WOOED BY WEST TIMOR
“What are you chewing, Yum?” I shouted above the country and western music, an unlikely Timorese favourite.
“Beetle”, he shouted back.
Yum was my driver-guide and we were bumping our way into the mountainous interior of West Timor to visit an ancient traditional village. I’d noticed something. Periodically he would take one hand off the wheel, pop something in his mouth, deftly dip something else into a bag of white powder and lick it. After substantial chewing, he would spit vigorously out of the window.
After an interminable, bone-crunching ride along a dirt track, we finally stopped. I got out and uncoiled.
“This way”, said Yum “We’re going to see the botty”.
I followed, intrigued. In the village a man in a faded blue t-shirt welcomed us, still sweaty from working in the fields. He was king of the Boti tribe. Yum pressed something into his hand.
“Beetle”, he shouted back.
Yum was my driver-guide and we were bumping our way into the mountainous interior of West Timor to visit an ancient traditional village. I’d noticed something. Periodically he would take one hand off the wheel, pop something in his mouth, deftly dip something else into a bag of white powder and lick it. After substantial chewing, he would spit vigorously out of the window.
After an interminable, bone-crunching ride along a dirt track, we finally stopped. I got out and uncoiled.
“This way”, said Yum “We’re going to see the botty”.
I followed, intrigued. In the village a man in a faded blue t-shirt welcomed us, still sweaty from working in the fields. He was king of the Boti tribe. Yum pressed something into his hand.
“What did you give him, Yum?”
“Beetle. Always the same.”
Animists in a deeply Christian area, Boti men struggle to find wives so numbers are shrinking. Those who do are easy to spot. They are forbidden to cut their hair as a symbol of their connection to nature.
“Beetle. Always the same.”
Animists in a deeply Christian area, Boti men struggle to find wives so numbers are shrinking. Those who do are easy to spot. They are forbidden to cut their hair as a symbol of their connection to nature.
In a dusty corner the women showed me their weaving, surely the brightest ikat cloth in Indonesia and all from natural plant-based dyes. They do the lot, from planting the cotton to selling the cloth. Self-sufficiency is key to the survival of the 312 villagers as their only income is from several hundred visitors a year.
Next traditional village, next tribe, the suitably negative-sounding None. Known as the last headhunters, they are fiercely proud of it. No faded t-shirts for the tribesman who greeted us. He was in full regalia. The same distinctive ikat was draped around his waist, where brightly beaded little containers dangled beside a long knife.
“What’s in the containers?” I whispered to Yum as we were led past shaggy lopo beehive huts to a clearing under the trees.
“Beetle.”
The penny finally dropped. In West Timor the betel nut, every dentist’s worst nightmare, rules supreme. Hence the “bloodstains” all over the ground and the Dracula touch of so many Timorese smiles.
Next traditional village, next tribe, the suitably negative-sounding None. Known as the last headhunters, they are fiercely proud of it. No faded t-shirts for the tribesman who greeted us. He was in full regalia. The same distinctive ikat was draped around his waist, where brightly beaded little containers dangled beside a long knife.
“What’s in the containers?” I whispered to Yum as we were led past shaggy lopo beehive huts to a clearing under the trees.
“Beetle.”
The penny finally dropped. In West Timor the betel nut, every dentist’s worst nightmare, rules supreme. Hence the “bloodstains” all over the ground and the Dracula touch of so many Timorese smiles.
We stopped at the spot where, before a “headhunt”, shamans would sit cross-legged on the ground and consult a chicken egg. Blood inside was a bad omen meaning imminent defeat.
Later Yum explained the “beetle” habit. The nut dipped in lime produces mild intoxication and suppresses the appetite, understandably tempting to a people who are no strangers to hunger.
Wandering onto the beach near Kupang on my last night, I passed rickety stalls selling eye-poppingly colourful fish, as fresh, and as bright, as paint. I stepped onto the rubbish-strewn sand and there beyond the fishing boats was a mosque. It was low tide and as the call-to-prayer rang out, the sun dipped towards the horizon, engulfing that mucky little beach in a light show of pinks and oranges. Despite being distinctly rough around the edges, West Timor had wooed me once again.
Later Yum explained the “beetle” habit. The nut dipped in lime produces mild intoxication and suppresses the appetite, understandably tempting to a people who are no strangers to hunger.
Wandering onto the beach near Kupang on my last night, I passed rickety stalls selling eye-poppingly colourful fish, as fresh, and as bright, as paint. I stepped onto the rubbish-strewn sand and there beyond the fishing boats was a mosque. It was low tide and as the call-to-prayer rang out, the sun dipped towards the horizon, engulfing that mucky little beach in a light show of pinks and oranges. Despite being distinctly rough around the edges, West Timor had wooed me once again.