Joanna

I have a sister that never left home even though she was born in 1972.  I dropped by last week and paid her a visit. I always do if I am ‘home’, even if travelling through in the middle of the night.  You can do that when you are family, calling in at rude hours.  She never complains.  Sometimes the chat is silent. Families are good at that too – communicating with silences that is. But this time Steve was with me and I felt a bit self-conscious about talking in front of him, even though he is the dearest friend and knows me well. Even saying hello seemed a bit awkward.  So I stuck my hands in my pockets and shuffled my feet, got a bit emotional and after an awkward silence moved on.   Next time I am back I will bring some paint for things are a bit weathered at her place and I would like to think people know there are folk who care. We can have a chat as the paint is brushed and I can take my time.  I nodded to old Jim nearby, said hello to John (Joanna’s former babysitter), dipped me lid at Rodney whose truck once fell off a mountain and whose mother is no longer able to deliver him the weekly flowers, her last delivery now dry and broken stalks. She hangs out just a short walk away. We stood with David, mentor and friend, and gazed in silence over the countryside. He and his parents look out over Joanna as do many others I know. It’s getting to be quite a community up there on the hill. Sadly some of them have no voice but I am always pleased at what Joanna has to say. She tells those who would mull these things that she is ‘a child of the covenant’, speaking of a sure hope of eternal and unfailing commitment by her creator that, though her mortal remains look over a corner of Otago, she lives on in His presence and in that ‘presence there is a fullness of joy’. She is a great encourager that Joanna, sister of mine.

Museum of a Dusty Mind

The National Museum of Archaeology, Anthropology and History of Peru is a mouthful but it was worth a walk around even if almost all the explanatory panels were in Spanish. It provides a little bit of history and culture without having to leave the city. It is located in what looks like a former colonial residence. Funny how Lima seems to recycle its buildings in this way. “Let’s put our national treasures in someone’s old house”. I don’t think it is a case of not respecting their heritage. But over the years it may well be case of simply not having the funds to house them in premises that would more effectively set them off. Read more

Pigeon Sphincters Work Differently in Peru

I wonder how General Jose manages to not have the squadrons of blue eyed pigeons paint him and his steed. He is thirty feet above the ground and surely a lightning rod in this vast plaza for any and every pigeon sphincter. And this is surely battlestar HQ for the world’s pigeons. Read more

Shuddupayorface

Oops, some Delhi belly. Bet I picked that up from the KFC last night. Who travels this far to go to KFC? I confess, the smell wafting up the street was too much after being out for an hour to stretch my legs. Actually I was looking for a street directory. Read more

Sapphire on Black

Over the years I have tried all sorts of ways of beating jet lag and figure in the end that simply sleeping when tired is best. That of course means I slept yesterday afternoon, sat up late and got some writing done (about 3000 words), slept and was up again at 0600. I wandered down for breakfast (al fresco) at 0800 and was served a cup of coffee by a chap who had no idea what I wanted. I figured that even though it was a working day that I was up too early for these people. It is now 0900 and I see (by leaning out the window and peeking under the bougainvillea) the breakfast bar being set up so my initial assumption was not far off the mark. Read more

The Second Last Continent

We push back at 1135. The plane is full. A three year old cries in the seat in front of me. A spoilt brat I grump to myself, who does not want to be strapped in and would rather sit in Mum’s lap. Little prat, I am ready to box his ears. Might as well give him something to cry about if he is going to try that simpering whining on.  Come travel with me kid, we’ll have you sorted in a flash. I am consoled, partly, by the exasperation of the flight attendant whose Spanish lapses into English in frustration at not just the kid but especially the indulgent parents who want to hold him in their lap. He is about to call the Capitan. Ah, this has the prospect of being a long trip.
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Departing Moresby

It was interesting to hear how many of the trekkers were afflicted by lucid dreams while on the track. Not just one or two but many. What was it in the woods that sparked the brain so? Or was it in the air? Or somewhere else? There are sections of the track that some porters fear to go. We spoke to some trekkers yesterday, the perfume of damp sod hanging off them, and voices shrill with the buzz of the experience. They told us they had missed out on Myola because their porters refused to go there. I am not appalled, but rather sympathetic with the porters. There is something strange and foreboding about the place. Even the clouds behave as if possessed, stabbing around the head of the valley as if challenging us. For a change even the dark brooding forests seem safer than these open places. I get why some locals would be superstitious about Myola. That night the boys kept a fire going right through. And we heard later some of the porters were spooked by the forests north of Brigade Hill and are keen to push through without a break.  We all find ourselves talking in terms of a spiritual experience. It is a spiritual place alright. Dark and light in juxtaposition. We hear angels singing as they walk with us (and some in the villages we walk through) and watch our step in forests darkly brooding. Read more

Port Moresby

Litter. Overgrown verges. Dust. Couples sitting in the shade. Dripping humidity. Kids on hips. In shade of umbrellas. Decrepit vehicles. Blazing sun in a clear sky. Shop fronts with a focus on heavy security – a chicken burger joint looks like a bunker. Crowds of idle men standing around or sleeping. The Art Gallery and Museum is a tired, painted chipboard sort of place but if you can look past the presentation it is surprisingly educational and informative. Read more

The Worst Museum in the World

The museums around Ho Chi Minh City can be derelict but at least there is an appreciation of the role various artifacts have played in the history of the city. That is especially the case when you are talking military artifacts. Port Moresby boasts the worst kept collection of military paraphernalia I have seen. And worse, few if any, seem to place any value in its historical significance. Read more

The Lost Piper of Boroko

We carefully leave the taxi and as casually and as alert as we can be without indicating our concern we steer through the market stalls and try and avoid the crowd that is being incited by someone on a loud-hailer. All we can hear in the tirade is “Australia” and “rascal”. It is not a savoury combination and we are two white faces in a vast crowd that has the potential to be hostile. That is, we stand out like the proverbial canine reproductive organs. Read more

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