Selected as the Great Read in the September issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly. Every now and then in life the universe conspires to lend humility. So I emerge from the arrivals area and into the humid heat to find that my worst-case scenario is, in fact, true. Other travellers’ faces are lighting up in recognition, backs are being slapped, a kiss on each cheek in welcome; bemvindo! One after another they leave while I remain rooted to my spot, with no idea of where to go, as a group jostling East Timorese stare with curiosity at the white woman rigid with fear. Count to ten, suppress any desire to calculate your financial wherewithal, Lynne, and hold in the sobs; it’ll be okay, just count to ten, twenty, a thousand, whatever it takes. My impulsiveness is to blame. The job I’d expected here had fallen through days ago but I’d decided to take a chance. Anyway, I was already committed – the furniture was in storage, accounts had been closed, mail was redirected and there was a lot of self-talk about believing strongly in realising dreams. Realising dreams comes with risk, I’m telling myself again on the forecourt of Dili International Airport. After all, that’s what makes them dreams, otherwise they’d just be occurrences. Yes, realising dreams requires bravery … but at this moment I’m wondering if they also require enormous f—— stupidity. The Timorese teenagers can’t contain their intrigue any longer, ‘Dollar Missus?’ comes the chorus as they descend on me. They are desperately poor , they are certainly filthy, and they give some perspective to my circumstances. I might be arriving in Dili in a rather foolhardy manner but I certainly won’t be going hungry tonight, unlike them. I just wish they wouldn’t swarm around me as they’re doing, and I wish they wouldn’t keep asking me, ‘Where you go Missus?’ because I have absolutely no idea. Would it be uncharitable of me to think of them as dirty urchins? ‘Where you go Missus?’ Then they try to reach into my handbag and cop a feel of my bum and I’m wondering if it would be unhumanitarian of me to just elbow them away on my first day here. Great, now is not the time to realise I have no compassion to give these desperate innocents with the big, wide brown eyes beseeching me ‘Dollar Missus?’ because they have none and I have a relative fortune. Although, I am currently homeless, like them. Where do I go? I doubt they can advise me. The sun starts to set and the sky turns a shade of pink and the children continue to mob the ivory-coloured statue, scattering only when it moves and dials a mobile phone. “Hello,” I say into the receiver. “Hello Missus!” they yell and mob me again. Damn it. Voice-mail. I had hoped my impulsiveness would be offset by high-level contacts in this country, an arguable benefit when they can’t be contacted I’m thinking, as my white-knuckled hands grip a trolley that carries a monstrous pile of luggage. Yep, my life is contained in a trolley – five pairs of shoes, only one with stiletto heels, indicating the extraordinary sacrifice I’ve made in coming here; a $300 pair of Scanlan & Theodore dry-clean-only pants, which may have been an ill-advised inclusion but after a wine-soaked goodbye lunch they seemed essential; a lace bustier, because my mum said it’s too nice to languish in storage; a collection of pretty sun frocks in various tropical hues; and four handbags in a kaleidoscope of colours designed for best feats of coordination. See, I had felt that just because I’d be living in a Third World country I didn’t have to look as though I was living in a Third World country. Right now, however, I glance at the duty-free bag holiday my new Chanel lip gloss, mascara, powder foundation (all with built-in sunscreen in deference to the context) and my frown lines deepen alarmingly as I consider that all these fundamentals could very well be heading back to the First World sooner rather than later. And to think of the energy I expended today begging at check-in counters for the 20-kilogram limit to be overlooked on the grounds of gender discrimination because men generally weigh more than me to the precise value of my additional luggage weight. Three-hundred and fifty-four, three hundred and fifty-five…I’m still counting yet panic rises … three hundred and … “Hello, do you need a lift?” I turn around amid the crowd scattering again, expecting to see an angel complete with wings. “Oh, yes please.” “Where do you want to go?” I, um, don’t know? “Well, I arranged to be met here and I haven’t heard a word and I don’t know where to go so I suppose I should get a hotel room.” “Okay, which one?” “Um, don’t suppose you know of one? Not too expensive would be great because I don’t have very much money.” Guardian angels these days travel by car, so I sink into the passenger seat and she directs us towards the capital city of East Timor. She surveys me curiously out of the corner of her eyes and I pretend to be a very Sane Person despite my apparent lack of prospects. Chattering away, I look out the window and we move into the outskirts of Dili. Why isn’t she taking me on a more scenic route, I’m thinking, as we negotiate pigs and potholes beside the remnants of burned-out buildings in the dust. Knowing of the billions of dollars of aid that have made their way to this nation in the last couple of years it strikes me as peculiar that the city hasn’t been rebuilt. Was I expecting shopping malls and boulevards? No. But I’m wondering why the place for the most part remains razed to the ground.
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