The Adventures of Takako the Danger Librarian
23 November 2001:
"Thanksgiving in the Tropics"
Earlier this month, the thought occurred to me that this would be
the first time since I could remember in any meaningful way that
I would not be with family or friends for Thanksgiving. When I
lived with my parents in Los Angeles, my parents would often
invite other Japanese families we knew and do a pot-luck
Thanksgiving dinner. Later, when I moved away, my friend
Katherine's family in Johnstown always invited me for the
holiday, even after I moved away to Kentucky and later to New
York. It was always a time to reconnect with old friends and to
stuff ourselves silly with turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes (with
marshmallows!), cranberry sauce, and, of course, pumpkin and
pecan pies.
A couple weeks ago, one afternoon, Mireya stopped by the office
and asked if I were free on the 22nd, as she wanted to invite me
to a Thanksgiving dinner she and her housemates were hosting. I
had been wondering whether any of the American staff would be
celebrating Thanksgiving here, and I was delighted that they
wanted to invite me. After all, I'm really a Japanese
masquerading as an American. Sort of. In any event, I was quite
happy that I would have some semblance of Thanksgiving here, and
I looked forward to it eagerly.
Yesterday, after work, I went with Yasmeen to the "Hello Mister"
supermarket down the street after dropping off our bags in my
room. She had other plans for the evening, but she needed to
shop for groceries, too. I wanted to pick up some soft drinks,
as I don't drink alcohol and I didn't want to hog up my hosts'
supply. It was hot, and we both were wishy-washy about our
selections, but we finally got in line.
The management had put in extra shelving by the cash registers
for seasonal items, which made the area seem all the more
crowded. The problem for me lay less in the jostling than in
reconciling the presence of Christmas ornaments and Christmas
trees (Christmas trees!) in this place that has never seen and
never will see snow. Or winter. Or anyone crazy enough to wear
red fur-lined clothes, cap and black boots, with or without
white beard.
I walked through this surreal display psychologically unscathed,
and paid for my purchases. Yasmeen came back with me to pick up
her things, and she went home to cook herself some dinner. We
noticed that my air conditioner was dripping again, so I reported
that to Kaye and Alan, and Alan gave me a towel to put by the
door.
Shopping had taken a while longer than anticipated, so I had to
rush a bit to get ready. After showering, I vacillated between
the white-blouse-and-blue-skirt (the one I bought in Darwin)
ensemble I had been thinking of, or the black dress I had
brought with me from home. I finally decided on the latter.
With all my puttering about, it was fast approaching 7:30 before
I knew it. All of a sudden, I couldn't remember where I had put
the Dili map I had enlarged and photocopied what seemed like eons
ago. I wanted to match it up with the map Mireya had kindly drawn
for me. I spent fruitless minutes looking for it, and I had to
give up, lest I be late. I flipped through my East Timor
Phrasebook to the 'Taxi' part, as I would have to give the
driver directions in the dark (!), and I needed to know how to
say 'left' and 'right' (that's 'karuk' and 'los,' FYI).
It was past 7:30 when I finally got my act together and ran out
the door after one false start (I'd forgotten to put on bug
repellent -- a Big No-No). Kaye said I looked very nice. I
trudged all the way to the front of the Governor's Building to
hire a taxi. After a long few minutes, I finally caught one, and
climbed aboard.
After some anxious minutes, and a premature right turn, we found
the correct corner -- T-intersection, rounded corner, small
triangular island, big blue house. I paid the driver, said my
'Obrigada barak' and got out.
It was very dark. There were a few Timorese out on the street,
and I must have stood out like a -- well, a lost foreigner. I
called Mireya on the mobile with a plea for help, but I must
have been looking in the wrong direction. A motherly Timorese
woman called me over from the wall around her house and tried
to help, and she called over some more neighbourhood people.
We communicated in English and my very broken Tetun, and my
map. I remembered how to say 'big church' ('igreja bot', which
I knew was close to their house), but it didn't seem to help.
I felt really bad about not knowing enough Tetun to be able
to ask for help.
I was finally 'rescued' when I spotted a non-Timorese looking
woman walking toward the corner, and I asked whether she was
going to the party, as well. She was, and so I turned to my
Timorese helpers and apologized profusely ('Diskulpa!'). The
lady approached the door with two candles in front and opened
it gingerly, and we knew we'd found the place as there were
a crowd of people.
It was a very large house with several rooms. The door opened
into a smallish room, which opened immediately to the right into
a very large room with the curved wall (the rounded corner of the
house). One door from there led to the backyard; the other door
led to the bedrooms. Jan, one of the residents, let me put my bag
in his room, and so I put down everything except my digital
camera and rejoined the party.
I talked to several people, both familiar and unfamiliar, and it
was a really nice change to talk to people I knew from work in a
more informal context. I talked to James, the Aussie lawyer and
one of the hosts (not to be confused with James, the Aussie
Indonesian translator); Carolyn, a District Legal Officer who
joined the office recently; Manuel, a Timorese expatriate
returned from Australia; Valeria, another District Legal Officer
and very gregarious and spirited Italian woman; and I'm sure I'm
forgetting several others.
As James and I were talking about how hungry we were getting
(well, it was mostly him), the third host, Jan (that's pronounced
'yan,' people) came over and volunteered me to start the buffet.
Why did he pick me? I haven't the foggiest idea. So I dragged
James behind me by his sleeve so I didn't feel all alone with the
turkey and stuffing.
We got our plates and put them down at the table, but the others
were taking their time, so a group of us sat down on the couches
in the smaller room just inside the front door. Claudio picked up
an inflatable chair/footrest thing and started lobbing it about,
and we played volleyball with it for a few minutes as we waited
for everyone to get their food.
Soon everyone was about ready, and we all sat down. Mireya tapped
on her glass to get everyone's attention, and said that one of
the Thanksgiving traditions was to go around the table and say
what we were thankful for this year, so we proceeded. We were
all thankful for our health and those of our families and
friends; that we were doing some meaningful work here; and I
know I was thankful for the fact that Rich was still alive. And
that I hadn't contracted malaria or dengue or any other disease
endemic to the area... yet. I hoped that wasn't the keyword in
that sentence.
Then we all dug in. The catered spread was traditional but not
entirely. There was turkey, of course, but not a whole lot of
stuffing (Mireya lamented that later, attributing it to
assumptions and communication problems). But there were also
sweet potatoes and peas, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, salad,
cranberry sauce, and, for dessert, pumpkin pie, apple crumble,
and macademia nut pie (slight misunderstanding, was supposed to
be pecan). There seemed to be general agreement that it was
pretty good, for Thanksgiving in East Timor. Many of us (me
included) went for seconds.
James and I talked for a while, and then I started talking with
the two people sitting opposite me. I related Rich's bout with a
heart attack to Ray, the American, and the Bosnian woman whose
name escapes me at the moment. Later, Ray and I chatted about
library-ish stuff -- he had worked at the Library of Congress for
a while, among other places, and had great interest in libraries.
He mentioned that he had met the person who is to be in charge of
the library for the Constituent Assembly, and I asked if he might
introduce me to her. I thought that was pretty good networking
for me, who is really bad at it.
The first time I looked at my watch was when my conversation
partners said, 'Oh, my,' and it was 11:30pm! And, unlike in the
U.S., we all had to work tomorrow. We hurriedly wrapped up our
conversation, and I arranged for a ride with James, who was
taking Manuel home as well.
They dropped me off at my hotel, and I skipped in merrily, waving
to the security guard. Someone had suggested that perhaps I can
call my friend's family back in Pennsylvania once I was home to
wish them a happy Thanksgiving, so I did. They were very
pleasantly surprised, and even said they missed me (I usually
sleep in the convertible sofa/bed in the computer room when I
stay at their house). It was a nice little dose of 'home,' and
we shared a few laughs before I had to get off my mobile phone.
All in all, it was a very nice way to spend Thanksgiving away
from home. I miss my family and my friends, and the cold and the
snow (I know, California girl missing snow, whodathunk?), but
with my slowly-expanding circle of colleagues, friends and
acquaintances, and now a familiar-yet-different Thanksgiving,
it's certainly become more bearable, if not pleasant in a
strange, off-kilter, uniquely Timorese way.
To be continued....