The next morning, we are up and about at the juice bar.  Who do we find there?  Our same crowd of boisterous ExPats, smoking, drinking coffee and laughing.  Do these people ever sleep?  We order an avocado milkshake with chocolate syrup (a Timorese specialty), a pineapple milk shake, and coffee.  A beautiful red dragonfly joins us for our breakfast.  

We enjoy a swim off the beach.  It takes approximately five minutes to be swarmed by local children, curious, chattering in a mix three languages we do not know, and draping themselves on our arms and shoulders.  To our surprise, many of them cannot swim very well.  They tuck empty two liter water bottles under each armpit as floatation aids.  

They are excited to play with our snorkels, masks and fins.  Little hands remove them from our heads and carry them off.  Andrew’s fins are approximately 80 times too big for their little feet, but this does not stop them from trying.  Our masks also do not fit, they look at us through the lenses like flies with giant eyes.  With much pointing and waving, our little group of five make it clear they want to “swim” out to see Sonrisa.  Against my better judgment, I swim over to Sonrisa, two children riding on my shoulders for floatation.  We all climb up, and the first thing they see is a bottle of shampoo on one of Grin’s benches.  

SOAP SOAP SOAP, they all lather up, suds gathered in their hair and streaming down their chin.  They climb aboard Sonrisa, and want pictures.

I try to tell them to stay outside in the cockpit, but either they didn’t understand or they did not care to understand.  One little boy hops down the companion way and makes himself at home in Sonrisa’s bow.  He finds a packet of cookies.  I tell him he can have them if he will exit.  He retraces his footsteps up and out, leaving a trail of salty, wet footprints and the suds of baby soap.  

By the time I emerge back on deck, at least ten more boys have swam their way out to Sonrisa.    The cookies are gone almost in an instant and there are more children trying to climb their way into Sonrisa’s living quarters.  I take a post standing on her companionway stairs, a physical barrier to entry.  Andrew works on corralling the swarm.  

We employ our old stand by escape tactic learned in Tual.  “We are heading out to lunch,” He tells them in Charades and his best impression of Indonesian, Portuguese and Tetun.  Eventually, they understand.  They leave in waves, some swimming, the others taking a seat in Grin for a ride back to the beach.  

Back at the Expresso Shade Tree Cafe, a group of some of the ExPats invite us to join them for lunch/expresso/smoking hour.  Today is Saturday and they are all relaxed in swimming gear.

The group, mostly Portuguese, are civil engineers and teachers here on assignment through the UN, to help build Oe Cusse.  The civil engineers are in charge of building the roads, sidewalks, light posts, and bridges.  Teachers are teaching Portuguese again, an attempt by the government to rebuild a home language of Timorese choice - instead of the trifecta mixture of Indonesian, Portuguese and Tetun currently in use. 

After we finish pizzas and expressos, everyone is ready for another little swim.  It’s not long before Grin is paddling everyone around.  I wonder if Grin ever thought he’d be carrying around an American, two Timorese, a Portuguese and an Irishwoman all at the same time? Sonrisa invites them aboard to celebrate her gotcha day with a slice of carrot cake and rum.

"It's crazy, none of the kids can swim!"  I say, as we all return to the beach.  I've never met island kids who can't swim.  

"Oh, they've only really started swimming on this beach since we started swimming." One of the Portuguese crowd tells me.   "They were afraid of the crocodiles."  

WHAT?!  "Brother Crocodile, don't eat me, we are relatives..."  

Later that evening, we all meet for hamburgers at one of the cafes.  The Portuguese steer us toward a Gin and Tonic, with lime and a cinnamon stick in the bottom.  “In Lisbon, we have bars dedicated solely to Gin and Tonics of all manner.”  They say, a bit of longing for home rattling in the back of their throats. 

“Did you see the flag procession go by last night?  It’s the anniversary of the cemetery massacre,” one asks us.  I confirm I got a photo, but I didn’t know what it was.  “There’s a memorial concert tonight at the park.”  She says.  

A few hours later, we all head over to the concert.  We sit on the cement ledge of the park, watching another band play more “oldies.” People light candles in the walkway, buy beer from a little cart, and dance. 

“You should see their funeral parties.”  One expat says.  Apparently, Timorese funerals are a two part process.  When a person dies, there is a Catholic mass followed by a somber gathering for food. A year later, though, the family throws a big party, with food, giant speaker systems, and dancing through the whole night.  A mourning of death, followed by a celebration of life.

Pretty soon, several Indonesian police officers from the Indonesian consulate office walk over to join the party.  I look at them uneasily and whisper to Andrew, “Should we leave? Why are they here?” One of the first rules of travel-safety in unstable territories is to stay out of crowds and away from political demonstrations.  This isn’t a huge crowd, but it’s as big as the population of Oe Cusse can support.  It’s a party, but it is overtly political as a memorial for the 200 students slain during the cemetery protest.  Maybe it’s time to go. 

I look around.

“It’s safe,” our friends tell us. Indonesians are here working on some of the infrastructure projects, the Indonesian consulate is right across the street.  Everyone is friendly, now." These people seem have an amazing capacity for forgiveness, and for separating the evils of the past from the peace they want for their future.

“When are you leaving?”  Our new friends ask. 

“Monday or Tuesday” Andrew says to everyone’s disappointment. (Today is Saturday.)  Little do they know, we are those people who always say they are going to leave, but never do.