The Last Paradise.

The Last Paradise.

Chapter 1: The Camp.

The camp was situated about 12 kilometers west of Port Moresby, half on the fringes of the coastal mangrove swamps and the rest inland penetrating the tropical rain forests of the encroaching mist capped hills. It had been called of late by some commentator, “The Last Frontier,” and he was probably right. As you moved away from the capital; there were no pylons, nor billboards, no glaring MacDonald hamburger joints, nothing in fact, intruding into the basic, clean simplicity of the place.

Timber houses sat on stilts, children played on the dark rich ground and thin, loose limbed pi dogs skulked midst the household rubbish that lay outside.

Further north, up in the ridges of the highlands, numerous tribes existed, each effectively separated from the other by different languages, steep cliffs, raging rivers and the dense jungle. In that jungle, if you were foolish enough to venture, lay exotic creatures like the Taipan death adder that could coagulate your blood within minutes of one bite. Malaria, dengue fever, cholera and crocodiles lurked elsewhere, like silent assassins waiting to take on all encroachers into a private domain.

Chapter 2: The Stalk.

The new white man in the camp, was unaware he was being watched. For in the forest, outside the two lines of perimeter wire that protected the camp, two eyes had patiently and consistently viewed him. To the watcher, the white man represented food.

“Oh what a catch to take back to the village. He would feed them all for many days, and even the dogs would be happy chewing on his bones, as he was a big man, a fine kill!”

The stalked prey, as has been noted, was unaware of all this, for the hunter was a man of the forests, always able to ensure he was upwind.

“The white man would not sense him,” he thought. “He would not catch his scent, raise his head and bolt like other creatures, for he was of the city and had not the instincts of fear and flight.”

Thus it was, that unaware of intentions to the contrary, Mr Jackson was in a relaxed state of existence. In the short time since he had arrived, he had found himself enjoying the work, but most of all the local food which appealed enormously to his taste buds. Sweet potatoes & flaky parrot fish whose flesh fell off the bone and whose texture was a revelation to the unaccustomed palate.

“And how fresh. No additives in this grub, for in the case of the fish, it must have been still flapping as it entered the pan, whilst blood would have run fresh from pigs and wild fowl newly slaughtered.”

In fact he was a little bit worried. Since arriving there had been no wet dreams, no imaginative romping’s with Hugh Hefner’s latest unfulfilled playmate. Instead he had dreamt of feasts of gargantuan significance, of freshly cooked meat, piled high on light cooked rice and of vegetables he had never tasted before and perhaps would never taste again.

Outside the fence, the feelings were reciprocated by the watcher. He imagined the white man simmering in the pot in his compound, suitably furnished with some of his neighbour's onions and a touch of sage. Or alternately, he could be marinated and wrapped in banana leaves and those special spices his wives knew and then buried, surrounded by hot stones and cooked to perfection on a low heat.

“Ah, with meat like that, a man could aspire to the Papuan New Guinea Masterchef competition!”

Chapter 3: The Capital.



“One can't be too cautious about the people one meets in Port Moresby. They're all strange in one way or another.

Me? Oh, I’m new here myself.”


It's quite a town, Port Moresby, rated as one of the world’s least livable cities. High levels of rape, robbery and murder help keep this capital of Papua New Guinea, at the wrong end of the hardship table.

In Lagos, expect chaos. There are gun battles in Bogotá. But there is nowhere on earth quite like Moresby. With poverty, crime, poor healthcare and a rampant gang culture, it consistently scores highest in the international "hardship" table, meaning it is regarded as the worst place to live among 130 world capitals.

Most aspects of daily life in Moresby are problematic. Little bigger than Plymouth, with a population of 250,000, it is a place where murder rates are exceptionally high, thanks mainly to the "raskol" gangs that control large areas of the city. Tales of their exploits are legion; from bank robberies with M-16 machine guns, to car holdups by mobs armed with machetes. Visitors are advised not to go out after sunset, and to avoid walking the streets in most areas even during the day, whilst the houses of the wealthy squat behind walls tipped with razor-wire and gates watched by security guards. With a murder rate there three times that of Moscow, and 23 times that of London it’s the kind of place where you keep yourself to yourself, even when having a quiet beer.

And it was on one such occasion that Gary sat that Sunday morning in the Crowne Plaza Hotel bar, which served not so much the best draft South Pacific beer in town, but one of the safest, duly reflected in their prices. In the centre of the business district and close to Tugubaga Hill, you could sit and read the London edition of the Telegraph & not get any hassle. For in Port Moresby you'll find some of the world's poorest and some of the richest. The poorest will try to sell you anything from a shoeshine to their bodies, and the richest will avoid your eyes, afraid you might try to sell them something.

It has its unique qualities. The permanent population includes: smugglers and black-marketers, fugitives from justice and international con men, espionage and counter-espionage agents, homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, drug addicts, displaced persons, and subversives of every flavour.

Like I said, it's quite a town.

I am surprised no one has commented yet. This is good. You are setting the story up well and jumping from setting to character to setting works nicely; you are building suspense. I know about places like this; Sri-Lanka; Sudan; Somalia, and you capture the imminent terror and menace very well. You display the unmistakable insight of someone who was there. You convey the absolute lawlessness and desolation well.

This line at the end of Ch. 2 draws a little too much attention to itself and breaks the concentration of the story for me. It's doesn't seem appropriate given the preceeding narrative.

Ch.3 is particularly good and you have balanced telling, descriptive passages with the main narrative/MC. It works well.

I look forward to reading more.

Here it is at last. My favorite one by you. ( and it's not even finished--shows I trust you) The descriptions are evocative and exotic. I like exotic, ever since Maugham and his orient and islands. You're making me like it even more. And, as was mentioned, the suspense. I like suspense too. Yummy suspense anyway. And it's a series. You know I like series. Like Hemingway we have to write like we have deadlines. The pressure is on. Certain men work well under pressure.

Keep the pressure and suspense up, will ya?

Chapter 2: Exploratory Talks.

Gary looked up from his newspaper at the approach of another tall, sallow man, who sank in the chair opposite and looked around for the waiter. The tables being all crowded and since Gary’s was a face he recognized, he assumed he was welcome to intrude.

Gary said, "How are you, Steve? Haven't seen you for ages."

The waiter came and Steve ordered a glass of Niugini Ice beer. He was an easy-going, man, that Gary had met before, but did not know much about. He vaguely remembered somebody saying he was from London and was some sort of business consultant.

"What's in the newspaper?" Steve said, casually.

"Oh the usual stuff. The Russians monopolizing space, now that Obama has cut back on the NASA programme. Richard Branson of Virgin taking the silver, but a long way behind"

The beer came and looked good.

Steve continued, "What ever happened to those flying saucers?"

"What flying saucers?"

"You know, what everybody was seeing a few years ago. It's too bad one of those manned satellites wasn't up then. Maybe they would've seen one."

"That's an idea," Gary said.

The two men didn't say anything else for a while and Gary began to wonder if he could go back to his paper without rubbing up the man seated opposite, the wrong way.
Just to say something, Gary said, "Where do you think they come from? The Flying Saucers?"

The other man grinned. "From Mars or Venus, I suppose. Take me to your leader being the greeting.” He yawned and said, "That was always the trouble with those crackpot explanations. If they were aliens from space, then why not show themselves?"

In a strange way Gary became almost defensive. "Oh, there are various answers to that one. We could probably sit around here and think of two or three that made sense."

"Like what?" responded Steve?

"Well, hell, suppose for instance there's this big Galactic League of civilized planets, but it's, let’s say restricted. No memberships until you’ve properly developed space flight. Then you're no longer black-balled, but invited into the club. Meanwhile, they send secret missions down from time to time to keep an eye on your progress."

Steve laughed out loud and nearly spilled his beer. "I see you read the same science fiction stuff that I do!"

An expatriate girl went by dressed in tight Levi’s, high-heeled shoes, and a “look at me” air about her. Both men looked at her superb retreating ***.

"I’ve got a better one.” said Gary.” How's this. There's this alien life form that's way ahead of us. Their civilization is so old that they don't have any records of when it began and how it was in the early days. They've gone beyond things like wars and depressions and revolutions, giving us a bad time here on Earth. They're all like scholars. And some of them are doing historical research on Earth."

Billy Goro, the waiter came up and another two beers were ordered.

Steve said seriously, "You know, there's only one big snag in that sort of talk. Where are they, these observers, or scholars, or spies or whatever they are? Sooner or later we would have caught one of them. This world is so deep in police, counter-espionage outfits and security agents that an alien would slip up in time, no matter how much he'd been trained. He'd slip up, and then they would expose him."

Gary shook his head. "Not necessarily. The first time I ever considered this possibility, it seemed to me that such an alien would base himself in London or New York. Somewhere where he could use the libraries for research, get the daily newspapers and the magazines. Be right in the center of things. But now I don't think so. I think he'd be right here in Port Moresby."

"Why Port Moresby?" said Steve.

"It's the one town in the world where anything goes. Nobody gives a damn about you or your affairs. For instance, I've known you for some time now, and yet I really don’t know much specifically about you; family, education, hobbies etc."

"That's right," Steve admitted. "In this town, it’s a bit like the Foreign Legion, you seldom even ask a man where's he's from. Where are you from, Gary?"

"California.”

"No, you're not." he said with a smile about the eyes.

Gary was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I felt your mind probe back a few minutes ago. Telepathy is a sense not trained to any meaningful degree by the humanoids. If they had it, your job—and mine—would be considerably more difficult. Let's face it, in spite of these human bodies we're disguised in, neither of us is humanoid. Where are you really from, Gary?"

"Saturn," Gary said. "How about you?"

"Pluto," Steve responded.

They both laughed and ordered another beer.

"What're you doing here on Earth?" Gary asked Steve.

“I’m running an intergalactic travel agency, with the punters suitably blending in.” he replied. “And you?”

“Oh, I have people running a forum, to evaluate their communication status and abilities.”

“Anything interesting there?"

“Yes just recently. Boo-bobberty-arc-zibber-di do do.”

This instalment had me howling with laughter, keep it up.

Be well!

H :cheers2:

I've been looking forward to reading this. With good reason, I see. =) I can't help but love the last installment. It took an unexpected turn. But, my favourite portion is the description of food in the second installment. Parrot meat that falls off the bone! Yum!

Smerdyakov:
Thanks for the review. Yes, I did go a bit off the rails with the Masterchef thing.

Steve:
Gottcha mate, I hope with this one! Turned it on its head.

Hawk:
It had me smirking as well, as I could not resist the ending.

BookBeauty:
The food is delicious here, but by Harry, I'm packing on the pounds!

Best regards

M.

Wow! This one hops all around the world-- not to mention touching down on a plethora of seemingly-disparate topics (all but the proverbial kitchen sink!) Present-day cannibalism, scholarly aliens! I'm hooked. Waiting to see how all of this connects.

Betcha $10,000 (if I had it) this will be sensational!
(PS That's an adjective Frank used a lot.)

The Village.

Papa Village had, for as long as it’s occupants could remember, nestled on a beach, west of Port Moresby; a small community living mainly on fish from the Coral Sea, scrawny chickens, wild pigs, locally grown yams & the odd tourist who supplemented the villager’s normal diet by wandering in seeking adventure. All in all, it was a very peaceful, happy community. Women had babies, men sat around & scratched their rears, while bare footed kids scampered around in the dirt or climbed coconut trees like they do the world over.

The village elder sat cross legged on his raised porch, brushed aside a mosquito with one hand, whilst holding up before him the classifieds section of the Papua New Guinea Gazette. It was the usual guff;

“Full size mattress for sale. 20 year warranty. Like new. Slight urine smell K20.”

“Turkey for sale. Partially eaten. Only 8 days old. Both drumsticks still intact. K23 o.n.o.”

“Used tombstone, perfect for someone named Oba Baruni Renagi Senior. One only.”


Bored with these temptations, beyond his current means, the eyes of the old man scanned for some potential interest in the romance sub-section.

“Have Viagra. Need woman, any woman between 18 and 80. Contact P.O.Box 167.”

He glanced around in a furtive manner, initiated no doubt by the knowledge that he had once before contacted another ad in this particular portion of the Gazette; namely, the “Port Moresby Date-a- Link” service, without telling any of his three current wives. But it had not been a success. The candidates had been presentable as described in their respective profiles. The trouble arose when in a disrespectful manner, he, a village elder had been informed by some uptight employee of the agency, that anal rape was not a service that was offered, or even advised on a first date.

And so, with the clouds in Gods heaven, piling up in mountainous glory above his head, he turned the page, and a new chapter in the history of this small village began.
He read that an international Japanese consortium, having discovered the potential of gas finds up in the Highlands of the interior and were planning to drill and to build a pipeline all the way down to a new Liquid Gas Plant. Where? Right next to Papa Village.

Entertaining stuff, MAN.

It replaces in a strange way, writing a diary out here.

TIME.

He had not had a drink for over a month now since arriving. Mind you, he had not had a woman either, not that it seemed to matter so much these days. He had not had a drink and his hands were so steady that he would have done credit to any eye surgeon’s operating theatre. Instead, his new attribute was limited to dicing the already diced veg in the mess each lunch time. He was now, also having “logical” dreams which were disturbing and reading George Elliot’s “Middlemarch” in the evenings, didn’t help to change that. Time was so real, the nowness of it all.

Up in the interior Highlands, a national had been killed. Run over by one of those big front loader machines. The camp had been attacked and had to be evacuated. A local Catholic missionary priest had tried to calm things down, but to no avail. The camp was evacuated & feelings still ran high.

Thus upon reflection, he saw his own camp on the coastal lowlands as being relatively peaceful, despite the drilling barge on the jetty being occupied last week by local villagers in canoes, firing arrows. They were still apparently stoning company buses bringing in workers & things were not helped by the guards being paid on the Thursday & fifty per cent being absent the next day. Actually, that was not quite true, for some had turned up at the main gate, still drunk and were making a nuisance of themselves.

He had observed how the inhabitants of this outpost had reacted to the isolation & external threats; the Japanese & Koreans of a stoic demeanor, Australians overly full of black humour, ex South African policemen, (now in a security role), straining at the leash & the odd Brit endeavouring to recollect on how to form a thin red line.

It was one of the last remnants of the Creator’s Eden and Man was encroaching upon it. For the morns were breached by dawns, subtle and unnerving, with air as light as a virgin’s kiss, caressing the hairs on the skin from across the waters of the Coral Sea, whilst the drama of dusk was vivid & stark against a sky in conflict with the passions of advancing night.

But Man was there with all his greed and aspirations and it was somehow soiled.

Like one of those surrounded US hilltop bases in Vietnam, awaiting the Tet offensive, they were suppressing their fears and their daemons. Was it perhaps like the sign above the Auschwitz gate in reverse, “Frei Macht Arbeit.” The freedom was relative, but then, so was it’s cynical interpretation as death.

Two more highly entertaining offerings from the South seas. But, do I detect a flavour of world-weariness creeping into the last instalment? Can it be that your irripressable sense of humour is battling a little less successfully against the tide of absurdity? The latest offering seems to be infused with an underlying darkness. The humour is still there, but it is perhaps a little more acidic than has been your wont. Nil Desperandum and all that.

Anyway, keep up the good work and I'll keep reading it.

Live and be well - H