Ataúro

Ataúro is a mountain in a strait: a hundred and forty square kilometres of dry hills rising to the Manucoco at nine hundred and ninety-five metres, twenty-five kilometres north of Dili across water three thousand metres deep, and around its shores the reefs where a scientific survey in 2016 counted more species of fish per transect than anywhere else on Earth. Four villages share it — Beloi with the pier and the Saturday market, Vila Maumeta with the church, Makili with the fishermen and the wood carvers, Adara on the west coast with the family homestays — and the whales and dolphins pass through the strait in the last months of the year, close enough to see from the beach.

The traveller takes the Saturday ferry from Dili, two hours, or the fast boat any day, one; sleeps in a homestay in Adara or Beloi, on a mattress under a thatched roof with the sea two steps away; snorkels off the beach in the morning, when the reef is a metre from the sand and the fish do not move out of the way; dives, if certified, with the one small operator, on walls that fall into the strait; walks up toward the Manucoco with a guide from the village, through dry forest and goats, for the whole island and the whole of Timor across the water; eats what was caught; and, in the season, sits on the beach at dusk and watches for blows.

The Guide's honesty: Ataúro is as simple as a place can be and still have a bed — electricity for some hours, water from a bucket, cash only, no ATM, no pharmacy, and the sea as the only road: bring what you need, and dollars in small notes; the ferry is Saturday out and Saturday back and its timetable is a hope; the reef is the richest on Earth and one careless fin can undo a century of it — float, do not stand; the villages have their own rules and their own church bells — ask, greet, wear a shirt; and Timor-Leste is one of the least-visited countries in the world, which is Ataúro's whole luck. Go quietly, and it will stay so.