As this next postcard instantly reminds me, they were holding a funeral the day I arrived in Tana Toraja; and the corpse was six months dead. To mark the occasion, two splendid white buffalo were slaughtered (quickly and cleanly), dozens of pigs were butchered (slowly and noisily) and there was hour after hour of singing…
Souvenir of a visit that is beyond recall. Yesterday’s gone. But it lingers on, the details not forgotten unless it was one of those total wipe-out booze-laden occasions. Same for last week, the month that has passed and, hopefully, the highlights at least, of the year before this one. All are within recall in varying degrees…
Postcard from Belgrade in 1963. ‘A week back in London, then to Lebanon, Jordan etc’ We all know about the past being a foreign country [LP Hartley, The Go-Between] and in recent days I have come to realise how true that oft-quoted phrase can be. A large handful of well-worn postcards, wrapped in a torn plastic…