“I woke up at 8:30am this morning. Got dressed; read the NY Times; read the Timor Post; drank some coffee, and now, at 2:10 pm, I am back in my cotton bathrobe, taking it slow.
Yesterday was busy. In morning, I went with Karlito to the Hotel Timor (posh, Portuguese) to hear the Prime Minister Ramos Horta (see photo) and Bishop Belo (see photo below, as a young man) – in from Mozambique for a visit – speak about peace. These men shared the Nobel Peace Prize in 1996. Impressive speakers. After lunch I headed to Dare, high in the hills overlooking Dili, to join the Hash House Harriers for a some group trail-running. The route is set by “hares” who earlier in the day mark the trail with biodegradable paint. They also make false trails, so at intersections the quickest runners explore the different paths calling out ‘On-on’ when they come across a blaze.
I loved the running. The route had us scramble up embankments and rumble down dusty fields past understandably addled Timorese. It felt great to barrel headlong down a tiny path looking for the orange and blue dots; hashing combined the manic excitement of the hunt with the momentum of a group.
Not that some parts weren’t a little strange. The group invaded little Dare – 10 SUVs, 30 expats, two Timorese. This was a group of big, white Australians (90%) – some with the physiques of top grade rowers. Kids, with littler kids on their hips, watched us stampede past their small homes. Imagine giants coming over the back gate, jumping the fence, and disappearing down the road!
A little grotesque.
The running was followed by the standard drinking, machismo and singing (none with the wit, I will note, of Brown women’s rugby). These kinds of clubs are part of the expat life in Timor – and in the case of HHH – across the globe. And I have decided to explore it as such, as part of the world to which I have access.”
I did not post this on Sunday because I felt like I was trying a little too hard to justify taking part in the hash club. So it goes.
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