Public transport and feeling alive in Timor-Leste

28 April 2024

My shower water heater doesn’t work but it’s warm enough outside that I can’t call it a cold shower. I read in my room until breakfast is open. The Portuguese colonial influence – or at least globalization – is evident in the breakfast options. Bread and pastries with a variety of spreads, orange juice, and coffee. I try a fried banana slice. It’s crunchy with a soft and warm inside. There are over 20 types of bananas on the island. I need to get to town for a couple of things. It’s been my MO in new countries and cities to walk (or jog) to get to know a place. I decide not to get a SIM card. The disconnection is refreshing. There’s construction on the road leaving no sidewalk or shoulder, so I step down to where they’re building the new road. I walk about a mile and a half to Timor Plaza – the only “shopping center” in the country. I see lots of shops inside but the longest line is at the money transfer desk where people receive remittances from family members abroad. At the food court I eat some tofu and fish with a spicy chili sauce that reminds me of Thai nam jim. I grab my supplies and head back.

I decide it’s worth trying one of the mini busses I have seen on the streets. I learn later they’re called microlets or bemo. They seem to pick up and drop off people but I can’t tell if there are specific stops or if it’s more like the red trucks in Thailand that make stops based on rider wishes. I see a woman and ask her, but my question leads only to awkward smiles. Near an intersection, I need to go straight but I see some of the microlets turning left. I correlate the numbers on the back with whether they turn or go straight. The 11s are turning; the 10s are going straight. Of course the one I flag down is absolutely packed. There is only a sliver of pink upholstery visible on the two benches inside. I hit my head on the door and say “oi!” to the reception of nervous laughter. A kid hops on his dad’s lap and two women move together to make room for my long legs.

I announce the name of my hotel and receive nods and smiles. The young lady across from me appears to be taking my picture on her phone. There’s virtually no air circulation but I’m happy. A handful of people get off and a young woman waves goodbye to me from the side of the road. I get off at my hotel. The ride is only 25 cents compared with a taxi that I was told could cost $10-15. Obviously the cost is not the point. The point is the experience of traveling like a local, facing a situation where I don’t have full control or knowledge; leaning into that healthy twinge of discomfort that tells me I’m alive.

Onward.