The Cycle of Life. . .
This past week was spent up at 1200m elevation in the Emera district, roughly 35 km as the crow flies to the southwest of Dili, twice that on the winding mountain roads. This is a lovely and verdant area up in the mountains where much of East Timor’s fine quality Arabica coffee is grown and ends up in Starbucks cafes. Driving up the very twisting one lane road beyond the town of Gleno was particularly beautiful with the coffee trees on the mountainsides getting shade from enormous acacia trees planted during the Portuguese time.
I stayed at Bakhita, a Timorese operated Catholic centre, which trains Timorese in computer skills, English language and sewing. A health clinic which opened in 2005 and sponsored by the St. John of God group is also there. This is run by Timorese personnel too and coordinated by Anders, originally from Seattle. He is extremely dedicated to this area and its people and has integrated himself fully into all aspects of the community. Anders was invaluable; showing me around, teaching me some Tetum, as well as local customs and culture. As a result I was able to learn a lot, gain new perspectives and be part of a whole side of the culture which many malae (foreigners) would usually not have an opportunity to experience. All of the people at Bakhita were extremely hospitable and friendly. Upon departure they presented me with a tais, the traditional Timorese weaving, which was very touching.
I helped some in the clinic, but had to make it clear a few times that I was not a doctor! For two mornings I accompanied the volunteers doing home visits for the mass community de-worming programme. This was another way to pick up some Tetum, meet locals and see quite a bit of the community. By the end of the week, I felt as though I “knew” quite a few locals by name.
The second morning I was there a woman arrived early at the centre very distressed, saying that her brother had fallen and was unconscious. Anders, Ade (the midwife) and I took off in the “ambulance”. Our driver, Dora, drove fast considering the very rough road conditions. When we arrived at the house there was a large gathering of people out on the road. We were promptly escorted through the gate past many more people and finally into the very dark house, through a rabbit warren of rooms filled with more people.
In a very small back bedroom lay the patient, an elderly man, with several close family members in attendance at the bedside. I put my stethoscope to his chest and heard no heartbeat, felt for pulses…nothing, no respirations either. It was obvious that he had died, but I felt very awkward to be the one to announce the death and gave my stethoscope to Ade who also examined him. A family member sitting on the bed tentatively asked, “mate?”(dead?) and Ade nodded. Instantly the word was passed and the bone chilling wailing began. We departed quite readily after some condolences.
Anders later explained about the rituals surrounding death in Timorese culture. All family members are expected to participate in the rituals when someone passes away. On the night immediately following the death, family members gather to hold an all night vigil with the body, including a midnight meal. That evening a group of ten of us piled into the ambulance to go to the family’s house. An envelope with money and a packet of candles were presented upon arrival in the front room where there was a coffin. It was obvious that much activity had occurred since our departure that morning. We joined a group in the main room that was chanting the rosary and singing around the body. A shrine/alter had been constructed for the deceased and his body was laid out with tais. Fresh and plastic flowers, interspersed with lit candles, were surrounding him. After an hour we went outside to a newly (that AM) constructed addition to the house, made of corrugated iron and bamboo trunks tied with twine. Coffee and cookies were served by young girls and a feast of goat was being prepared out the back. Since it was so late we didn’t stay for the feast. The whole scene was amazing to witness, not only the spectacle, but the gathering of the community to pull off such an “event” at such short notice.
“Lutu” (mourning) traditions are closely observed as the week/year continues. The day following the death is “aifunan moruk” which is the graveside service with a priest. A week later is “aifunan midar” when the family visits the grave and lays more flowers and has another feast. For the first year after the death, close family members are expected to wear metan (black) until the first anniversary. Women wear black head scarves, men pin black cloth swatches to their shirts and babies and children have black string tied around their wrists. During this time, no dancing can occur. At the end of the mourning period, there is a huge celebration/feast called kore metan “untying the black band”. Now that I am aware of the significance of the metan, I realise that many, many people are in mourning.
The next morning I accompanied Ade and Anders on a home visit to few hours old baby who had born breech. The mother was thirty and this was her 9th child. Mother and baby were in a dark, windowless bedroom with a fire burning on the dirt floor to keep the baby warm (it wasn’t that cold and the baby was wrapped in several blankets). Her brood of children was all peering in the bedroom as we did assessments in the almost dark, just a few slants of light coming in through the gaps of the corrugated iron walls. There was absolutely no ventilation and the smoke was thick. The custom of fire burning after a birth is hard to fathom and apparently impossible to alter. No wonder many are ailing with respiratory problems.
The cycle of life is very apparent and right on the surface in East Timor and I was fortunate to be on the fringe of death and birth. Now I just need to attend a wedding.
Next week I return to the island of Atauro with the Australia Aid International team. Lucky me!
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