I walk the back streets to my destination.
I don't fear much.
'Watch out for snatchers,' says the Chinese baker who is out the back having a smoke break.
'They target young girls or old people.'
The easy targets.
'In Port Moresby they targetted the yellow skin,' he says. 'They wouldn't dare try to mug a white guy.'
He was talking about Australians.
I tell him staying at a budget hotel and he suggests I carry my passport and valuables on me.
Great advice. A lost passport can mean ten years in purgatory I tell him. He just gives a meek smile. He can read the story on my face.
'And we don't want that happening again, do we?"
Not at all.
The sign writer is putting together a sign.
The cabinet maker is singing to some Malay pop music.
This man has talent and I pop in and see him on the way back from the chemist.
At the chemist, I tried out a walking stick. Chris was in the toilet so I was chatting to his dad.
'Good for dogs,' he says.
Good for humans too, I say and take on an attacking position with the stick. A part of it nearly flies off. That would have been a broken window and big bucks for me.
It's always fun walking the back street.
You see the back end of shops. A busy back end is always more exciting than the front end, I think.
The back end of my street is feeding time for the dogs.
'I love dogs,' says the Chinese lady who hangs out at the coffee shop on the corner.
She feeds them every day.
Two lucky dogs are eating chicken bones.
Another dog wants in on the action, but the two eating the bones won't have any of that. He'll have to wait for the scraps.
The back streets are always the most interesting.
Just don't get mugged. That's always a risk.
I walked down my alley last night. The Chinese pimp didn't like the look of me.
He doesn't own the alley. So he can just fuck off.
Making money from the hard working Chinese whores, this guy has no shame.
And he knew I knew it.
I heard him berating one of the hookers the other night.
He's a nasty piece of work.
And he surely knows it.
The old Chinese hobo walks past my window. I close the curtain.
My charity shop has closed operations.
He's never receiving a cent more from me.
He bangs a rock on the curb. To what end, is anyone's guess.
I close my window.
I'm shutting up shop for the day.
Besides, I don't like the way the old hunchback demands money from me.
I'm taking care of myself now.
It's a tough love and not being charitable to him seems the most natural thing. I've been taken for too many rides being a soft touch. I've lost count of the ingrates who bit the hand that fed them.
The old hunch back takes this as a cue and picks up his rock which he puts into his heavy duty bag full of other street junk which he then slings over his back. Then he crabs away to greener pastures.
I might hit the side streets and hit up my fruit lady for some vitamin c.
I don't fear much.
'Watch out for snatchers,' says the Chinese baker who is out the back having a smoke break.
'They target young girls or old people.'
The easy targets.
'In Port Moresby they targetted the yellow skin,' he says. 'They wouldn't dare try to mug a white guy.'
He was talking about Australians.
I tell him staying at a budget hotel and he suggests I carry my passport and valuables on me.
Great advice. A lost passport can mean ten years in purgatory I tell him. He just gives a meek smile. He can read the story on my face.
'And we don't want that happening again, do we?"
Not at all.
The sign writer is putting together a sign.
The cabinet maker is singing to some Malay pop music.
This man has talent and I pop in and see him on the way back from the chemist.
At the chemist, I tried out a walking stick. Chris was in the toilet so I was chatting to his dad.
'Good for dogs,' he says.
Good for humans too, I say and take on an attacking position with the stick. A part of it nearly flies off. That would have been a broken window and big bucks for me.
It's always fun walking the back street.
You see the back end of shops. A busy back end is always more exciting than the front end, I think.
The back end of my street is feeding time for the dogs.
'I love dogs,' says the Chinese lady who hangs out at the coffee shop on the corner.
She feeds them every day.
Two lucky dogs are eating chicken bones.
Another dog wants in on the action, but the two eating the bones won't have any of that. He'll have to wait for the scraps.
The back streets are always the most interesting.
Just don't get mugged. That's always a risk.
I walked down my alley last night. The Chinese pimp didn't like the look of me.
He doesn't own the alley. So he can just fuck off.
Making money from the hard working Chinese whores, this guy has no shame.
And he knew I knew it.
I heard him berating one of the hookers the other night.
He's a nasty piece of work.
And he surely knows it.
The old Chinese hobo walks past my window. I close the curtain.
My charity shop has closed operations.
He's never receiving a cent more from me.
He bangs a rock on the curb. To what end, is anyone's guess.
I close my window.
I'm shutting up shop for the day.
Besides, I don't like the way the old hunchback demands money from me.
I'm taking care of myself now.
It's a tough love and not being charitable to him seems the most natural thing. I've been taken for too many rides being a soft touch. I've lost count of the ingrates who bit the hand that fed them.
The old hunch back takes this as a cue and picks up his rock which he puts into his heavy duty bag full of other street junk which he then slings over his back. Then he crabs away to greener pastures.
I might hit the side streets and hit up my fruit lady for some vitamin c.
