Now for today's puff news piece

I can always rely on China to haul me out of a writer's block.  Further to my recent remarks about the poor status of animal welfare at the Adelaide Zoo, this report in today's The Age is completely outrageous!

There is just so much wrong with this article that I dunno where to start; a zoo (being an institution supposedly in the business of protecting the lives of animals) breeding a tiger and a lion ... for what reason?  Or were they just locked-up in the same cage together? 

Then there's the mother abandoning the cubs (which under the circumstances is probably completely natural, even though the in-depth analysis from the reporter attributed this outcome to "unknown reasons"), resulting in two of them dying of weakness [presumably from malnutrition/starvation].  Sure, this sort of thing would happen in the wild, but isn't there supposed to be supervisory care of animals in zoos?  Surely the zoo staff would be tasked with paying extra special attention to newborn cubs?

And then there's the statement, "...zoo staff found a dog ... to feed the surviving cubs".  Ah geez.  Pretty lucky to have that dog hanging around – and she looks so impressed in the photo, too.  What sort of outfit is this?

There's so much more going on with this story than has been articulated in this three sentence grab.  I don't know who I am more angry with, a Government which treats its caged animals only slightly better than many of its citizens, or The Age, for spewing out this regurgitated, Chinese propoganda. 

And don't be blaming all this on on-line content killing the print media – I paid the full $1.70 for the print version, and that's where the story was!  Grrrr.

This poor girl's eyes are as dead as my faith in the international community to support both human and animal rights in China.  Pic: http://www.theage.com.au

Cracking the Mousey Browns

So we're just sitting here watching the box the other night and out of the corner of my eye, I see a farking mouse!  Well, I'm hoping it's a mouse and not a rat ... but Fark!  A Farking mouse!

Now I don't wanna say I was born with a silver spoon up my arse, but I have managed to get through the first 36 years of my life without having had to deal with mice!  Sure, I've had possums, snakes, massive cockroaches and ridiculous, steal-your-baby-sized tropical spiders ... but never mice!

Makes me feel like I've failed 'cause my place is now so dirty that vermin wanna live here.  Gross man.  It's always the way; you finally give-in and get a cleaner every 2 weeks 'cause you don't have tome to live and clean, so instead of actually cleaning  a bit here and there every few days, you do absolutely nothing and let the place turn into a cesspit for 2 weeks until the cleaner comes, just so that you get your money's worth ... well, that's what we do, anyway.

So my first step in 'Operation Eliminate Jerry' was to ignore it all and hope it went away.  The next day, I find the end of an open banana gone.  Mr Belfast tells me that traps work, and that yes, they really do go for cheese, so against all my innate, animal rights sensibilities, I went and bought some traps and set 'em up with cheese.

The next day, the bastards had eaten through a plum, another banana-end and a tomato (which they carried half-way across the room in a parody of one of those old-school Disney, ants-at-the-picnic cartoons.  The cheese was untouched.

So I bite the bullet and decide that if they don't like cheese, but they eat bananas and tomatoes, I'll set the traps with that.  I also vacuumed the Begeezus out of the space behind the oven.  Since then, nothing on the traps has been touched, so I'm tipping they're either US Military-prototype Cyborg Mice with enhanced intelligence, or they've farked-off somewhere else.

Not sure which I'd prefer.  But I still feel dirty.

Cute, my arse!  This little, smug bastard was the nastiest piece of work going.  That big, fat, black lady in the stripey socks just couldn't ever see it.  Pic: http://4photos.net

Give me strength

Hit the 'Next Blog' button and odds are you'll end up staring at one of the following;

1. Horses and dressage,

2. Gay sex tourists in Asia,

3. US-based Eastern European immigrants showcasing a series of big-breasted sports models, or

4. A new mother coming to terms with full-time parenting, and sharing her new little bundle's daily developmental milestones with the world.

Now I don't know much about what options 1-3 mean in real-time, but I can tell you that after only 3 days of single-parenting, I can't for the life of me work out how these new Mums have enough energy to blog.  I'm knackered!  And I've still got 2 weeks to go!

Surely gay, Asian, big-breasted horses with plaited tails would be an easier option than this?

Just wait 'till your MOTHER get home, Young Man!  Pic: http://www.flyfmkingston.com

Editorialising

Partly because I am so high brow and intellectual, but mostly ‘cause it’s the only channel on the TV here, I’ve been watching a lot of BBC World News lately.  I’ve noticed that in the midst of the hard hitting analysis and commentary, a lot of the reporters try to editorialise, and show a bit of flare, but with only very rare success.

For example one reporter, in describing the Libyan rebels’ brave stance against Gaddafi’s ruthless military juggernaut, said “…despite the sporadic mobilisation and apparent lack of discipline amongst the rebels, the militia leaders assure NATO that their forces are indeed well organised.  From here at the front line, however, one could only describe their position as organised chaos”.  Hmm, pithy - not bad, I suppose.

Or how about this, “for now, the world is asking, is there a cure for the US’ Afghanistan headache?”, lame!

And tonight, this one nit wit described Gaddafi at one of his recent, rare press appearances as wearing “his trade mark dark glasses”.  Hmm … trade mark?  “Distinctive”, I’ll give you, but surely if Muammar Gaddafi’s got a trade mark, it’s more in the line of political and military obstinacy and ruthless, blood-thirsty butchering and maiming of innocent civilians.

If you’re going to free-style it off the auto-cue, BBC World, at least have a go at keeping things on the straight and narrow as you fall over yourselves trying to let fly with the witty one-liners.

TM

Pic: http://www.thewashingtonnote.com

Sold Out

The worm has turned for Donkey … I have completely sold out and am now ‘one of them’.

Back in the day … back when I was a REAL development worker, I wouldn’t have been seen dead in Honiara’s Lime Lounge.  Every location in the developing world where you’ll find a collection of two or more expatriates will have one of these joints.  The coffee is bad, the food is bad, the staff are hopelessly slow and the clientele suck, but it’s the only coffee in town, the only place you can get a BLT and, if you’re that way inclined, the only place you can scoff down a [relatively] fresh piece of chocolate cake.

Sounds alright, doesn’t it?  The only thing that I’ve failed to mention is that the only dark faces in the room are behind the counter, and the cost of a cup of the afore-mentioned muddy water is about three times their hourly wage.

But times’s changed, and I’m moving up the slippery ladder of self-importance, so I’ve been in here everyday, scoffing disgusting, greasy food and closing my eyes as I French-kiss my coffee cup in an attempt to remember the special relationship I enjoy with my espresso machine at home.  Actually, I’d rather not be here, but it’s the only way I can access email while I’m here in the Sols, so they’ve got me.

Is it so bad after all?  Well, let’s see.  Opposite me on this Wednesday morning at 11.30 are three young, bored looking Australian women, by the appearance of them, partners of blokes who are working here.  Each of them are completely done-up to the nines; short, black cocktail dresses, 4 inch heels, immaculate hair and painted nails.  Screaming with laughter as they ostentatiously blow their cigarette smoke around the sealed room.  And I should mention, they were here yesterday … and the day before … and the day before.

Over the other side are three very fat, wispy-white-haired, ruddy-faced consultants (I know this cause they are wearing fawn-coloured pants and a shombre shirts).  They are making lude remarks to the waitress who is smiling apprehensively at their errant hands.

At the counter is standing an angry, grey-haired, middle-aged woman – a kiwi – abusing the staff as she demands her coffee which she claims she’s been waiting ages for.

And it goes on … Looks like I’ve finally made it to the big time; I’ve found my people … and my place.

The Stairway to [Development] Heaven.  Pic: http://www.geckogo.com/Guide/Solomon-Islands/Honiara/

Might is Power?

There’s been quite a bit of a comment in the Australian media of late concerning the Australian Government’s “intervention” to arrest rampant child abuse and community dysfunction amongst indigenous communities in the Northern Territory through the deployment of a military and civil police force to remote communities to round-up suspects and limit misuse of government support pensions to households.

The Intervention, initiated by the Howard Liberal Government, and subsequently continued by both the Rudd and Gillard Labor Governments has polarised both the indigenous and wider Australian community, with as many advocates and commentators from both groups lauding the “something had to be done” approach, as those outraged by the blatant infringements on the civil rights of indigenous Australians.

The Intervention was modelled precisely on the Australian-led, Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands (RAMSI), which was sent-in back in 2003 to restore law and order, and kick-start reform towards self-governance in the civil war-torn country.  The Intervention in the Northern Territory employed the same military tactics, the same infrastructure, the same logistics operators and even the same Military Commander to oversee its initial implementation, and like here in Solomon Islands, the Intervention is still in place, some four years later.

Whether you agree that a 600-strong military intervention to subdue a ragged collection of presumably unarmed Australian citizens was the right way to go or not, one would have to question what the impact of whole troops of white guys with guns barging-in on their community will have on the mentality of the young kids who will grow to become the leaders of those communities.

Here in Solomons, a visit to the only DVD store in town will demonstrate hoards of young people selecting their favourite entertainment option from a limited range of genres comprising “Action”, “Martial Arts”, Kick-boxing”, “War”, “Westerns” and “Horror”.

The same images glorifying war and violence amongst young people can be seen all over their school books, behind bus seats and on public walls all over the city; the fully-armed, equipped, cruelly calculating Melanesian Super-soldier (see pic).

Military might may be useful in creating a dramatic halt to actual violence, but has the unintended consequence of portraying the lesson of that ‘Might is Power’; a potentially dangerous lesson in a setting where young people are likely to grow-up with limited economic and employment opportunities.  I wonder whether this is good for our country as well.

These images appear all over Honiara.  This one beneath a bridge.  Pic: Hagas

Driving Blind

Sheesh!  S’been a wild and crazy week; work, drink coffee, eat, work, drink coffee, little bit of sleep, drink coffee, work, drink coffee, work, eat, work, little bit of sleep … am completely knackered but have that wonderful sense of happiness and fulfilment that being in the Islands gives you.

Have also got some fun little observations for you over the next few days, but for now, until I get some shut-eye, this will have to do.

Given how much of my everyday schedule involves wistful sighs as I reminisce about the things I miss most from my years in the Pacific, it always comes as a surprise when I arrive back on-island and am reminded of something which is so typically Melanesian, and which I always marvelled at before, but which has completely slipped from my awareness until I see it again.

Case in point was what struck me after striding purposefully out of the arrivals hall on Monday, past all the confused, first-timers staring wild-eyed and paralysed with fear at the menacing-looking savages which they imagine are and drooling over their succulent hambones .  I smugly head straight for the taxi stand, and even just the 20 metre walk through the oppressive heat has me dripping by the time I collapse into the front seat, to the welcome, air conditioned darkness … hang-on, darkness?

As a taxi passenger in the Solomons, one doesn’t have to travel much further than a kilometre or so before one’s neck starts to develop a permanent, aching stoop.  This is a result of the DIY window tinting that adorns every taxi here, and which almost completely blacks-out the windscreen, apart from a narrow, horizontal strip across the lower 1/3 – the cause of my acquired, tropical upper spinal kyphosis.

Now I can appreciate that a taxi driver’s complete privacy is conducive to receiving blow-jobs in the front seat during quiet moments at the taxi stand, but surely being able to see out the window is somewhat of an occupational requirement, and a greater priority for the sustainable economic development of the taxi driver and his family?

It’s good to be back!

Admittedly Solomon Islands is not the only country I’ve visited where the transport workers aren’t as alert as they should be.  Pic:  http://tomstock.photoshelter.com

Coming Home

Tomorrow I’m off to the Solomon Islands; first time back in over five years, and although the homesickness has eased a bit since, sobbing with grief and anguish, I wrote this all those years ago while I sat uselessly at my desk with absolutely nothing to do inside Saving the World HQ, I find myself very, very excited to be returning to good ol’ Honky Town.

Ah yes, Honiara.  Where the smelly crowds jostle you along the crumbling pavements towards filthy, rat-infested, sparsely stocked supermarkets, and where over-crowded, clapped-out minivans which serve as buses pull-up and disgorge their hopelessly poor passengers beside to fat-and-fed expats lining-up outside the best (although absolutely over-priced and atrocious) café in town for their third coffee and bacon sandwich of the day.

I can’t wait to be amongst it all again … to listen to the conversations, swelter in the heart and the dust, and to wander beneath the shady, swaying branches of Hibiscus Avenue to escape the midday sun.

Why wouldn't you wanna be there?  Pic: Hagas