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The man who stopped the boats is Aussie PM ( Scott Morrison has been chosen by the Liberal party room as Australia's 30th prime minister. Mr Morrison defeated Peter Dutton 45 votes to 40 in the secret ballot. Leadership candidate Julie Bishop was knocked out in the first round. The decision capped off a week of turmoil in Canberra that began after Mr Dutton declared his intention to force Malcolm Turnbull from the prime ministership, saying the party needed to make a change if it was to win the forthcoming federal election, due before May 18 next year. (Sydney Morning Herald) I AM a little saddened Australia’s Liberal Prime Minister, Malcolm Turnbull, perish in a party political skirmish that was largely the result of insurgents in his own party who continually sniped, plotted, and worked both inside and outside the party to bring Turnbull down. At around 1:30 pm, Australian Eastern Standard Time, he stood down. My disappointment is short-lived to say the le...

The Goan Olympics for outstanding achievement My dear friends around the Goan world: ONE OF my pet gripes has been about the lack of a global recognition process to honour outstanding achievement by Goans in the four corners of the world and just as widespread in the fields of achievement. For want of a better title, may I suggest a working phrase: Goan Superstars Awards! I think it is time we set up an organisation that (a) set up a pilot group of people to do the ground work in fleshing out the organisation: Secretariat (the admin arm of the organisation, all the ps and qs of such a global organisation including setting out the guidelines for who can qualify for the award/s), the Jury (the final arbiter in naming the winners every four years), the celebrations committee (to organise the event every four years in a different venue, perhaps a Goan organisation/s would vie for that privilege), Funding Committee (to raise funds worldwide to fund the aims and aspirations...

It is with the greatest humility that I shout about the fact you, my dear readers of this blog, have taken me to the dizzy heights of 150,000 hits, meaning that the stories have been read 150,000, by new and old and faithful readers alike.  My readers come from the United States, Russia, Australia, Canada, UK, India, Ireland, Kenya, Peru, Germany and lots of other places. When I first launched the blog, I never had the slightest inkling that it would reach such dizzy heights. The blog was my own safe place, a refuge to escape to when my heart was breaking, the sobs were turning into floods of tears, or when I was hurtling into or burning up with severe pain following the loss of my late wife  Rufina .  Writing was a way of exercising my mind, reliving those wonderful memories of Kenya, its people, its places, events and, most importantly, all my friends and acquaintances. It also provided me the freedom to follow my own journalistic instincts and investigate...

YARNS: My Sydney Diary Naturally, the Sydney of 1979 was vastly different to what it is today. Many will argue that development and progress has made it a better city. Most senior citizens may argue against that because their world, growing up in predominantly “White Australia”, was a racist life and anyone who was black, especially in country Australia, suffered some of the worst abuses known to society. A similar fate was suffered by Africans or anyone black anywhere in the world. To a lesser degree, new migrants like the Poles, Italians, Portuguese and other Europeans, especially after World War II had their own share of racist scars. But from day one, I never experienced any of the racism and very quickly became part of the journo community, Sydney life in general and made some life long friends along the way. My work place, the Sydney Morning Herald, was off a short but quite a historical street at the southern end of the CBD called Broadway which morphed into one of th...

As a Goan boy growing up in Kenya in the 1950s, I saw football change and history being made While the writer battled adolescence and longed for the most beautiful girl in the world, history was being reshaped at World Cups. By Hartman de Souza I knew there was something called the World Cup courtesy an eccentric mother who kick-started a thick scrap book dedicated to football, to get me to start reading the newspaper. I was ten years old, and lived in Mombasa, on the coast of Kenya. In it, my mother had gummed various newspaper and magazine articles and features on football. In 1960 when she handed it to me to continue, the last entry was her exhaustive coverage of the World Cup in Sweden in 1958, with reports of every one of the qualifying rounds and all the international friendly matches leading up to it. The very last clippings were news-items and commentaries talking about the next World Cup in Chile, in just two years’ time. My tasks were cut out. Armed with a ...