Clock watching

This whole volunteering thing is great. But some days, not very often, you just wish you were at home. Today is one of those days. I miss my family, I miss my friends. I miss driving and ADSL and Friday nights renting movies and ordering cheese pizza. Late night shopping. Knowing that while my government is far from ideal, it's not a kleptocracy hell bent of stuffing it's own pockets while ruining every good thing the country has. Watching the news and seeing stories about cats stuck up power poles instead of stories about five year old girls getting raped by their fathers. On days like these, the country I live in seems like hell. But it's not hell. There are many wonderful things here, things I wont get to experience anywhere else.

But right now I don't want to think about that. I just want to be home.

No rest for the wicked..

Visa was sorted in Moresby so the exodus was cancelled.

However, I do get to fly out to Wewak this Monday to fix some networking problems and do some consulting and returning on Wednesday. Then Thursday it's off to Madang with a stop over in the Ramu valley for the night. Saturday I will be hung-over, Sunday I will be diving and Monday it's back to the office.

Fly into the sky..

Work permits and visa applications have been approved. All I have to do is just swing down to Brisbane and visit the PNG consulate to get them to update my passport and I'm all set. See you in a few days, maybe weeks, who can tell...

He has half the deed done who has made a beginning.

Singing lessons, painting on canvas, amateur tennis, beginners golf.. it's all happening in my world right now. With my partner devoting large chunks of the weekend to writing his English-speaking-world-shattering novel, I find myself at a loss for entertainment. And there are only so many times you can spring clean a house before there's just nothing left to throw out and/or you send both you and your ever patient partner insane.

So bearing in mind the theory that plans generally fail in PNG therefore you make as many as possible in the hope of achieving at least two or three of your goals, I am undertaking a series of ventures to minimise my boredom and increase both my current skill level and my overall enjoyment in life.

Singing lessons - In order to ascertain whether I have the voice of an angel or an angle grinder, I am enquiring about the possibilities of attending private lessons. I have located a music teacher at Goroka university who could possibly help me with these queries, which I be following up shortly.

Painting on canvas - There is something to be said for cheap paints smeared on cheap canvas in a miasma of creative misdirection. I get the paint everywhere, the dog gets to drink the paint water, I feel a sense of tangible accomplishment, and my partner allows me to listen to the dance version of the Gladiator soundtrack. It's an all-round winning situation. Goroka, not quite being the centre of creative arts, has not one shop in which to purchase canvas. Being the sleuth I am, and noticing many local talents using canvas, I have deduced that canvas must be available somewhere, and more than likely, will be available at the university.

Amateur tennis - While art supply stores are a bit thin on the ground, Goroka does possess some relatively well maintained tennis courts. Recently, the ex-pats have gathered together for a few casual rounds of the Goroka International Tennis Championship. Having thoroughly enjoyed watching tennis through the years, and being taunted with the sounds of fun and excitement coming from the court, I have engaged a good friend to teach me the basics so that I might have a more realistic appreciation of the talent before me.

Beginners Golf - The family of my good friend and neighbour recently purchased her a set of ladies gold clubs and a membership to the local gold course. She has never played before, knows nothing of the game and has never swung a club before. Naturally she asked me to be her partner, as I am at the same level, if not worse than her.

So combine that with my culinary prowess - did you know I can make my own red ravioli stuffed with pumpkin? - and new found desire not to end up massively overweight, I intend on being one busy, active, hideously cheery and annoying volunteer. Time shall tell which of my plans succeed and which get ignored in favour of eating macaroni cheese and watching Futurama all weekend, every weekend.

Please Wait

My visa and work permit expire in 16 days. My extension has not yet been approved by AusAid, nor have I heard anything about my permits and papers. While I am sure everything will be fine, there is a niggling doubt that it will all go horribly and drastically wrong I'll wind up in a Port Moresby gaol cell, awaiting trial for over staying my welcome. Each time I think of it, my mind is flooded with a stylish montage of grandfather clocks, their faces with hands spinning wildly, a judge banging has gavel and day calendar pages being ripped off and carted away by the time-breeze.

I vant to be alone...

No man is an island. Or in this case, the highlands are an island. The main road, the only road, into the highlands has been cut in various places due to landslides, poor maintenance, earth tremors and heavy rains. Only very small cars are getting through, and they have to pay a K50 fee to the 'landowners' for the privilege. Larger vans and trucks, the ones carrying the the freight, are trapped and are parked head to tail along the side of the roads unable to move. In some places the landowners are demanding a K7 million ($AU 3.18 million) payout before they'll allow the authorities to fix the roads.

So as we gear up to face a freight crisis, toilet paper and beer stockpiled in storage rooms, we turn to face yet another challenge. All EFTPOS lines in the town are dead. No one can access any cash. The banks are taking deposits only. Panic is rising slowly, but a sense of WWII rationing and all-round amusement at the situation is keeping spirits high.

Currently am very thankful for having a goodwill tab at the local Chinese restaurant.

Zoom zoom!

After trudging to work in mud every morning for the past year and a bit, I started thinking about other modes of transportation and have reached the only (and now obvious) solution. I must own a motorbike. There aren't many around town, but rumour has it that once they were quite the must-have item so I deduce that they have gone out of fashion and ergo there must be a massive stock pile of them somewhere waiting to be sold cheaply to small, blonde, female volunteers.

I am currently compiling a list of required accessories and garnishes (side-car, goggles, leather hat, scarf and monocle for the General, emergency bottle of gin) and am asking everyone I know if they know of anyone willing to sell a bike. The problem with PNG (or I should say a problem) is that there is no PNG Trading Post or any such equivalent. Everything is done by word of mouth and using local knowledge. This means that the whole process could be done and done in a matter of days, or it could be a long, drawn out, painful experience lasting many months and not coming to fruition at all. It's a gamble I'm currently willing to take.

Coming soon:

Why living in Goroka is like living in an episode of M*A*S*H...

MuSe

Click image for larger version.

Wait for a sign from Gozer the Traveller; he will come in one of the pre-chosen forms. During the rectification of the Vuldronaii, the Traveller came as a large and moving Torb. Then, during the third reconciliation of the last of the Meketrex Supplicants, they chose a new form for him -- that of a Giant Sloar! Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Sloar that day I can tell you!


Meet Attley.



As known as The Destructor. She's a 12-week old puppy who belongs to my neighbours. She enjoys barking at me until I make her some toast, chewing the cushions on our couch, piddling everytime she gets excited and howling with heart-broken rage everytime we don't pay attention to her. So far she has destroyed one mug (I foolishly left it on a chair within 'standing-on-hind-legs' reach), eaten most of my m&ms, chewed various holes in various socks, bent my gardening fork, ripped apart my gardening gloves, put a hole in my spikey purple ball, dug up my petunias and licked my hand after I had chopped up a fresh chilli.

The opening of the front door each morning is an event she wont miss and gets very, very excited about it. So much so that on many occasions she has run round in circles and made herself so dizzy she's pounced, head first into the door. I have concluded her head is made of impact-absorbing foam as the amount of times she falls on it, bashes into thigns with it, gets it caught under the gate, etc and yet walks away unharmed is amazing. Nothing is scared from her need to chew; feet, hands, couches, power cords, brooms, shovels, anything that comes close enough to her mouth is immediately bitten.

We've tried tapping her on the nose when she gets too psycho, but to her, that's just another game worthy of extra biting and more barking. She's pretty cute, but I think I'm glad she's not my dog because I'm pretty close to putting restavits in her food dish.

Sometimes a series of seemingly unconnected events combine to make an awkward situation...

-This week, my building had no water. This happens sometimes. Phone calls are made, a tanker comes in and fills our rain water tank and everyone is happy. This didn't happen on Tuesday when it was first realised there was no water. It also didn't happen on Wednesday. Thankfully there is water, albeit a bit lacking in pressure, today.

-My boss is German and as a result very efficient. He perfectly embodies my current favourite joke (Q: Why did the German cross the road? A: Because the light was green and it was permitted.) Generally he is a good boss, but he does like to run a relatively tight ship.

-90% of the roads in town are unsealed, dirt roads. After rain the roads turn to very slippery mud with many feet and wheels churning it up. After only a few hours of sun light, the roads dry out completely, start crack and crumble to dust. This means that mud gets tracked into the office every morning, and it turns to thick dust every afternoon. There is also a lot of dust in the air that ends up settling in rarely-accessed places.

-I am not allergic to dust. But large amounts tend to make me sneeze loudly and uncontrollably.

So yesterday afternoon, I am trying very hard not to think about running water as my boss wouldn't allow us to go home, nor did he give us a secondary toilet option. We were merely told that there was no water, so toilets were not to be used. I had busied myself with a job I had been putting off; replacing a colleagues PC. She had been using said PC for nigh on seven years without fail, so it has never been moved. To say it was covered with dust is an understatement. I soldiered on and eventually got all the old cords and bits of crap out from behind the desk and the shiny new PC installed without too much trouble. I sat down at my desk feeling like I had accomplished something when little red dots started appearing on my keyboard. Realising that my nose was bleeding I looked around for a tissue and seeing none, went to place my dust-covered hand under my nose to stop the flow somewhat. Immediately I recognised the immanent danger of sneezing, I rushed to wash my hands, and grab some toilet paper. But oh no! No water means no hand washing for kitties, and the toilet paper had been removed to deter people from using the toilets when they couldn't be flushed.

So there I sat, tilting my head back, not thinking about running water and trying not to sneeze blood into my colleagues faces. Sometimes I can't help but think I'm on Candid Camera.

Tippy type.

Have gone a little crazy of late, writing letters to my local newspaper. For nigh on ten months I've sat back and read the editorial page with a mixture of bemusement and outrage and without and outlet for the emotions. It all started when the first letter I wrote got published after being severely edited. I have now made it my personal mission to get an inflammatory letter published. Actually that's a complete lie, I'd like my witty social 'no holds barred' commentary to wow the editors and have them offer me a weekly column which I shall do anonymously.

Ah, the dreams of one.

Feet.

In a country where shoes are seen as a luxury and even sometimes a hindrance, one is exposed to many pedal-realities. Having spent a little over twenty four years looking at my own, I thought there could not be too much variation on this theme. I didn't take into account that my years of shoe-wearing, bath-soaking, and minimal-walking would alter each foot so much until I came to a country where the standard mode of transport is your own two legs and toed appendage. The feet here are flat, wide, caked in mud and calloused. They are well-worn, appreciated, far from delicate. Each toe is like a great, semi-flattened Italian sausage, arches are unheard of. Toe's poke through the sides of too-narrow shoes, soles like thick, brown pancakes.

They are dependable and strong and I love the old women who look as though they weigh the sum of two feathers stomping on the ground with their plodding, reliable feet.

Primitive Minds

Lunch with a friend today, where was given the gift that keeps on giving (and it's not herpes). It's a book. Published in 1972 and written by a fellow by the name of Arthur Janov (PhD) and it covers the interesting topic of Primal Therapy. Janov believes there is only one cure for mental illness and that homosexuality and heterosexual 'perversions' are merely symptoms of a mental illness (caused by a parents inappropriate, or lack of, love). With such great lines as [paraphrased] 'Any woman who feels pain during heterosexual intercourse is actually a lesbian' as well as 'All homosexuals are just people in pain'. I have to say while I've only flicked through it, my favourite part so far has been Tim's story. He was once a homosexual and primal therapy 'cured' him of his insatiable lust for cock. And to top it off, the cover is plastered with a moody black and white of Janov himself looking uncannily like the dad from Step By Step. Should be a crackin' read and I hope the nightmares don't last too long.

Knowledge does not keep any better than fish.

(Test Entry)

My brain = a sieve. Truly. Most people claim to be forgetful because they leave their keys in the fridge or don't call Gran on her birthday. But me, I can be surrounded by post-it notes, email reminders, phones calls, scribbled messages, mnemonics and I'll still stare blankly as if someone had asked me to explain the physics behind asteroid impacts.

That said, I am by no means lacking in intelligence. My problem is that I am a visual learner. Draw a pretty picture illustrating how stress affects T-cells and I'll be telling my great nieces and nephews about it. Describe it and I’ll understand it, with the whole thing making sense right up until I get distracted and the whole concept collapses in on itself like a rubber-doll deflating. You can keep banging away but eventually you'll end up unsatisfied and sprouting a sore head.