Surf in the jungle

I am hurtling through the jungle atop the roof of an antique bus. Sharing my predicament are seven giggling men, two roosters, one goat and many sacks of rice. The terrified goat won't stop bleating, while the gigglers and I are constantly ducking to avoid being whacked by overhanging branches. Perhaps this is what the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade means when it warns Australians to "reconsider the need to travel to East Timor because of the fragile security situation which could deteriorate without warning". My grip on the bus is certainly fragile and were it to slip, the security situation could indeed deteriorate without warning.

For the past week I've been looking for surf along East Timor's southern coast. Despite rumours of good breaks near the town of Beau, I've only succeeded in finding onshore winds, weak swell and enough croc stories to make me paranoid for the rest of my surfing life. Running low on supplies and desperate for a shower, I head back to Dili. But even though my feet are now dry and my board is strapped tightly to the bus, it seems I'm finally "hanging 10".

Bus surfing is the most exciting way to see East Timor. Like much of the Third World, buckling up isn't a high priority here, allowing passengers to enjoy the scenery from the best vantage point of all. While standing upright is possible at slower speeds, most bus surfers prefer to sit or even lie down, legs dangling over the side. Yes, it is dangerous but it certainly beats listening to the Indonesian reggae blaring in the cabin below.

From the town of Baucau we hoon along a surprisingly smooth road, hewn from red mountains clad in eucalypts and the occasional tamarind tree. To our right, the glittering sea laps beaches where ragged goats are the only sunbakers. We pass a convoy of UN four-wheel-drives brimming with Bangladeshi cops decked out in black-and-blue urban camouflage. I'm more intrigued with the T-shirt on the bloke next to me. "Nazi Street Squad" it says, above a picture of the Confederate flag.

At Manatuto we stop for fuel and when I peer over the edge of the roof I see barefoot children selling fish to passengers through the bus windows, fanning their stock with palm fronds to combat the heat. An hour later we round Cape Fatucama, where Jesus - all 27 metres of him - welcomes us with outstretched arms. This mammoth statue is only a few metres shorter than Rio de Janeiro's and was a parting gift from the Indonesians.

When we finally screech to a halt along the Dili waterfront, I help unload the rice, luggage and goat, which is now looking worse for wear. My face is aching and when I glance in a mirror I see why. Staring back at me is one very red tourist sporting the best sunglasses tan I have ever seen. Bus surfers beware: always remember to slip, slop, slap.