PNG's Independence Day 16 September

Turn up the volume, please!

 

It was in the dying days of 1974 when I received an urgent telegram from TOTAL - Compagnie Française des Pétroles to fly to what was then called Burma to take up a new position as chief accountant in their exploration office in Rangoon.

I was at the time working in the Territory of Papua & New Guinea, putting the finishing touches on Air Niugini's internal audit department, as the country was hurdling towards independence the following year. When the then Chief Minister Michael Somare - soon to be Sir Michael and Prime Minister of the independent country of Papua New Guinea - heard of my impending departure, he expressed his regrets that I wouldn't be there for this momentous occasion. "However," he said, "the least we can do is make our Independence Day the same as your birthday."

And so it came to pass that my birthday and Papua New Guinea's Independence Day are celebrated on the same day each year.

P.S. Of course, if you believe this, you'll probably spend the rest of your life doing a convincing impression of a cabbage! ☺

 

In memory of little Rover

 

I know that you can't see me,
but trust me I 'm right here,
although I'm up in heaven,
my love for you stays near.

 

In memory of an old friend

NOEL * 28 October 1920 † 11 August 1995 Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn's rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. Noel's war service in the 42nd Battalion and his war grave at the Bundaberg Cemetery.

 

Basically your friends are not your friends for any particular reason. They are your friends for no particular reason.

The job they do, the family they have, the way they vote, the major achievements and blunders of their lives, their religious convictions or lack of them, are all somehow set off to one side when you meet.

If you are old friends, you know all those things about each other and a lot more besides, but they are beside the point. Even if you talk about them, they are beside the point. Stripped, humanly speaking, to the bare essentials, you are yourselves the point.

The usual distinctions of older-younger, richer-poorer, smarter-dumber, male-female even, cease to matter. You meet with a clean slate every time, and you meet on equal terms. Anything may come of it or nothing may. That doesn't matter either. Only the meeting matters.

Noel Butler was such a friend. Our love of chess and our love of New Guinea bridged all differences, including that of age. I knew Noel was older; how much older I never knew until after he had died as ours was not a 'mushy' friendship of Christmas cards and birthday wishes.

Our friendship spanned that seemingly ageless plateau of full adult life. Only towards the end did Noel's seniority of twenty-five years make him look like my father and me like his son, but I won't even get into any Freudian speculations of how his not having had a son and my not having been close to my father had anything to do with our friendship.

What I do regret is that, as he entered that brittle age of physical and mental decay, I was still too full of myself to be able to empathise with the vulnerability and loneliness of his last few years. But I'm catching up with him now because, while he's no longer growing old, I am, and much of his stoicism and acceptance of life has started to become my own.

If the only immortality we can hope for is to be remembered by our friends, then Noel has achieved it - at least, for as long as I'm around. Rest in Peace, my friend.

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In memory of little Malty

Little Malty's first day at "Riverbend" in 2001

 

The Rainbow Bridge ℬy the edge of the woods, at the foot of the hill, Is a lush green meadow where time stands still. Where the friends of man and woman do run, When their time on earth is over and done. For here, between this world and the next, Is a place where each beloved creature finds rest. On this golden land, they wait and they play, Till the Rainbow Bridge they cross over one day. No more do they suffer in pain or in sadness, For here they are whole, their lives filled with gladness. Their limbs are restored, their health renewed, Their bodies have healed with strength imbued. They romp through the grass, and sniff at the air, All ears prick forward, eyes dart front and back, Then all of a sudden, one breaks from the pack, For just at that instant, their eyes have met: Together again, both person and pet. So they run to each other, these friends from long past, The time of their parting is over at last. The sadness they felt while they were apart, Has turned into joy once more in each heart. They embrace with a love that will last forever, And then side by side, they cross over ... together.

 

On this day two years ago we said good-bye to our wonderful friend Malty.

Rest in Peace, our loyal friend. You will forever be in our hearts.

Padma & Peter

 

 

Winter at "Riverbend"

 

The origin of tea began, it is said, when Daruma, a Buddhist saint, irresponsibly fell asleep over his devotions, and, upon awakening, was so distraught that he cut off his eyelids and threw them to the ground where they took root and grew up as a bush, the leaves of which, when dried and infused in hot water, produced a beverage that would banish sleep.

It would take a lot more than the thought of cut-off eyelids to put me off my first hot cup of tea of the day taken by the window overlooking the river when it is shrouded in early-morning mist. A Chinese ink painting in motion!

Last night was the longest night of the year which I spent sleeping in front of the fireplace which is the nicest possible thing to do. I can't image that somebody could go through life without ever having toasted marshmellows or prodded glowing coal or made dream pictures in flames or listened to the crackling and the hissing and the sighing and strange whimpering of a knotted log - or just dozed off in front of a fire.

Winter at "Riverbend" is a time of hibernation and introspection, of watching DVDs, reading books, playing chess, or simply dozing off in front of the fireplace.

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