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I stick my head out the window of our rented 4WD and open my mouth to ask the local kids who’ve come running over to gawk at us for directions. I’ve uttered barely a syllable before they scatter in equal amounts of delight and fear, running off into the lush surroundings that up until relatively recently camouflaged guerrilla fighters. We head further into the ravine, starting to wonder if we should give up on finding these bungalows. My travel partner’s been sick since we left Timor Leste’s capital, Dili, that morning, and the journey here along desolate roads, in strange and wonderful stretches of the country, has been rough. With nothing more than a vague idea of where Osolata is, we’re traipsing backwards and forwards from Baucau, hoping to catch a glimpse of a thatched roof. Finally we stumble upon a makeshift driveway leading onto a patch of land that sits on the edge of the palm-fringed ocean. We can see a few basic bungalows along the shoreline. As we head to the main house, I notice that, much like many of the buildings we saw in Dili, the house shows visible damage from the Indonesian invasion and subsequent twenty-four-year occupation. Although Timor claimed independence several years before, the scars linger on. In a country with little money to rebuild, it’s normal to see left-over war. It’s also hard to comprehend that almost everyone you meet, save for the very young children, has been personally affected by the invasion and occupation in incomprehensible ways. Every time I get into a taxi or stop to buy a snack from an elderly local, I find myself fixating on the lines on their faces, their weathered hands, and thinking intensely about the many lives they’ve lived over the past thirty years. Even the mix of languages – the older generation speaks Portuguese from the years of colonization, almost everyone speaks Indonesian because of the occupation, and the younger generations speak Tetum – is testament to the radical changes this small nation has seen in the span of a lifetime. As we approach the house, an older man and a younger man appear hesitantly from inside. They say nothing, and look at us with something like shock or confusion. We immediately assume we’re trespassing and start to say ‘bungalows, bungalows’ in an effort to communicate our intentions. The older man’s expression breaks into a broad smile and he ushers us towards a bungalow. Of the few that remain, this looks to be the best one – basic with a couple of beds, mosquito nets full of holes floating above them, and a small cold-water shower. In front of our room the ocean sparkles under the setting sun as the sky turns soft, streaky shades of pink and orange. Later on, we wander to the main house to ask the family about where we can eat. Something of a language barrier ensues, and the man tells us to come back a little later, at the same time telling his son something that causes the young man to head off towards Baucau on a run-down motorbike. We realize he’s been sent to buy food to be cooked for us, and that night we head back to the house and the older man brings us a simple, tasty meal of rice, fish and veggies. He’s set the table and put a small jar of flowers and candles in the centre, and I’m touched by the detail. As we eat, he hovers by our table, smiling and talking to us in Indonesian. We smile and laugh in response, although we understand nothing. We head off in the morning towards the creaking terraces of old, Portuguese posadas in the rugged mountains of Maubisse, As we drive away, we return the waves of the men, young and old. I look back at them for the last time and wonder when the next visitors will come. Though I never got the older man’s name, I’ve never forgotten his gentle manner or his face. It was another one I studied for hints of other lives lived.