'Crop circle' in Indonesian rice paddy

Thousands of curious onlookers are flocking to central Indonesia to look at a "crop circle" in a rice field following rumors it was formed by a UFO.
Though clearly sculptured by humans it looks like an intricately designed flower the 70-yard-wide (70-meter-wide) circle has drawn so much attention that police have blocked off the area with yellow tape.

The lost tribe

The lost tribeMichael Dreaver has listened patiently for 45 minutes on a muggy afternoon in Ranui. The ranchslider is open, assisted by an electric fan battling for breeze, in the cramped pensioner flat. It's a lost cause. The air doesn't budge and everyone sits quietly steaming.

Rare Eskimo shaman mask sells for record-breaking $2.5 million

Rare Eskimo shaman mask sells for record-breaking $2.5 millionFacial protrusions that look like hands; dangling sticks and feathers; a wide and mischievous grin: It's no wonder this rare Eskimo shaman's mask was so precious to the Surrealists.

And now a price has been put on the value of the Donati Studio Mask -- it was sold for over $2.5 million Thursday to a U.S. collector.

Spirited First Nations play cause for celebration

Spirited First Nations play cause for celebrationLong ago, in the history of the Anishnaabe First Nation, when a boy was born who danced "in the way of a woman," he was raised as an agokwe (ag oo-kway), meaning "wise woman" or "Two-Spirited." He was deemed special and was ranked in status along with medicine men. Each of the First Nations had a word for this phenomenon--a boy who had within him both "the spirit of a man and the spirit of a woman--fire and ice."

Read more: http://www.vancourier.com/life/Spirited+First+Nations+play+cause+celebration/4144388/story.html#ixzz1Bj6FrmQs

Hands-on trek back in time

Hands-on trek back in timeJust beyond the Blue Mountains railway lies a portal to the Dreamtime, if you're prepared to open your mind, writes Lance Richardson.

"THIS is what we'll be avoiding today," Evan Yanna Muru says, waving his hand. A freight train rumbles past. Fragments of sandstone crumble in the maw of a bulldozer as another road is constructed by Faulconbridge station. There is a colonial-era cemetery, carefully manicured. And then there is the bush. As we find our unmarked entrance and the drone of machinery is replaced by cicadas, a sense of symbolism settles over what was, moments before, just another stop on the railway.