“Debunked"
pp. 37-38 · Read in the full issue
This Tropic Life
By “Tropic”
WAKING, with an effort, we don’t spring out of bed. That is too much, in this climate.
We are just shaving, with a new blade that has rusted under its coating of grease, when the breakfast bell goes.
For an instant, we have visions of a fresh juicy sausage. But the reality is a mess of fried banana —the only bit of fresh food about the place.
The sun is shining. But there is no thought of basking in its glare or re clining under a shady tree. We know too well that our labour gang does not get into its stride until we put in an appearance.
We struggle into tight putties and heavy boots and, after a strenuous morning, we get back and change our thin attire, which is wet with honest sweat.
Later, a walk takes us over to our la
goon. But, though it is really scenic at high tide, it is never blue. To-day, it is a series of mud banks And is that old cr . oo ; a J h £li ght reader ‘ 111 vow he winked ai me.
Our beach is on the opposite side of the plantation; and we think of Manly and those surfing queens. Alas, the last time we looked at our southern togs, the bathing suit was a relic that the moths had enjoyed.
As darkness falls, we are reminded of the theatre, so we turn wearily to our old 4-valve set, and try to get some news from the Mecca of our dreams. The range is too great and, amid a series of crashes, due to that lightning on the horizon, a northern station tells us that potatoes are not procurable and onions are about the same price as gold. It does not matter, anyway, as our last
shipments were rotten by the time they reached us.
The voice announces that the council has decided to grant a loan; and we think bitterly of what we could do with a loan, Then the copra price is announced, and the chappie says clearly that it is ninepence ha’penny a pound. Wild vis ions of that long promised trip, iced drinks and a trip to the Mountains, where we could breathe tiiat is? re S anc * we decide that b n j oar jt that much per ton, which is about what it is to us at the moment, There is a protesting screech from the machine as we savagely switch off. We creep under a stuffy n\osquito net.
Our last thoughts are the words of an old digger friend—“ Sydney will do me”.
Mr. Robert Melrose, Assistant Director of District Services, at Rabaul, New Guinea, will leave the Mandated Terri tory shortly on his usual furlough. He carried a heavy burden during the long absence of Mr. Chinnery, Director of the Department.