Motorbike Madness in Maubise

For at least the last two weeks, I've been quite happy to give myself a wrap over my burgeoning skills as an Indonesian speaker. Language politics aside for now, suffice it to say that the astonishing lack of English in Timor Leste has provided me with ample opportunity - or should I say necessity - to hone my linguistic skills.

(note: although it is the official language, approximately only 5% of the population of Timor Leste speaks Portuguese. English is around 10%, while Indonesian and Tetun account for approximately 80% and 95% respectively).

If I'd honestly known any half decent opera arias I would have sung to the mountains for sheer joy.

 

One such occasion happened at the Pousada de Maubise this morning over breakfast when I got chatting with one of the waiters, Augusto, a lovely, quiet-spoken young man for whom pleasantries and compliments for my Indonesian abounded. Over breakfast, we chatted about everything from where I had been, what I was doing in the country, to his family, local village and my motorbike.

Oh yeah... the motorbike. Funny thing, that. It must have been around the third cup of coffee that Augusto asked me ever so politely and slowly (I had asked him to slow down so I could lebih mengerti, or understand him better) if I wouldn't mind him borrowing the bike for an hour so he could pop over and visit his family later that day.

"Sure thing," I replied (acutally I recall the exact words were tentu saja). After all, I'd passed through the village in question on the previous day. Though it was only 14km away, the very steep slopes of the central mountain roads made even a few hundred metres tantamount to running an olympic marathon. I wasn't going anywhere that day. I wouldn't miss the bike for an hour, would I? As I walked back to my room to settle into a day's reading and relaxing, I complimented myself for having just engaged in a twenty minute Indonesian conversation about life, the universe and motorbikes.

"Hang on a minute!" my inner-voice said to me (the words might have been tungu sebentar  but the inner-voice generally prefers English). For one thing, this bike would be worth a few thousand dollars even over here. For another, it hadn't come with any insurance (a point of considerable stupidity that I won't go into now). Thirdly, though I now knew Augusto quite well having stated more than once at the Pousada, I had absolutely no idea what sort of a rider he was - or if he could really ride at all! Whoops - looks like I got myself into yet another sticky situation of agreeing to something which probably - well definitely - wasn't a good idea on the face of it.

Thinking laterally, I mustered my finest Indonesian skills and penned the following letter (yes, letter, dear Reader - they often get me out of strife when I haven't got the courage to face someone in person and backpedal):

Augusto,

 

Ma'af teman! Kamu tidak bisa ambil sepeda motor saya. Saya suddah tungil orang di Tiger Fuel di Dili untuk bertemu. Tidak ada insurance! Hanya saya bisa pakai sepeda motor ini. Kalau accident, saya akan harus bayar banyak. Ma'af sekali lagi.

 

-                                                                                                                                                  Miguel

 

Which translates as:

Augusto,

I'm sorry, my friend. You can't take my motorbike today. I rang a guy at Tiger Fuel in Dili to ask him. There's no insurance. Only I can use the bike. In the even of an accident, I would have to pay a considerable sum. Sorry again.

-                                                                                                                                                  Michael

Aha! Check-MATE. Now all I had to do was leave the note on my door and Augusto was sure to read it, right? When I'd asked him roughly what time he'd needed it, he'd replied siang - a word which, as my treasure-trove Indocabulary informed me meant 'a time of day between the hours of 11 am and 2 pm.'  As long as I lay low and let my masterful words of wisdom do the talking, the impossibly akward situation of having to backpedal in person, in a foreign language, would be skilfully avoided, right?

Slipping out of my room shortly after 11 am, I stuck the note to the door and walked off down the slopes of the giant hill on which the pousada impressively stands (see previous post). I found a small warung and proceeded to take a very long lunch in town. Shortly after 2pm, refreshed from my meal of nasi ayam (the ubiquitous chicken-and-rice) though a little fatigued from the climb back up to the pousada, I returned to open the door of my room.

Noticing that Augusto was now nowhere to be seen, my inner-voice volunteered the explanation: "I guess Augusto will have read the note by now and found his own transport. I hope he wasn't too disappointed not to be able see his family today. Oh well, tidak apa apa!" The Indonesian part of this self-dialogue is a particularly versatile phrase that means 'it's all good,' 'no worries' and 'it doesn't matter.'

I proceeded to return to my novel about a clumsy Venetian detective who chases crooks on gondolas whilst singing famous opera arias.

"Selamat Sore Miguel!" the words confidently sailed through my open door to rouse me from the part where one of the gondolas breaks down and the detective is forced to swim after a crook whilst giving a hearty rendition of O Mio Babbino Caro.

I should point out that it was now some time after 4 pm, as was implied by the correct use of sore, a word referring to the time after siang but before malam (nightfall).

"I'm here to borrow the bike" were, to effect, the words I managed to decipher.

Oh God! He hadn't seen the note! What was I to do now? He's probably spent the bes part of the day - the best parts of pagi, siang and now sore - really looking forward to seeing his family.

"Be strong," the inner-voice told me.

"You're no help!" I answered back, in my head. "Can't you see I'm trying to think of what to say in Indonesian!?"

"Tentu saja!" I finally replied out loud. Before I knew it, I had handed over the keys. I had to think quickly.

"Kamu kembali ke sini jam berapa?" (What time are you coming back?)

"Err... munkin jam berapa?" (Say... 7pm?)

Jumping on the bike with child-like vigour, Augusto roared off down the hill.

Oh well, 7pm it is then? It can't be all that bad, right?

By 8:45 pm I can only tell you dear Reader, that the inner-voice had grown full-force to a copious diatribe on the follies of being so stupid as to give a motorbike to a relative stranger. My feeble replies, sobbed into a pillow, consisted of 'I'm never going to see this bike again, am I?' and 'sweet Jesus, just return this bike to me and I swear I'll learn to say no properly!'

In an attempt to turn the situation around, I finally pulled my face out of the pillow and went to the pousada caretaker's house, pounded the door and wailed "helooooo?" like a sick animal. It was everything I could do to stop myself from shouting 'Tolong tolong saya! Tungil polisi cepat-cepat!' or as we English-speaking folk like to say: help me! somebody call the police quickly! At this stage, I knew that I might as well have been a clumsy detective trying to chase a motorbike thief on a gondola.

Augusto's co-worker answered the door, a young and mild-mannered man by the name of Augustino. Taking a deep breath, I told my inner-voice that Indonesian got me into this mess, it would have to get me out of it. Our conversation thus proceeded to the effect of:

"Augusto's taken my bike. He said he'd be back at 7 pm but now it's nearly 9 pm!"

"Did he? I'm sure nothing bad's happened."

"All the same, may I please have his mobile number?"

"Sure thing!" he chirped as he rattled off the numbers.

I rang the phone and after what seemed an eternity, a voice long and low replied with a measured "helooo?"

Not wanting to waste a minute longer, I thrust the mobile pleadingly into the hands of Augustino, who obligingly took charge of the situation.

"Oi!" he shouted into the mouthpiece. Therewith proceeded a flurry of incomprehensible Tetun, no doubt to the effect of "Look here - you've got this guy's motorbike and he's worried shitless about it! Bring it back you bastard!"

Upon hanging up the phone, the words 'Dia masuk sekarang' (or 'he's coming now - just hang on a minute') were music to my ears.

The music then turned into a sweet symphony when the sound of a motorbike engine neared and a lonely light could be seen around the corner. If I'd honestly known any half decent opera arias I would have sung to the mountains for sheer joy. As it was, when I saw the bike arrive in one piece I nearly cried.

"Oh! Ma'af teman!" Augusto apologised when he saw the visible hours of agitation on my face.

"Oh well! Tidak apa apa!" I replied, half-snatching the keys back nervously.

After all, thanks to the inner-voice and several hours of babbling the words "saya harus belajar bichara tidak" or I must learn to say no to the point of stupidity, I think I've finally learned something, right?