipped coffee. Balibar was peaceful but there were a lot of people in the Aldea I had never seen before. When I asked what had happened in Dilli he said I should not worry. I was not a part of what was going on. I asked him if he was scared and he shrugged his shoulders and grinned.As I had been doing each time I visited I went to drop the tobacco I had left over in the small wooden box he kept for his cigarettes. I had been slipping five dollar bills in with it, this was never spoken of between us. Over the course of the year I had maybe hidden 25 dollars there. When I would come back the money would be gone. This time I put a twenty deep within the box. As I walked away from it Joaon took my hand and shook it. We held hands and he patted me on my chest. “We are family, you are like my family. We miss you here.” I let the handshake linger wishing I had more words.

Duarte and I went back up to the car and drove. We passed two more armed check points on the way into Dilli. And when we had taken the turn towards Tibar I saw that Tasi Tolu had indeed burned. The materials they use to build houses in Timor burn ugly. Blackened sheets of warped corrugated metal and baebuk spikes jutted up. Either the fire had burned down or been put out. One the way out of Dilli we passes the Uma Lu Lik (house of magic) a spiritual house. It was a thatched house on stilts with a ladder. This was the place where President Clinton had come to speak after the independence. There was a crowd of people, some praying others standing and a man on the steps speaking. I realized that I had never seen a person near this shrine in my time in Timor.

Duarte took a moment to talk with Seiko Metan who was sitting with a group of people on the dirt of his front lawn, his big katana restign on his knees. And when he came back he told me not to worry. That I was safe.

I spent two days in Tibar stood fast in my home. It did not occur to me to pack or prepare. I’m not sure why. Things quieted down and now volunteers returned to alert. We were allowed to continue our work as long as we did not come to Dilli. When I talked with Gene he told me that it looked like things would be okay and I should continue to prepare for my curriculum insertion. So I did.

The next day I found out that Jumar had contacted Duarte and worked out a deal that allowed me to continue my travel. I had to agree to stay in the car during my time in Dilli but when we had crossed through it I could continue to Baucau (Bow-Cow). Tasi Tolu was still a wreck and the military base that occupied the west side of Dilli seemed deserted. We went through three armed check points, there were people in the streets but they did not seem interested in us. I saw something I had not seen before. Only a couple of them, long sharpened spears. There were also a lot more of the Lu Lik amulets that the Timorese use to protect them from harm being worn outside of shirts.

Durarte took me as far a Mana Tu-tu. then turned back. I got to spend a little time with Lisa and Sash. They had out of site days and we were only on alert so they called into get permission and we headed off to Baucau. It was about two in the afternoon.

We caught a sweet ride with a rice truck and with the wind in our hair things seemed almost normal. We talked about my time in Same and Ainaro, they shared their adventures and what they had heard about the troubles in Dilli. A big question was whether the president would remain in charge or if he had left the country. We didn’t know. Half way between ManaTu-tu and Baucau we got another stand fast. We were instructed to head farther from the capitol city and ended up visiting the volunteers there under different circumstances.

He lived in a large house with a family, there was room enough in his room for us all. As we prepared for dinner we got a mass text from the volunteers in the farther districts. They were being instructed to consolidate. Sarah China texted to say that she had been picked up without warning and not even been allowed to say goodbye to her family. Sarah Prima was coming down the mountain at break neck speed in a Peace Corps vehicle. I texted the Peace Corps but got no response to direct queries.

We knew what was happening. The next day was calm, there were a lot of people standing around in groups and the market was packed with refugees. There was food and water, and the weather was not awful. We started to prepare for our trip into Dilli, first phone cards then clearing out our bank accounts.In an attempt to get more information, the circular texts between volunteers had run dry, I texted Genes assistant Anne. She did not reply. I gave her an hour and decided to be a jerk.

I texted this: “Tc in Baucau looking for an update. Not to worry I’m happy to call the Embassy and ask them.”I got a personal phone call two minutes later.“Mr. Clarke I do not like threats.”“I haven’t given you any Anne. I’m looking for information. We got several volunteers out here and we know that people are being consolidated to Dilli. We just want to know what we should be preparing for.”“Tell people they should be making sure their consolidation bags are in order. We will be giving a group update today at noon.”

And so I did. We got the call at noon as promised. Consolidate in Dilli keep us appraised of your progress. And that was it. We were on our way. This was the first of many days when I ceased to be tired, when I did not sleep.

And that’s when I had time to start writing my blog again.

As I sit in the back of a school in Timor I am grasped by one of my small passions; writing my name on things. A form of proof, that I was once somewhere and. . .had a pen?

Sitting in one of the larger desks I have plenty of room to write my name on the leg out of the view of the other students. As I study the desk I realize that as far as my passion is concerned I am far from alone. The desk is marred with names and dates; words and Tetun, Bahasa, and English. The walls are also covered to about 5 feet in scrawls and words and drawings.

Graffiti in many of its forms interests me. Having traveled most of the United States and stopping at every tourist trap on the way, I have become an old hand at reading while going to the bathroom.The walls of truck stops are of particular meaning to me. There is no paper in America that has a better advertisement section the walls of a long time truck stop bathroom. Pictures and drawings and scrawled phone numbers. There is racism and fear there as well; misogyny, anti-Semitism. But if you look long enough and ignore the blaring black marker you often find poetry of the kind I like. I once ran into a burgeoning poet while working my way from Florida to North Carolina. I noticed his simple verse in Orlando and by North Carolina he was taking up more and more space with something that approached art. I wish I had continued north and seen what he was writing by Maine.

In America a bathroom wall is a place to throw out lines looking for someone who might understand or agree. Or start fights. I have always enjoyed graffiti fights, mostly in bars near urinals. "Mike was here", "Mike is an asshole", "Mike will kick your ass", "Mike can't find me because he's an asshole" and so on.In Timor most the bathrooms are made of baebuck, from spiky Palm fronds laid together and pierced. It does not give a good surface for writing. The schools are different, they have white walls made for graffiti. This one is dominated by the artist and an English enthusiast named Maccom. Right above my desk Maccom has written "this is a place for meeting" and further towards the corner of the room he has written "this is a place for me to be meeting alone"

I have no good psychological understanding of graffiti. I imagine one could be made between the difference in the American graffiti and those found in other countries. I believe that there is a reason we have the phrase, "He couldn't see the writing on the wall."

Here in Timor. There are no symbols; little hearts or pluses or minuses. No skulls or swastikas or lightning bolts. Just names, and little drawings of things that exist. There are no professions of love or accusations of such. Just doodles. Is this a mind at peace? Or one that has not fully comprehend its own capacity. I wonder if the children start playing games if this will change. It is a tenet of a collectivist society to group instead of standing alone. Entrepreneurship is all about standing alone.

I do not know the political or sociological ramifications of trying to encourage individualism in a society that values the family more than person, but I know there are sparks of that great independent fire out there. Maccom sticks to trees and pig faces rendered in a squarish hand. But there, by the edge, is a whorl of shapes. An abstract; to me it looks like it is trying to be the curve of a woman’s back. I wonder if he saw it too.

Maccom is not my favorite graffiti artist. That title belongs to someone who calls himself Jonn, King of Mongki.

I think I would not mind going into business with Jonn King of Mongki. I think he's got some of the delusions of grandeur that fuel entrepreneurs during the long nights of work. My favorite piece by him, of the 12 scattered in and about Dilli, is one in which a very tiny Timorese teenager is trying desperately to escape from the enormous ass crack of a bright green sumo wrestler. He has his head and one arm free and he looks as if he's about to hook a foot and struggle on. This drawing is within a stone’s throw of the ministry of education. And I like to think that its placement is no coincidence.

Here we go. “Tc was here. This is a place for me to be meeting myself”

My next port of call is Same to visit a married couple, Travis and Rebecca. Same is another example of a mountain city. It has electricity and running water. There is a restaurant and a standing market called a Loja. Travis and Rebekah live in large house with a nice covered porch and a lush green lawn.

The house came furnished with chairs and tables and a couch. They get by without a television. Each of them has a touch of the artist. Travis is writing children’s stories and learning to play guitar and Rebekah draws. This is the first location where we will be starting the curriculum in a pilot school. Travis has agreed to be a volunteer mentor. Rebekah works with a health NGO but wishes she had more to do as well. They take me on a tour of the town. They are more well known than the volunteers In Ainaro. I have arrived late in the evening. Jumar introduces himself and then goes to the rooms he and Duarte have arranged. I stay with the volunteers.

The next day we head to the school. All of us, in the white land rover. The mentoring program is more important than ever because I have found out that our expected budget is much smaller than the one we had planned for. We need big results or we will have to spend our time finding other backers.

The school is older than the one in Same, perhaps it survived the fires in 2001. The schools mascot is a fish on a book with a pencil in its mouth. No one finds this as hilarious as I do. Our being there is much anticipated and the teacher who attended our training is nervously waiting with his principal and all the children from the school.

Jumar gives a short speech in Bahasa and I follow him up in broken Tetun. We introduced Travis and Rebekah to the Entrepreneurial Teacher and explain their role. He looks much relieved.Soon it is just our team, the teacher and a class room full of children. It is our first live fire test of the curriculum. The teacher begins to flounder and Viriato, our consultant steps in. He begins to teach helping the teacher over the rough spots. And the children are getting it. We get to one of the simple games and they start to grin. It is working, not well, but it is working.

And I sit in the back of the class in a ridiculously small desk grinning. Wishing I had more hands with which to pat myself on the back.

Jumar, Duarte & Viriato caught up with me on the road out Ainaro. We were on our way to a place called Same (Saw-may). Jumar and I seem to argue only in the city, we've had some hum dinger's. There have been times that I've had to walk out of the office and a couple of times when he sent me out. We always seem to be disagreeing about the same things. He knows stuff that I don't I know about what it is to be a volunteer and I know stuff that he doesn't about being a boss. We can never seem to share it all in the time we have. I have to work hard to want to listen to it. But get us under an open sky or on a mountain highway with good music and the windows open and it's like the blinds go up in the sunlight can get in. He starts to smile, I start to relax and we can talk.

Ladies and gentlemen for your consideration Jumar:

Me: Like Bon Jovi ,or Poison, or Quiet riot you know.

Jumar: : There is no such thing as a quiet riot. They are very loud and very scary. But exciting too. When I was young we had them. Independence in my country, we did not have help. I know about the tear gas, you put a wet cloth over your mouth. Then it is just your eyes that are hurting. I was hit by a truncheon in the head, the police. We were proud, proud that it was me. I held out my arms and people cheered because I was their friend and I got hit with a truncheon. I kissed many girls. :But now I am old it would be embarrassing if they hit me with a truncheon now. And I am big how would they drag me to the prison? They would have to bring their friends and drag me in a group. Too embarrassing. No, I am too old for riots. But I remember sometimes when it was hot the police would use water cannons. Cool us down, that was nice."

Me: Bugs, really?

Jumar: “In my country we do very much eat bugs. You do not? Oh, yes, beetles are very good. Some people in the mountains, the young, they cover themselves, their skin, with, how is it? Cow dung? Then the beetles from a kilometer away will fly to them, they have excellent sense of smell beetles, and you just catch them with nets. We cook them most times, fry them also. The insects they fly into lights, at night? Moths? We eat them, they are delicious. Pull off their wings and fry. Very good protein... And ants, we scrape up ants and their eggs. Larva is very sweet. But the ants, very sour. Good together. But not just ants, too sour. It is almost lunch time would you like to find some? Ha ha, I am kidding now? You look scared."

Me: Weren’t you scared?

“They told me to sit in the road, they told me to wait. And I am alone and I am very scared and I could hear gunshots. But they are my friends, and I wait. And then something is coming towards me and I am not knowing what it is. And it has no lights but I can hear it and I am sitting and I have a candle. And it turns on its lights when it is very close, and it is a tank. And they tell me to move, but I have been asked to wait. And now they do not know what to do. So we wait. People, they are always people.”

Thank you and goodnight.

Most of the schools, clinics, hospitals and utility infrastructure of Timor was burned to the ground near the start of this century. This act of vandalism and cruelty seems to me to be the largest declaration of, "I am taking my ball and going home." ever. The Indonesians saw they were leaving and what they could not take with them they put to the torch.

It means that most Timorese schools are less than 6 years old. Communities, along with international organizations and the government have been rebuilding them since the fires went out. These large cinderblock buildings have corrugated tin or fibreglass roofs and wire mesh covered windows that allow air to flow. They are filled with desks of all sizes, styles, stability and function. One student sits at a desk large enough to serve ad a kitchen table while another, smaller girl, stoops to write on a desk more suited for a dog. The boards are cheap and scratched black and green paint slathered on plywood framed by aluminum strips. Some schools have electricity, some do not. Some have bathrooms, some do not. Some have water, some do not.

Education is important in this culture, learning has a mark of status here. When I ask people how many children they have they tell me the number, how many are alive, which ones have jobs and then what schools they attended or are attending. Like this "I have seven children, four live with me, three live with God. One of them drives a truck for the oil company two finished secondary school and my youngest is going to university." Just like the United States, sort of.

On the day I visited him in school Mark was teaching the future and past tense. Mark is not a teacher. It was not in my heart to tell him that he was teaching the subject despaired over by trained sympathetic interlocutors. The national language of Timor has no conjugation verbs do not change depending on the time of the action. We use the same words for the past tense in the future tense. We merely add a small word that means already, or about too. So teaching children to conjugate and decline is a very difficult thing. Mark Campbell handles this like the old fisherman who ate the whale, one bite at a time.

I sat in my seat watching him work, observing the kids. "I did go to the store", "I will go to the store", "I have gone to the store". Try explaining the pluperfect tense to children who have never considered that they might need a word for past. Try explaining it to someone period. Mark did not, he sticks to the basics. "She went to the city", "She is going to go to the city", "She is in the city" “Can we form it as a question?” “Anyone?” I realized as I sat, slowly sinking into myself , that I had not been in a pre-secondary school since they jerked me out of it in eighth grade.

“He is in the school.” “He was in the school.” “Can we make it possessive?” “Anyone?” The story is for some time, but not now.

When I start to think deeply my eyes go soft, the floating focus on all things instead of nothing. These kids, 16,000 miles and 16 years from my own experiences had similarities. I couldn't understand what the girl beside me was whispering but I knew what she was saying. It was written on her face. There was the scapegoat she was whispering about. He was hunched over like someone had tied huge stones to his shoulders. There was the boy who would always do well in life. There was the girl that the boys whispered about when they were alone. The kid who eats bugs, sat next the girl who could never be trusted to remember her books. They were all familiar to me. I felt a wave of nauseous nostalgia. We don't have a word for that feeling, the feeling of bad nostalgia. How it drop shimmies in your stomach and chest. How it falls from a great height pulling the cobwebs of years and experience. Taking me back.

For just a moment I had trouble taking breath. Smells from then flooded my nostrils, tater tots and dirt and chalk dust and sweet cloying candy on breath. I didn't like pre-secondary school. And that is an understatement on the level of hyperbole. How could I possibly have forgotten that when taking this job?This, spiraling of then and now. It is also familiar. It is mental glitch that I haven’t had for years. But one never forgets the internal warnings and pits. This is not a road I travel anymore. I am grown too real. I remembered what I used to do in the days when it was all I could do to keep a smile stapled to my face. Something to wipe away the memories and bring back the real. I dug the tip of my pen underneath the nail of my littlest finger and pressed hard. You get a jazz of adrenaline when you do this, and for me it snaps the mind back to reality. I got over this habit sometime in my junior year of high school.

It worked as if not a day passed. My mind popped back from the long dark hallways where the fluorescent lights barely touched the awful brown green carpet. I had the strange sense of duality I usually do when I come back from there. As if I'm a mere smear of dirt on a huge work of art. Something accidental on top of something beautiful And as I looked at the kids realize I brought something back with me, a little pearl from the harder days. The next time Mark asked a question I shot my hand in the air. I stretched and I twisted and I made little Ooo… Ohh… sounds. The kids giggle nervously. Mark called on me and I answered. The next time he asked a questions another boy raised his hand in imitation of me. And then everybody was doing it. Monkey See… Monkey do.

“So it’s right after a bank day right, so I’ve got a pocket of money. And no one is waiting for me in my site so I stop over in Maubisi and I go over to see Betty and I’m like, want some whiskey? Not like I had to twist her arm. So I pour some myself this big glass and sit down, it’s evening so I can crash on the floor.

Well Betty has this little cat. It’s half grown cute, like cats are, and it’s jumping around and goes out the window. I’m about to enjoy this drink, my first, and we hear this barking and a hiss. Betty jumps up and runs out and I chase her but my hand ain’t letting go of this drink. I’m bare foot and my hairs all messed up cause I was in the back of a truck and I’m chasing this girl. We were drawing attention is what I’m saying.

Betty sees these two dogs, ones big and the others skinny but they’re nipping at this little cat. It’s cornered and hissing and their like, nipping at it. Well Betty starts to shout, “Save my kitty! Save my kitty!”

Well how many times does a girl ask a man to be a man anymore? Save my kitty, that’s right hero stuff is what it is. So there’s no way I’m gonna let these two big dogs get hold of that little cat. So what I’m gonna do is run over there and kick that big dog as hard as I can and then the skinny ones gonna run away. Then I’m gonna get that little cat and come back get me some gratitude. That’s my plan.

So I get up a good run behind that dog and I go to kick him while he’s turning around and I shut my eyes cause I don’t want to see it. It’s a beautiful kick I feel it connect. I open my eyes and the two dogs are still there but that little cat is flying away like someone hit it with a truck. I kicked the shit outta that little cat. It landed about twenty feet away. And the dogs is looking; at me like I’m crazy and I’m yelling cause I don’t want to get bit. I’m panting too because, you know, I’m a smoker and I just ran from the damn house and, kickin’ cats, it’s exciting and all. So I’m trying to make a stand but I’m not making sense. I’m like, “You leave…Don’t you…. Little… DOG!”

The big dog is looking at me like, “Man, we were just playing you’re the one who kicked the shit outta that little cat.” But the skinny one is snarling and he’s hunched over real low but I’m on him. I rear back to kick, shut my eyes, and WHOOF! I’m on my back. I missed again, tipped my damn self over. And the only smart thing about me is my hand with the whiskey. And it’s gone all independent cause it’s like, “This is twenty dollar whiskey and I will not let you spill it!” It’s working out equations and shit, counter balancing my shit. So I’m on my back but I still got this full glass.

And I guess the entire Timorese population of Betty’s site is watching now. They’re eating pop corn. One of them is selling t-shirts that say , “Crazy white guy eaten by dogs!” they’re taking bets. “Twenty on the dogs!”, all that. The big dog, he takes his chance cause I’m smaller on the ground.

And it’s coming at me and I’m having this fight with my hand for who’s in charge. And it gets close and I toss this whiskey in its face! And it’s like, “Hey this is some good shi-ahhh my eyes!!” and it starts to yip and runs off and I’m up on my knees now panting. And I’m yelling at the skinny dog. “You . . . Want. . . DOG!” I chuck this rock at it and I miss. And it’s just staring at me, then it gets up and walks away.

Well I get on my feet and dust myself off, and I’m looking for Betty, cause, hey, gratitude, right? And she’s starin’ at me like everybody is. And then she just walks away. Gone in to the house after all I did. Little cat won’t come near me anymore either. It don’t pay to help people now a days.”

It was my host father Seiko Metans fiftieth birthday party yesterday. And I had texted Sarah China six times to make sure she was bringing a camera to our celebration. Mine had been lost or stolen. Each text was at the bidding of my host mother and Sarah China was not well pleased. She texted back, “Do you only want me for my camera?” and I imagined what she would look like in a wonder-bra full of macaroni and cheese. “It’s my family.” I text back and she understands.

The party was a smashing success, four whole Malaes in attendance and a visit from two others, pictures taken of the whole family. People came from all over and there was a meal and loud music. My own donation was some American fire water courtesy of Jumar. We wore our festive clothes and had delicious naan carou (cow meat). In the evening all of the girls went to the clinic of our nearby Cuban doctor to protect them from my reputation. And I went to sleep. Later I heard yelling coming from my back yard.Seiko Metan yelled his own name. He wasn’t alone, a chorus of voices went up yelling as well. And then he fell into the guttural language of mumbai or some form of Bahasa I am not familiar with. He is forcefully pounding out his sentences. Other people are yelling too in support of what he is saying. And I want to see but I do not want to go outside.

I need to tell you all about my pee tube, and how it became a mirror stick. It may be that we have some people who, convinced by my stunning narrative, might want to become a Peace Corps volunteer someday. If so you may have the opportunity to build your own pee tube.

Say you live in a place like Timor and it has gotten so you don’t feel safe going out at night, what with the buffalos and the ghosts and the rats and the guys in your town with the big guns. Just because you don’t want to go outside doesn’t mean you don’t want to pee. Now a rookie mistake would be to just pee out your window. That’ll get you caught. The outside of your window will start to smell like ammonia, and the goats will congregate there. I learned that from one of the crazier volunteers who came here before me.

Another rookie mistake is to pee into a bottle, seal it and dump it out later. This takes a lot of washing in an area that doesn’t have much privacy. Plus if your family sees you taking a bottle of tang to the Santina they’ll think you’re wasteful. Best make a pee tube.

My pee tube took eight water bottles, some hard won duct tape and a pair of scissors. It’s pretty basic you cut the ends off the water bottles and use a slit in the ends to fit them over each other and then tape the joints for stability. Now you’ve got an eight foot tube and you can pee in a radius that won’t make people suspicious.

But Tc doesn’t that smell? It did, but I took the ends of the water bottles and made air tight caps. So I only smell it when I’d be smelling it anyway. I use it for everything, left over beer, palm wine that’s gone bad, every so often I run some bleach or cleaning stuff through it. One piece of advice, don’t get it to near a candle. You might end up shooting a fire ball into your room and having to replace your mosquito net. So I heard what was going on and wanted to see, but I knew there were guests sleeping on the kitchen floor. The fire in the back yard had burned to embers. I could only see a dull red glow around the corner of the house. So I took my warped child’s mirror and taped it to the end of my tube then lowered it gently out my window. It was harder to control than I thought but I finally got a good angle.

There was Seiko Metan shirtless standing in the light of the dying fire; large katana in hand. He was exhorting several people sitting in a circle. His arms were out as he talked and they were leaning in to hear him. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Suddenly he reared back and slapped an arm across his chest.“HAU SEIKO METAN!” (I am Seiko metan) and they replied a couple of them raising their arms. “Seiko Metan!”

I don’t know what about it disturbed me so much. I pulled back in the tube and pulled off the mirror. It was one of those things that I can’t quantify or understand. Perhaps I was watching the Timorese version of a gangsta rap and that was his chorus. But it seems darker than that. I know I’m safe in that house, but I see more empty houses in the areas around Dilli where the Mikrolets stop, two of the stores I frequent have put down their shutters. And the rumors fly.I don’t know what’s going on.

These are snippets of conversations that went on during our in service training. I pull them out of anonymity because I believe they are important and reflect what some of our group is going through. I leave the names blank because some of them are personal.

“They don’t get. . . They haven’t gotten that I’m human yet. It’s not in their mind yet that I’m human. I mean, they laughed at me when my friend died. That’s, I know that’s cultural, but come on. I am going to do everything I can. Everything I can to convince my community that I’m human, like them. That’s my project, two years. That’s all I can do now and if I do I’ll work on other things. They really have some problems out there. But if they don’t, I mean if I’m not the guy who can do that. I’ll just sit on their beach and eat their damn fish for two years.”

“We don’t have any quality control in the districts, the coffee, it’s their main export. But when the trucks pick up the bags if our guys so much as open them, look inside- the katana’s come out. You all probably don’t want to hear this but this country is very much ruled by violence.”

“Everybody talks about autonomous capacity building and making sure our work is sustainable. But that’s crap. You can’t build capacity when the people have nothing to eat. When they don’t have cab fare to get their baby to a clinic. These people need a safe, healthy environment and enough money to survive before we can get into that capacity. And anyone who tells you different is wrong.”

“My community has really poor self esteem, is all. They see the places around them improving, getting help. Even The Timorese who come through won’t stay for more than a day. So there is a training, some NGO, and then they pack up and go someplace more interesting. Somewhere they think they can help. And my community is embarrassed by how little they know, how far behind they are. They think it’s their fault and this is just the way they have to live.

1: You’ve got to swear on your mother’s grave you’ll never tell anyone.2: My mother’s not dead.3: He’s right. His mothers alive, I had sex with her.1: I will kill your children.2: I don’t have any children.3: But you can see the point he’s making.2: I’m not even sure I want children.3: I think that’s wise.1: Yeah cause if you tell anybody I’m going to find them and I’m going to kill them.3: He’s going to build a time machine find a future where you have children and off them.2: Yeah I get it. 3: We best keep the secret.1: Damn right you should!

“I was playing really hard and it was one of those teams that always lose anyway. These guys are good. So I’m playing and the people are cheering me on and I go for a set and BAM! I wipe out. I mean, I just scrape the dirt with everything I’ve got. But you know, right? They’re all laughing and I’m getting up. And they’re running over still laughing and I’m bleeding and they ask if I’m okay and I wave them off. And they start laughing again. But I’m really bleeding. And I’m standing there thinking, “You will not cry. It’ll just make it worse. Ema Timor la belle Tanis (the people of Timor cannot cry.)”

1: Stop okay! Allow me to enlighten you with my ass wisdom a hemorrhoid is a varicose vein that is avulsed in your ring hole.2: Ring hole being a medical term.1: Shut up!3: So what’s anal fission?1: There is no such thing as anal Fission.3: I think he means anal fissures.1: Shut UP!2: Ass fishers? You’ve got fish up your butt?3: Not right now.1: SHUT UP!2: I’m pretty sure it’s anal fission.3: Anal fission would be the crashing together of your ass atoms at near light speed, to crack them open. It would require an ass super collider.1: You guys just don’t want to learn anything.3: Anal fusion would be the use of Anal fission to create a cheap sustainable clean energy supply.2: Not that clean.1: I’m leaving.3: You keep saying that, but then you don’t go anywhere.2: My ass could save the world…

“We were crazed, we saw a pizza hut sign and started running. We were singing love songs to the guy making the pizza. And they set it down in front of us and we were eating it and burning ourselves. We could only eat a couple of pieces. We all got sick. And we were like what are we going to do with all this Pizza? Wear it as a hat? Something…”

“So I get this idea, cause Timorese hair, it’s really strong. And I thought we could cut it and sell it to wig makers, like in America. Nah- China undercut the market. Can’t get a nickel for hair anymore. What, are their starving children more starving than our starving children? Couldn’t we share?”

“ I just sit there. That’s what I do. I sit there and wait and try to talk with people. But that’s got me nothing. Six months of just sitting there. One day I spent ten hours cutting my lawn with these little tiny shears. That’s crazy right? In the middle of it this goat walked up and was all like, “Hey man I’ll eat that grass for you.” And I yelled at it. Because that was my job! It was the only one I had that month. Then I felt bad. That goat was the first thing to talk to me all week. Anyway it’s nuts. I’m just glad it’s not only me.”

“You are standing- I like you too. But you are- fuck it. (pushes her to the ground) You were standing in the fire. That smell, that was your flip-flop burning. Can you hear me? You know what- Can someone keep this girl out of the fire? I’ve done my part.”

1: Any questions?2: Do you have enough balls to start a soccer league?1: Balls are a problem I have one ball but we are looking for ways to get new balls.3: Are you saying you don’t have the balls for this job?1: No I’ve put in a proposal for the balls, I’m working on the balls.4: I hear Island Sarah has more balls than you do.1: She got her balls sent from America. They’re not her balls- are you guys talking about my testicles?

“I give this crazy guy cigarette if he’ll rub my shoulders. He lives in my town, you know, harmless, red teeth and one day he asks me for a cigarette. I’m like first you rub my shoulders then you can have a cigarette. Cause the people in town are forever rubbing up on each other and my shoulders are damned tight. So yeah he got a cigarette. But now whenever he sees me he comes over and starts a-rubbing. I could be standing in line or talking to someone and I’m like, “Woah man, there is a time and a place!” Next time I’m gonna hire me someone less crazy.”

“So here’s what they do. They find a beehive in a tree and they light a fire under it. Then while the bottom of the tree is burning they send up a kid with this bucket, doesn’t matter if the smoke is on the hive or not. And he grabs the honey. But sometimes he’s like, on fire, and he’s getting stung or he falls. So when you want to buy honey you just start looking for this singed and lumpy kid. And I’ve showed them pictures, of bee keepers. But I got three problems. 1: They don’t believe that anyone can keep bees. 2. Even if they did they know I can’t do it. 3. They don’t believe that anyone can teach themselves to do things. They need like an official training and some coffee and crap. So no cruelty free honey for me.”

I have been involved in some conversations, lately, about how Peace Corps volunteers with a lot to lose should act. Minding my P.'s and Q.'s has become sort of an obsession. When I was told to be waiting by the side of the road in Tibar to be picked up by the Peace Corps for my in-service training that is exactly what I did. I stood at the crossroads and waited.

The reason that I sit on my porch near the crossroads instead of standing at the side of the road is that I stick out like a sore thumb. A sore, neon, glowing, sweet rave music making 6’3” foot thumb. (mmm-tssss-mmmm-tssss-mmmm-tsss THUMB!)

Vehicles stop when I stand on the side of the road. Some of them know me, some of them think I might want a ride some of them are just concerned that I may be lost. In Timor it is normal for drivers, on a whim, to stop and have a conversation. And it is impolite for me not to have a conversation with them. After the first 45 minutes I started to feel like a toll taker. A car would stop and we would talk and then as I turned around another car would stop to find out what was so interesting. If had known this manner of meeting people when I first got in the Peace Corps it is all I would have done. I ended up causing the traffic jam that made my ride a hour and half late.

We did eventually make it to the in-service training. We had our training in a little piece of paradise a convent by a beach deep in the welcoming arms of the jungle. The nuns, ishmikes really, served us a quick dinner and we settled in. It was all of us, the 23 remaining members of my group. Since last we talked about this subject we have lost Ron and Kara, Mike and Allie, Kate, Lillias and my good friend Randy. I wonder what we will look like when we have been out in our site a year and not just six months.

This was the first time that my group had gotten together since training. We've all changed, everyone is skinny, everyone is dirty, everyone cannot stop talking. The first thing we did after dinner, and we demolished dinner, is sat down in a room with an ancient TV and were shown every Peace Corps commercial that has ever been made. This was a master stroke of planning. At first as we watched the early; sometimes offensive,

commercials that came out when they first started advertising. Including one about a Peace Corps volunteer going into the strip BC. You remember this is the one with the caveman who rode the wheel a talking clam and the character called the fat broad? Anyway a Peace Corps volunteer is sent to this cartoon land and helps out. As the commercials became more current we became more interested. Some of them were the ones that we had seen as children; that first planted the seed that we might be able to travel and see the world. By the time we got to the most modern Peace Corps commercial we were all spellbound. Black-and-white grainy photographs of impossible beauty and horrible poverty slide across the screen with Matthew McConaghy speaking in the background, "How far will you go?".

This training was so much better put together than the one that we received in Balibar that I was astounded. Instead of forcing us to spend three more hours in classes that night we were unexpectedly released. It was as if the person planning knew that we weren't going to be able to focus until we had time to talk amongst ourselves.

We went to the beach. I pulled in some perks. A case of warm beer was waiting and I had a bottle of duty-free bourbon, my favorite from the states. We decided as one to build the fire and get drunk.

Tibar doesn't have a beach. The coastline is a treacherous mud clogged death trap. There is a type of tree that lives in the shallow water around the coast of Tibar that gets its air, I think, by sending up small roots that barely clear the surface of the water at low tide. These roots are sharp. The mud stinks and is clingy. And I once discovered honest to god quicksand, quick mud?.

This beach was different, it had the crystal-clear sapphire blue water that all of the resorts of the South Pacific promise. White sand, beautiful stars, good friends and conversation.

I wasn't drinking, not in that bigger group. So I went for a swim and found that the secluded beach had one more thing to offer. In the evening there was a life-and-death battle of very small creatures going on around me. One of them glowed. When I moved around in the water there would be glowing streaks of light lights and then something would come and sting me very gently. Like a shock from a pair of slippers and a carpet. Later in the night I decided to show my affection by throwing pebbles at people. This continued until someone who loved me very much hit me in the head with a fist sized rock. We talked, and a couple people cried, and we compared how big our clothes were and we showed off our new scars.It was a good night.

There is not a word in English or Tetun that describes how my Timorese teachers feel about my handwriting. When teachers turn in evaluations or the rare assignment they use an exquisite cursive script. It looks like everything they write is an invitation to a wedding. And here’s me with a fetid, scurvy, mush of letters better suited to tearful break ups and serial killers. Horrified does not cover their distaste, la diak los (not good at all) can’t touch it. I would make up a word that would cover the whole spectrum of repulsion, disgust and pity that it represents but I would have to write it down. And that means they would get another chance to pretend they can’t read it.

I have banned myself from the white board in training because of the frequent comments on my ill formed letters. I have told my consultants that I have lousy handwriting because I had a hand injury and can only use computers. And they look at me with despair and nod their heads. Perhaps they think that they have finally figured out why I am single.

After all how is a man to woo women if he cannot write beautifully?

I have mentioned my reputation as a ladies’ man in the town of Tibar. This has saved almost as much awkwardness as it has solved. In the districts’ many volunteers are subjected to random blind dates. They will arrive home to find that their family is inexplicably gone and only an old lady chaperone and an often terrified suitor are there to sup with them. Volunteers are torn because having dinner with someone who trembles is uncomfortable but the food is often of Festa quality. How can one weigh the treacherous depths of the Timorese dating system against a volunteer’s first bite of meat in two weeks?

I avoid this. My family, fond of me though they have become, would not consider such a lascivious man as myself a suitable match for anyone of their stature. So, problem solved, except for the joven. Older than urchins and not yet married the Joven are a big part of Timor. They are young men wearing too tight low cut jeans and midriff shirts. They all have six packs, they all have large arm muscles. There are no inside kids in Timor, no Goths or D&D geeks or computer nerds. All of these boys know how to fight and to dance, to play a guitar and use a machete to kill a fly.

I have difficulty, still, placing age in this culture. To me there are urchins and then the instant I turn around to get a cup of coffee they turn into little men; sharp and be-muscled and hormonal. I remember what it was like for me, that change, but for god sakes I had a library. There were books and card catalogs and those magazines my brother thought he kept hidden. At least I had a clue.

But none of the joven seem to know a thing about the opposite sex. That’s not entirely true they have theories. Wild theories… And here I am sitting peaceful reading a book and three whole girls have visited me this MONTH. And they come to me. They sit on my porch they laugh and sometimes TOUCH MY ARM! There was this one time, no I’m serious listen, there as this one time I saw him reach out and fix this girls tag. It was sticking out of her shirt and he just flipped it back down, like is was nothing, he touched her neck and she smiled!

It starts like this, maybe once a month. A Joven will break off from his meandering pack and come sit on the porch near me. And he will sit, and then he will sigh. And I close my book or put down my pen and I wait. The word for love in Timor is Hadomi when you miss someone or want someone you Hanoin when you are happy you are haksolok when you are sad you are triste to forget is haluhan to be beautiful is bonita and to be sexy or cool is jeitu.

These words are what these boys have to describe how they feel. These seven words with pronouns name and modifiers excluded is the language of their young love. It may be that they speak in bahasa , portuguese or mumbia when they talk to their friends but with me that’s all they got. No metaphors, no rhymes, no similes or double entendres. Nee hotu hotu. That’s it.

So when they being to speak of a girl, they use those words and they fill them with every ounce of the painful wanting that plagued me as a youth. They repeat them and hold up their arms in entreaty, they draw them out and caress them with their tongue. And I understand, and I sympathize, but I never say a thing. After all what advice could I give? Would Barry White have been able to tell me how to land the girl I wanted in seventh grade? Would anyone?

When a boy in urban Timor can control these feelings no more he picks up a pen and a notebook and he writes. He pores all of it out in one long repetitive letter. And then he edits. Throwing away page after page and marking lines through things. I have witnessed this in my silent vigil. And then when satisfied he will slowly print it in the most elegant and flowing script I have ever seen. As if he could woo a girl simply by forming the perfect cursive O. And while I do not encourage their efforts I have been known to lend a boy or two a pen that writes as beautifully as their handwriting deserves.

I’ve seen the other side of this too. A part time secretary Lilly hired received one of these notes from a boy far too young to be of interest to her or her family. She sat with some of the other secretaries reading it aloud and laughing. The boy, a poor and spotted thing, got some of this face to face as well. He stopped coming around after that.I would like to imagine that some of these powerful missives are treasured and stored with flower petals. Read over and over and ending their days oft wet with tears. But this I have not seen.

And what would I say to these boys who come and sit and pour out their hearts? I would tell them this. When I was a boy I wrote a poem to a girl and another boy got hold of it and read it over something called the morning announcements in my school. And I thought that I died. But now he is the assistant manager a Mr. Pretzel and I sit on my porch a world away and beautiful girls come to see me and laugh and touch my arm. Keep writing kid, you can borrow my pen.

have always been fascinated by the collective nouns in the English language: A parliament of owls, a mischief of mice, a giggle of girls. And I have a new one. A flattery of Diplomats.

It started with an idea. This was between our second and third training. Jumar, Duarte and I were in the office. Jumar was working on our corruption project and I was going over some of the details about the pilot schools. We were talking about the evaluations that the teachers had given back. They were all positive but often lacking in specificity especially in some of the harder parts of the curriculum. This could mean the teachers were tired and the material was dry or it could mean that those areas were not well understood. Overall the trainings have been a great success, I’m the only one who feels differently and I’ve got mood issues. In casual chit chat Jumar said something to the effect of, “I wish we had people in these communities who we could have assist the teachers, not teach the class just support them, lend it legitimacy. But we can’t afford that.”

I think we had the idea at the same time. We did have people in the districts. We had 17, smelly, underworked, bored and over eager Peace Corps Volunteers who were integrating in several of the larger communities of Timor. I was on my feet as Jumar grabbed a map of Timor and began to unroll it on the meeting table. My papers were in his way and in my excitement I shoved them off and onto the floor. Jumar began to point at the places we would have pilot schools and I pointed at where I knew my brothers and sisters to be, most of them overlapped. And so UNIDO’s Peace Corps Mentoring program began. As we excitedly talked we heard Duarte chuckling. His grasp of English is not so good but he was hunched forward and grinning at us. “Ne ga komik?” (is this funny?) I asked. He continued to smile then gently pushed a pile of papers and a stapler off of Lilly’s old desk and shrugged.

And so this morning, several weeks and a couple of phone conversations later, I had this meeting. I didn’t want to go. My Country Director and My UNIDO Supervisor and my Program Director were having a face to face. I feared that my entire house of cards was going to collapse.

Jumar did not know about the blog, or that I routinely asked for Gene’s advice, he had worked for UNIDO as a younger man, on how to deal with the daily frustrations in my office. I had even once had to report a situation that was unfolding in UNIDO because it looked like we might get caught up in a corruption scandal.Gene and Nina didn’t know that I had single handedly destroyed the financial records for the organization or that my in Dilli stipend was no longer on a receipt basis. The paperwork was a pain! I SWEAR!

None of them knew that the thought of them in a room together speaking was giving me an ulcer.

Jumar and I went to Peace Corps headquarters in our best outfits. I took great pleasure in getting out of the big white SUV with Duarte in full view of the Peace Corps lounge. Then it was to the meeting. We shared some culturally appropriate hellos, and then the flattery began. Jumar, expounded on how a couple of Gene’s suggestions had really helped the curriculum. Gene talked at length about how impressed he had been with the training he saw. It went back and forth, each of them either one upping or graciously accepting a well placed piece of praise. At no point did one of them say, okay let’s get to business. Jumar opined that he had been thinking about Gene’s suggestion on the use of volunteers in the districts. He gave the idea away! Gene gave it right back. Saying that he had never imagined such an extensive collaboration could be possible. When Jumar ran out of English he would drop a word in Bahasa and Gene would nod.

I knew a game was going on. I wanted to play. But what would I say? “You hair is pretty! Yep it sure is pretty and it smells nice.” I felt like a country cousin.

By the end of the meeting I had gotten my share of compliments as well. I received them, mostly, by nodding. And our parameters were set. Community Economic development volunteers could consent to work for UNIDO as we were not their counterpart organizations. We could not take them away from any projects that they were already involved in. UNIDO would pay for any training necessary, and the Peace Corps seal would be on the front of the curriculum with the rest of the collaborating organizations. Jumar had also gotten some concessions, health volunteers could be used as resources with their consent and the agreement of their program director, Gene would speak at an upcoming opening ceremony, and I was officially a UNIDO operative for the remainder of my time in Timor. All of this was carried out in compliments.

And it looks like I will have some new responsibilities as well. We are having an In service training in a couple of weeks. And I will be the one to sell this new mentoring program. They also started to refer to me as the National Coordinator for the Unido Entrepreneurial Curriculum in Timor. (schmaaaaaancy) Do you think I can get a bump in my per deim with that new title? I’m going to have to buy a lot of beer to keep the volunteers from laughing at me.

As we walked out the door Nina dropped the bomb. “You know, we’ll have 21 more Economic volunteers coming in July. Lets talk about site placement when they get here.” NEXT SUBJECT!

Very little clothing is produced on the isle of Timor. Loom made Ceremonial garb and alterations to school uniforms happen here. There are a couple of Shi-Shi boutiques catering to the upper class of the Timorese community and a couple of suit tailors I have seen. Past that everything is imported. Usually donated or bought remaindered and sold in great thrift store style Mercados. This means a great cross section of styles and different cultural fads end up here. The Timorese are used to having shirts with symbols and patterns that do not fit into their culture and instead seem to pick clothes based on size cut and color.This makes mass and festas an interesting place to attend.

It is not unusual to see the catuas in front of me at church wearing a cream colored polyester disco shirt covered in leering Jolly Rogers with sequin eyes. One of the deacons (alter boys?) wears a button down with a huge Woody woodpecker on the back. The girls are in the same boat and, at least in Tibar, the younger ones make their clothing decisions based on shiny and revealing. Often the teenage girls are wearing dresses that are more suited to the clubs I went to in the early nineties. One young lady hit the jack pot and wore a white pleather dress that put me in mind of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

Older women stick to flowered dresses or showy skirt and blouse combinations. Even to the grandmothers shiny, being metallic or bedazzled, is much prized. My first week in church two older sisters were thrilled to show off what can only be described as matching bridesmaids dresses from a very angry bride. Think of Micheal Jackson’s glove except pink ,and a dress.

A funny aside. The middle class urban Joven consider wearing clean shirts with English lettering a status symbol, even though they cannot read it. One of our volunteers keeps a list of shirts she has seen that make her laugh. The winner by far was a young motor cycle tough with black leather boots and a chain around his neck wearing an oversized evergreen t-shirt with the pink lettering “I’m a woman of many moods and all of them love chocolate.”

And myself? Well my mom, the best mom, sent me some pants that fit. I filled in the rest of my wardrobe form the greatest treasury of weird fashion I have ever seen. At every turn in the Mercado are loud shirts the likes of which I have never seen. The Timorese call Loud shirts Festa shirts. The louder the better. Most people here can’t buy in my size so these shirts have been building up. With my new per diem I find myself like a kid in a candy shop. Will I buy the embroidered green and red satin dragon shirt with the reall brass and bamboo buttons? Can I pass up the linen shirt with the gold inlay of the crying Indian from the pollution ads of the late eighties? Shall I exploit nostalgia and buy a faded “Where’s the Beef” hoodie? Or is it Irony I want with the full 7-11 uniform? They are only a dollar apiece! I must take them all!

Do I wear these to work? Of course not, it is all short sleeved polyester for me when I am working. Jumar has even lent me a pocket protector because we have a pen explosion problem. But my nightlife… It’s going to be epic

I have been sitting in my office exhausted, ruthlessly critiquing myself. I get compliments concerning the training, too many. We have so much more to do. Some see the cup as half full, some see it as half empty, Tc asks “There was a cup?”.

We have this new idea for keeping the curriculum sustainable but it’s going to take a lot of dancing to sell it. There is the second year that the ministry would like to discuss. The pilot schools will be up and running in a couple of weeks. The Japanese are coming in to help us and will need to be taken in as a full collaborator so the culture of the system must change to adapt. And I am tired. And I see my Peace Corps experience in a series of hotels and site visits and hours with spreadsheets, curriculums and a screen in my face. I worked hard to get here. Won’t someone give me a goddamn prize?

The happy warrior, Dustin the goat goad has sent me a picture. He is riding a water buffalo in a mud hole in a beautiful green field in front of a cloudless sky. He send me a picture like this every couple months. He is having my peace corps experience. Where’s my goddamn prize?

I then remember one of the games from the curriculum that the teachers really seem to like. It is called The Cup. An acting teacher taught it to me in a college required course. My teacher set a cup in the middle of the room. We were to close our eyes and walk over and pick it up. We had only one try. None of us got it. We would laugh at how far off we each were. Then we got serious. We estimated measurements and plotted the distance of steps. We modified our scoop technique to cover maximum ground space. Finally, on our third go round, a girl brushed the cup and we held our breath. She picked it up and there was a cheer. Our acting teacher looked at us and asked, “Why are you cheering? All she did was pick up a cup.”I used it as an ice breaker with the consultants, to prepare us as a group for trouble. They insisted it be in the curriculum proper.

The Timorese have many different takes on this game. There are some who bet small change that they will pick up the cup first, for them winning becomes important. They plot and plan and bring all their resources to bear to accomplish the goal. Some teachers understand the lesson as I did, we do our best with what we have and if we succeed it is not so different from failure, except in how we perceive it. After all, there is always another cup.

One of the teachers, in a well scripted evaluation letter, suggested that if the children were having trouble picking up the cup we should tell them to open their eyes. And I thought, “Don’t be dumb if they opened their eyes the game would be too easy.”

As I was sitting here being negative, wishing for my waterbuffalo, I thought of that suggestion again. And it doesn’t seem so dumb. I sit back. I open my eyes. I see the cup.

I think I finished training a couple of days before anyone else did. With Lilly gone and her replacement having a hard time keeping up with the work, I found myself more of a coordinator than a participant. The consultants now handle almost all of the games and were making the speeches about entrepreneurship better than I ever could. I count this as a huge success.

Still, as I went through the work of the final day I found myself being pulled back in. Duarte and I started the day on a money run. This is a friction point between me and Jumar. He has no problem getting us the money that we pay the teachers as per deim for the training but he always gets it in twenties and fifties. When I bring this up he tells me not to worry, that the teachers will have change. They receive three dollars a day plus varying amounts of travel money based on the district they come from and whether they stayed with family or used the rooms at the training hall. So early morning finds Duarte and I whizzing around Dilli, singing to a cassette of Bon Jovi and hitting all of the places that have big money to spare.

We start at the gas station on the main drag. This place has ancient pumps, attendants and security. When a vehicle pulls up money is discussed first, half the cash is handed over then the gas cap is opened. The attendant shoves a screen or piece of porous material over the head of the nozzle and fills the tank. While it is filling Duarte takes between 500 and 1000 dollars in hand and begins to talk his way into an exchange. I watch his back. We give away clean fifties and get back the dirty remaindered one dollar bills of Timor.

Have you ever gotten change at a store and not wanted to touch it? That happens here all the time. The bills are crumpled and creased, smelly and stained with the red betel juice called bua that people here chew.We return to the hall in time for coffee and I check in with my consultants and teacher trainers. Generally they have one or two fires for me to put out. Yesterday it was a wasps nest in the women’s quarters which the owner of the hall denied the existence of. Today it was a case of possible dengue or malaria. Sickness is common in the teachers who came to training from over the malarial line. These teachers live at a height that mosquitoes only proliferate once or twice a year and do not have the immunity that the people of coastal Timor do. I sort these out sending Duarte to pick up some bug spray or to take a gentleman to the hospital. I note the possible expenses in my ledger and sit down to check the teacher payment numbers given to us by the Ministry of education.

It’s not that they are trying to rip anyone off but sometimes the numbers do not add up the way a calculator says they should. The teachers are very serious about their payment. If I overpay someone from a district all of the people from that district will demand equal compensation. If I underpay them things get ugly as well. Just like in the United States.

Lunch time comes and I must slow down. Lunch time is leisurely; my time to get a feel for how the training is going. I have found that people reluctant to speak about problems with me will do so if I am already speaking with them. So I butterfly about congratulating teachers and patting trainers on the back. This is also the time when my consultants get concerned about payment. They ask me each individually if I have the money and will be ready. They are paid by UNIDO as well.

Eduardia glides up to me to strongly state again how uncomfortable she is that the majority of training is going on in Tetun. I hear this every training day. It amuses me that here dedication is just as profound at the end of training as it was at the beginning. She takes one exercise a day to teach and does so in full Portuguese often taking half the time to instruct language instead of entrepreneurship. I do not tell her that the evaluations for these exercises lack specifics, and some even have complaints about lack of understanding. She has been a firm and loyal advocate of the curriculum and a good friend to me. She knows one phrase in Tetun, “I like you.” She grabs my hand and looks me in the eye to say it. I will miss her.

We solved the language barrier problem by making a deal with our Portuguese collaborators. The curriculum would be printed in Portuguese, but a second copy, without pictures, could be printed in Tetun so the teachers could better study their new text. This doubled our printing costs and we made it up by using Peace Corps volunteers to assist Alphonso instead of hiring a second translator.

Afternoon came and I was done. Problems arose and I solved them. Looking forward to the time of day I really enjoy, joining the consultants and teachers for a smoke. I know it is horrible that everybody smokes. I know it is terrible that I am perceived cool and I smoke. But I am not here for that. And as we smoke sprawled in the shade I feel more like one of them than anywhere else.

I got caught up in that feeling at the last training and let slip that I missed America to Alfonso the consultant. He would not have me sad so he told me a joke about a man and his wife. It was long and ended with a woman, naked, holding up a statue of the Virgin Mary because she knew that her husband would not beat her so close to the religious iconography. Her husband is embarrassed because everyone has seen her naked. It was funny because every few moments he would tell me so.

“Okay here is the part that is funny because she is naked!” he would say and I would absolutely lose it. Alphonso was the first consultant to accept me in the role I was comfortable taking. He would stand up for me in the beginning when every other word was a gaff. I will miss him.

Viriato finds me as I am finishing my calculations. Part of his job is putting together the invitations for the teachers and helping to arrange their transportation. He knows I have been asked to check things over. He asks if I found any problems. “No it’s all good,” I say, “Except that we pay this fellow Viriato a great deal and all he does it talk.” This is a tired joke but he laughs and punches me in the arm. He has become our peacemaker. Sliding in and out of Portuguese when he teaches and making the curriculum easy understand. I will miss him.

Philomeno finds me hiding from the sun on the porch during an exercise I cannot stand. I hear him coming and am sliding out a pack of cigarettes but he put his hand over it. It is pay day and so he slides me one of his. I usually smoke a pipe but this is not just a cigarette. He speaks of a cute young teacher and how he would like to have her. Philomeno is older than the rest of my consultants and the only one who has complimented me on the job I am doing. He alone, may understand uncertain I am moment by moment. I will miss him.When training ends we will let the curriculum fly. I will visit several pilot schools out in the districts. One of the consultants will introduce the curriculum to the head of the school. I will lend legitimacy by being big and white and playing with the kids. There will be more revisions and perhaps even some district specific modifications. I will work with all of these consultants again but not as a group.

Except that I might. The Ministry of Education and the Portuguese delagation is so delighted by the success of these trainings and the buzz the curriculum has built that they want a second year. Another collaborative group of lesson plans, another four trainings, more games, harder subjects. Their current schedule has it entering the school system next fall. If this goes through my consultants might miss me as I might go to the river wait for grandfather crocodile. I might demand that he have me for lunch. Hey you! Eat me! NEXT SUBJECT!

We have had a professional in our house for the last few days. He lays in wait for the kitchen rats to return. Last night he got his wish.

I arrived home on the night after the rats got into my room to find that my host mother was carrying a lidded basket that was making some very odd noises. She took it into the kitchen and opened it up and out popped the professional.

He was a small, but full grown cat; white with a brown spot and a black paw. His tail was kinked where it had been broken, his pink nose was scarred and he was missing a toe on his front foot; it made him swagger forwards as he walked. The professional yawned and then began to mutter to himself exploring his new surroundings. His green slitted eyes studied walls and rafters, floor and hearth. He poked his nose into the living room and then walked back towards me. It was as if my mother had already forgotten him. She set the basket on a high shelf and went to prepare the bread for the next day. As the cat explored he would mutter in a low continuous manner. Yowl, yowl, growl, yowl sniff yowl.

About cats. I have seen very few cats in the city. Some come to beg when I eat at a certain restaurant and will allow a good scratch behind the ears as long as they have a chicken bone to gnaw on. But by and large they do not have a visible population. This confuses me because, if Bob Barker is to be believed, cats left unchecked will fill every home and rain gutter with their kittens. I asked Alphonso about it when we were still in training in Balibar. He told me that cats were “lu-lik” (bad luck, sacred, magic) and mostly the people who owned them were Matan Doks (far seer). Matan Doks are the witches and voodoo priests of the Timorese traditions. I have yet to meet one and have not tried to seek one out.

The professional was not at all shy and got around to meeting me as I sat on the porch. His yowls alerted me of his coming and he gamboled around the corner giving me an interested glance. He butted up against my leg and I gave him a scratch that sent up a cloud of dust. His whiskers were matted with cobwebs.

It was a day or two before I began to understand his strange and constant language. I am still no expert in cat but when the words started coming clear I understood what kind of a cat I was dealing with.

“Heard you got a rat problem. Yeah. Nice house like this. Don’t worry, happens to the best of us. You did the right thing calling me in. We’ll get that taken care of don’t you worry. Shouldn’t cost you more than, six, seven cans of tuna. I know, steep right? More than you were expecting, right? I tell ya it’s hard to put a price on a good night’s sleep. Am I right? Sure I’m right.”

And around a corner he would go. Later he would come back out still talking.

“So uh.. see you got some poison dere. Set up all nice in ya room there. Poisons good. Poisons good. If these was normal rats. Calm down… Calm down didn’t mean to scare ya. Just sayin I’ve seen a hundred houses, big and small and you’ve got yourself quite an In-Fest-a-tion. So ya gotta ask yourself am I going to trust this to poison? Course not. What if you kill the wrong rat? What if you kill the rat who’s the voice of reason in the old rat parliament ‘dere. Now what? Well now you got an unfavorable government on the rise, that’s what. They might decide just running around chewing on things, well that’s not good anymore. Gotta get more personal now. And let me tell you sir you do-not-want-that.”

And under the stove he went. Later during dinner I would feel a nose on my leg.

“So uh might a gone a little far dere. Mighta said some stuff that went right over ya head right? Bet ya didn’t even know that the rats have a strong grasp of Roberts rules of Parliamentary Procedure. Very by-the-book your normal pack of rats. Anyway you don’t worry about that sir cause with me you have full coverage and a personalized warranty. And I’m talking, facist rats, populist elective rats- I know you wouldn’t think it but this one time last year- dere I was and if they didn’t have themselves an appointee designate- listen to me! Nothing to worry about sir, clear sailin’ now that I’m here.”

The rats were silent for three days. The professional would prowl the kitchen and occasionally rub against my door. I never saw him step foot from the house or stop his prowl of our rooms.

Last night I heard a noise and then there was a squeal. Two minutes later there was a clatter as if a cup had fallen and a grunt. Then there was a ruckus. I stayed in my bed as feet scampered and ran, there were squeals and hisses. What I never heard was the cat. Soon it was quiet.

When I woke this morning and came out into the kitchen the cat was licking its’ whiskers. Someone had furnished it with a small dish of the evaporated milk that the kids in my house love so much. There was no evidence that a great battle had taken place save a small plastic cup that had wedged itself under the stove. I picked it up and a tuft of hair drifted out. Could have been a dust bunny but the narrative pull of this story tells me it was probably a hunk of hair from the rat leader, be he speaker of the house, President or Grand Vizier.

The cat looked up and wiped his whiskers. “So I guess dats dat. No more rat trouble here. Better than poison, am I right? But hey what do you know about rats. Not a thing you don’t have to, right? I’ll be heading out here in a second. Just wanted to say it was a pleasure and remember ever see a rat in this house again ya covered.”

I don’t imagine I will see the cat when I go home again. I imagine his basket will be gone and some unknowable payment will be slipped to a bent and withered old crone with magical powers. But what’s a good imagination compared to a full night’s sleep?

I use many of the backpacker bars in Dili to augment my personal library. I try to only own one or two books at a time. The backpackers, mostly Australian, have a one to one book trade ratio, much better than the American, pardon the United States exchange. Whenever I'm about to finish my second book I make sure I take the time to go to the bar that has been left alone the longest. Lately I have become a literary omnivore as I have run out of simple detective novels to read. And so yesterday I picked up something by Tom Robbins. This morning, as I shoved it in me training bag, a bookmark fell out. It has a picture of a jungle treetop with three long armed Gibbons swinging merrily. Underneath in huge block letters was the admonishment "Gibbons are dying just to please you!"

I understand that this was some poor animal advocacy group trying to make me aware of the plight of these poor frolicking animals. But it was 6 am, I had been up for an hour working on revisions and had a long day ahead of me. Because of a coffee explosion I was burned and my shirt was stained and I had just caught an urchin who decided to pee on my backpack. I didn't ask for his rationale. But it rendered the rest of my clothes un-wearable.

So I thought "Where are the gibbons who are dying to please me? They better go ace some more goddamn Gibbons because I am not well pleased!" And this brought a smile to my face.

The day ended with an estimated 15 or 16 gibbon death deficit. With me judging silently, as things went wrong, whether each new catastrophe required one or two of the lanky monkeys fatalities to keep me happy. Some of the ones that were hard to call and I went into negotiations. “This certainly requires the death of one gibbon, but two? Perhaps the second one could just take a fall or get his heart broken.”

My caterer couldn't read. (1) One of my trainers has decided my training was not well written, wrote his own and then proceeded to teach it. (2) It was really hot. (gibbon with a migraine) I look like Dilbert. (1) Lunch didn't show up.(1)

And all the while that I'm killing off Gibbons in my head, I’m practicing the conversation with the gibbon killing people.

"Hello this is Tc in Timor is there some sort of Gibbon shortage? Yes I noticed! I kid took a whiz on my bag! I don't want to hear your excuses! You just get your butt into the jungle and find some Gibbons who are dying to please me!"

After work, a few Brazilian volunteers joined me at the hotel bar. I tried to explain my gibbon idea to them. Tatania, a voluptuous language trainer, gave my face a gentle slap. She feels for these poor creatures. I ended the night listening to four concerned Brazilians explaining to me that some animals are on the verge of extinction and Gibbons are just one of them. They told me that we American know nothing of this and are causing the problems. I took this with grace, they outnumbered me. But in my mind- Those Gibbons are still in threat.

There is a Cuban Doctor who lives down the road from me. He is 28, skinny and intense. His English is better than my Tetun but his Tetun is abysmal. He is a volunteer. We have been given instructions not to collaborate with these individuals because of some bad cold war blood between our countries, but what of that? Sometimes I go and hang out on his clinic porch when the evenings get too long. We talk about this and that. And below is one of our more interesting conversations. Enjoy.

Doctor: These damn goats. They is crapping always crapping in my yard! Is ordered yes? Look! It is every feet, every two feet. Now no crap. Now Crap! And again. No crap, Now Crap!Me: So you’re a volunteer.

Doctor: Oh yes, forty of us come here to volunteer. But is not uhh.. not unordinary. Not in Cuba. In Cuba everybody volunteers.

Me: But if everybody-

Doctor: Ahhh see! You say is no good right? No. In Cuba everybody volunteers, that is law. You volunteer military, you soldier three years. You volunteer doctor, like me, you come here! And goats they crap on everything! No. You volunteer two years you doctor, nurse same, health official same. Is the LAW. But Cubans they want to volunteers. Now, law. No law volunteer. My father he was volunteer military, my uncles one aunt all volunteer.

Me: We call that conscription.

Doctor: NO! Well I don’t know what you say, conscription. But way you say, cooonscriiiiption bleeeah… no good! You think people forced because is law. I have met people from united states. You think Cuba is Russia!

Me: Well yeah, but with better cigars.

Doctor: HA! Yes Cuba is having best cigars and is dancing all the time yes? And in United States everyone is having a horse and a hat and is rich and is fat. (laughs) You say. You say is true, other people is in their head.

Me: But I’m just kidding.

Doctor: Yes. But before me, before we meet is you just kidding? No! Cuba is good. People volunteer because family is volunteer. Law to make sure government pays. Is that. Is school, then volunteer then marry beautiful Cuban girl. Then dance all the time smoke best cigars in world. Is, wait, is something all Cubans do. All Cubans do together. Know eachother.

Me: When we hear about Cuba in America they always tell us about propaganda and how there are these long speeches by Fidel Castro that you have to listen to.

Doctor: And when I is hear about America I hear about FAT. FAT FAT FAT all the time watch Tv and eat. No talk and everybody mean to everybody. Castro is good man. And we is listening to him or not because he is talking about Cuba. We is interested because is our country. Cuba has fences not GOAT CRAP!

Me: We aren’t all fat.

Doctor: No , some is skinny. I see in magazine all time. Girls is skinny look like boys, no meat!

Me: Yeah we have those.

Doctor: And other thing. Is baseball. Cuba best at baseball. Beat Japan at Baseball. But every year world series, United States wins. Invite Cuba? NO! Invite Japan? NO! So why world series?

Me: So Cubans don’t like America?

Doctor: America? Peru is America. Canada is America. Cuba is America. You is United states. Remember, yes?

Me: so Cubans don’t like people from the united States?

Doctor: Yes, but no. Many Cubans not like United states. Many Cubans run too United States. Scientist, doctor. Is big problem. But here is Timor. Is no United States- is no Cuba. I am Cuban, I dance, I sing, I play guitar. You United States, you work too hard, you always talk hard stuff, big idea stuff. But you are in Cuba. Many people in Cuba like you. Work too hard , always worry. In your country you have many like me.

Me: Not Doctors.

Doctor: You know all doctors in United States?

Ladies and Gentlemen A Cuban Doctor.

I know of the kitchen rats. I suspect them of foul deeds. I know it is my fault. About three weeks ago I dropped my less than ordinary mouse Blackscar off at the Tibar dump. A week later the rats arrived. I worry that Blackscar was captured and tortured; he thinks he is more of a hero than he is. I worry that he told them of the fat giant and his nightly plate of crusts. I worry he drew them a map in hopes of clemency and then met a horrible fate. I have no happy endings at this time of night.

Two weeks ago, in the middle of the night, I heard something foraging through the kitchen, the last time this happened it was a buffalo. It got in because I had left the door open after a later night pee. You want to talk about something you do not want to find in your kitchen at night. Fortunately the big thing took one look at me and walked away. I thought this might be that same random bison, so I picked up my flashlight and went to go take a look. I opened my door and shined a light out. I hit a rat. Instead of running the animal reared up and showed me his teeth. Other things were moving in the darkness behind him. I slammed my door. Later that night I heard scratching.

I began to clean out my room the next day. Sweeping out the underside of my bed and getting rid of anything a rat might find tasty. I had been a little lax and it took me three trash bags. Trash is a problem in my home because everything I throw away the urchins go through and plays with. And that can be embarrassing because a stack of curriculum exercises I had bagged were accidently released into the wind and blew down the street. The Timorese do not mind this sort of litter but my friends at the clinic, and Sarah Prima do. So I had to go and pick up as much as I could. Now I smuggle out trash pretending it is something I am taking with me to work. Three bags would take some time though. I would do it one per day.

The rats continued to plague our kitchen every couple of nights. It was muddy outside and I could see tracks in a line leading up to the house. It seemed to me there were a lot of them. I did not want to bother my family because things had been so peaceful lately.

Then, last night they got into my room. They came over the eves. I heard some scrabbling in the kitchen and then on my walls. I pulled out my flashlight and there they were. They crawled down the walls finding tiny rat handholds in the cracked cement and cinder block and began to tear around the floor. They ran in lines, they danced and capered and leapt. Whenever I hit one with my light he would either scurry away or rear up and bear his teeth. There were too many for me to get a good count, seven at least. One of them got caught up in my mosquito net thrashing and grunting and then another found the trick of it and began to climb. Soon there were rats climbing, chasing each other up the outside of the net. I used the butt of my flashlight to club them off but they would only become entangled and begin to gnaw through. They had no fear of me, or could not see me; until I lit a lighter and then a candle. The whole of the room was bathed in an eerie glow. The rats stopped and stared. I shook my mosquito net and the entangled rat fell heavily to the ground. Then they ran back up the walls disappearing into the eves of the house.

Today I asked my host family if I could bring home some poison. Why?, they wanted to know. Because I thought I might have maybe seen a rat. For the rest of the morning I got to hear about how dirty I was and how I had attracted rats into the house. But I got an agreement. If I bought it myself and only put it in my room, and I was less dirty, yes I could get some rat poison.

8:54 am. I missed my first day of writing!

9:00 pm Ok so at this moment I am trying to tell myself to calm down, big breaths and this is everything I prepared for. I am here at my site, no cell reception, no electricity, this is it. My room is so tiny. It fits a very large but hard as a rock bed but there is no extra room. There is no way I can live here for 2 years. I need room for my stuff and there just isn’t any here. When they dropped me off it was like a surprise that I was here (I expected that though). I am doing fine with language. The clinic where I will be working is directly across the street. I can’t see the water as was told to me yesterday but it is close and full of crocodiles. I am going to explore tomorrow. I don’t know what my options are for living-I just know it can’t be like this.

Seriously, this is exactly the image I had in my head of where I would be placed. It is so beautiful-long straight roads (great for a bike) with high green weeds on both sides. Palm trees/coconut trees are everywhere. It really is tropical looking/feeling. I can’t wait to see the water. I believe I successfully explained that I want to cook for myself. Oh-I didn’t even mention that I am living with the Xefe de Suco. My room has no lock on it but I feel safe. I really haven’t processed it all-I guess I just needed to get my initial thoughts out. I am alone-I am scared but I feel ok. I may freak out but that’s fine. This is what I prepared for before I left. I must sleep now, long day of bouncing in the PC car today (7 hours to be exact)

7:44 PM I am in bed already…I have a problem, I am going to talk to Dr. Bill about it tomorrow. I sleep so much but am so tired, like my body hurts its so tired. I was dizzy and had to lie down-I eat way enough and am getting my protein (I have tofu or eggs at every meal). I slept/read today for 3 hours and then went to school and played more kickball-It may be that but I really didn’t exert myself THAT much-not enough that I should feel this bad.

I am very nervous (once again). Tomorrow is going to be a whole new first when I get to my site where I will be for 2 years! I am not letting it get to be because as with everything else, I know it will work out fine, but I admit it, I am scared and I am nervous. I predict a lot of akward silence.

My family here is so wonderful. They give me all they can and they are so nervous about me leaving. They gave me coffee to bring with me because they are afraid Alas won’t have any. They also gave me a spoon and a cup to make the coffee. I am more toched by that than any other gift given to me before. I know how much time and effort goes into making the coffee and it isn’t a small deal that they give some to me. It’s huge-its all they have to give me and they are so proud to do so. I really am going to miss them.

I asked the language teacher about them calling me “bi'in” instead of Mana-they said it is a really good thing and that it means they have accepted me as family and respect me a lot.

8:00 AM Sweeping my room listening to Bon Jovi-Livin on a Prayer. My life is not so bad!

8:01 PM- Ah, See I need to not always start with “so. Today was wonderful. I had a happy and relaxed day. I “slept-in” till 6:30! OH MY GOD-I am so lazy. No Anto said I could night before-I was actually not fully asleep from about 3 on but I just listened to Jack Johnson and kind of slept.

So, (see I did it). I cleaned my room-the dirt here is amazing, there is so much of it. I think sweeping is actually bad for me cause then all the stuff is in the air and in my lungs.

We went to school for a while and I had my interview with Nelson. Randy and I came home at like 11 and I did laundry and ate and talked to him while he did his (he has more close here than I brought all together).

Anyway the god father was having another meeting at 2 so we made sure NOT to be here. We went to play kick ball at school. It was so much fun. We taught the kids and they were so good. Kids here are so much more athletic than in the states-they understood the game and played well in 5 minutes. That’s really good considering the language barrier.

We played till about 4:30 and then sat around and walked back via the cold Kiosk.

Joe left for the island already so it was me, TC, Randy, and Jesse. This was the 1st real time I had spent with Jesse and it was great.

My host mom is going to teach me how to make coffee and send some with me because apparently they don’t have any in Alas.

I must sleep-church in the morning.

7:15 am. Oh my goodness! I am so sick to my stomach right now I just have to write. Here I am enjoying my bread and coffee. The baby is being cute then she pees all over the bench, Anto, and herself. We just keep eating, pee everywhere-gross but it gets worse. About 5 minutes later the baby craps it falls out her pants and onto the ground. Anto just laughs- I AM TRYING TO EAT! So she takes her out and then when she comes back she calls the dog over and she eats the poo-at this point I am close to vomiting-actually I still feel that way!. So, I get up and walk to my room, ah, some things I just can’t get used to.

8:15 pm So my headache is finally gone-I feel so much better. I finished my romance- it was so dumb.

Today we had a talk from Dr. Dan Murphy-he is an American doctor who is so passionate about helping the Timorese. They train normal women in how to be mid wives so more communities have them. He really wants to coordinate with us so we will figure out which woman can be sent to get training. This guy is so passionate he was really amazing. He put a lot in perspective for me. I am here to work-as weird as it sounds I haven’t thought of this as work yet, but I need to change my mind set-I have a job to do and I want to do a good job Its going to rest a lot o me as to how I do a good job or what I do.

So we had him talk then lunch-I snuck tuna in my room-it was so yummy. Then we had Tetun the rest of the day.