Little Miss Moi

Life in Timor-Leste


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The Empty Water Bottle (a hate letter in poem form)

I hate changing water.
Every third day
the bottle runs empty
and I’m filled with dismay.

The empty bottle is there
high on the bench
staring at me
like I’m a kitchen wench.

It bubbles, says plolop –
the water is gone.
It taunts me to change it.
I’m a mere sad pawn.

With a groan and a sigh
I give the bottle a wash.
It’s time for a new one
but I’ll lose half in the slosh.

I hoist up the bottle –
all nineteen litres.
From my shoulder I chuck it
to the container; it teeters…

With one final hoist
it goes over the edge,
upside down in the dispenser
perched on the ledge.

And with the now full bottle
I cook with glee
anything with water,
no worries for me.

Because I don’t have to change it
for at least a few days…
But-oh-how I wish for town water
T’would be a novel craze.


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My ranty pants are on…

Get some fucking PERSPECTIVE Australia.

Consider these things that happen in countries around the world:

  • People die for the right to vote
  • People walk for two or three days in order to reach a polling booth
  • People die while they are voting
  • People vote even though they know that the results will be tampered with and the same old dictator will retain power
  • People get killed in countries where they have no say over who rules them
  • People get tortured to admit who they voted for and then get killed by mercenaries or militia.

Then we have Australia:

  • You whinge about compulsory voting so loudly one would think you were being tortured
  • You will walk or drive for two or three minutes to reach a polling booth
  • You buy sausage sizzle and lattes while you’re voting
  • Your election results are scrutineered and recounted and you’re 99.999999999 per cent sure the results are not tampered with
  • You get harrassed by people running things called ‘exit polls’ to admit who you voted for
  • You have every say over who runs the country, and if you don’t like it, there’s nothing stopping you from running.

So let’s just reflect for a minute… How fucking lucky are we?  We get to VOTE. In a proper, non-corrupt DEMOCRACY.

Oh except you wouldn’t think that any of you realised how fucking LUCKY you are by the flurry of complaints that emerged yesterday when the PM announced that the 2013 election would be on Saturday 14 September. Yom Kippur. Many tweets ensued. News websites went mad. Interesting course for the story to take indeed.

But what REALLY got me was when someone tweeted that the PM, who has recently become A Friend Of The Bloggers, should know better than to schedule an election on the same day as one of the (mildly sycophantic, potentially cliquey?) blogger seminars that occur on a regular basis.

(I am not naming as I like the tweeter and she also claimed that her tweet was said in jest. But still, it was out there and demonstrated the tone of many tweets floating around yesterday.)

My initial reaction: WTAFF? Who cares if you’re at a conference in Melbourne or Sydney or wherever it happens to be held? If you can take the time to register for a seminar and book flights and a hotel, you can take the time organise a postal/absentee vote. You’ve got eight months to organise it.

Yes, that’s right. If the date of the election – EIGHT MONTHS FROM NOW – is that much of an issue, then that’s the beauty of living in a democracy isn’t it? You can vote the government out. You can tweet out your frustrations. You can write letters to your local member and letters to the local paper. You can organise a rally for god’s sake, just to let people know how upset you are. And you can do so in the knowledge that no one will shoot you. Shoo you, maybe, but not shoot.

I live in Timor at the moment. What people went through here in order to merely register to vote in the UN sanctioned referrendum for autonomy vs independence, and what they subsequently went through when Indonesia withdrew from the country (google Scorched Earth if you’re not sure) has given me perspective.

I lived in Ukraine for almost three years. In that time, government was only formed for maybe ten months because of corruption, outside intervention in politics, and an inability for form sufficient coalitions. Since I’ve left, the former Prime Minister has been jailed – supposedly for decisions she made when she was in government, but more likely because some very rich and powerful people don’t like her.

Do you all realise how lucky you are? DO YOU REALLY? Who cares if you HAVE to vote? I’ve voted in about seven different cities in my life and walked to the polling booth every time. I’ve never waited longer than five minutes to vote. I can wait longer for a coffee on a Saturday morning than it takes to vote.

It’s so ironic that in Australia we still joke about whinging poms, when honestly and truly I think Australians have a bloody good go at whinging too (myself included, ref. this entire post).

I don’t know what to leave you with, but here’s a thought – turn on SBS news at 6.30pm or, for those with Foxtel/Austar, switch on Al Jazeera anytime and you’ll see the horrible things that happen in the rest of the world and compulsory voting on a holy day when a bloggers conference is scheduled, in a country that will let you boot out the government if it really offends you that much, will be the least of your worries.

PS I am a Catholic and it would not bother me in the slightest to vote on Good Friday. Or Christmas. Because I feel privileged to have the right to vote.

This post was inspired by the first paragraph of this article by John Birmingham. I haven’t gotten around to reading the whole thing yet.


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Weird stuff for sale in Timor

In Timor one can find quite the mix of goods. For example, in one store I can find grocery staples from Indonesia, Portugal, Brazil, China, Thailand and Singapore.

Recently I was scouring the shelves looking for face moisturiser with SPF in it. My freckly skin is prematurely ageing after almost four years in the tropics.

I was rather amused, then, to find that I could reverse the effects of ageing with a healthy dose of Placenta.

Well this product is a real special one... #Dili #TimorLeste

Cause, you know, why the heck not. And at $3.55, it’s quite the bargain.

And continuing with the lady bits for medicinal usage theme, today I came across this little beauty.

To go with the placenta soap I guess

Nothing like a cervical collar to ward off a little dose of whiplash.

I wonder what I’ll find next…

ETA: one of my twitter peeps has just told me that a cervical collar IS A THING? Totally weird, man…


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Mixing things up a bit

One thing my recent holiday demonstrated to me was how much a miss walking.

Now, I am not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination. I am a plodder. Which actually suits my preferred style of exercise just fine – walking fairly slowly but for a long long time. For example, in 2007, the Mr and I walked the West Highland Way in Scotland. Seven days of plodding. It was great.

We recently spent 10 days in Vietnam soaking up the sights and sounds of our computers, tablets, kindles and phones Hoi An, a UNESCO heritage listed town near Da Nang in the centre of Vietnam.

Cafeing in Hoi An

The plan was to relax by the beach – 10 days in one spot is THE LONGEST we have spent in one holiday spot EVER (except for when we visit parents) and I booked it for that long because I wanted to force us to relax and just enjoy the beach.

Unfortunately, the weather had other ideas.

Seriously, can someone tell me if there is a cyclone brewing off Vietnam?

It was the monsoon season in Hoi An, and there were some lovely cool, rainy days.

It kinda looks a bit choppy out there...

Great for us, crap for the kids and our plan to tire them out by throwing them in the pool every day. So we spent a lot of time visiting the old town and walking around, exploring each little nook and cranny.

Art store in #hoian #vietnam

Lantern goodness in #hoian #vietnam

This weekend was our second weekend back in Dili, but the first weekend ‘back to normal’ – last weekend we had a whingey, whiney sick little Harrie to deal with.

Being Saturday morning, I thought it would be a nice treat to go out for breakfast. The catch – I wanted to walk there.

There are a few places within walking distance from our house, but the roads here don’t have footpaths and don’t have proper drainage so at the moment, things are very muddy. However, I insisted it would be no trouble – it was early, not too hot, not too busy, and it was only a 10 minute walk.

After walking for five minutes, the Sprog had fallen over and we were sick of climbing over fences in order to walk on grass and avoid the traffic. And we were getting really sick of every. single. taxi. that drove past slowing down, beeping the horn and trailing us to convince us to hop in.

The Sprog wanted to be carried so I picked her up, not really looking where I was stepping. Next thing, my leg flew out from underneath me as I fell down into the mud. If you want to picture what I looked like, I was genuflecting down on my left leg in a puddle of mud.

Props to me though, I didn’t drop either the kid or my handbag. I just stood up, said, “Well that was fun,” (SARCASM) and kept walking.

When I washed my leg off, the damage wasn’t so bad. Just skin grazes that are a bit ouchy but nothing major. Hopefully some Timorese taxi drivers got a slight kick from the sight of the big malae lady going knee surfing in the mud. And Mr is refusing to ever walk to breakfast in Dili again.

ETA: This post was inspired by Carly at Confessions of a 30 Something Woman and her post “Pushing outside the comfort zone”


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Language as food and other miscellaneous things

The Sprog is coming across a lot of Tetun speakers in her life.

What is Tetun? It’s the language of Timor-Leste. It’s one of the official languages (the other being Portuguese, though people say that most of the population can’t speak it fluently).

Our nanny speaks Tetun. Our cleaner speaks Tetun. Our driver speaks Tetun. The staff on our estate speak Tetun. People in shops speak Tetun.

So we have been trying to reinforce to the Sprog the bare minimum of words in order to show her respect to the people who help her out in everyday life (i.e. the people she annoys the crap out of, day in, day out!)

The problem is that the Sprog doesn’t quite get her pronunciation right at times.

The word for thank you is ‘Obrigada’ (for women). The Sprog, however, says, ‘Avocados’.

The word for goodbye is ‘Adeus’. The Sprog, however, says, ‘Have a juice’.

I was despairing to a mum from the school about the Sprog’s inability to hear me distinguish between ‘Obrigada’ and ‘Avocado’.

The mum said, ‘At least it’s not as bad as my kids. Instead of Obrigada, they used to say “Bicardi”. No reflection on my drinking habits, of course.’

Ah kids.

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