The Last Paradise.

[MANICHAEAN]

Its all Auntys fault after reading her thread "Jungles and Deserts." Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" kept creeping in.

[MANICHAEAN]

“TO BE WITHOUT / TO SEE WITHIN.”

It started off, a Sunday like any other in Papua New Guinea. The tropical dampness was cooled by an early morning breeze from offshore and light imperceptibly emerged from across the populous and impoverished coastal areas of New Britain, Bougainville Island, and Manus, to shed its first rays across a mosaic of bays, and headlands. Later, the sweet-smelling frangipani trees and bright red splashes of bougainvillea would be seen dotting the hillsides. It was the outside mask of a paradise where anything goes and life can be experienced in its purest, rawest and most elemental form.

Up in the brooding Highlands Father Mucahey had finished the 4am mass & was reading the headlines over a cup of Blue Mountain coffee, “Cannibal tribe apologises for eating Methodists.”

Down in the capital, Port Moresby they were still cleaning up from last night in some of the dodgiest watering holes in South East Asia. Think nylon carpet, wooden motifs and some of the scariest-looking bar wenches this side of Halloween. One such was the Weigh Inn, (aka The Crab Shack), where even the cockroaches had genital warts. But enough of the hard sell.

Laurence Price had been in this establishment and for a change was feeling quite elated, despite alternately; the early hour of the morning and the effects of a night of moderate dissipation. Billed somewhat nebulously by his associates back in London as something of a writer, he had ended up in this part of the world by way of Bangkok, Manila & the Northern Territories of Australia. Some said he was seeking inspiration for a new novel, that he was a “Renaissance Man”, but if truth be known, he thrived on the thrill of being exposed to the art of living on the edge. He had always needed that excitement in his life, a bit like Graham Green walking around the streets of London during the Blitz. The need to feel alive, the exhilaration of tempting & more importantly, of surviving potential danger.

It was his type of town, Port Moresby. Despite commanding spectacular views of the Coral Sea, it masked a city in crisis. It was plagued by gangs of violent armed criminals known in the local pidgin as “raskols.” While the word rascal conjures up the image of a naughty schoolboy, this represented something much more sinister. Gangs with names like “Ook Kips Kaboni” or “Red Devils” held sway over large parts of the capital. Car jackings and robberies were a daily hazard, shoot-outs between police and criminals frequent, and rape a danger for women - from both criminals and police officers. Expatriates and middle class Papua New Guineans hunkered down behind high walls and coils of razor wire, more reminiscent of Johannesburg than the South Pacific.

Lawrence smiled inwardly. Last night he had been in his cups with one of those “characters” that Providence throws up in the oddest of places. The individual concerned, was of seasoned appearance, portly of stance & dry of speech. As a long term resident of the island, he’d related the story of how he had got tired of being held up at night when driving home on roads up in the hills. On one occasion, he explained, that he was driving from 10 Mile to 3 Mile and decided through bloody minded exasperation to take an extreme measure.

Sure enough, as he had been manoeuvring through the labyrinth of potholes at 4 Mile, a group of young men armed with machetes walked in front of his car and stopped him. Although somewhat blinded by the headlights, they could tell that he was an expatriate and demanded that he hand over his wallet immediately. He looked back at the dark, hard, raw boned features that surrounded him and the primeval instinct of survival kicked in.

But as they looked inside, they recoiled, for the man was naked behind the steering wheel. Rolls of white flaccid, middle aged flesh became apparent in all their glory. Not a pretty sight. He simply looked at the group and told them that they were late – he had already been held up at 6 Mile and everything worth stealing was stolen.

They let him through. The prospect of making him leave the car “al fresco,” was not envisaged as part of their initial plan of ambush. When he got to the Mobil Station at 1 Mile, he pulled over, took his clothes, wallet, and watch out from under his seat and redressed himself.

The tale told, they had both laughed and ordered another round of beer. To Lawrence, for many reasons on that night, his unplanned drinking companion was a lode stone to the trade of writing. First, it was probably an instinctive appreciation. The more the illusion of the speaking-voice, caused one to listen and to see, so it would be, that one would forget the medium of the printed page and that was where he came in to rectify.

He remembered Tangier where he had seen in the market-place the professional story-teller, surrounded by groups of attentive listeners, with kindling eyes, whose faces moved with every emotion of wonder, anger, tenderness, and sympathy, and whose murmured applause and absorbed silence, were the witnesses and the reward of his art.

The bar maid cleaning glasses behind the counter merged into the backdrop, her teeth long since discoloured red by the betel nut she constantly chewed. A few lights cast the minimum of perspective over empty beer crates and silent bottled sentries on wooden shelves. Lawrence sat, alone yet absorbed. He now had the kernel that a writer must have, namely, that there had to be a story to tell. His early training and thinking had been that probably the first stories of mankind were true stories, but that the true story is rarely good art. It was not until the true story has been converted into fiction by the suppression of whatever was discursive or ungainly, and the addition of a stroke of fantasy, that it became integral, balanced in all its parts. From there one could; suitably sustained with a glass or two, create a medley of reality and romance, of wit and pathos, of fantasy and observation, hopefully complex in thought and various in expression.

It had been a good evening.

[Hawkman]

Thank you for brightening my morning Highly entertaining, as always.

Live and be well - H

[MANICHAEAN]

Glad it lightened your Sunday morning H.

I had returned to camp on Saturday night, after going into town for my first beer in two months. Popping out for a quick drink here is done with armed guards on the journey & minders inside! So I managed to both quenche my thirst & get material for the story.

Take care.

M.

[AuntShecky]

The third paragraph in the latest installment had yours fooly "in stitches," as me mum used to say. And later on, the use of "al fresco" as a synonym for "au naturel" was funny too. (The late. great Johnny Carson used to call it "a cappella.")

Technically, the whole piece looks good so far. In the latest installment though you might want to do a quick sweep for typos. For instance, there's no need of the apostrophe where you use it for a simple plural--"car jackings."

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks Aunty

Corrected.

Regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

As we came into Port Moresby, the coach was quiet and the villages either side appeared ragged and without any meaningful life. Even the views across to the mainland on the other side of the harbour appeared dull. It started to rain, intermittently at first and then heavier.

I was the only European on this trip, the token white man in a bus full of Japanese collegues, plus a Papua New Guinea driver who had his hands full negotiating pot holes, hesitant chickens and wavering indigenous drunks. My boss, from South Carolina, the fullest flowering of Southern degeneracy, had refused to attend. It was not his scene.

We arrived at the Yacht Club,went past heavy security and through a side gate into an open bar on a level with the marina. Outside were moored boats whilst inside an atmosphere of warm interest coupled with something akin to expectation from the uniformed ladies of the bar staff.

There are times in life when in order to learn, you are obliged to unlearn. Back at the camp, fifteen kilometres along the coast from where we were now, the routine was established.

Breakfast, work, siesta, work, dinner, tv, sleep, then up again in an unending daily cycle until your leave became due. Now away from all that in a new location, albeit for one brief afternoon, I could unwind. Perhaps it's more about the fatal gesture than about survival. It often threatens you with derangement but somehow it always leaves you a little saner than you have any right to expect.

Small groups started on their first South Pacific beers drunk straight from the can and encased in cooler casings somewhat reminiscent of the cacooning of crystalis prior to their evolving into butterflies . I looked around at the gathering. A mixed bunch. No real villains and only a few heroes but mostly goodhearted Oriental lunatics. Over in one corner splayed out like a loose limbed Budda, an individual with the appearance of a Charlie Chan version of Tony Soprano complete with a flowery shirt, big shades and a countenance that betrayed the fact that he had likely been an earlier arrival and had already partaken copiously of the grape and hops.

Papua New Guineanian sushi made it's appearance, followed by pizza, and more beer and wine. Fukada San sidled up.

"Gary San, there is wiskey at the bar, but you must pay!"

I approached the bar. Not just wiskey of an indeterminate parentage, but a virgin bottle of Jim Beam.

"Oh thank you Lord for looking down on thy humble servant."

Suitably refreshed, I returned to my base camp group. John Martin, from Contracts had joined us and was engaged in conversation with a Jap I'd not seen before.

"Was he gay?"

"Never seen a Japanese gay before!"

He was neat and there was something about the sensuous nature of the mouth that perhaps gave him away. That and the fact that he appeared to be almost cuddling up to grey haired John from Contracts.

"Perhaps he's got a thing about older men?"

An exaggerated flick of the wrist confirmed it in my mind, but I found myself asking why the interest on my part?

"A strange race. When they work, they work till they drop and when the pressure is off and they get rat arsed on booze you see the other extreme."

It was a good afternoon. A few speeches that alternated, (with no discernible patten), between vocal exuberance and slurred mutterings. Mainly about working together and common goals. More drinks, then back onto the coach.

The rain had stopped, the sun descended gracefully over the wild beauty of Port Moresby Bay to the left and the Godfather had those young Japs who had not passed out, in peals of laughter all the way back to camp.

"Strange, because at work he keeps himself very much to himself and the miserable little bleeder never speaks to anyone!"

The bus rolled up eventually and came to a stop.

"Camp bar's open," somebody shouted.

I made my way back up the hill to my room.

I was told the next day that four Japanese were "missing in action."

And I can understand why! Bless em.

Its a deep thing, almost an authentic subculture. You do not even need to like them to belong.

[Steven Hunley]

I soooo enjoy when writers talk about story telling like:

"His early training and thinking had been that probably the first stories of mankind were true stories, but that the true story is rarely good art. It was not until the true story has been converted into fiction by the suppression of whatever was discursive or ungainly, and the addition of a stroke of fantasy, that it became integral, balanced in all its parts. From there one could; suitably sustained with a glass or two, create a medley of reality and romance, of wit and pathos, of fantasy and observation, hopefully complex in thought and various in expression."

Then we have the facinating locations and interesting characters too.

Part of the attraction for me is that everyone has this strange idea that the world is shrinking because of technology and all, but in truth it's as big as it ever was, there are more languages and countries and cultures than we can count. I like it when writing reminds me of this, it leaves more room for me to dream.

Thanks so much for giving us this peak into an exotic world.

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks Steve.

It’s all about watching.
Hemingway and Le Carre especially come to mind as so strong in this trait.

For myself, I need to travel to get the stimulus and although I have been very fortunate in this respect I still have ambitions to visit; Havana, Rio & New York before I kick the bucket.

By the way, any news from Aunty?

Best regards
M.

[Hawkman]

Sorry, been a bit distracted of late. Read this a few days ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. Love your observational style. Christie used to pick her characters from poeple she saw in restaurants and hotels. She'd watch 'em and build backstories and put 'em in books. Great exercise for writing. Your characters feel real.

Best

H

[AuntShecky]

Quite an enjoyable read from the LitNet's answer to Graham Greene. Though he certainly didn't lack a sense of humor, I do believe it wasn't the unique kind of comic vision that places genital warts on cockroaches!

PS-- Thanks for asking. Yours fooly is still here, bum wheel and all.

PPS-- Oh, and I agree with Steven's cogent reply about this non-shrinking world.

[MANICHAEAN]

Hawk
Thanks for your patience in reading my, at times, somewhat disjointed bits and pieces.

Aunty
Good to see you back in circulation, even if in restricted circumstances. No sppeding around the living room now!

Best regards
M

[MANICHAEAN]

It was a typical Monday morning mixed bag for the Safety Manager as he got into his office at 5.30am.

“God give me strength. Will I ever get used to this country? Perhaps more important, will I ever be able to adjust back to Potters Bar?”

Parking his pick-up, he checked in through the main entrance door swipe system.

Outside, it was still dark and it seemed almost as if the stars in their heavens were proclaiming the deliverance of Mankind.

In the background as he moved down the corridor, the chatter of radio traffic as security personnel throughout the site went through the daily litany of asking Joint Operations Centre in fifteen different dialects if they were being received loud and clear. The strange thing was it seemed to work, even though the base operator spoke with a strong Bengali accent and the local guards in a babble of stattico grunts.

Opening his office door, the already established routine commenced; check the traps for how many field mice caught during the night & then open the computer. If it had been a good kill ratio, the snake catcher would be called and provided with these little appetizers for his collection of Papuan Taipans kept down at Vector Control.

The week-end had been relatively quiet. One report of a break-in to the female accommodation at 3.20 am followed by a punch-up with the guards who apprehended the guy. Said he was a maintenance man calling to check the AC’s. Apparently the lady inhabitant was dubious of this story!

The e-mails were the usual stuff; the Project Christian Committee wanted authorization to hold a meeting in the Camp B Recreation Room to discuss “The G Spot and Church Dogma.” This he approved, subject to there being a satisfactory number of fire exits & muster points in the event of a rush for the doors.

His agenda this morning after his normal site patrol would be to call in and check the new chef they had taken on in the main kitchen. The French cook had resigned and left last week when his “oeufs cocotte” had been thrown at him during breakfast by a Filipino engineer. The new cook, recruited at short notice, was reported to be a cannibal from the Highlands Region and there were already reservations among the American contingent about the serving up of “Marinated Leg of In-Laws,” although the “Deep Fried Gojons” seemed to be popular with the ladies.

Apparently there were reports that although he added plenty of carrots, onions and bay leaves to his creations, he was in the habit of giving the live meat procured plenty of hardy slaps if he considered it too tough and wiry. This, he believed tenderized the meat, that and the conviction of all culinary gurus that a good dose of fear attains the same result.

[Hawkman]

A gem beyond price! Laugh out loud funny.

"The e-mails were the usual stuff; the Project Christian Committee wanted authorization to hold a meeting in the Camp B Recreation Room to discuss “The G Spot and Church Dogma.” This he approved, subject to there being a satisfactory number of fire exits & muster points in the event of a rush for the doors."

My favourite paragraph

Live and be well - H

[MANICHAEAN]

Glad you liked it H.