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Timor-Leste is Asia's newest country, following its independence from Indonesia in 2002. Its an interesting place to visit but being a tourist here is hard work. Travelling around is difficult as public transport is lacking and hiring a moped is dangerous as the roads are full of potholes and washed away in places. So for these reasons plus we enjoy the pace of cycle touring, we decided to cycle part of it. As an aside, there is a bike race every year called the Tour de Timor, dubbed one of the most gruelling mountain bike races in the world. Luckily we had no plans to race and were sticking to roads that we had been assured by the hostel staff were passable. However it was interesting that we did not see any other cyclists in the ten days we were on the road.
Prior to cycling we had some concerns: as most of the population live in poverty in tiny villages, how easily could we obtain water and food? Similarly guest houses are not commonplace and have only sprung up in areas where the UN have a presence - so we took our tent to be on the safe side. On the roads, the trucks and microlets (public minibuses) are supposed to drive like loons, and we knew there were at least some very big hills indeed. We ended up buying new mountain bikes for lack of a viable alternative; the backpackers' bikes were not an option as the brakes don't work and the saddles are broken; the local bike shop politely laughed when we asked if anywhere rented bikes. As the shop didn't sell panniers, we scrounged two old rice sacks from an indian restaurant, and affixed them with old inner tyres. DIY chic!
Our aim was to get to Jaco Island on the East coast, 200km away, as it is renowned for good snorkelling. It is hard to get to even with your own transport, because the final 8km of road is so rough and steep and potholed that even 4x4s get stuck in the craters.
We left Dili at 6.30am in our fake Kona cycling shorts, armed with our rice sack panniers, some water and a bunch of inedible plantain that we thought were bananas.
The first day was hard. We were both openly thinking out loud 'whose stupid idea was this?'. It was already blisteringly hot by 10am. We cycled along the coast road for several hours, and through a mountainous section at midday where the heat and exertion were too much and we took refuge under a tree and tried to sleep, but the locals were surprised to see us and every single passing vehicle beeped and yelled out, so sleep was impossible. By two o'clock we were starving and considering the plantains when we passed a row of huts selling bbq sardines on skewers, and tiny woven palm parcels filled with steamed rice. The fish lollipops would not normally be my cup of tea but they were absolutely delicious.
We continued on through flat cracked salt plains and smelt before we saw a mud pool filled with maybe twenty water buffalo submerged with just their faces and horns showing. The landscape changed from dry plains to green hills, and we set up camp on a high spot in the middle of nowhere overlooking the countryside. It was not nice lying down in a sticky humid tent covered in layers of sweat, suntan lotion and mosquito repellant but we were so exhausted we both fell asleep at 7.30pm! We were woken at midnight by some drunken men on mopeds. They shone their torches on the tent and our bikes, made 'ooh' noises, whispered, laughed hysterically, talked in low voices, laughed some more then finally starting calling out eerily "hello my friend...hello...'. I was totally terrified. We sat in silence side by side in the tent until the calling became louder and louder and then Si my hero went out and chatted to them, found out they were simply curious to see a tent pitched in one of their meeting places, and then they drove off.
The main difficulty we found with the cycling was the relentless heat and humidity. The route we chose had plenty of long straight stretches but really it would have been nice to take a siesta from about 10.30 to 4.30 every day. Also, aside from the fish on a stick stalls, it definitely wasn't easy to find sustaining food during the day; tiny shops we passed sold water, but no real food other than biscuits and crisps - otherwise they mainly sold washing powder, salt and sugar.
In every village we passed through the locals would spot us and cry out "Melai, melai!!!" which translates as 'foreigner'. They were very smiley and friendly, and the children chased us, high fived us, and had a strange compulsion to whack the panniers and the tent, and then laugh hysterically or snigger as soon as we passed by, presumably because of our rice sacks, my red face, and the fact we weren't on a moped like everybody else.
On the fourth day we made it! The uninhabited Jaco Island looked beautiful across the torquoise water. It takes just six minutes by boat with local fishermen to reach it, and there are so few tourists that we had the island to ourselves. The snorkelling was fantastic, with so many different colourful fish that I felt like I'd fallen into an underwater screensaver. That night we camped in a paid campsite, but still didn't feel safe. We woke to the ground shaking around us, creepy 'eeee' noises, and a strange, unpleasant, yet familiar smell. Si peeked out of the tent and reported we were surrounded by a herd of massive water buffalo. Aargh!
After two days of chilling out, snorkelling, and wishing I'd packed a book we headed back. We cycled via Lospolos, where the UN presence, as in Dili, has inflated the price of accommodation; we paid $35 for a damp smelling room, in which I blocked the toilet the first time I used it and stood on a slug in the night. The next day we off-roaded to a vaguely tourist friendly town called Com. The 'welcome to Com resort' sign was covered with circles of razor wire so we decided to press on. The tourist industry here is definitely only in its infancy.
I thought retracing the same route back to Dili would be depressing and exhausting, but it wasn't. I was surprised how much of the route l couldn't remember, and the great thing about the tour was how the scenery changed. We saw green hills, flat cracked plains, sea views and woodland, rice paddies and agriculture, mangroves and mountains. So it wasn't boring, and it was reassuring to know on our return that we'd definitely be able to find enough water. The only real downside to retracing our route was remembering the hills. On our second to last day we had a gruelling ascent up from the rice paddies to the town of Baucau at the top. The locals had plenty of time to gather on the roadside to watch my snail's pace up the snaking mountain road and call out to me over and over, and although it was embarassing I was ridiculously grateful to a couple of children who ran up behind me and started pushing!
On our final day we cycled 120km back to Dili. The whole way I was thinking of nothing but having a shower, a curry, a beer, putting on clean clothes and lying down. This was enough incentive to get me up those final hills, and we got back at 6.30pm as dark was falling. So happy!
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