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THE ISLANDS

There’s a look, an island look; an almost feminine far-away stare. You can see through the eyes of the best of them, stare deep into another time. It’s a look that doesn’t appear elsewhere in P.N.G.  They just seem connected.

Actually, quite a lot of them appear more stoned than connected.

Welcome to the islands.

 

Dogster was awash in the islands. Like everyone else in P.N.G. for the first time, it’s all sunsets and turquoise,  brown children running shrieking into the sea, yams and sand and the syrupy, sweet wind from the sun.   Things were ridiculously picture perfect, the people warm and friendly, the seas calm, the weather hanging just this side of thunder. I scarcely noticed the other passengers. The ship would anchor and he’d be off on an adventure of his own. If there was a moment with the group on a guided tour, I don’t recall it. Dog was already miles ahead.

Miles ahead paid dividends. Dog wandered in to villages, ten minutes ahead of the rest. He had a lot of time to make friends before the invasion. Not that fifteen people once a year is exactly an explosion of commerce. As there was generally absolutely nothing to buy things were easy. Dog managed to collect a lot of absolutely nothing on his journey; bowls from the Amphletts, a necklace from Normanby, a trio of red grass skirts; the usual whitey bric-a-brac.

 Actually every village was totally different. Dog has puppy-dog eyes. It took time to see through the scenery.   

SO, FORGIVE THE PHOTOGRAPHIC INTERRUPTION – THIS IS WHAT IT IS.
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