Got to get back into some semblance of a routine. I want to sleep when I know that I would be better off doing something else – anything else. I recognise this symptom, along with a few others. It’s reactive depression creeping up on me. It will cripple me if I let it. Fortunately, learning coping skills, years of therapy (on and off) and some decent drugs has pretty much rid me of this curse.

So, on this rather gloomy morning in Cairns, I decided to get up and start writing. The nice thing about social networking over the web is that you don’t have to get dressed to do it. Here is gloomy Cairns this morning:

It was raining a few minutes earlier. The clouds have receded, leaving a very clear atmosphere behind.

Here is another shot using a different panoramic stitching technique:

I can’t decide which I like best.

Today, Eunie decided that I needed a trim. If left to me, I would probably never bother to cut my hair. I’ve always hated the whole haircut thing. To me it is not unlike shaving. I view shaving as an unnatural act. Hey, taking a sharp object and scraping the hair from your body – what is that? It’s freaky, man – against nature. When a scene comes on the TV showing someone shaving I have to look away. It spikes up the forest of hair on my arms – makes me shiver. That horrible scraping sound reminds me of fingernails on a blackboard.

Getting a haircut feels pretty much the same to me. I feel for poor Samson in the Bible. He was okay until somebody messed with his hair. I have this ridiculous urge to ask the barber, “Please, be gentle.”

Fortunately, we were directed by a kindly pedestrian to the professional centre of Barber Science in Queensland, Andrew’s Barber Shop:

Operated by the father-and-son barber team Andrew and Demitrios Stylianou, this business is all business. If you want to look like you’re wearing a $5,000 hairpiece over a billiard ball, try elsewhere. If you want a man’s haircut, youve found the right address.

When I arrived, I was looking a mite shaggy – not Cave Man yet, but getting there:

As you can tell, I wasn’t exactly relishing the experience.

Then something magical happened. Demitrios laid on his best barber chatter and began bobbing and weaving around like Muhammad Ali floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee:

Honestly, I have never seen a barber so animated by his profession. They usually stand there like morticians tending to a little trim to tidy up the deceased. Just watching Demitrios’ passionate attack on my unruly locks was worth the very modest price.

First time I can ever remember enjoying a haircut. Andrew and Demitrios Stylianou, Live Long and Prosper!

Eunie is yellow and will remain that way until we get the problem sorted. I have to admit that I’m jealous of the super fine dope she is getting. I remember years ago when I had a particularly horrible surgery which is widely considered just about as painful as it gets. I’ll spare you the description. They were giving us what we patients called “happy pills”. Honestly, I did not want to leave the hospital. I begged them to let me stay “just a few more weeks”. If Eunie is feeling that good now, then I say God Bless the Pills!

We go in the morning to see another doctor who is a friend of a friend and just wants to know what’s happening. Then, in the afternoon, we see the anesthesiologist who will put Eunie into dreamland on Thursday while the surgeon has a look. We hope to have a pretty good idea of the problem and the treatment by the end of the week.

As soon as we arrived up at the house at Blueblood on Sunday, my sharp-eyed mate, Mike Cassell told me of an impending natural event that I would not want to miss. He guided me to the front of the house where a large female spider had built her web. A small male on the make was cautiously walking around her. We watched him circle the female several times. The tension in the air was intense.

Here’s a shot of the hapless fellow checking the scene:

Well, we all know how this is going to end, don’t we? All except the poor male spider. This takes me back to high-school. I was that most unusual combination of a slightly geeky guy with a truly boss set of wheels. This confused the girls. I was called “cute” which is the last word a guy wants to hear in a verbal description of him. Oh, how they loved the car, an Austin Heally. Many a cruise ended with, “Thanks for the ride. You’re cute.” Grrrrrrr . . .  And no phone number.

My problems were a picnic compared the the nasty surprise that this little guy has in store.

Here he is chatting her up. His palps are quivering and his forelegs are vibrating like crazy. One can almost detect the faint spider talk, “Hey baby, lookin’ for a good time?”:

Sadly, nobody has told him that this is a very poor pick-up line for a male spider to use. The problem is that it implies dinner and there is only one item on the menu.

About this time I blew the lunch trumpet. Really. We have an old bugle there at the house.

During lunch we discussed matters of more import, specifically, how to get Eunie out of the country as quickly as possible down to Cairns for a thorough medical exam. I have decided, after much internal debate, that I’m going to go with her. We’re not expecting anything dramatic. It looks for the moment that the worst outcome might be to stick in one of those little clipper-snipper things through a hole the size of your pinkie and yank out her gall bladder. She is looking pretty yellow. Up until this morning I was still thinking that I would just be in the way and it costs a bundle and who’s going to take care of things here at the office and blah, blah, blah, one “reason” after the other to act “responsibly”.

Then, this morning, I got my head screwed on straight. Where do you belong when your spouse is sick? Duh! I’m going to Cairns. Everything else can take care of itself. Hey, if I dropped dead in my chair right now, the world would go on, eh? (At least I think  it would, but that gets into a philosophical discussion for which I’m not prepared at the moment. Maybe later. It will be fun.)

Anyway, let’s get back to the drama of the spider and her unfortunate lover. (That would make a good title for a novel – The Unfortunate Lover.)  *

What we did not know was that the spider love fest had already reached its conclusion and the female was enjoying her  lunch:

Clicking on this will reveal a quite graphic view of the lady spider devouring her former mate.

Well, if I had the time today, I could do a few paragraphs of allegorical humor and anecdotal musings connecting this to the existential value of maleness. I mean, really, how many of us do you need? How big do we need to be? Do we require brains at all? Should anybody care a whit what we think? Much of nature zips along quite nicely with none of the mess of males casting about for means to perpetuate their macho selves and fouling the air with testosterone fumes.

Food for another post.

There is a terrific potential bonfire stacked up on the beach. This spot attracts a lot of driftwood. We will probably start dragging it up on higher ground soon so that it can be well dried so that we can have have a huge fire at Christmas time. For a little stress relief, I decided to take a couple of pictures:

An interesting thing in this shot is the green sand. The sand itself is not really green. It is covered by a thin film of algae.

As a tip of the hat to the possible discovery of US$200,000,000 worth of Ansel Adams glass plate negatives (which I can’t wait to see!) I decided to do another shot in monochrome.

I think that I like it better.

*  There is a poem by Andrew Marvel bearing that title. After a couple of read-throughs, I decided that I didn’t understand a single word. I did a little checking on the web. I don’t feel so bad now, because it seems that nobody else understands it either. I’m feeling much better about my own poems now.

Yesterday, Trevor Hattersley came around to my office with a flash drive containing some pictures which he and Karen got at The Henley Festival at Henley on Thames in jolly old England. Trev wanted to see if I could fix some exposure problems and generally doll the images up. As usual, I said no worries, as long as I could use them for fish relief on Madang – Ples Bilong Mi.

But first, let me show you last evening’s sunset:

The glow of the ship’s lights on the right is a nice balance to the fiery cloud tops on the left in the Southern sky.

Apparently one can’t get into The Henley Festival without a coat and tie. I still do own one tie, though I haven’t worn it for at least a decade. It’s one of those skinny ones from the mid ’60s. The colour is a dark, reddish maroon. I could probably still tie a Windsor knot, with a little practice, but where am I going to wear it? I’m saving it for when I die. I want to lie in state in my Lt. Dangle short jeans, a black Harley Davidson t-shirt and my skinny tie around my neck tied with a bit, fat Windsor knot. Anyway, here are Karen and Trevor looking like a fashion model who has brought her sheep dog along to the party:

Trevor will give me some lip over that remark, because my hair is possibly even longer than his. I never thought that Trev really looked like the person that he is until he let his hair grow out and let it go a little wild.

Also at the party was Claire Hodgkinson, who was bridesmaid at Karen and Trevor’s wedding. Trevor told me that the pebble encrusted pony in this shot was going for £200,000 (or maybe it was £20,000, I’m not sure). That’s a lot of bread for something that’s going to end up in the attic gathering dust after a couple of decades:

The festival include an incredible variety of entertainments. There are bands and famous solo artists of all sorts, artworks scattered about, fashion contests and fireworks, to mention just a few distractions.

Since whimsy is my thing, I am particularly attracted to this Wire Woman. However, I don’t care much for the chair:

The problem is that she takes up too much space. Unless you had a house the size of Bill Gates’, where would you put her? It’s not like you can hang her on the wall. I suppose that you could create a conversation nook where friends could sit around with you and make witty, unkind remarks about her as if she weren’t there. One thing that you would definitely want to do is to keep her well clear of electrical outlets.

The entire event came within a hair’s breadth of a tragic end when poor Trev, wine glass in hand, was viciously attacked by this Stainless Steel Horse:

Fortunately, Trev had had the presence of mind to shake his head violently and roar. The horse mistook him for a lion in disguise and fled the scene. I’d love to go to The Henley Festival some day to soak up some culture. But I’d have to borrow some clothes.

To knock this one off and get to work, I’ll finish up with this ultra-funky image conglomerated by our Guest Shot artist Lindsay Smith:

It’s a bizarre amalgamation of a bit of my own Dubious Art (a headlamp of our Nissan Navara) with a sketch of me in my Cherokee braids, Space Cowboys sunglasses and black fedora hat.

I don’t know what to make of it. It’s a little scary.

Are there any more dreaded words which must, sooner or later, escape our lips than, “Honey, I wrecked the car.” That’s a rhetorical question. You don’t have to answer it. I admit that I have done worse things, but car wrecks are so mundane. They really shouldn’t even be counted, eh? At least when yesterday’s wreck occurred, Eunie was with me to witness that It’s Not My Fault.

It started like this:  Eunie hasn’t been feeling too good for a while (more about that another time – no serious problem), so I drove her to see “Tinpis”  (Tok Pisin  for tinned fish, a staple of PNG diet), A. K. A. Dr. John Mackerell, probably one of the few people in town who is trusted by everyone, because he knows all  of our secrets. He’d make a perfect CÏA Station Chief if somebody else didn’t already have that job.* Anyway, Eunie was with me, so she can testify that It’s Not My Fault.

First I’ll show you the horrid results of the wreck – a brand-new Nissan Navara with a serious pucker in its bum:

But, It’s Not My Fault.

This is the culprit. In front of the doctor’s office, having no marking of any kind, stands in the middle of the parking lot this ugly steel power pole. Dr. Makerell assures me that it has been hit by from fifty to one hundred people. This does not count drunks who are, oddly enough, the ones most likely to miss it, as I shall explain. I’m sure that by simply examining this image you will agree that It’s Not My Fault:

Note that the pedestrian is giving the pole a wide berth. Drunks don’t hit it because drunks only run into what they are looking at. Since this pole is effectively invisible, it is of no concern to the inebriated.

I understand your scepticism. “So, why is It Not Your Fault?” you may be asking. Well, this morning I went back to the scene of the incident to get images which will prove beyond any smidgen of doubt that It’s Not My Fault. I put my Navara back in precisely the same position as it was yesterday morning, leaned over my shoulder and snapped this shot of what I saw out of the back window:

What do you see? I’ll tell you what you see. You see the middle support of the “hang on for your life” frame above the bed of the truck. It’s meant to tie cargo to or for fearless types who like to stand in the back of the truck with their hair flying in the breeze. As you can clearly see, this is a Nissan design flaw and makes the case ironclad that It’s Not My Fault. What you don’t see  is the offensive power pole hiding behind it. Also, the rear window is dirty. The combination of rain and dusty roads has obscured vision. Am I in charge of the weather now? No. This is a consequence of natural events. It’s Not My Fault.

I hear you saying, “Nudnick! You didn’t check your rear-view mirror, already.” Oh, but that is very, very wrong. I examined it most carefully. I even have this image as evidence. Do you see anything that looks like a power pole?

I thought not. More evidence that It’s Not My Fault.

The vinegar in the wound comes from the further irony that this is probably the only PNG Power pole in town that has not been painted bright red with a Digicel logo on it. Is it my bad that the crumb-bums at Digicel chose not to bother with this one? Certainly not. It’s Not My Fault.

And, how about PNG Power? It is my understanding that they have been petitioned upon many occasions to do something about this menace. Have they responded to the pleas of the public? Please, give me a break.

No, there is blame aplenty to go around here without me shouldering any of it. Tinpis  should have warned me about the murderous pole. Eunie was sitting right there beside me. What? Is she blind? PNG Power put the stinking thing right there where people are most likely to hit it. Then the Digicel dopes didn’t paint it red. Nature messed up my back window which had already been obscured by a serious, possibly fatal design flaw by The Nissan Motor Company.

This is all so very unfair. Now who’s going to have to pay for this mess? The true culprits? No, me! And It’s Not My Fault!

* For as long as I can remember it has been an item of intense speculation and amusement in Madang concerning who or what organization might be spying on us. The very concept is profoundly silly and comical. All one has to do is Google PNG in the CÏA Factbook to see how little interest this infamous organisation has in our pitiful little corner of Paradise. Still, it is a hot topic of conversation. We are critically short of entertainment here. Who might be the current “CÏA Madang Station Chief” is always good for a few laughs.

Today, I am using the “Underwater Pictures Ruse” to inflict upon you the earthly equivalent of Vogon Poetry.  This literary genre has an amusing history. First revealed to us Terrans in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,  it is said to be the third worst poetry in the Universe. The description from the Guide  goes thus:

“Vogon poetry is the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent, of his poem,  Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning,  four of his audience members died of internal hemorrhaging, and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off… The very worst poetry in the universe died along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Sussex… in the destruction of the planet Earth.”

A brief example is also given:

“Oh freddled gruntbuggly/thy micturations are to me/As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.

Groop I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes. And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,

Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!”

It reminds me of Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky,  except that it is infinitely more painful. You need not worry. My humble offering is unlikely to cause you any permanent harm. A faithful reader, Facebook Friend and fellow web journalist Steven Goodheart (yes, that is his real name) has been nagging and nagging for me to publish some of my poetry (Okay, he asked me about it once, “You write poetry?”), so I have a plausible excuse for my coming out.

First, let me prepare you for the shock by lulling you into a peaceful reverie with calming images of marine life:

That’s a nice little fan coral on the catamaran at The Eel Garden near Pig Island.

Here’s another, fancier bit:

I’ve been fiddling with creating a dark background.  Getting the colour right is a bit fussy.

Here’s a little better job with this Divericate Tree Coral (Gendronephthya roxasia):

There. That’s better.

Feeling all nice and calm now? A little sleepy, eh? That’s good. Blank your mind now and prepare for Star Drifters:

If your mind wasn’t blank before, it certainly is now. This presumes that you discovered that you have to click on it to actually read it. Yes, there is writing there. In fact, it is designed just the right size so that you can print it onto one of those t-shirt thingies which use to transfer an image onto cloth using an iron. Don’t burn yourself. For pity’s sake, don’t make a t-shirt from it. People will think you are nuts. I suggest a cotton tea towel which is ready for the trash. After being embossed by Star Drifters,  you can use it to clean up messes in the bathroom.

Now, for your comfort and safety I need to ease you back into the world of what passes for sanity on this planet. I’ll show you a rare and splendid thing.

During over 2,000 dives I have never before seen a juvenile Trumpetfish (Aulostomus chinensis):

Amazing, eh?

See, you never know when to take me seriously. I love that.

Seriously, when I first saw this little one, only about eight centimetres long, I thought it was some newfangled sort of pipefish. Then I noticed the very distinctive mouth:

There is no doubt that this is a juvenile Trumpetfish. What tickles me most is that I am almost positive  that you have never seen one. Of course, you had never read Star Drifters  either. Two shocks in one post. My, my.

I’ll leave you to recover with this peaceful image of a Magnificent Anemone (Heteractis magnifica)  and some cute little Clown Anemonefish (Amphiprion percula):

Yes, those are Nemo’s cousins.

Peace, baby.

Despite torrential rain this morning rousing me from sleep by thundering down on our metal roof, by the time I got up and stepped outside about 06:15 things were looking better. It was still a bit gloomy, but the air was nice and clear. Why talk about it? I’ll just show you:

I went back inside to start the day’s work. It didn’ t look as if the sky was going to improve.

Then Eunie called into the bedroom that I’d better check the sky again. She was right. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this one:

But, hey, gorgeous sunrises are a dime a dozen here. I have to come up with something better if I am to succeed at getting you to waste some of your valuable time wading through today’s screen filler.

Have you ever considered that hermit crabs might find homes in places other than seashells whose former occupants have deceased? As it tuns out, this is not an uncommon thing. Witness this rather large specimen living in a broken beer bottle:

Trevor Hattersley gave me these shots. He didn’ t mention who took them or where they were taken. I suspect that the shots come from Blueblood. Trev is on holiday somewhere, so I can’t check with him. He seems to be perpetually on holiday. I wonder how he works that.

Here’s a nice close-up shot of the crab in its beery home:

Hermit crabs will use anything which fits them and is not too heavy for a home until they can find something more suitable. In front of my house I saw one dragging around a short length of discarded white plastic plumbing pipe.

I decided to have a poke around on Google Images to see what other shots I could find. This one is cheating. The crab is actually living in a shell and just using the bottle as his veranda:

Birds will often pick up hermit crabs in their shells and fly off with them. Presumably they pull them out and eat them when they find a spot to land. This guy is taking no chances.

This one is The Real Deal, no faking here:

The shot came from Treehugger.com. However, it appears that the photographer was an eleven-year-old Finnish boy.

Monday morning – Ugh! Gotta get to work.

After twelve days at the hotel where Eunie has been staying, eating every meal consisting of pretty much the same stir-frys and curries every day, she was ready for a gastronomic break. I told her yesterday, when I came back from the Nadi Temple, that there was a MacDonald’s somewhere back in the direction of town. So, at about noon, we started the long walk in the quest of the undisputed king of junk food.

It turned out to be a bit farther than I remembered, possibly a couple of miles. Eunie never slowed down or looked back. The call of the Big Mac was shrieking raucously in her ears:

When in North America we never eat so foolishly. Our idea of junk food in Indianapolis is to go to Arnie’s Bar and Restaurant and get a single order, which we share, of gigantic mushroom caps filled with a nice Italian tomato sauce and topped with Romano cheese. In Canada we call big, steaming bowls of onion soup junk food. Hmmm . . . stringy cheese . . .

If you’re wondering how MacDonald’s manifests its image of looming obesity in Fiji, wonder no more:
Right, it looks just like the one three blocks from your house.

And, as for the offensive object itself:

Yes, it is just as disgusting and offensively tasteless as anywhere on the face of Mother Earth.

I have to admit that Eunie and I have a sort of death pact between us. Everywhere we go in the world, and that list is ramping up quite nicely, we seek out a MacDonalds and force ourselves to eat a Big Mac. Eunie actually claims to like one once in a while. I can hardly choke it down.

It’s a little taste of home.

Ni Sa Moce, Fiji – Vinaka.  (Goodbye, Fiji – Thanks.)

It’s been nice.