A Bird on My Shoulder Read Online Free Page B

permanent drought, it was, like so many other cities in the developing world, a place of increasingly sharp economic contrasts. The poor were heartbreakingly so; families eked out a living selling the few crops they had ingeniously grafted onto the steep hills from tiny stalls on the side of the road. Thousands of people from all over the country, who had left their villages in far-flung provinces in search of a better life, were now crammed in sprawling settlements, in tiny airless homes made from bits of wood and discarded tin. Boarded-up shops, derelict buildings, dust and litter, as well as the never-ending sight of razor wire and the gradual loss of so many tropical trees, made much of the city aesthetically depressing and bleak.
    By comparison, on the hills overlooking the sea, there were mansions in glorious colourful gardens and, near the port, shiny new high-rise offices with huge windows and gleaming tiled floors. There were growing numbers of expensive cars on the roads and plush restaurants for the Papua New Guinean elite and their international counterparts, discreetly hidden behind fences and patrolled by security guards and dogs. The small butincreasing middle classes – the public servants, entrepreneurs, doctors, engineers and university lecturers – largely lived in the sprawling suburbs down endless potholed roads.
    What saved Port Moresby from lapsing into ugliness was the sea, which pooled at the city’s ankles like a glorious silk gown, bringing the changing trade winds and the scent of other possibilities. Looking out across the Torres Strait, there were long, thin-lipped islands in the distance; sometimes a lone fisherman on an outrigger canoe appeared on the horizon, his silhouette perfectly still, seemingly blissful in his solitude.
    •••
    The first surprise was that Julian owned a catamaran. My mental image of the sweet little boat was rather abruptly replaced by this rather strange flat craft which looked as if it required real skill to handle.
    I’d been a little vague when he had asked me about my experience with sailing, telling him that I had once sailed a yacht. This was true. After walking across Corsica with a Belgian friend, we had hitched a ride with some Brazilians who were sailing to Monte Carlo. Surely, I must have tacked or jibed at some point. But now I stared at the catamaran with barely disguised dismay.
    ‘We’ll just go out for a little run,’ Julian said confidently.
    •••
    My anxieties about the expedition were soon quieted as we manoeuvred with ease out onto the open sea and began to chat. Julian had been living in Papua New Guinea for more than fifteen years and seemed to have a very level perspective on its political and economic progress. He’d worked for the current prime minister, Sir Julius Chan, at one point, and had a lot to say about the encroaching corruption that was eating into the administrative fabric of Papua New Guinea’s daily life. He also lamented the high number of deals and alliances between corrupt politicians and international contractors.
    He mentioned one man in particular. ‘He was in my office a few months ago, talking about buying a property. I was very happy to help him and was just asking for a few details when he chucked a large envelope on the table, full of foreign currency, probably about forty thousand dollars.’ Julian shook his head and gave an exasperated smile. ‘I told him he’d have to bring the deposit as a bank cheque and he went very quiet and I never saw him again.’
    •••
    The sea that day was a brilliant, slow blue. The wind nestled into the sails as we cruised away from land and I could feel the tension ebbing from me as I melted into the day. It was not longbefore Julian guided us to the edge of a small sandy island still within sight of the city.
    ‘Let’s stop here – I don’t think there’s enough wind to get much further,’ he said, stepping out of the boat into knee-deep water and, once