Some local community

It’s been a surprisingly busy week, on my current activity scale.

I’ve joined a choir, hopelessly out of my depth.  We’re signing a brief medley of songs next Sunday to farewell one of the original choir members from years ago.  “Once a jolly swagman” makes a brief cameo, strangely, as does the French national anthem and an eclectic group of other tunes.  With a fair breeze I’ll get brave enough to share a bit of video in due course.  My house host Tracey is the choir organiser, and has kindly agreed to give me some much-needed additional practice.

Bought some denim shorts and a shirt at a local market on Friday. I have so little room in the bike’s panniers that I’m set up really only to “travel through”, not really to dress appropriately  while I’m staying in a place.  So my wardrobe got a bit of a minor upgrade from only camping and running gear.  I’m not a market kinda guy at the best of times, but this one was intriguing. The stores are decked out for people a good foot shorter than me, and I earned a crick in my neck from constantly ducking to avoid some obstacle or other.  Then there were the open drains buried in under the stalls and foot paths.  At least my bowed head meant I couldn’t help but be watching for the next hole that would swallow me whole into Dili’s sewer system.  Despite the constant barrage of adversity against head and foot and nose, I came out victoriously with a shirt and with the only pair of denim shorts in the place big enough for an almost 6-foot Aussie.  And a bonus – some veggies for dinner.  The same number 10 microlet that delivered me to the market then took me home for a second 25c.

A group of 5 Fulbright Scholars arrived in Dili last week from the States on a cultural exchange program, for a year’s assignment teaching English.  They remind me of the excitement of my first months working post University, and our training trips to Chicago full of energy and enthusiasm.  They’ve arrived, found their bearings, secured accomodation for the year, bought motorcycles (not having previously ridden 🧐), and roundly thrown themselves into life.  One of their number has been staying at Tracey’s accomodation as a temporary measure, and that has linked their orbit in with ours.  Although they’re the same age as one of my own daughters, they’ve welcomed me into their circle with warmth and hospitality – including a quiet drink with four of them Friday night.  They’re good company.  I suspect they’ll be strong contributors over the coming decades, bringing vibrant energy, a dedicated work ethic.

There’s a group of ex-pats who regularly meet for a schedule of walks each Saturday morning.  I joined yesterday as the troupe marched out of town and up into some beautiful mountain countryside.  There were probably 30 of us of mixed ages, nationalities and walking abilities.  I’d have loved to have taken another hour or so just to enjoy the natural beauty, especially as I’m a country boy at heart, stuck currently in a city.  Despite the pace it was good for the soul to be out in the hills for a bit.  The morning walk finished with the most circuitous meanderings through the back blocks of Dili, clambering down between local dwellings through a storm water drain, and back out to a cafe breakkie.

A bit of an afternoon grandpa nap recharged for yet another ex-pat group; local cinema to see the French-made “The Man Who Sold His Skin”.  A repeat showing due to popular demand, this seemed to draw plenty of rave responses.  My own ignorance is probably exposed here, but unlike other movie goers I felt it the free entry was priced about right for the value (to me) of the screening.  So I’m grateful that no one has asked my opinion, and I’ve not volunteered it. If I read it right the thrust of the movie was pushing for simplistic solutions to complex and fraught issues.  Perhaps I can somewhat-unfairly distill the essence into a political statement decrying national borders in favour of free global movement of refugees.  Nonetheless I was glad to be included in the event despite that dissonance, just to experience another element of the community here.

We rushed back from the movie to enjoy Dianne’s hospitality and yet another group of ex-pats sharing dinner and a game of Dixit.  I finished the game where I deserved, right at last place.  I’m most at home with card games or board games that have simple rules and complex strategies, a category within which Dixit does not fit.  But it was great company, a few good laughs and lots of engaging conversation.  This kindly group consisted of Aussies, UKers, and our American hostess.

A dose of dosa, with coconut on the side
Some of the dosa crew

This morning there was a gathering at a local Indian restaurant for a breakfast of dosas, which seems to be a weekly Dili ex-pat ritual.  David and Fran from yesterday’s games night were there, and one Bensi from Wednesday’s choir practice.  Bensi was heading to an English-speaking Protestant church, and kindly allowed me to tag along.  Although I’d enjoyed worshiping with the locals last Sunday, it is simply more practical to be in a church service in the only language I understand.  It was good to go.  The message this morning touched on being hope for those around us, which is a nuance well worth incorporating into my “search for [my own] hope”.  I’ll go again even though its too loud for this grumpy ol’ man!

‘The Fulbrights’ were heading over past Christo Rei (the large statue of Jesus past the Dili outskirts) for snorkelling at the beach this afternoon.  I was very tempted to trundle along, but declined for two reasons.  The first of those reasons is just to throttle back the pace.  It’s nice just to sit for a bit this afternoon, without another tightly scheduled activity.  There may not be another opportunity to snorkel with the group, but I can head out any time for a dip in the ocean just on my own.

The second reason to decline the snorkelling is that I’d just set a time to meet with Amos (from an earlier diary post).  He’s keen for some English conversation, and I’ve obliged.  Amos actually speaks English very well, and apparently also speaks Indonesian and Portuguese in addition to his Tetum mother tongue.  I do feel a little ignorant with only English in my toolkit!  Google Translate to the rescue.

 

All in all, these last few days have been a busy enough distraction, which has been a pleasant change of rhythm.  I’m very thankful for this bit of local community and the warm welcome.

Kathryn messaged me while I’m writing this diary entry; the first time I’ve heard from her in a very long time.  I really don’t know what to do with it.  She is still constantly on my mind, and I miss her terribly.  But I just don’t have it in me to “play the happy ex”, or “be just friends”.  From where I sit “what God has joined let no judge separate” – ending a marriage is above the pay grade of any in our legal system.  So we’re still married, despite the government paperwork dating a divorce effective early last month.  Frankly I’d just like to curl up on the couch together and let the afternoon while away, or perhaps even play a game or two of scrabble or boggle.  But that would take two.  I actually long for contact, but can’t affirm the current separated and divorced status by engaging in warm and friendly chit-chat.  I don’t have that in me.  Cleft stick.

I miss the kids terribly too, of course.  One of the four has texted once.  I thought that recent interaction represented a request for conversation, and so I engaged accordingly.  Not so.  I’m not quite sure what the texting really was about, but it certainly wasn’t conversation.  The fractured communication is enough to keep me painfully conscious of the gnawing gap in my world, but not enough to go anywhere near bridging that gap.  It just hurts.  Really hurts. I’d gladly give a limb or two if it would trade for restored relationship.

I can’t walk away, and yet it is too painful to stay present in the constant reminder of such en-masse rejection.  The last thing I want is no contact, and yet every interaction only turns the knife another degree and aggregates wounds.  I can see precisely zero chance of resolving this, although that be the underlying purpose of my road trip.  I don’t keep writing about this in the diary as that would be monotonous and – moreover – unhealthy.  But it is the constant, daily struggle.

Meantime, I still need to work out what to do in response to the text from Kathryn.  A cheery “hi from Dili” seems impossibly lame and pointless.  Ignoring would be unnecessarily rude and seem counter-productive.  I’m convinced it would be unhealthy to “court her”; the stated “acceptable” way for me to engage.  I suspect there’s a thousand unwise responses, and probably none that are actually helpful.  I know I’m not Robinson Crusoe on the island of no-win relationship and communication choices, but nonetheless I can only carry my own cross.

Oh for just a little bit of wisdom.

3 Comments

  • Jenny van den Bosch

    Keep counting blessings even through gritted teeth and keep your eyes on Jesus.
    You did put it out there, so that’s my wisdom for the day, and of course, do as I say, not as I do in that regard.
    A worthy distraction may be to head those Fulbrights to the Lord and away from the WEF? That could be doing something for them and the future.
    Great blog to read and enjoy with you. Thank you. We look forward to every update. How long now till your wheels are expected?

  • Comment SPAM Protection: Shield Security marked this comment as “Pending Moderation”. Reason: Human SPAM filter found “doesnt” in “comment_content”

    Hey Daniel
    Have you ever engaged in any behavioural assessments as a way of understanding the strengths and struggles of an individual.
    My experience is that most damage is done relationally when someone’s strength is another persons struggle and the other person doesnt know it or acknowledge it. What happens then is often judgement, when what’s needed and desired is a bit of extra grace.

  • Mark B

    Given the context of your message from Kathryn, and your desire for contact, it seems you’ve ruled out not responding, and responses that involve courting or knife-twisting. So, how could your response make it easier for her to contact you again?

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