To market, to market.

Early one Sunday morning at Gordons Market, Port Moresby.

It's hard to be clean.

When I took the plastic wrapping off our new wooden dish rack this afternoon, I could actually smell the deforestation.

I couldn’t make eye contact with it for a while. It riled me. I riled myself.

Another day, another piece of crap. 

To be fair, I did buy it at the local megamall, the one that the Malaysian logging company built. It’s not a place that’s ever going to care too much about ‘ethically sourced’, or ‘fair trade’. Fair enough. I suppose the dish rack is actually brilliant product placement: the fruits of company labour and investment.

It’s the only place in town to buy stuff. And I, like most people with the means to be, seem to be caught in this endless cycle of consumption, discarding, consumption and discarding. I don’t know how to make it stop!

When that place first opened, I did quite enjoy walking through the home wares section, and amusing myself with the appalling light fittings, black leather look seat covers and faux wrought iron dining settings. I would have a chuckle at the bad English on the rows and rows of plastic lunch boxes and food containers; every day is sun ….you and me look together always. Occasionally, I would even buy one. Who can resist a panda face for a lunchbox? Then of course the book “Slow Death by Rubber Duck” came into our lives, and I have been ignoring the growing pile of coloured useless plastic we have amassed in our kitchen cupboards ever since. 

Anyway that was then, I was allowed a brief moment of nostalgia for the Chinese retail sector and all the amusement it provided me. But now when I look at those isles and isles of odd brands and not-quite-right products, all I can see is a graveyard. It’s where the rotten fruits of large-scale cheap manufacturing have come to die. No one really wants this stuff. At best it is a novelty or amusing gimmick, but the joke wears off pretty quickly.

At least for me.

For the real residents of this town however, this mall is the jewel of the city. There has never been anywhere else like it. A huge air-conditioned public space where people can come freely, and shop, or just hang out. There is always a crowd outside the electronics shop watching the flat screen TV. There’s a food court, undercover parking, and a play area for kids. The modern middle class reality has reached Port Moresby.

As for the dish rack: it made it into our home because it wasn’t plastic. Yet, it is the crappest, cheapest, and no doubt, most unsustainable woodchip imaginable. And now, in the interests of reducing the turnover of ‘stuff’ that passes in and out of our home – it must stay. In order to make this work however, I will now have to go out and buy any number of anti-deforestation deoderisers to neutralise that pesky “I’m burning alive!” smell trees sometimes make.

You see what I mean? I simply cannot get off this ride.

Being a family, within the compound. As always.

park your plane the right, thanks.

pensive, and chubby.

new day, new hair.

wind! i'm alive!

learning the camera ropes.

we just love hanging by the clothesline.

man love.

lost in a sea of grass and washing.

When the only thing left to amuse is cheese.

I've got the thesis blues, baby.

My idea is stupid! I can't research. What was I thinking? There is no data on my topic. I will not be breaking any new ground here.

Unfortunately for me, and those around me, I am not channelling my unrest into productive home-making, crafting, sewing, cooking or any of the other distractions that a gal like me might ordinarily turn to. No, I am just miserable, tired and cross.

What a bore!

All feelings only compounded by the .... compound!

There may be a new splash of paint around the pool walls (think grey - the most alive and party-going shade of,) and some new toys in the haus win, but the days are the same as they always were.

There may be some new fridges and freezers at the supermarket, but the shelves are stocked as they always were - with whatever remains in unpacked boxes.

On this point - the world's largest block of mozzarella is back, just waiting for someone to attempt to lift it into their trolley. At a bargain price of around 500 kina, and weighing in at around 20kg, it is not the cheese for everyone. In my malaise and general despondency, I did consider buying it yesterday.

No doubt, it would have been packed into a single plastic bag, as though it was of a more pedestrian size.

Of course this is only speculation, and I await the time when I actually see an attempt on scanning this thing through the checkout. (If you cannot get a visual on the size of this thing - think a standard full-size pillow). This is what we're dealing with here, folks.

Anyway, must go. Back to staring at the razor wire!

My favourite photo this week.

The above image is precisely why parents can get up and do it all over again the next day. Nothing matters anymore. The past is the past. The future is golden. Kids are beautiful. There are no tantrums in the world. Everyone is happy. A sleeping beauty looking after her Daddy's birthday present. Night night.

An apartment for four.

It was a miserable holiday, that much is certain.

So much phlegm. So much rubbish in our hire car at any given moment. So many moments of family fracturing. The Canberra winter as our backdrop, there waiting for us every morning as we set out to another open house. The market may have been saying now is a great time to be a first homebuyer, but the screaming children and stress of it all suggested to us it was anything but.

Moments of doubt were many. Another apartment, another spa. What was it with the 90s? A helpful briefing by a friendly real estate agent intercepted by our two year old declaring it was poo time. Plastic smiles concealing deep alarm on the parental faces. No, it wasn't really cute. Generously, she allowed us to use the bathroom, and perhaps even more generously, our little lady gave the most extensive commentary to date on the process, including a toilet paper evaluation and post-mortem. No doubt, all people over the age of two, were at that point thinking I just want to get the *&*^ out of here.

As the days passed and our winter colds settled in to well and truly debilitate us all, we came closer and closer to making an offer. Each night my investment partner and I would rehearse our cutting edge Gordon Gekko-esque negotiating lines. These agents would not know what hit them. They would never have met such cutting and sharp first homebuyers in their lives. We would get a place for 200K, so weak was the market, and so desperate were people to sell. This was our time.

We rehearsed our offer over and over and over and over. I got handed the phone, as it were, every time. My partner scurried under the rug. It was hard to talk without laughing. We had no idea what we were doing.

Offer day arrived. There we were with the agents, our two children, walking amongst what was to become our new residence. Stern looks on faces, yes please, we just need a moment alone to deliberate. Giggle giggle. You talk! No, you do it!


Somehow our starting offer came in 15K higher than we had both agreed. How? We have no idea.

In any case, we obviously had a great perception of what 'the market' wanted as our offer was accepted. After a request to touch it up with a few more thousand, of course.

Take that vendor!

Sold.

Our new home awaits. We are thrilled. And even better, it will be summer time when we arrive.

Hello lifestyle.