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I first become aware of New Zealand back when I lived in Oregon, a state even in the early 80’s known as the ‘last bastion of the terminally hip.’ I guess that’s me. Hi. But if the ‘hipness’ passed around wholesale back then like fresh bud seemed a bit smug and self-righteous, the Oregon kind seemed genuine and heart-felt and home-grown. But even then there were rumors of a whole other country, down there somewhere… just like Oregon! Just head due south and hang a right at Easter Island, hang ten up on to the shores of a New World. Then start planting seeds.

So if Papua New Guinea is preceded by its rep as a haven for modern-day headhunters and general lawlessness, New Zealand is preceded by its rep as an ‘Ecotopia’, or even ‘God’s Country’. That’s a tough billing to live up to… and that was BEFORE ‘Lord of the Rings’ let the average Joe America in on the buzz. Now with over two million tourists per year in a country of four million, there’s an imbalance there that’s ominous. Has the country sold itself out to every Harry Dick and Tom with a wad in his pocket and an urge to merge? Maybe it’s okay if they all cling together and leave the locals- and me- alone. Still tourism’s better than munitions factories, right? We’ll soon find out. It’s raining in Sydney this morning with more forecast for the entire week to come, and AUD currency has passed parity with USD, so the timing’s right. I’m outta’ here.

I booked my flight from Sydney to Auckland on Aerolineas Argentinas- on its way to Buenos Aires- not just coincidentally one of the better prices of a rather pricey lot, but also the best times of the better prices, early afternoon to early evening, real civilized. Also I want to get the feel of flying over the South Pole to South America even if I actually don’t. This flight is as close as you get. It’s a long way to Buenos Aires, and farther than you’d think to Auckland even, some 1350 miles as the jet flies, so about three hours. The flight from there on to Bs. As. is almost FOURTEEN hours. Fourteen hours would be the longest single stretch I’ve ever flown, I believe. What’s the jet lag like when you fly over the pole? Too bad they fly at night.

In the Sydney airport there’s free wi-fi so I book a car for Auckland while waiting. I ended up regretting my sedentary lifestyle in Australia, and don’t want to repeat the mistake in New Zealand. God’s country is to be experienced, after all. I’d like to go all the way south, but after finding out that the bus to just Wellington is twelve hours, I’ll have to settle for less. There’s not enough time. At the southernmost tip you’re still not even as far south as the US’s northern border is north, so hardly at the Earth’s extremes (though they DO have glaciers). Still Tierra del Fuego beats it by a ways. NZ cars are a bit cheaper than Oz, too. Given the high prices in Australia and subsequent crimp on my budget, I almost wish I’d allocated more time to New Zealand and less there, but proportionate to their relative sizes the ratio is already unbalanced.

On the flight I’m sitting next to a Peruvian lady on the way home after visiting her son in Alice Springs, where he works with the Aborigines. After chatting away in Spanish for about fifteen minutes, she finally asks me, “Do you speak Spanish?” Welcome to Thailand. It’s the future. Then a little later I catch her fingering her rosary beads and uttering various oaths to various saints. “Es Catolico?” she asks me. “Si,” I fudge it. “Que bueno.” Yes, I’m Catholic… and Buddhist… and Christian Scientist… and Scientologist… and Muslim, Hindu, Jew, and anything else that works. They’re all good… in my opinion. In that Long Dark Night in Hanoi way back when I realized that I could create as many gods as I needed- and serve them all faithfully- as long as the sun came up the next morning and some part of me moved when I gave it the command. I’m like the Decent Twin of the Marlon Brando rebel character in The Wild One, equally conflicted, but not usually up to no good. INT. COFFEE HOUSE- DAY BARISTA: “What’s your religion today, Hardie?” HARDIE K: “Whad’ya got?”

So I’m a rebel with a cause maybe? Actually rebelliousness is way overrated. I just figure anything that takes a human being out of a Walmart long enough to place him in some spatio-temporal context with Infinity is worth having, the more dimensions the better. But my next-door neighbor doesn’t want to hear all that… so I just tell her what she wants to hear. Life’s easier that way… as long as it’s true. When I was cowering with fear in PNG I clutched the Buddhist priest medallion that my father-in-law gave me in Thailand, because that’s the only thing I COULD clutch that wasn’t a body part. Whatever works is fine with me. I help my neighbor with her English and remind her that once the plane leaves Auckland, they’ll go back a day at the date-line, so it’ll be Christmas again, pretty special getting a double-dip.

Once on land in Auckland, ‘la migra’ gives me the once-over, but no big deal, just confiscate my cheese and let me keep my ‘toasted muesli’, aka ‘granola’. Hey, it’s tough being a vegetarian! The Super Shuttle even gets me to my back-packers’ hostel before the office closes, so time enough to get some groceries and ‘do a little settlin’ down’. I’m out a ways, so that’s a bit of a walk, through a lonely semi-industrial neighborhood after dark on the way back, but no problem here. Even the fierce-looking Maoris are nice… so far. It seems like the human race finally got it right. NZ may have been the last place on Earth to be settled, but it seems it was worth the wait. Although Polynesian Maoris were here first, they seem to get along well enough with the Western ‘mellow-nesians’ that have flooded in recently, putting an end to any ‘white-Australia’ type of notions that may have existed previously. The city is nice enough- though largely shut down for the holiday- but the nicest part is the general friendliness of everyone.

The weather is not cooperating. Next day dawns gray and cloudy, heavy odds on some precip. I check the prognostications and they’re talking gale force winds, so I cancel the rental car idea. I try to extend my stay at the hostel, but no privates available, just… a dorm bed… horrors! Let’s call it a manger. Dodging the rain and treading water as fast as I can, I head into town to make other plans. First I stop by the other hostel I’ve booked for my last two nights here… and wince, way too far out of town again, albeit the other direction. Then I go check out the ferry boats to some nearby islands. This looks like the ticket for enjoying the next few days. I also check Grayline Tours, going the same places I planned to drive, complete with omniscient narrator, but they’re pretty pricey. I might try to take a public bus instead. I’ve got enough internal narrative of my own already. Then I pass by another hostel downtown, one I’ve never heard of. I inquire; they’ve got a private single for three nights, so I book it. As fate would have, it seems like Latino central for Auckland. I’m just a lucky guy, I guess.

Meanwhile my original hostel has booked me into a dorm room for the night… with nothing but females? Do they know something I don’t? What, so they think I’m ‘safety boy’ or something? Canned Vienna sausage? Too old, homo viagrensis? Hey, I’m a dirty old man, have gun will travel! But it’s all to no avail, my avuncular nature already documented. Membership DOES have its privileges, though, heh heh. So I get to listen to girls’ talk all night, secretly taking notes in my mind. The hostel scene is getting old, though, like a frat party with changing cast every day. I’m tired of fighting for counter space in the kitchen and listening to itineraries.

The new place isn’t like that at all. I’m on the tenth floor looking out over the city and trying to catch rogue wi-fi signals as catch can. But these aren’t real travelers either, you know, nothing like a hostel scene in Yerevan or Puntarenas, where you trade travel tales like espionage reports. So what are they all doing here, and why are cities here and in Australia crawling with backpacker hostels? I’ll tell you in two words- work holiday. The Europeans are all here to hang for a year or two, working in the jobs the locals shun. For the local governments, it’s preferable to allowing in the poor neighbors. And it’s not bad money, especially Australia, which is undergoing a China-fueled boom, hence the high prices. New Zealand is no bargain either, but more on the scale of London or Paris, not Vienna or Zurich.

So I go out to Waiheke Island next day, and it’s lovely… lovely AND unique, full of micro-climates and micro-breweries, flowers of reds and music of blues. Next day is the nature reserve at the island of Rangitoto, complete with volcano and traditional rustic holiday ‘baches’ in the process of being refurbished. I met a ‘bach’ owner who met the man who built Bert Monroe’s (Fastest Indian) motorcycle, so we talk cars and bikes and hates and likes till the boat comes home… and I have to go back… friendly folk here. Next day it’s Whangarei, up the coast a ways toward the Bay of islands, semi-tropical NZ at LA latitude, small town NZ at its best. If Auckland is the spitting image of Seattle, then Whangarei is the spitting image of… Wenatchee? All in all, the landscape is lovely, pines and ferns and palms all coexisting… and the cities aren’t bad, either, but the best thing is the people. It’s New Year’s Eve, so there’s nothing to do but celebrate. I think I’ll go hang with the Hare Krishna people. They always have good parties. Tomorrow I go to Fiji. Too bad I’m not going on to Samoa; I could celebrate the New Year again. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Well, I already had a couple days in Brisbane BEFORE my side-trip to PNG, so that gave me a little bit of an idea of what to expect in Australia, some good and some bad. I originally landed at Gold Coast, not Brisbane proper, and the cheapie airport there wasn’t much better than LCCT at Kuala Lumpur. Don’t you just love it when you get ripped off right at a country’s gate? The ATM’s don’t work, so you have to change money at the Forex counter where $100 USD will net you about $85 AUD, even though the USD is technically worth more (usually). The water fountains don’t work, either, so you have to buy their bottled water, c-l-e-v-e-r… Just like America, the people are very nice, but the banks can be real a**holes.

It wouldn’t matter if things were cheap… but they’re not. Oz ranks right up there in price with the big boys of Europe, at times perhaps even reaching the stratosphere of the Alpine and Scandinavian countries. On the way back from PNG, I connected straight through to Sydney, where things only get worse price-wise. To even get from the international terminal at BNE to the domestic terminal, you’ve got to pony up $5, which is pretty outrageous in principle, and then in Sydney to get into town we’re talking $15. I was figuring an hour-long ride for that price, but it was less than fifteen minutes.

Food and accommodation are the same story, some variation on the themes of high and higher. I came in quite hungry after flights and air food whose high prices are matched only by their low quality. So I finally broke down and bought a $4 slice of pizza around midnight, that after much looking. And it was good, I’ll have to admit, made by the kebab guys. I’ll probably try their falafel later. Sydney is pretty wild on a Friday night btw, at least here in the war zone close to Chinatown. There are Asians of all stripes here- all affluent stripes at least- in addition to the predominant Chinese, especially Koreans and Thais, but also Japanese and others. If this is not exactly SF south, or even LA, it’s at least Vancouver.

Next day I take a quick walk to see the major tourist sites- Opera House and Bridge, whatever- but quickly come back to the Chinatown area when hunger strikes. If you look hard enough, there are some deals to be had, but it’ll take some looking. Paddy’s market in that area is a good place to start, an open-stall market a la Bangkok or Hong Kong. Though there is much bric-a-brac and faux fashion, the best part for me is the vegetable market. This gives a valuable clue into the Sydney and larger Australian markets. Here’s the skinny- it’s all markup. Prices there are half that of the supermarkets down the street. In the US, they’d be higher because of the rarefied atmosphere of a street fair… but not Sydney. This is where the smart money buys groceries, especially produce, and that probably means every Asian within a several mile radius. I’ll be stocking up on cherries here, it being prime season right now, the perfect opposite to the June cherry season up north. Dip them in Nutella to get closer to God. Thanks btw, Mr. G…. I like your work.

Of course the big news here for the past week or so was Oprah’s arrival and subsequent conquest of the land Down Under. This is easily the biggest deal since the 2000 Sydney Summer Olympics, back when the world was a simpler place. She basically took over the city for a few days, people coming in from all over to be witnesses and participants. They’re still debating over how much good she did for the country’s moribund tourist industry. The debate I like was the one over whether tourists come to see specific unique attractions or simply to get the ‘feel’ of the place, they ultimately deciding that nobody would go home without seeing a kangaroo or a koala. I beg to differ. Please let me differ. Seeing these animals on a reserve or such is no different than seeing them in a zoo back home. How many Americans have ever seen a bear in the wild… or an elk… or even a deer? I want to ‘get’ the culture, but have no illusions of plumbing the depths of its wildlife. Any encounter will be more than what I expect. Oh yeah, about solutions to your tourist woes… it’s the prices, dummy… $4 soda? Yeah, right…

So after a few nights in Sydney I’m ready for something else, a three-day gap in my itinerary already there in anticipation. Sydney’s okay, but not for nine days straight, not at these prices. I’ll still have three days over Christmas in the King’s Cross area, a bit different from the tourist area at the quay OR Chinatown. So I tentatively booked a car, but am having second thoughts. It’s $150 for three days, but then there’s gas- $5 a gallon- and lodging is a question mark. If I knew there’d be parks with camping available, I’d just do some car camping, but nothing’s definite. You gotta’ be careful where you sleep. I have a feeling Hertz is going to add extra charges, too, and there’s a huge deductible on the limited CDW included. The way these guys do biz would make a Chinaman blush, especially the way they exploit your insurance fears. So I check the buses at the last minute, and find overnighters to Melbourne for $75, same coming back, space available. I’m in, two nights on the bus coming and going and one night in a Melbourne hotel for the same price. Sounds like a busman’s holiday. I play with a paraplegic pigeon while waiting…

Of course the high concept is to see some landscape, that being indispensable to a true understanding of a place… but no such luck on the outbound leg. I’m starting off after a night of insomnia, so of course I nod off immediately on the bus… then stay awake all night through the dark. Then shortly after sunrise we’re pulling into Melbourne, so I can’t say I saw much, if anything. Hopefully the way back will be better. Hopefully I’ll sleep tonight. Just because I’ve somewhat mastered the art of insomnia doesn’t mean I like it. A bad weather front seems to be moving out as I move in… but not quite. Turns out my hotel is but a few short steps from the bus terminal so that’s good. I stop by to see when check-in time is, and they check me on in… at 7:30am, even better. They’ve even given me an up-grade to business class, so I’m stylin’… especially after that grubby hostel in Sydney.

So I head straight out and see some sights. My first impression is that I like it better than its bigger sexier sister. If Melbourne has a little bit less of the flash and polish of Sydney, then it compensates with more old-time funk and feeling. The Victoria market-place is as authentic as any I’ve ever seen in the Western world, no make-shift retro-fit in crowded basements. This one looks like it’s been here since the beginning, one of the best farmers’ markets I’ve ever seen, in fact. It’s a bit cold in Melbourne, though, barely reaching 20c-68f on the day of summer solstice. Then it rains, zzzzzz…

I can certainly appreciate seeing the far-flung cousins who make up the Pacific contingent of the Anglo-derived cultural nexus, but ultimately it’s mostly just one more generic consumer culture, food courts and smart bars, heavy on the grog. Oh yeah, and Australia’s very white, a racist’s wet dream, few blacks or Latinos or Muslims to sully the mix, compliant hard-working light-skinned Asians supplying whatever ‘diversity’ needed, from hot-and-spicy Thai to sweet-and-sour Chinese to hot pickled Korean. Of course dark-skinned people are welcome to apply, but you know… paperwork takes time. If anybody makes an issue of it, they can just cite the standard myth about the need for ‘Australian quarantine’. There is hardly even a sampling of Australia’s sprawling impoverished next-door neighbor Indonesia, much less PNG. Go figure. All-white countries tend to be very expensive. Aboriginal what…?

If nothing else it’s a kick seeing Santa during mid-summer. In all fairness, though, the whole Christmas craziness of the North is much less here, and I suspect any craziness that exists is the result of Northern transplants… but I could be wrong. After seeing the half-mile line in front of Myer’s department store in Melbourne at 9pm on 21 Dec JUST to see the Nativity scene in the window display… I’m starting to think that this just might be a growth industry Down Under. I don’t know; does Santa surf? On my last (second) day in Melbourne, at least I found a coffee house with free Wi-Fi, sooooo 2006… at least there’s hope.

On the way back to Sydney I finally get some views, and it reminds me a lot of California, not surprising, I guess, since they share very similar latitudes, though on opposite sides of the Equator. Towns are neat and trim, too, one of the perks of ‘white Australia’ I guess, heavy on the British model. Once back in Sydney my new hotel in King’s Cross is a welcome treat, complete with kitchenette. But the big news is that McDonald’s has free Wi-Fi, as does a restaurant across the street. Things are looking up. So there’s not much left but the Fat Boy’s ride, and the kids waking up pre-dawn with visions of technology dancing in their heads. That’s when I’ll celebrate my own version of Christmas, walking in the early dawn through empty streets in a strange city. Blessed Emptiness! It doesn’t get any better than that. Next stop New Zealand. It should be a cream puff. C U there.

When the Andean Mountain range enters Columbia from Ecuador, it branches into three ranges and crosses Columbia on a diagonal from south west to south east. These ranges, called Cordilleras, are labeled Occidental (west), Central, and Oriental (east). The coffee growing area, Zona Cafetera, which Donald and I visited is located in the central part of the Andean highlands between the western and central cordilleras. This area is spread over three administrative departments, called the coffee triangle, and each department has a modern capital, Pereira, Armenia and Manizales. The area is being promoted as a tourist destination, not so much to visit these towns, but to explore the magnificent countryside with outdoor adventure activities such as hiking, mountain climbing and horseback riding. Visits are organized to the coffee plantations and many have turned their haciendas into bed and breakfasts. In addition, there are several small towns, pueblos, that are charming and a visit to them insures that one will have the opportunity to seek out the soul of the Eje Cafetero, the coffee region.

OUR PROGRAM
On June 10, we were aboard Avianca Flight 8515 heading to Pereira. The plane, a Fokker 100, named after the founder of this Dutch aircraft company, Anthony Fokker, filled up with a wide variety of people. Businessmen wearing incredibly elegant suits, clutching finely made leather brief cases with well manicured fingernails, glided down the aisle on handmade leather shoes. The site of corpulent, well endowed young women in tight fitting clothing was becoming commonplace. In gringo country, you would have thought of Dolly Parton but down here in Columbia, Botero comes to mind. I am not so sure his signature women evolved out of his imagination because all he had to do was paint that which surrounded him. In the mix was the “lost in South America” traveler with his backpack and matted dreadlock hair.

We would be flying almost due west and down below we were catching out last glimpse of Bogota, the red brick city located on a high Andean plain at 8,661 feet above sea level. Donald and I settled into our seats and pulled out our books. I was rereading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Columbia’s famed Noble Prize winning author, whose left wing views had kept him from receiving a visa to the United States. Donald was reading The Fruit Palace by the British reporter Charles Nicholl who tells the story behind the story of his 1980′s investigation into Columbia’s narco trafficking industry. Both books seemed relevant to our travel but I wondered why the middle aged man across the aisle found it necessary to read the Bible while continually crossing himself. Feeling relatively comfortable on the flight, I wondered if he knew something we did not.

Even though the flight was only thirty minutes, we were offered a drink and a snack. Someone should tell Delta this is possible. Passing up the variety of fruit drinks, for which Columbia is famous, Donald and I opted for a cup of coffee, still trying to find a perfect cup. Soon the plane was preparing to make its final approach and for the first time in five days, the clouds had parted, revealing the blue sky we almost forgot existed. Down below in the early afternoon sunlight, a vast brilliant green landscape spread out before us. We were surrounded by low mountain ranges dotted with dark green trees containing narrow valleys traversed by small streams. Then we began flying over a highway built on the ridge line of a low mountain with steep ravines falling off on both sides. As the plane touched down in Pereira, we were looking forward to four days of new adventures and as for the perfect cup of coffee, we realized we would still have to keep on trying.

Our guide, Johnny, who Donald later referred to as Cheech and the driver Carlos Alberto, who he labeled Chong, picked us up at the airport. We would spend four nights at the Hotel Sazagua, located in the countryside near Pereira, in the Department of Risaralda. From here we would travel through the Department of Caldas to explore a coffee plantation along with a trip through the Department of Quindio where we would visit the Valley of Cocora and spend time in two small towns observing their traditional way of life.. The final day would be spent horseback riding through the Risaralda Valley, with a promised picnic at the end of the trail.

HOTEL SAZAGUA
Sazagua is a word derived from the Quimbaya, an indigenous people inhabiting these areas, who in pre Columbian days were highly skilled goldsmiths. Today their artifacts are on display in the gold museum in Bogota. This ten room boutique hotel began as a private home until the owner decided he wanted to convert it into a hotel. Today, it is managed by his two sons who studied in London and returned home speaking English. Located in the countryside, hidden behind high walls, it is situated in a beautiful garden setting. Even though it does not have the historical tradition of a hacienda, the construction with its exposed wooden beams, wide hallways, and openness to the outside, along with its fountains and abundance of handmade ceramic tiles decorated in bright festive colors gave us the idea of what a Colombian manor house could be.

Donald and I were content to pass the remainder of the afternoon in our room. It was on the second floor and decorated with an eclectic mix of furniture, rustic meets the 1930′s, all tied together by indigenous patterned hand woven rugs. Making ourselves at home, we slid back the louvered windows, allowing the outside to become the inside. Donald took advantage of the hammock and we returned to our books. A panoramic view of the well tended garden spread out below towered over by an ancient acacia tree playing host to an assortment of bromeliads. Varieties of palm trees and other tropical plants grew in profusion. The brilliant green of the grass formed the background as color rippled through the garden, purple agapanthus, bright red and yellow helliconias and orange birds of paradise. In the distance, a view of another mountain range assured us we were in the Andean highlands. Lost in the intended serenity, time passed, the brilliant afternoon light slowly journeyed across the lawn chased by dazzling flights of yellow butterflies. The warm sunshine felt like spring and the gentle breeze carried up bird songs, the gurgling of the fountain and the occasional clacking palm fronds. An afternoon so beyond perfect that it could have been bordering on magic realism.

Even though our dinner belied their credentials as the best restaurant in the Coffee Zone, they redeemed themselves the following morning when I opted for the traditional breakfast, served on their open air veranda overlooking the garden. We were ready to place our order as soon as the waiter, who did not speak English, went to the kitchen and found the suis chief who did. It was hard to pass up the freshly squeezed orange juice, but I ordered the guanabana juice instead. We had enjoyed this juice many years ago in Costa Rica and it was as good as I remember. Guanabana is the Spanish name for the sour sop or custard apple, a fruit with a creamy white sweet pulp some say tastes like an acid version of strawberries mixed with pineapple. It is a scary looking fruit, green scales with soft spines and if it had legs, it would look like a prehistoric being. Colombia is known for their hugos, fruit juices, and they are prepared in a blender by adding ice with either water or milk.

I ordered arepas, a round patty made from corn, wheat flour or manioc that can be baked, fried, or grilled and served flat or stuffed. That morning it was made from corn and served warm, flat and crispy. Even though it originated in Venezuela and migrated west, both countries claim it as their national dish. In Columbia it is one of the most common side dishes and each region has their unique way of preparation. As compared to that which I enjoyed in Bogota, these were flatter and crispier and served without a topping. I also ate my first patacones, which is a plantain that has been smashed and then fried and instead of the usual chicharrones, fried pork skins, we were served what was described on the menu as pancetta. Bacon and pancetta come from the pork belly, whereas the former is smoked, the later is salt cured. However, this was not Italian style pancetta because they smoked their pork bellies in a large institutional charcoal smoker until the fat had been rendered out and the meat infused with a smoky taste. After savoring the bit size pieces, I placed this dish in my top ten favorites just after wok flavored chow fun noodles. The Columbians know that pork rules, someone should tell Emerald.

By 9:00, fortified for the days adventure, we met Johnny, the guide, and Carlos Alberto, the driver, and pulling out of the compound we were on our way to Hacienda Venecia to tour a coffee plantation and hopefully, to enjoy a good cup of coffee. If we did, it would be a first.

Papua New Guinea is one of the most exotic places in the world, full of tribes and languages and the artifacts of ancient culture, many of which only came to the light of the rest of the world less than one hundred years ago. Unfortunately, unlike many other exotic countries- such as Ethiopia or Kampuchea or Bolivia- PNG has a reputation for crime and violence that precedes it. Think South Africa without the national parks or the fancy cities. And the fact that much of that violence is directed toward each other in inter-tribal rivalries is not much of a consolation. So it is with some trepidation that I venture into its domain. Add to that high hotel costs and you’ve got an equation struggling to find the ‘equals’ sign. Think Lagos without the Kuti Brothers. Did I mention that there are no roads leading anywhere from the capital on the coast at Port Moresby?

Who knows? Maybe I’ll fall in love with PNG and live the rest of my life there. At the very least, the crimes of the Port may very well turn out to be a non-issue, as were the case in Nairobi, Dakar, and many other places where a man’s ferocity is all too often gauged by the darkness of his skin and the kink in his hair. That’s one reason I’ve booked rooms with missionary and other quasi-religious organizations. They might give a flying flip if- God forbid- I should actually have some sort of problem. What’s that? You didn’t know that the Salvation Army offered rooms? Their rates are among the more affordable, also.

So the trip from Chiang Rai, Thailand, to Brisbane, Australia, goes smoothly enough, though a bit long, at right around twenty-four hours. That’s the way it works when you string together three separate flights, but not bad when you consider the final segment KL-BNE itself is eight hours, which is news to me, helluva deal at $160. At least the LCCT airport at Kuala Lumpur has free WiFi. That can cover a multitude of sins. Other than that it’s not much more than a glorified Quonset hut. Oh yeah, and they’re even able to transfer me to my Oz flight so that I don’t have to technically even enter Malaysia, with ensuing hassle of exit. At least I finally cured my lingering jet-lag. The east coast of Australia is only five hours’ difference- albeit a different day- from the west coast of the US, so no big deal.

So after a couple days in Brisbane I catch my flight to Port Moresby, way up on everybody’s list of the world’s worst cities, and then connect on to Lae, PNG’s second city, and supposedly a bit nicer. If all goes well, I’ll spend the night there, and then connect on a PMV bush taxi up to Goroka, in the highlands where the traditional culture is stronger and hopefully will be at least a little bit in evidence. But that’s a big IF. It starts raining while waiting for my flight in Pt. Moresby, which may seem like a small matter, but arguably enough to cancel the highland trip, especially when I have yet to find budget accommodation there, ‘budget accommodation’ being anything less than a hundred bucks US, this in one of the world’s poorer countries.

The connecting flight finally takes off an hour late, so by the time we land in Lae, it’s around 7:30pm and very very dark. A taxi from my guest house is supposed to meet me, but I don’t see anyone. I hear someone say what I think is, “Lae Guest House,” so assume that’s my driver, but when he takes me to a communal shuttle, I realize that he must have been saying, “Lae… guest house,” but I stay with them, figuring it to be the best bargain. When the drive turns out to take the better part of an hour, I’m glad I did. And when one of the fellow passengers says something like, “Don’t worry; you’ll be safe,” I don’t think much of it, but when he says it over and over again, then I start worrying a bit, first about him, then about the others, especially when no one seems to know where my guest house is. Finally most of the other passengers get off, and I’m almost alone, driving through PNG at night with a bunch of guys I don’t know. Oh, sh*t. How’s my credit rating, God? We’re good, right? I’m mostly paid up, aren’t I? Band-width has been a bit narrow lately.

Quoting the address does no good. How many streets here have signs? How many Papuans even know how to use maps for that matter? I suspect less than half the world is adept at it. I explain that Lae G.H. is affiliated with the Summer Institute of Linguistics, but that does no good, either. Given their reputation in Guatemala, that may be just as well. Did you know that missionaries are at the forefront of linguistics studies? They’re not of the Chomsky school. Finally they let me off somewhere that’s not the right place, but the prices are relatively reasonable, and I’m just so happy to get off the bus that I content myself with it. I’m in the right neighborhood, Eriku, anyway. And I have a private room for less than the L.G.H./S.I.L., if more than the cost of shared facilities. I’ve even got a color TV, if the screen is barely larger than my computer’s. I’ve got a mini-fridge, too. If there are any grocery stores close by, then I’m good.

There are. There are fast food joints, too, consisting mostly of fried chicken, beef stew, and even some Chinese food, though not much for a vegetarian. Still, I’m good. I didn’t bring a kg of granola and a large brick of cheese over for nothing. I don’t plan to take any back. There is even a bus rank close by, maybe even the one with buses for Goroka. It doesn’t matter now, though, since I’ve already canceled out. First I have to get my bearings, and then see what’s possible. The Goroka plan was contingent upon things falling together quickly. That didn’t happen. It’s all too weird, too, and the paranoia all too real. There are armed guards in front of EVERY commercial establishment, not just banks, and there are just too many people hanging out with nothing better to do than look at my pockets. I know what THAT means. Store guards grab your pockets on the way out, too, feeling you up for illicit goods.

So I spend my days watching TV- all Australian, mostly Oprah- and reading Encyclopedia Britannica (that’s the best you can do without Internet) and cruising the treasure fleets of Chinese junk- did I mention the Chinese run all the stores here? Every day I probe outward to expand my horizons a bit, creating my own personal map by repeated dead reckonings, going and returning, then cross-referencing. A Chinese ice-cream entrepreneur even comps me a double cone, free of charge. I guess they don’t get many tourists. It’s hot, but not TOO hot. It’s not really even THAT scary here. What’s scary is thinking that this is the up-scale suburb, and that it all goes down from here. Oh well, I guess the fear factor helps explain the high prices. Otherwise these are some greedy pigs running the hotels. I wonder if they’d even believe me if I told them that in Hollywood they could get a hotel- of slightly higher quality- for the same price.

I still have one more day in Port Moresby before heading back, so hopefully it won’t be too weird. I manage to get on an earlier flight out of Lae, so that’s a good start (even if that earlier flight is three hours late). At least this time the driver knows my guesthouse, so that’s good. They’ve lost my reservation at reception, but there’s room at the inn so I’m in… me and a couple dozen missionaries and assorted preachers and parishioners, all Protestant, from America and New Zealand. Everyone is very nice and chatty, nothing ‘holier than thou’ or anything like that. I feel like young Jesus trying to talk trash with the Sanhedrin. It’s pretty cool actually. I almost think they understand me, even appreciate me, maybe better than some of my friends. At least they see my lighter side; maybe they’re looking for it. Many have lived most of their lives in PNG. They have some stories to tell. One guy got held up four times on the drive down from Mt. Hagen. This is what I planned to do the first night, find out all kinds of information from the old PNG hands. But we all agree that these are some of the nicest people in the world in one of the most dangerous places in the world. It just doesn’t make sense.

So there’s really nothing left to do now but catch my flight. That should be easy enough, shouldn’t it? I DO have a little extra time next morning so one of the missionaries guides me to a nearby commercial area and crafts market. It’s nice enough, but I’m really no longer in the market, so to speak. At least I’ll know where to find a taxi if my guy John from the airport yesterday fails to show. He doesn’t. That’s why I allocate lots of time. Since it’s only 10am and the flight’s at 2pm, there should be no problem. It actually turns out that a lady I met from breakfast is on the same flight, and her trusted guy is due at 11. I’m welcome to tag along. At the appointed time she allows that it was ‘11 or 11:15,’ so I chill. Her guy knows the flight time. She trusts him so much she even paid in advance. Huh? Red lights flash inside me…

At 11:30 I bolt. The missionary lady is cool; I’m not. She knows what she’s doing. I don’t. She’s ‘in the moment’. I’m not. I’m in the past and the future, all over the place, my life held together with some kind of existential duct tape that gets more expensive every moment I sit here waiting on Godot. I could just as easily wait in the airport, mind you. They’ve even got A/C. I never saw her again. It doesn’t always make me feel good to be right. Maybe that’s why I could never totally accept the missionary position. She was either violated, a subject of discussion we had over breakfast- that the violation is more heinous than the actual loss- or she was the victim of gross incompetence. When I checked my e-mail in Brisbane airport after flying back from PNG, there was a note from L.G.H./S.I.L. there, with the name of the correct shuttle bus from the Lae airport. What species of butterfly WERE those in PNG I wonder?