I have a sneaking suspicion when I check into Dili's Hotel Turismo that, contrary to the hotel's name, there are no tourists.

Throughout my two-hour flight from the tourist ghettos of Bali, I spot no one fumbling with an East Timor guidebook. Nor, when I arrive at the hotel, do I see anyone milling around its small, sparse lobby.

Phil, a friendly United Nations worker from Australia, cheerily says that in the past five months of his stay at the Hotel Turismo, I am indeed the only tourist he has met.

That's the attraction of East Timor. This tiny country is fairly accessible but mostly untainted, even untouched, by tourism.

There are no manufactured cultural shows and no skewed authentic local cuisine. What travelers experience is actually what it is: Artificial ingredient- free.

Since there are next-to-zero tourist facilities, you have to look for and arrange activities on your own. There wasn't even a dedicated guidebook on East Timor until Lonely Planet published one in November. And any guide that came out before 1999 - the year it was was ravaged by pro-Indonesia militia who destroyed most of the infrastructure and torched almost every urban building - is irrelevant.

Traveling in East Timor is challenging, frustrating and tiring. But it is rewarding because it's a unique journey.

Ina, a local who is timidly curious about meeting a traveler from Hong Kong, becomes excited when I show her the freshly published guidebook on her country. The book not only mentions her family's guesthouse, but also her hometown, Ainaro, which is described at length. Its colorful pictures include one of a large, rundown Catholic church which she attends every Sunday.

The majority of East Timorese are Catholic, a legacy of Portuguese rule, and the influence of the Church is everywhere - in education, social welfare, the economy and politics. The highly revered Bishop Carlos Belo, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, was inspirational in the country's drive for independence.

The capital city's most obvious landmark is an eight-meter statue of Christ that resembles the Cristo Redentor that overlooks Rio de Janeiro. Dili's statue was built during the time of the Indonesian occupation and is seen by locals not as an indigenous expression of religious devotion but as a remnant of colonial occupation.

Ignoring her study for an English exam, Ina runs to the back of the house with my book in her hand to show her mum that their town has reached the radar of world travelers. Ina is 16, with dark skin and striking features, and not much different from teenagers everywhere. She loves pop music and can name more Canto-pop stars than I can remember.

She hopes to study medicine at university, preferably in the United States, but she knows that it's more realistic to settle for Surabaya in Indonesia, where her older sister is studying.

Her cheerful tune wavers for a moment when I ask about the militia and its terrorization of East Timor after the country voted overwhelmingly for independence. To escape the rampage, the whole family fled to nearby mountains where they lived for a month.

Now, life goes on: Children sit neatly in church pews studying the Bible and chanting hymns, teenage boys kick a ball about under a lush banyan tree, school students sit around the schoolyard listening attentively to their teacher.

But despite an internationally funded rebuilding effort, the scars of the violence are everywhere. Roofless, windowless and burnt-out brick houses dot the streets. The ruins of a hospital and a hotel are littered with rubbish and overgrown with weeds. Tall trees are charred, their dead branches hanging down. New houses have been built, mostly of tin and wood, and often next to abandoned ones, as if to say ``Lest we forget.''

I set out to see three parts of this half-island nation tucked at the end of the Indonesian archipelago: The westernmost point, easternmost point and the highest point. I come up short on all three.

Planning is an optimistic exercise for travelers in East Timor, and almost impossible without a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

Buses depart when drivers feel there are enough passengers to clear a profit. One bus I traveled on circled an area for two hours picking up passengers before it headed out.

When I ask around for updated information on the boat schedule to Oecussi enclave, the westernmost district, I am told boats depart most days, but there is no firm schedule that I can find. I choose a day but there is no boat.

My sortie to pristine Jaco island in the easternmost part of the country is also foiled.This time, it is a flat tire that gets in the way of tourist duty. I manage to reach Tutuala, a village just 10 minutes away from the makeshift boat pier, but the roads are so bad the driver decides it is too unsafe to continue without a spare.

Disappointed but not defeated, I head for the country's highest point, Mount Ramelau. I ride a pickup to Maubisse, a vacation town in the mountains that features a recently restored Portuguese pousada.

Road conditions outside Dili range from sealed bitumen to unpaved sandy paths with large potholes. To Maubisse, it is a hair-raising rollercoaster through mountains. The locals, however, are blase about the rules of the road. My driver, Silas, drinks tea and chats with another passenger as I silently plead with him to focus on the hairpin turn around the side of a steep cliff. No wonder car owners often glue an image of the Virgin Mary on their dashboards for divine protection. Living on the edge, it seems, is part of daily life.

Mount Ramelau is directly accessible from a hill village called Hatobuilico, about 1½ hours from Maubisse. Since public transport doesn't cover that route, getting there is a mix of bargaining skills and luck, as well as a test of physical fitness if riding on a motorbike.

The village, about 2,000m up on a mountain ridge, is notably cool. The villagers, many of whom shout greetings in Portuguese, ``Bon dia'' or ``Bon tardi,'' are simple subsistence farmers. Ponies, goats and cows wander in the eucalyptus woodland. Round thatched houses spread across green slopes, which level off a few hundred meters down the valley around a meadow where a proud church rests. Travelers usually stay at the empty quarters attached to the police station or a large guesthouse opposite. Running water, electricity and meals are not available.

My plan is to begin the two-hour climb at 2am to give myself plenty of time to reach the top by dawn. My Portuguese is not good enough to secure a guide but it should not be a major problem: According to the guidebook, the path to the summit and a statue of the Virgin Mary is a wide, easy-to-follow trail. The guidebook is wrong.

In a meadow the trail fades into blurred animal tracks branching out in different directions. I try one. It leads into a thicket of impassable, thorny brushes. I try another. It takes me to the edge of a sheer cliff.

Finally, I choose a path that climbs deeper into the woods and gives me an overhead glimpse of the Virgin Mary. It is pretty close. But I also realize that the trail I thought I was on has disappeared. Two hours and some blind luck later, I am back in the meadow. My flashlight is flickering.

With dawn approaching, I settle in the meadow under a starry sky with the scent of eucalyptus on the chilly wind, glad to have the company of wild ponies.

I try to redeem my failing three-point sightseeing plan by climbing the highest peak on imposing Atauro island, across the Wetar Strait from Dili. It is a two-hour ride by scheduled ferry, or an hour more by local small fishing boat, which is escorted by playful dolphins.

The starting point for my trek up the 1,000m Mount Manucoco is the Eco Lodge, a sea-level co-op that aims to keep tourists environmentally friendly. This time I hire a local guide, Thomas, who was born and raised in the mountain village of Anartutu, our destination.

The temperature cools as we climb, cloud slowly thickens and the trail becomes damper and more slippery. The slopes steepens at every turn. Weakened by dehydration, we decide to head straight to the village instead of pressing on to the top. Water is running short. I ask Thomas if I can find water at Anartutu. He frowns a little and then squirrels up a tree. With a few deft hacks of his machete, he cuts down a couple of coconuts. Soon, the juice is flowing.

Resources are scarce outside Dili, but then, resources are scarce inside Dili, but on Atauro, running water and power are a luxury. Still, it is a popular escape for Dili-based expat aid workers and the odd traveler lured by the mostly unexploited and unexplored marine life. Whales, sharks, manatees and coral reefs abound. Local tribes people welcome travelers though they are concerned that tourism may threaten the island's traditional way of life, turning it into a Bali-like resort town of spas and Starbucks. In the immediate aftermath of the independence referendum, there was talk of developing Atauro into a major resort destination.

But so far the Eco Lodge is all there is and its impact is minimal. Facilities are basic. Guests stay in thatch-roofed huts by the beach, power is only available for a few hours at night and the toilets are peasant basic. Meals are provided but, as in most small Timorese towns, dinner is whatever is available.

Even in large towns, life remains simple. In Baucau, the second-largest city in East Timor, I meet Yunus, an Indonesian from Kupang, West Timor. Yunus works for a non-government organisation called Opportunities International Australia which provides financial aid to local businesses. He shows me around on his motorbike. There is a small market, a church that was built in traditional style with a narrow rooftop pointing high into the sky, two restaurants, a garish, pink pousada called the Flamboyant Hotel and a public swimming pool.

The most intriguing thing I see is a chapel on a hill. It has no roof, just an altar and a three-meter white cross, and overlooks the town. Churchgoers attend mass come monsoonal rain or sweltering heat.

Back in Baucau, I join Yunus and his Timorese co-workers, Paul, Jhon and Bony for a dinner of skinny chicken and a fish that locals would consider a feast. We buy a bottle of the incendiary local palm wine.

I ask what they do for entertainment. Music from the radio and dancing, they say. Sometimes they watch the one television channel, particularly football, a passion among the Timorese.

Jhon and Bony were born and raised in Baucau, where they escaped the Indonesia militia, while Paul is an Oecussi native. They get along with Yunus just fine as they share basically everything at the office, where they also live. Yunus, for reasons he cannot explain clearly in English, is given no trouble by the locals despite being Indonesian.

``Indonesians are okay, but we don't like the government and the military,'' Jhon explains. It is a common sentiment.

As jobs in the country are difficult to come by, many Timorese work for international organizations or study in schools. Ina's friend, Tito, although 23, is still in high school, as are his three sisters and two brothers. His older brother works for World Vision in Dili and his father with another NGO. Ina's siblings are students too, scattered around Dili with one in Cuba on scholarship.

For decades, East Timor was controlled by the Portuguese and later suppressed by the Indonesians. It has a lot of catching up to do to find its unfettered place in the world. Everywhere, people are studying, roads are being built and facilities are slowly being restored, laying the foundations for the day the country can stand firm on its feet.

Life is tough, but most Timorese I meet are hopeful and positive. ``The most important thing is that now we are free, we are free to do whatever we want to do,'' one of my guides says with a big smile.

jonathan.tam@globalchina.com