A WALK THROUGH TIMOR
"No Visa, No come in!" he repeated.
I looked at the well armed Ocussi border policeman in disbelief. After 3,000 miles of
island hopping, gradually making our way through the incredible island nation of Indonesia,
it seemed ludicrous to be told, 'No Come in'.
"We were advised both in Kuala Lumpur and Jakarta that we would not need a visa for
Portuguese Timor," I blurted out.
"No Visa, No come in" he stated blandly, speaking in a tone more suitable for a shopkeeper
who had run out of tinned rhubarb. As an afterthought he added, "Go back to Jakarta, get a
Visa."
I stood in shock. Three months of adventure had passed since landing in Sumatra from
Malaya, hundreds of miles trekking through deep jungle, wading through mud, riding ponies,
pushing old jeeps through flooding rivers, standing in the backs of trucks in monsoon rain,
escaping a volcano eruption on Bali, scrounging food from the natives, hopping from Sumatra -
Java - Bali - Lombok - Sumbawa - Timor on fishing boats and an old Glasgow built steamer,
finishing with three weeks of hard slog through mountainous Timor with a septic foot, all
carrying a 40lb rucksack, and then to be told ...... "Go back to Jakarta - get a Visa!"
"I'm staying here till you let me in," I said. "I've got an infected foot and can't go
back"
Even as I spoke my foot started to throb once more and I slumped down against the
bamboo-rattan border outpost. My mate Allan flopped onto a tree stump, chin on hands, staring
at the damp muddy ground.
I took off my boot and studied the injury. Three weeks old now it had gone quite septic
and was swelling ominously. It had been such a simple accident...... We had only just landed
at Kupang on the southern tip of Indonesian Timor, after a 3 day boat trip from Sumbawa. Once
off the boat I had put on my flip-flops and was trotting along the beach when I stood on a
thin spike of wood buried in the sand. The spike went through my thin flip-flops and about an
inch into the sole of my foot. Although sore, I did not realise the trouble it was to cause
me in the long term.
Allan and I were attempting to reach Dili in Portuguese East Timor. Dili had an airlink
with Darwin, Australia. At Kupang we attempted to find a boat or coaster that could take us
to Dili or to Ocussi. Ocussi was a small Portuguese controlled satellite enclave of Dili on
the north west coast of Timor, a few hundred miles north of Kupang, Dili being another few
hundred miles further. Information was scant. Nobody seemed to know what boats, if any, were to
arrive or where they would go. Apart from the few Indonesian Rupiah's left, what little other
money we had was of no use. There were no communication services and no transport travelling
north as many bridges had collapsed and the river gorges were impassable to traffic. We
decided to set off on foot for Ocussi where we felt the Portuguese would have some link with
their big-sister state of Portuguese Timor to the North.
The going at first was quite reasonable, just a dirt track but good and firm and the
weather although overcast was pleasant. We managed to hitch a lift on a beat-up truck for a
few miles but on reaching a downed bridge that ride came to an end. The bridge was completely
destroyed except for a few railway sleepers across the centre and we had to crawl along the
sleepers to get to the other side. This sounds easy enough, but when there is a roaring river
a hundred feet below and you are carrying a heavy rucksack it gets a little trickier. After
that, the journey slowly became more and more difficult. Mud became the norm. Where bridges
were down, the only way through entailed a half-mile scramble through overgrowth steeply down
to a river, a difficult river crossing through swirling tumbling water, (can't cross where
it's calmer or deeper as crocodiles inhabit the banks), followed by half-a-mile up a steep
slippery mud bank using roots and saplings as hand holds only to rejoin the path thirty or
forty yards from where we had descended.
This then became the routine, a walk along a mountain ridge, a steep descent, a river
crossing and a steep ascent followed by more ridge walking. The noise of animals, insects
and birds permeated the air incessantly, but very few could be seen, the only exceptions
being butterflies and spiders. The biggest spiders I've ever seen frequented this track
through Timor, sometimes wider than a handspan and of all colours, blue, red and orange,
sometimes striped and often hairy, beautiful but repulsive.
We came across many little villages along the way and received nothing but kindness
from the inhabitants. Money was of no use to them but they supplied food and drink and never
asked for reward. We were the centre of attention at every place we visited. Sometimes up
to twenty or thirty natives would crowd within a couple of feet of us, just to stare at our
blue eyes. Every movement was studied and it was just about impossible to find a moment of
privacy, no matter how urgent the need. Many had never had any contact with westerners,
especially the children. How strange we appeared to them we could only guess. They had never
seen radios, televisions, newspapers or telephones. At one village they were particularly
kind and attentive. We were shown to our own little hut and the villagers argued amongst
themselves as to who was to supply the next meal or tidbit. There was a large bonfire kept
going in the middle of the village at night that gave a warm comforting glow through the
doorway of the hut. In the middle of the night a rustling in the ceiling continued until a
large python-like snake fell on us as we lay on our sleeping blankets on the rattan matting.
As you can imagine we were quickly out of the hut, but no snake was located after we had
roused everyone with our hullabaloo.
This particular village held a get together in our honour, which included all sorts of
acts and singing as well as what we assumed were speeches of welcome. One lady had been a
teacher in Kupang and spoke some English and in this way we were able to learn more of the
niceties. At the end of the evening we joined in during a dance with veils that involved
dashing across the large hut with the hand-held veils flowing above the head. Our taking
part in this dance had them 'rolling on the floor in mirth'...... I got a little taste of
what success in showbiz must be like.
Food consisted mainly of rice, a little grated dried meat, bananas and differing leaf
plants of all colours. They also had 'Gula Lampang' a sort of palm sugar dried in little
rattan trays, that tasted like fudge. After not having anything sweet for months this was
a real treat. One of the fruits that I grew to love in Indonesia was Durian, rather like a
great round spiky brown cannonball. When opened it consisted of several large white fleshy
segments each covering a large black seed. The taste was delicious and entirely different
from anything I'd eaten. Unfortunately the smell of the fruit is a mixture somewhere between
dried urine and an old wet dog.
As the days went on my foot deteriorated, septic and sore and difficult to walk on,
especially first thing in the morning. I knew I would need medical help eventually, but
there was nothing available. The hot humid weather only exacerbated the problem so there
was no option but to battle on.
One day we managed to get a lift with some Timorese moving a string of Timor Ponies.
This was a great blessing. To be off our feet and yet making our way North was luxury indeed.
The downside was these ponies had a mind of their own and would go just where they decided,
suddenly leaving the track and climbing up an almost vertical bank for a mouthful of some
particular herbage. Unpredictable would not be too severe a description of these animals.
We both at this time were suffering from mild diarrhoea. The mosquitos at night were
unimaginable and why we didn't get malaria I'll never know. ( I didn't miss out altogether,
going down with malaria on the banks of the Ubangi river in the Central African Republic five
years later)
Eventually we came across the wonderful sight of the Ocussi border post and now they
wouldn't let us in!
After the first day outside the border post the officer became more friendly. I noticed
he played chess so we started playing a game or two and then he gave us a meal and relations
improved. He had a radio and reported our presence to Ocussi, relaying the message that we
were refusing to go away and that I had a bad foot, but no comment was relayed back to us.
Three days after our arrival at the border post two official looking vehicles arrived.
A
large, rather splendid gentleman attired in military uniform proceeded towards us, his
entourage following in his wake. Thankfully he spoke good English. He turned out to be the
Governor of Ocussi, and after talking to us generally and asking a few questions, he allowed
us to enter Portuguese territory. In the second vehicle was his doctor who took me inside
and gave me a king-size hypodermic shot of antibiotics in the rear end. I could feel it
doing good almost immediately, mind you, just being allowed in was enough to make us euphoric
anyway.
The Governor not only allowed us in to Ocussi, but we travelled back with his entourage.
He even put us up in a little whitewashed cottage in the grounds of the Governor's palace.
After settling in, showering and resting we ate with the Governor, his lovely wife and two
beautiful daughters. What a turnaround in a few hours.
Allan and I stayed with the Governor for several days. He then provided us with a place
aboard a small aircraft that left weekly for Dili. That take off I will never forget. The
small airplane was grossly overloaded and after being revved to maximum it shot off along a
field towards the rocks and the sea beyond at breakneck speed before just getting off the
ground in time............ we were on our way and soon to be in Australia.
A WALK IN TIMOR by Malcolm Walker (Johnny) at the age of 22
Mal 'Johnny' Walker .... Class of 1951
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