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Today's quote:

Sunday, November 15, 2026

Ples bilong san kamap

 

 

It's all so far away now and such a long time ago and yet, on a hot and humid day like today, it's easy to imagine that I am back on tropical Bougainville Island. I lived and worked there when the roads and the living conditions and the people I worked alongside were a lot rougher than as shown in this later "induction video".

To those of us who built this mine, either with our bodies or our brains, Bougainville was our home during the construction phase of the mine, and it came in the shape of a 9x9ft donga, tastefully decorated with PLAYBOY centrefolds of girls waxed to the point of martyrdom, and a 2ft-wide metal locker which easily held all our worldly possessions, with our needs for comfort satisfied by a red plastic chair on the porch.

 


Camp 6 Loloho
Click on image to enter the Bougainville Copper Project website

 

As for other things, our regular ten-hour working days six days a week and rumours about the stuff they put into our tea kept our minds of it.

 

 

Would I do it again? Only if I could also be sixty years younger again!

 


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Petrichor

 

 

It's a dripping wet morning and there's something wonderful about walking across to the library in my bare feet, feeling the wet grass and taking in that earthy, pleasant scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. Petrichor. Thanks, Isabel Joy Bear and Richard Grenfell Thomas, for finding just the right word for it.

(Before you ask: it's pronounced PET + ri + kor, as in "store" or "core".)

The wet morning, the peacefulness, the feeling of solitude, puts me in the mood to watch again one of my all-time favourite movies, "Ring of Bright Water", a movie which I had discovered long before I had ever heard of Gavin Maxwell or read any of his books, let alone that book.

 

Read the book online at www.archive.org

 

It's arguably one of the most famous and best-selling books of natural history of the twentieth century. Yet the man who wrote it remains a fascinating and enduring enigma, which eventually brought me to the many other books not written by him but about him. My latest discovery is the book "Maxwell's Ghost", written by his close friend Richard Frere. Frere said that Maxwell had asked him on his death-bed to write it, and 'demanded that I write a true and impartial account'.

 

Read the book online at www.archive.org

 

I've just found a reasonably priced copy of the book on ebay and, as an early Christmas present to myself, immediately ordered it. Another book! But, as they say, when it comes to books, it's not hoarding!

 

 

As I eat a piece of 'Lebkuchen', I leave you with the movie's theme song.

 


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The Australians

 

Read it online at www.archive.org

 

In 1966, after his return from Greece where he and his family had lived on the island of Hydra for about nine years, Australian author George Johnston wrote the 50,000-word accompanying text for American photographer Robert B. Goodman’s large-format pictorial coffee table book, "The Australians".

Despite the success of his classic semi-autobiographical novel "My Brother Jack" that same year, he was heavily in debt and chronically short of money. Needing money to support his family and to cover mounting medical bills from his worsening tuberculosis, he accepted a flat, one-off fee rather than a percentage of royalties, which meant he missed out on a massive windfall when the book became a bestseller.

He died on 22 July 1970, just 58 years old, in Sydney. To quote from his obituary in the Canberra Times on 23 July 1970:

 

Born 20 July 1912, died 22 July 1970

 

"Johnston visited about 60 countries during his life and his 25 books were partly a record of his travels. Their settings included such countries as China, Greece and Assam. In China in 1945 he was horrified to find the bodies of 100,000 people who had died of famine and he later returned to the country in his imagination in one of his earliest semi-autobiographical novels, 'The Far Road'.

Greece was the setting for 'Closer to the Sun', a novel about a married couple on a Greek Island. The book was a slab out of his own life. He left a prosperous career as a journalist in London and went to Hydra for nine years with his wife, "to sort himself out". There he wrote a series of potboilers, including six widely translated mystery stories under the pseudonym, 'Shane Martin'.

On Hydra he contracted tuberculosis. At first he thought he had cancer. "I was geared for the short course'', he said. "Instead, I learned I had TB. It was the long course, unpleasant but slow, without even the drama".

Adjusting himself to the bad news, he got a sort of "womb-yearning" for the past. "A man brought a load of wood every day on a donkey and we kept the fire going day and night. Charmian sat beside me, and we talked interminably about my boyhood in Melbourne. I found after a while I could remember everything, every house, every shop ... It was then I had the idea of a trilogy".

The first volume, 'My Brother Jack', won him the Miles Franklin award in 1964. 'Clean Straw for Nothing' (1969) won it for him a second time. Between the two books he kept the money coming in with freelance journalism, documentary films and coffee table books, including the highly successful, 'The Australians'.

He had come back to his gumtree and kookaburra womb to find a new land, a people without a soul, and some uncomfortable ghosts from his past. "I would like to help Australians to find a new identity, a new soul, a new spirit", he said on television. But to do so he had to sort out his own attitude to a country where he had left "the irrecapturable rapture of being young". He was trying to do this in the third volume of the trilogy during the past year.

If he finished it, he said once, he would give writing away and go and fetch yabbies.

The yabbies never saw him. He took his gaunt, thin frame to a Sydney hospital, where he broke all the rules, and he died, still trying to sort out himself and his country."

 

 

In the 1970s, every Australian kid grew up reading George Johnston's "My Brother Jack" at school, and the book "The Australians" could be found next to the Iced Vovos on the coffee table of every Australian home.

It then vanished completely but occasionally reappears in op-shops. Whenever it does, I pick it up for a few dollars. It makes a wonderful gift for all those who hanker for the Australia of old when, according to the summary at the back, the population of Australia had just reached 12,728,461 on 30 June 1971. I don't know if the '1' at the end is me, because eighteen months earlier I had left Australia again for New Guinea. However, at the end of that same year on the island of Bougainville in Papua New Guinea, I became a 'naturalised Australian'.

 


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P.S. The five crime novels published under the pseudonym 'Shane Martin' (made up of the names of their daughter, Shane, and son, Martin) were written while Johnston and his wife, writer Charmian Clift, were living on the Greek island of Hydra. Johnston originally dismissed them as minor "potboilers", though they have since gained attention from literary researchers like Dr. Derham Groves in "Homicide on Hydra".

For more information, click here and here.

Some of them can be read online at www.archive.org:

Like everything else that Johnston wrote before "My Brother Jack", the Challis novels are out of print and more-or-less forgotten. If you happen to have a copy, I'll swap you a packet of Iced Vovos for any one of them.

 

Saturday, November 14, 2026

What terrible bedside manners!

 

 

An old mate from my New Guinea days — well, we're all old now, and with so few of us left, those who remain are now our best mates — emailed me, "I'm having a pacemaker fitted in a couple of weeks. Doctor told me the battery is good for ten years. Followed it up by saying that one battery is all I would ever need."

What terrible bedside manners! I would've gone for another doctor and a bigger battery, although I have yet to find out how my doctor would break the same news to me if he had to do it. He and I seem to have an understanding: he tells me little lies and I give him little presents. The latest one was this coffee cup — but without the Monte Carlo biscuits.

Oh, and my old mate's doctor also said that they would remove the pacemaker before his cremation as they explode and make a mess, to which my mate replied, "At that stage I couldn't give a f**k." Touché!

 


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Is your home making you happy?

 

 

Perhaps it's no coincidence that I've just now rediscovered the comfort of my library which stands several metres away from the house; perhaps my recently spent time there echoes my old habit of living somewhere else every few months or years.

Slowed down by an increase in worldly possessions and a decrease in physical agility, I have for the past twenty-six years been "stuck" at "Riverbend". Anyone who visits me, usually assures me that this is not the worst thing that could've happened to me, but it still occasionally raises the same question Alain de Botton poses in the above video.

I had never given it any thought before but simply followed my feelings or whatever it was that made me pack up my few things and relocate to a new job in a new location - which usually meant another country - whenever the phone rang or a letter arrived offering me such a change.

There have never been many rich philosophers; Alain de Botton is one of them, mainly because he inherited a trust fund worth over £200 million (around $345 million USD) from his late father, Gilbert de Botton, who founded Global Asset Management and sold it to UBS, but also because of the success of his School of Life and the many books he published.

 

 

I have read all of his books, although I never contributed to his wealth as I found them all for a couple of dollars in various op-shops, which rather surprised me as I would never have parted with any of them.

In stark contrast, I have lashed out $24.95 or $39.95 or even more than that for some of Bill Bryson's book, as I simply could not wait for them to appear on the shelf of some op-shop. "At Home - A Short History of Private Life" was such a book which I bought as a beautiful hardcover, after which I found two paperback ones in op-shops, one to underline and annonate, sonething I usually do not subject an expensive book to, and the other to give as a present to anyone who may be interested.

The book is almost seven hundred pages thick with over thirty pages of bibliographical listings of his sources. It's quite a learned book but with much of the Bill Bryson wit lacking, which may account for the fact that it is still part of my 'antilibrary' of unread or only partially read books.

 

 

Listening to its audiobook may be the answer, but there seemed to be only a preview available on YouTube, read by Bill Bryson himself, until I came across this AI-generated full-length eighteen-hour-long upload.

 


↑ AI is having an epileptic fit at 56:03 but is back to normal at 1:06:53

 

So I rolled out my soft futon, that wonderful space-saving Japanese invention, on the floor of my library, laid back and began to listen.

For once at last, my home — well, my library — was making me happy!

 


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