West Timor

Arriving on a predominantly Christian island on Good Friday was coincidental, yet it seemed a significant event after 3 months in Islamic Malaysia and Indonesia. West Timor, further east than Perth, Australia, is a real eye-opener (well so's the rest of Indonesia, but you know what I mean). Despite abject poverty, the peoples' friendliness is matched only by the Balinese. The sunsets are otherworldly and the metre-long fish on bbqs are more like shark. The streets are rough and often deserted, even the high street of the capital. The chicken soup is delicious. It is incredibly different from, and incredibly poor compared to, anywhere else I've been so far. It seems, literally, like the edge of the world.

The airplane flight across the island chain of Bali, Lombok, Sumbawa, Komodo, Rinca, Flores then Sumba was a glorious parade of volcanic cones poking through cotton wool clouds. Each island had a core of undamaged forests flanking a giant volcano or two, fringed by vertical cliffs of ashy strata and coral reefs then midnight blue abyss further offshore. I was excited by what adventures would lie ahead in the 13 days of bus and ferry travel required to go back across these islands.
My first glimpse of W Timor reminded me of the East African plains: flat and scrubby with clusters of shacks, occasional dusty tracks and not much else.

Making land: first glimpse of W Timor. The dark patches in the sea are coral reefs

The drive into central Kupang, West Timor's capital, was along a near-deserted strip of tarmac flanked by grass and shacks. There was nothing to look at and no-one around. Maybe everyone was in church with the L'avalon hostel owner we'd been unable to contact to make a reservation with? Kupang's main street runs along the waterfront and contains just a few crummy and crumbly hotels, and wooden hut stalls selling very little and propped up precariously over the shoreline.

Shanty huts ready to tumble off the main city's main street and into the sea

There was little traffic other than boy-racer 'bemos' (minivan buses) and occasional motorbike, and hardly any cars, presumably because they're far too expensive for Timor's inhabitants.

Bemos on main street at Friday evening rush-hour

And then the best sunset ever:

Typical sunset over Kupang's shoreline main street

Architecturally, Kupang, is about as developed as that bullet-holed street in central Nicosia, Cyprus, that lies inside the '74 war's no-man's land. In search of some 'soto ayam' chicken noodle soup for dinner, we walked along the unlit main street past metal-shuttered shops, over gaping holes in the pavement revealing flowing sewage beneath and by groups of men Asian squatting and staring at us unblinkingly as we walked. They had nothing else to look at.

I just couldn't shake an uneasiness inside. We had a couple of Bintang beers at L'Avalon, that has decayed enormously from what I imagined from the Lonely Planet's description of a beachside 'bar'. In this concrete skeleton of a building, we gained disheartening travel information from the greatly assisting Edwin about the increased transport prices and much reduced schedules, due to the absence of tourists these days. I'd missed the now only once weekly boat to Flores by a day. Rob's visa extension would take over a week to process. And Edwin himself, now just a shell of a barman and with no customers, was deeply dispondant about the Indonesian suicide bombers, introduced tourists fees to enter and exit Indonesia, and the civil unrest in neighbouring East Timor, that had reduced the tourist industry here to essentially nothing.

The next day I stayed in Kupang while Rob bravely left for East Timor to get a visa extension. As much as a thrill it would have been to visit East Timor, I wasn't going to invalidate my new Indonesian visa for the sake of it; $25 is such a lot of money to waste these travelling days. Instead I went back to L'Avalon bar for more travel info for my now changing plans for leaving this land. An Aussie, a real bushman, was in the bar at 10am and on his 3rd beer. He talked about how the police here pick tourists off the streets and hold them for hours in a cell, apparently for their own safety. Then he staggered off and air boxed in the street at a group of loitering local lads. I just didn't fancy exploring Kupang today.

After checking out of the rip-off and grotty Maya Beach hotel and into the only moderately expensive and grotty Hotel Maliana, I persuaded myself to go down to the market for provisions. It was incredibly rewarding. Walking down the dirt track that is 'Market Street' with its central trickle of reeking water, every person gave me a grin, a wave and a, "Hello Mister" or "Selamat sore!" - Good afternoon. Men struggled to push handcarts laden with 1/2 rotten tomatoes or petrol they're selling in old drinks bottles. Women washed themselves and clothes around a concrete pit of a well on scrubby waste land. Pigs snuffled through stinking mud and domestic waste. Barefoot kids dressed in rags were straight out of an Oliver Twist set, yet so sweet peering from behind elder siblings with their wide brown eyes and shy giggles. Some paternal instinct is kicking in I fear.....

Market Street, Kupang

In the market, only a few tables and floormats were occupied by sellers and they bore only small piles of produce. This is Saturday market and there was hardly any anything available. All the women had were measly offerings of the same seasonal fruit and veg. Each sat behind 3-inch-high pyramids of mis-shapen and battered tomatoes or tiny, green satsumas and inch-high piles of something like spring onions. Taking advantage of a free roof, the boxing club took up half the market space and it at least was in full swing. And then I found some bread. Hoorah! White, 6-foot tall and excited over also finding 3 big though mushy avocados and a couple of edible tomatoes for 50p, I was the centre of attention. Two women from islands near Irian Jaya, with Aussie aboriginal-like faces, giggled at me. Knarley old women (probably 20 years younger than they looked) stared, then smiled to reveal teeth and saliva reddened like beetroot from the betel nut mixed with ground coral powder that they all chew as a mild stimulant.

Back at the hotel I found a tray outside my room, the silk cloth hiding a pot of lukewarm tea and a flavourless sponge cake from the flies. Bonus point on my hotel quality index. Then at L'avalon 'bar' a 1 metre long fish lay grilling on the barbecue. Edwin suggested I help myself as there were few other people to share it with. I took 2 fist-sized pieces, just a dent out of the fish's abdomen and picked bones the length of my fingers out of the tender meat as I happily munched. The frontpage of the newspaper bore a photo of a mock-crucifiction that had taken place somewhere on the island and thousands of devoted Christian revellers.

My short visit to West Timor revealed great friendliness and kindness in the face of great poverty. I hope other tourists to Indonesia will consider going to visit this far outreach, not for big sightseeing, but to witness and help life where every tourist dollar is desperately needed.

Taking a dodgy Indonesian ferry to beautiful Flores next........