My writer’s retreat – the old Portuguese colonial governor’s mansion perched on a solitary hilltop in Maubisse.
Come to East Timor if you want to be a writer. There is no internet, no distractions and not a taxi in sight on the streets after 9 pm (this only applies to Dili – vehicles, like the ‘malay‘ (foreigner), are a rare sight outside of the nation’s capital). Woe on those who are planning to stay out after 9. And double woe on those who, like me, like to have a cup of coffee after dinner. A long night with your own thoughts to keep you company awaits. Sometimes, there is no electricity and water as well (this also only applies to Dili – in the provinces, electricity and water is the exception rather than the norm).
That’s the push factor. The pull factor is that there are still plenty of stories – some magical. Those who don’t believe in god obviously have not travelled to the remote corners of the earth.
I talk of magical stories, partly because the above colonial mansion is also quite possibly haunted. I was the only guest in the otherworldy surrounds of a strangely well-preserved and carefully-dusted colonial governor’s residence, where everything seems to be untouched since the Portuguese governor of Maubisse, a coffee-growing hill station, packed up and went home to Lisbon. The dark wood creaks, the huge bay windows have to be wrestled shut to stop the howling of the wind.
this is what a night in an old colonial mansion looks like
In the evenings I dined alone in the dining hall (meals had to be requested in advance, and further more in advance if you’d like meat – chicken), before the wait staff head home for the day after dinner time, leaving me all alone. I feel like I am, unknowingly, placed by an author, an all-powerful God of my small world, in a murder mystery, a crime novel. I just hoped I would be the valiant detective instead of the decapitated victim.
Being the brave man that I am, I also decided to check all the drawers and armoires during the day, arming myself with the thought that ‘this has to be done sooner or later, and better sooner’, capitalising on the bright sunlight to vapourise any unholy abomination. Thankfully, there were none to be found, just some old hangers and some dust mounds (or are those dead vampires).
I guess I was lucky, because I later found out that it’s sister, the Pousada de Baucau, was an ex Indonesian torture centre during the occupation. It is now also a hotel targetting suckers like myself.
Bohemianisms 