I looked at this fifty-five-year-old photo for a long time. It made me ask myself if I had been unhappy about anything or if anything had bothered me or if any regrets had already sneaked into my life at that time. And the answer was a resounding no, no, and no again.
I was single then and young, and Bougainville Island was home to me. It came in the shape of a 9x9-ft donga tastefully decorated with PLAYBOY centrefolds of girls waxed to the point of martyrdom, and where all my wordly possessions easily fitted into a 2-ft-wide metal locker and my needs for comfort were satisfied by a red plastic chair on the porch.
Life was so simple then; we were so innocent! Life had not yet left its marks, worn us thin, and made us cynical. Why did we have to grow up?
Perhaps even more to the point, why did we have to grow old?
