Because we have everything we need.

One of the most beautiful and inspiring lessons I ever learnt was from an I-Kiribati woman. Years later I am still astounded by her naive genius, or was just pure genius?

We live in a paradigm that is ruled by the constant bombardment of advertising and marketing. If they are not selling us something they are gaining information so someone else can sell us something. The caller says, 'I'm only doing market research, I'm not selling you anything.' I know I've been that caller. Completely against my principals and in desperation for rent money, I worked in a call centre in Amsterdam doing market research in the UK. It was vial. 

Fifty years ago advertisements were kind and charming, "Omo adds whiteness to brightness", "Rowntrees fruit gums, you can taste the fruit" or "Oxo makes cooking so easy". No insults or harm there. Today our weaknesses are preyed upon. It's a two part attack, phase one creates insecurity in the potential consumer, either existing ones are fully developed or new ones are created, the finishing stage then offers a solution to our inadequacy. Other techniques such as a sense of panic are added to the formula and we find ourselves, despite our intellectual ability and vegetarianism, furnished with steak knives and other unnecessities. "But wait! That's not all, call now and you get an extra steam cleaner absolutely free!"


A part of my role in the AusAid English Language Program in The Republic of Kiribati was testing the speaking and listening abilities of the inservice teachers. I had designed a script of questions from which I was able to test their communicative competence and grammatic accuracy in both skills.

"What do you prefer about living on the outer islands?" I asked for the umpteenth time. "Coming to the capital island Tarawa is stressful because we see things for sale and you start to believe that you need those things and of course then you need money to buy them. On the outer islands we don't have money. We don't need to buy anything because we have everything we need. The ocean provides us with fish, the sky water and the breadfruit trees, coconut trees and pandanus tress provide us with more food and materials to make mattresses and houses."

I was really confused. I just didn't understand what she was getting at. It slowly dawned on me. I had spent a weekend on an outer island called Marakei and briefly experienced life without currency. I saw the happiness abounding in the people. It was this innocence and joy that stole my heart. Still to this day I continue to be astounded by the serenity and happiness I felt for those days when I had everything I needed.

Bicycle Thieves

I successfully stole a bike once so, I thought I’d give it another shot. I never would’ve guessed however that stealing a bicycle from a thief would be more difficult than stealing from a policeman.

Yes, from a policeman. My mother also didn’t believe me until she received a phone call from the Police six months after I had told her the truth. Just a courtesy call,

“Good Morning, this is Sergeant Plodd calling from Northbridge Police, may I speak to Katherine please?”

“I’m sorry she’s living in Sydney now, may I be of assistance?”

“I’m just calling to check if Katherine has had no further trouble with her bicycle that was stolen.” He continued.

“Ah no, no trouble at all thank you officer.” Replied my astonished mother.

I’ll explain how I pulled it off so easily, excessive amounts of luck were on my side that day.

I finished work at the State Library at 5.30pm as I did every Saturday during my undergraduate years. I was off to the Brass Monkey Hotel to drink and play scrabble on the upstairs Chesterfields with my friends. Forecasting my drunkenness, I left my bicycle locked up outside the library. The following day I walked to work at the library finding my bike had been stolen. Why would anyone in their right mind steal this crappy bike? To an impoverished student however, it was an immensely valuable asset, especially as I was madly saving $5000 to participate in the Australian Youth Orchestra’s tour of the Americas. 

Infuriated I called the police to report the heinous crime. The policeman at the end of the phone diligently took the details; blue bike with gears and a green lock, reminding me for a third time that stolen bikes never find their rightful owners.

Fifteen minutes before the end of my shift the phone at my desk rang for the first time in my library career. 

"Hello?" I answered enquiringly. "Hello Miss Walpole, I’d like you to come down to the station as a bicycle fitting your bicycle’s description has just been handed in."

I don’t ever recall praying in my life, but if I had, it had just paid off. I made myself known on arrival keen to identify my bicycle. I heard a bike being wheeled from out the back, it went tick tick tick as the precisely tuned mechanics heralded its arrival. My heart sank, precision was the last word to describe my bike. How will I cope without my bike? As I looked at the brand new blue 10 speed racer with a green lock, the policeman said, 

“Is this your bike?” I nearly fell backwards as I heard my mouth say, “Yep”. 

“Sign here please”, I signed and the theft was almost complete. The bike was way too big for me, I dread to think what the policeman thought as I fell from attempted mounts. It was far from an ideal get away vehicle.

Riding on the success of my previous theft, I confidently faced my next opportunity at 3am on the Herrengracht in Amsterdam. Patrick and I were visiting for the weekend. 

I had avoided the metro controllers for six months in Paris travelling ticketless. I felt the impending exhaustion of my luck and an alternate form of transport was necessary. I lived on the Place des Vosges in the Marais quarter of Paris.

A Marais is a marsh, evidently it was flat as far as I would want to travel (to the Louvre, the BHV, Monoprix and home) and a bicycle was the obvious choice.

I hadn’t thought of it until a junkie/bike thief saw the three of us Patrick, Robert and myself, stumbling home on one bicycle under the influence of Amsterdam delights. The junkie asked if we wanted to buy another bicycle. As I was driving back to Paris the next day, I thought it a very wise investment. The junkie paraded the bike in question asking for 25 Guilders. Dam, I’d just spent my last 25 guilder note on a herbal souvenir. To stall, I said I liked the bike, but would prefer a model in green. I knew full well how desperate he was to sell and that it was not as he mentioned; a bike he bought for his girlfriend who dumped him before he had a chance to give it to her. He asked me to wait a minute, while he searched for a green one. He foolishly left the brown bike in my care to fetch the green one. This was my big chance.

“Patrick get on!” I was off, Patrick was not on rather in fits of laughter, but I was still off. The seventeenth century engineer who dammed the Amstel and designed the canals did not have my get away plan in mind. I grew up in strict grid style urban planning and the circular pattern of the canals had me beat and lost. I had no idea where Patrick, Robert or the bike thief were. It’s a little hard to flee if you aren’t aware that you are indeed going around in circles. I was desperate to find Patrick and Robert and not to find the bike thief. As luck wasn’t on my side this thieving occasion, I found the thief first. 

“Oh hello, I was wondering where you got to.” I said attempting innocence. He was cross, I was scared and lost. With Dutch courage I said, 

“well come on, from one thief to another you must give me brownie points for trying.” Fortunately this amused him and I confessed I had spend my last 25 guilder note on a bag of herbs. Cutting his losses he agreed to barter the bike for the herbs. To satisfy his need to punish me, he explained that I was a very naughty girl and therefore I wasn’t allowed to have the green bike. I was soon after riding the Rue du Rivoli on my beautiful brown bike.

1.1.11

Boobies soaring, crabs scuttling, waves cliff gnashing, rain threatening, wind howling and I'm cruising down the street on a motor scooter with JS Bach in my ears.

The grotto, my favourite swimming place.

My first week on Christmas Island has elapsed. It is like a Daliesque dream. Will I awaken to find this newly found lifestyle paradise vanished? No I wont! It is really the most incredible thing ever Christmas Island. I am so happy and so fortunate to have landed this job working for Serco at the North West Point Immigration Detention Centre teaching English as a second language. It is so interesting and so bizarre, culturally and linguistically it’s like a 5 part fugue. Afghans, Tamils, Persians, Iraqis and Burmese men, hundreds of them, all locked up in the middle of this tropical island. As the rumour of changes in Australian Immigration policy run rife throughout, so do the increased numbers of arriving boats. Twenty boats are said to be waiting out at sea to be intercepted by the Australian Navy in order to be granted the most desirable status for processing. This week the storms have been so furious I can’t not worry about the welfare of those on board those waiting boats. I do not want to be one of the next, fishing bodies out of the sea in the case of a mishap. It was only a few days before my arrival on island that half a boatload of asylum seekers drowned as their boat was smashed on the sharp volcanic rock coast.   

SIEV 221

SEIV (suspected irregular entry vessel) 221

 Lily beach is closed as it is littered with body bags of the unfortunate freedom seekers. The official morgue at the hospital was designed without such a disaster in mind, it houses only two, the other forty odd lie one the beach. I was awoken some weeks after in the dead of night by the sound of a Hercules taking off. Odd I thought, until I remembered the funeral was to take place the following days in Sydney. Eerie.

Work is terrific. It is really a very light workload. No assessments, no paperwork and only 15 teaching hours in my 38-hour week. This is the lightest load I’ve ever worked. The rest of the time I can spend preparing classes, writing a curriculum and developing a library of teaching materials.  I am the teacher for the North West compound and the numbers in my classes are growing rapidly. The ‘clients’ love the classes and I appear to have already gained rock star status, as they mob me after classes to thank me for the lesson and to compliment me on my work. It may be a little later that I discover the crafty, scheming motivation behind the flattery, but for now I’ll just enjoy it.

Greta Beach

CIIDC

On Tuesday, I commence Arabic lessons with Ahmed, an Iraqi client. I hope to learn some Arabic as well as to understand exactly how difficult it is to learn a language from a different language group and script whilst getting a grasp of Arabic grammar systems. My knowledge of Arabic is extremely limited and I look forward to filling that void.

The detention centre staff lives at the decommissioned casino. It is a rather odd place as little like Miss Havisham’s dinning room from Great Expectations. One night, I snuck through a backdoor and up a staircase to find the old casino room with adjacent areas. All the tables were set up with drop sheets over them as though like naughty children everyone dropped everything and ran as soon as they had been caught doing illicit acts. My room is on the front left behind the coconut grove.

CIIDC - my work

The decommissioned Christmas Island Casino - my home

The island abounds with the most amazing natural beauty. The fish and the birds do not fear humans, as they are unaccustomed to their presence, rather they are quite curious, as are we. A lovely exchange of curiosity as we glare at each other without fear. Whilst snorkelling I found myself midst a school of hundreds of fish who came right up to my goggles and peered in like an inquisitive child to a television. The island is an extinct volcano rising out of the Java Trench. This trench is the second deepest ocean location worldwide. Snorkelers dare each other to swim to the ‘drop off’, about 50 – 100 from the beach the ocean floor vanishes, only to be rediscovered after a five-kilometre swim straight down. The crabs however, are terrified. Even more terrified is me of them. The millions of red crabs are somewhat benign in size but compensate in number. I’m looking forward to the famous annual migration, which, Attenbrough considers one of the ten most incredible things he’s ever seen. Enter stage left, the robber crab. This is exactly what happened at my first sighting. Dusk, walking carefully in respect of the flora and fauna, a horrific sight enters my left peripheral vision quickly followed by a scream Hitchcock would’ve been proud of. As I lifted my gaze the screams of my friend and I escalated due to the unfathomable size AND number of these prehistoric creatures. Robber crabs are named as such because of their kleptomaniac tendencies, yes they steal your mobile phone and keys while your back is turned! They are also called coconut crabs as they climb coconut palms and pick the coconuts then break them open with their claws and proceed to eat them. A less intelligently endowed colleague plied with duty free spirits teased one a little to closely. Needless to say she had to go to the hospital to get the crab to ‘let go’ of her hand.

Christmas Island is an amazing place and I am so so so happy I decided to come here. But alas this is not the end of the story……

An incredible student

I first met this student when he was promoted up to the class of Certificate II in Spoken and Written English of which I was the current teacher. He was a quiet, well-presented, middle-aged Persian man with the obligatory Iranian moustache. These aforementioned qualities were not as surprising or impressive as his devotion and commitment to his studies. Un-phased by the unfortunate difficulties presented to one learning an additional language with a middle aged brain, he studied and studied. He did this in the most incredible, humble and patient manner assisted by unwavering determination. It was only after I had been teaching him for some weeks that I noticed amongst his notes and books, piles of extra study he had initiated and marked correctly all without any assistance. Never in my twenty-year career as an ESL teacher had I observed such dedication.

Little did I know at that time, I had only observed one of his many qualities. Weeks and months past, he had welcomed me into his home, family and larger community. I was so honoured to find myself at family functions hosted by him and his wife in which I was the only non-Middle Easterner. I had always dreamed of a world where instead of being afraid and racist of other cultures, we enjoyed our similarities. So being the only Westerner in the room was how they showed their acceptance of their new culture and their willingness to mingle. I loved being a foreigner without even leaving Toowoomba.

These new Australians knew how to party. There was fantastic music that didn’t permit wallflowers, food to die for and social people; people who despite linguistic ability came and introduced themselves to me, making me feel loved and welcomed. In fact my student, his family and friends were really something else, they never complained, they never had a negative word to say about anything or anyone, they were quietly happy, confident, hard working and they treated all with equality and respect. The mornings after a night at Reza's  I always felt a sense of elation. I put this down to the lack of hangover. Hindsight however tells me it was the beautiful spirit of my student and his entourage lingering.

Not all was 100% comfortable with me going to his parties. There was no booze at these functions. It was initially quite intimidating and confronting socialising without my crutch. I had never had to function sober in a social situation before.  Once I asked why they didn’t drink expecting them to tell me it was for religious reasons (coming from an Islamic country). Instead they told me they were Baha’i. I thought, “oh that sounds bad”. Maybe it was some kind of liver condition that didn’t permit alcohol consumption. Not wishing to remain ignorant however I asked, “what is that?” My student told me, “It’s a religion, just go and look at bahai.org”.

I was so impressed that he didn’t ‘God bother’ me, I was also very curious by this doctrine  inwhich he conducted his life and had created such a wonderful man. It might have just been the ticket for me.

Bahai.org showed me what the baha’i’s believed. There were some ideas there that I already believed, and some that I’d never thought of but were so intelligent and beautiful, they even solved some of life’s quandaries which had often eluded me. But no alcohol? I wondered. In ignorance of my own alcoholism I though why are we being asked to abstain from something that a/everyone does and b/ is harmless fun? No pre-marital sex…..well they’ve been chatting with the Catholics, and no one does that anyway, so I wont worry about that one.

Hmmm, I had been presented with an option of taking on board a new way living.  Would I get that serenity and peace that my student has? Would I become such a wonderful person as he? Maybe, but anyway not possible because I’m not prepared to give up the champagne. Never did it occur to me that this blindness was a hint of a problem.

Christmas Island and the Baha'i pioneer.

I had already been working at the immigration detention centre on Christmas Island for some months when I really started to struggle with the challenges presented. I was really heart broken by the unjust treatment the ‘clients’ received at the hands of government policies and the employees. I was bullied and ostracised by my manager for the hard work, respect and compassion I offered my students. This detention centre has been called a mental health farm for its ability to cultivate poor mental health, very apt.

In desperation to improve my health, I made a decision to remove all depressants from my body. Alcohol had to go. A friend had given me a ‘big book’, the bible of Alcoholics Anonymous. To prove to her and myself that I was not an alcoholic I abstained from alcohol over the following months. My colleagues came home from the detention centre where the refugees were self harming and they self harmed through alcohol abuse.

One day I woke and thought the only way forward was to throw myself off the sharp jagged cliffs into the raging ocean below. Out of left field came a memory of my Towoomba student telling me that Christmas Island had a Baha’i centre and community. Great, I haven’t drunk for over a month, so I could sign up!

Without a minute to loose I was not perched on the cliffs, rather on my scooter following my nose. Strangely, it never occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was that I was looking for the Baha’is. I was desperate to be in the presence of their sublime selves. Underway, I passed the library and thought I’d stop off to get some Baha’i literature. As was my expectation, there was a book about the Baha’i faith….of course, every library has one….doesn’t it?

Unable to see through the tears streaming from my face I parked my Honda and took refuge in the Buddhist temple I had come across. I sat and cried and cried. It bought wonderful relief and I enjoyed the ambiance and fragrance of the burning incense.

Feeling better I lifted my head, I found myself sitting opposite a building with a sign, “Baha’i Community of Christmas Island”. As I retell this story I laugh out loud at the divine assistance.

I went over and peered through the window. I saw an old man doubled over. I thought, “cricky Is he ok!?” I said, “hello, hello!” He looked up and said, “ What do you want?” “ I want to become a Baha’i” I replied. He invited me in and an incredible discourse followed. “Why?” He asked me.  I told him that I had had a wonderful student in Toowoomba who lived his life in a way that I’d like to live mine, in short I want to be like him and have what he has. I continued to say that I believed God manifests himself in many ways, but I thought the Baha’i way is one that I could develop a healthy relationship with Him. In addition, I, having found a wise and compassionate listener, commenced to tell him about why I was so suicidal today. I told him about all the injustice I had witnessed at the detention centre and how it had broken my heart and that I had lost my faith in my fellow human beings. He listened speechless and held my hand, I cried and howled and cried. I felt no shame, I felt relief, I felt compassion, love and understanding coming from my audience. He spoke very few words, but each was a pearl. After explaining all and why I wanted to become a Baha’i he looked at me in the eye and said, “good, come back at 7pm we are having (a) feast." Great, I thought I like this religion they don’t have mass, they have dinner!

At 7pm I arrived to meet more people. I felt no social anxiety, the people were so welcoming and put no pressure on me. And yes, there was my favourite Persian food too.

In the following days I was relocating to Perth, so I was really happy that there were two ladies there who were really nice and they lived in Perth. They became instant best friends. One lady suggested I meet her in the morning to ‘declare’. This meant, ‘sign up’.

The next day, I arrived at her place and she had prepared a lovely morning tea. We sat on the balcony enjoying our tea and each other. She explained to me a little about the administration of the faith and what it was to declare. It sounded really good, “Where do I sign?” I asked naively and eagerly. She had written up a really beautiful card with a lovely prayer on it. Together we said the prayer. I felt the most incredible love and serenity. I had no idea that morning what joy awaited me.

I had become a Baha’i.

I write this memory one year on. I have journeyed already so far. I have learnt about the beauty that is being with God (mother nature or the universe is how I prefer to call this energy) and the joy of seeing humanity prosper thanks to her handiwork. 

Many times people and doctors have told me, you make choices in life, you can choose to be happy or unhappy. You can choose how you react to people and things, you just need to get over yourself, or change your attitude. How to do this? How?

Having recently completed a course of Baha'i study and read Portals to Freedom and The Seven Valleys, I’m now beginning to understand my aforementioned questions. Detachment from earthly desires. Unity of religion and mankind. Renunciation of all prejudice.  Comunion with our most loved one, mother nature. These were the qualities that were required of me. This has involved some incredible mental and spiritual gymnastics. I now feel that I am on my path to having what my student has in being a Baha’i. This is my path to happiness.

I wish to express the greatest gratitude to all my Baha’i. All of you have contributed to my journey and have served to facilitate my growth and the growth of all our brothers and sisters on earth.

Allah-u-Abha

Pacific Specific - Kiribati /kɪrɪbæs/

The national flag, a frigate flying over the sun rising over the ocean.
The three white stripes depict the country's three groups of islands; Gilbert, Phoenix and Line Islands.

'So the children and pigs have time to get off the runway' was the answer to my question, 'Was that Tarawa? Why did the plane fly past it?' There used to be a fence around the airport's grounds, but now I notice the chicken wire has made some very nice pens for peoples pigs', explained a visiting airline consultant in a 'well, what can you do' tone of voice. This was unfortunately not the tone of the AQIS official's voice when I presented my I-Kiribati handicrafts at Brisbane airport three weeks later. 

Coming in to land at Bonriki International Airport, Tarawa

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonriki_International_Airport

The nation comprises 32 atolls and a raised coral island totalling 800 square kilometres dispersed over 3.5 million square kilometres of Pacific ocean.  'It's where??' I'm frequently asked. 'Due east from Brisbane, turn left at Fiji, it'll be a minute dot under you three flying hours later.' Or, 'you know where the date line does a whoosie? Well that's it, the date line goes around so the whole country is on the same day.' Perhaps the most accurate; it's at the junction of the dateline and the equator. 

When I was a child, I loved the enormous (probably not so big now) globe at the Subiaco Municipal Library. My brother and I used to play 'where do you want to go?' and we'd spin the globe. I almost always landed in the middle of the Pacific, so disappointed was I to have landed 'nowhere'. Little did I know that 'nowhere' was one of the most wonderful adventure destinations I was to one day visit.

It is the fourth least visited country in the world. As Kiribati is predicted to be the first country lost to global warming, the inhabitants are preparing to migrate to higher ground; Australia, New Zealand and Fiji. Therefore, English language teaching was to be improved through an AusAid sponsored project, of which I was fortunately involved.

The main road……the only road.

Well, I would've been lying if I'd said I wasn't shocked. I had never in my life seen anything like it. I understand now when they say “Kiribati, for travellers not tourists”. I really had no idea what to expect. But first impressions were shocking. It was very dirty and the bad smells made me dry retch. On the other hand it was really wonderful in that it was like nothing I had ever seen before and incredibly beautiful, something only seen at the cinema. The people were out playing in the streets (60% of the population are children). There are animals everywhere. The hotel is so basic, things we take for granted like shampoo, bathmats, drinking water, reliable electricity and water were absent.

Surprisingly the 737 was full. Most of the people on the plane were consultant aid workers or locals. There was a group of about eight tourists who had come for the 66^th anniversary of the bloodiest battle in USMC history, which took place here on Tarawa. A new airline “Our Airline” took it’s maiden flight  arriving yesterday but unfortunately was unable to return victorious and was still grounded with the tool kit out.

Swimming at the broken bridge

Fri 20^th of November

Our hotel (Otientaai) is famous amongst the ex pats as being a real dive. The staff don’t wear shoes, the breakfast buffet hosted four ingredients; cornflakes in their packet, cartons of UHT milk, sweet white bread and the most spectacular local fruit,  god knows how it got it’s two star rating?? On this day it was the anniversary of the infamous battle and the hotel was full of gung ho Americans. It was 2000 USMC marines who were mowed down by the Japs over a very short period. The yanks misread the tide and their amphibious landing was a real disaster. If it was any consolation to them most of the Japs got killed too. Lovely. Nice to hear from the gore hungry tourists that Red Beach is still littered with human remains.

The teaching is going well I have to test 30 student teachers for their English language ability. It’s good experience for me as I find testing such a difficult thing to do.  In addition, I am helping the student teachers to write lesson plans and to prepare for their teaching prac which I will then observe and test in a week. This is really the best way to find out about Kiribati and the people and culture. I already have students lining up to practise speaking English with me which means invaluable time one on one with the I-Kiribati people.

Pacific Specific - Fiji

What are my first impressions of Fiji?

Joy, calm, happiness and friendliness. It just feels so good to be away from development. Here the people are in the streets talking, laughing, walking slowly. The bus has natural air conditioning (no windows). I've had two marriage offers within my first hour off the plane. Obviously I’m not the only one who thinks it’s not right to be 40, childless and never married.

On arrival I am delighted to see the male airport officials in floral shirts and wrap around skirts. Mar, who greeted me at the airport to take me to my accommodation, promised me my Fijian husband to be would be wearing a skirt at our wedding.

In my dorm are two neigh neigh horse play horsey girls from country Glostershire in the UK. They are celebrating the completion of their masters with  a southern hemisphere adventure. In the bar I can hear American accents and there are Indians in every nook and cranny. No evidence of Australia, very nice. I think it’s been too long since I was in another culture.

 Another cocktail and maybe wander down to  “Sitar” for a curry…. when in Rome do as the Indians????

Maybe it’s just because people want my tourist money, but I have the feeling that  they like me, they have time to chat, they laugh at my jokes and they are helpful. Their good spirits towards me do feel genuine. It’s really really nice to feel liked. It’s so good for my self esteem. I know I’m good and likeable, but some evidence doesn’t hurt at all.

After chatting with the equestrians I was happy to learn that they too had experienced this notion of stress and study induced brain damage. So it’s not only me doing spoonerism-o-rama and loss of short term memory etc. Good news is that  after a while in Fiji brain function returns to normal.

It becomes evident how regulated, controlled and ordered Australia is once you are out of it. I'm now required to think for myself, use my initiative. In which filing cabinet of my brain are those skills?  I haven't used them since I left Europe five years ago. There are no signs or policeman or advertising to tell you when to cross the road, who to give way to, where to leave your luggage , what to buy, what to eat and how much and when etc etc etc. Maybe the cost is a little chaos, but isn’t that better than being constantly watched and treated like brainless idiots?

Today I lazed around the backpackers hostel and  made some jewellery out of coconut fronds at a craft workshop. In the late afternoon all the guests got together and had drinks. I think I over did it. Looks pretty harmless though.

I feel really terrible. I am socially so insecure. I am so wanting to interact with people and I find it so stressful being in company because I am so scared of annoying them or disturbing them. It’s really difficult to feel confident about myself. I know that a fat woman who walks around feeling confident about herself is a real admirable woman, yet I don’t feel that confident all the time even though I feel it some of the time. I have considered lying and saying that I suffer a medical condition that makes me fat despite my diet and excersie regime. But I really can’t lie. I know I am obese because I am lazy and because I eat and drink too much.

I am so sick of depression. I thought I came here for a holiday and now I am burdened with ill health yet again. Lets hope for tsunami.

What was that all about? Hmm, I was drunk last night. Evidence that my non-drinking efforts are good for me and are worth the effort.

Today I came back to Nadi (pronounced Nandi??? Go figure!) from the Coral Coast. I am staying at the Raffles Gateway Hotel right next to the airport. It's very beige, desperately lacking charm or Fijianess. Tomorrow Amy and I fly to Kiribati. I’m very excited. I think in the way that Morocco is the hard core version of Tunisia, Kiribati will be like the hard core version of Fiji, lets see if I’m right.

The First Fat Girl in Paris

Before we even get started, there is one thing that I must clear up. When a girl calls herself fat, it is more a reflection of how she feels than how she looks. I don't know one woman with an honest mirror. Hindsight has taught me the flaws of my former ways; but how I wish I could get back down to that 75kg 'fat' of 1995?  Now that I really am fat, maybe hindsight is not such a talented teacher, I promise to appreciate all my good points. Audrey Hepburn said it herself (can you believe that even her mirror lied?), focus on your good points and forget the rest. OK Audrey, consider it done.

The First Fat Girl in Paris is a wonderful novel, semi autobiographic like David Copperfield, which follows the life of a girl who led a life not without adventure, courage, travel, language, friends, eighteenth century rhetoric, tears, laughter, bassoon, Jaqueline du Pre and Audrey Hepburn, oh and the invisible fat. In addition to being wonderful, it is unwritten.

So if indeed there was no fat, why mention it? Because my dear readers, it was felt. The boogey man, did  he frighten you? He wasn't real was he?, but you were still frightened, so the fat and the boogey man go in the same box. 'Feel' is the operative word in this story. This story is about so much more than the aforementioned nouns, it's about feeling. In the mind and soul of a Bi Polar / Borderline Personality Disorder sufferer, reality is irrelevant, it's the feelings that matter. 

I recall the moment at 35 Clapham Common Northside when I titled the non-existant novel. It was anxiety and excitement, adjectives that bear no difference in the German language, belittling my confidence to nasty name calling. I felt inadequate to step outside Gare du Nord station and into the real world of France. Do the aesthetic police circumnavigate entry points to the country ready to pounce any being that may disrupt the national standard of beauty? In any case, I was concerned about being a source of visual pollution. Should I also adopt the national diet of Gauloise and expresso?