As dawn softly breaks, shards of sunlight stream through loose bamboo walls. Shaking off a dream, the warmth gently wakes me.I feel them watching me before I open my eyes. Giggles, unsuccessfully stifled by tiny hands clamped tight over tiny mouths, waft up the ladder of the rickety hut and into my consciousness. Eyes closed, I am relieved to hear laughter in this land.

I roll over. The thin hut floor creaks in protest. The giggles abruptly stop. A few moments pass. Patter, patter. Small bare feet approach the ladder. I roll over again. The second creak sends the footsteps scuttling back in the direction they came from. I want to take my time in waking up. Time to reflect on the weeks I have been in this beautiful land.

***

Yesterday I sat under the Piggy Tree near the market in Baguia. Deep in the interior of East Timor, Baguia is a village carved out of the dense forest and steep shaly cliffs. The village straddles a small mountain ridge that is dwarfed by Timor’s highest peak, the imposing Mount Matebian.

Above me, hung piglets. Vertically from the trees branches, the piglets swung in harnesses made from dried palm fronds. Grateful for shade, I had stayed with them. While they waited for their middles to be squeezed and tested for plumpness, I waited for the tropical afternoon rains and the glorious cool that they bring.

The jungles of East Timor tumble down the mountainous interior into a magnificent blue ocean. Ancient coral reefs create a kaleidoscope of blues that disappear into the deep navy of the Timor Sea. The people are slight and eclectic. Over a dozen indigenous groups of Malay and Papuan origin exist in this Eden. Intermarriage between the various tribes and Portuguese and Chinese settlers has created a unique diversity in physical features, but despite various ethnic backgrounds, the people are one.

Past the Piggy Tree sat a group of boys. There was a hardness in their eyes. They’ were not boys, but little men. The first generation born in a peaceful East Timor for over 400 years. They missed the years of Indonesian occupation, the years of unimaginable brutality that normalised death and fear. They missed the uninvited Japanese troops in World War II penetrating the jungle, and the women. They were born in a land of incredible beauty, resilience and abject poverty. Despite the hardship of life, it seems the fighting spirit of the people and the memory of past struggles have made the people hard, but happy.

The piglets didn’t like the rain. They squealed as the slipped and swayed in their harnesses. The boys laughed. Fresh and clean their skins had soaked up the moisture. They looked alive.

The market stopped for the shower. Patterns of colourful flowers and shapes peeked through carefully stacked potatoes and carrots. The traditional cloth or tais acts as a barrier between earth and vegetable, and folds over as protection from the rain. Behind the Piggy Tree, three generations of women sat under a single banana leaf. Their fragile frames swimming in faded batik sarongs imported from Indonesia. Whatever they made that day would support their families for a week.

***

I open my eyes. The air is thick with ancestors.

Silent, the children stare from the protection of the Uma Lulik, a sacred place for worship of the dead and the centre of all village life. They stop giggling and seem to be waiting for their first glimpse of a malai (foreigner). There have been no foreigners in Dare Lare village since a Portuguese battalion sought food and shelter here thirty years ago. The children are understandably excited. Afraid enough to seek the comfort of their ancestors, they peer through the low hanging roof of the Uma Lulik.

We had trekked to the village after the market in Baguia. One hour by foot. Through thickets of jungle, permeated by streams and banana trees, lay a cluster of huts, Dare Lare.

I have seen many villages like Dare Lare travelling through East Timor. I have been welcomed countless times into people’s homes and lives. I have shared simple meals with curious children and hard working women, and listened to the lore of the elders. I have travelled through some of the most spectacular scenery I have ever seen and into villages whose hospitality is matched only by their inhabitants’ strength of spirit.

It is time to get up. I climb down the ladder and the children gasp. They step further into the protection of the Uma Lulik. ‘Ba nebe?’ I say in their direction, laughing. Where are you going? They start giggling as I climb into their hideaway. The beginning of another incredible day in East Timor.