Saturday 17 December 2005

up, up and away


Tomorrow I fly out and start heading towards the home base. It’s not better or worse, but things will certainly be different there. I won’t be saying “mornin’” to everyone I pass when I walk around (and I’ll have to pay more attention to how I dress). When I stand in line at the bank, strangers won’t start up conversations with me (and there won’t be 20 people ahead of me in the line). When it gets after 5pm and I’m still walking around, I won’t be worried about safety. I will be able to buy fresh milk. To catch a train. To drink water from the tap and not worry about typhoid. I will miss the fresh, cheap fruit and veg in Goroka – but there will be such a variety of other foods available that maybe I won’t after all. People with red lips will be wearing lipstick, rather than chewing buai. There will be bookshops.

guard dog


"guard dog" is actually the name of the security company who guard the place where I live - I'm not being rude. Sohi (above) is one of the security guards at the place i've been housesitting; he doesn’t work for the firm, he's private. The bow was fixed by last night (look; it's a big 'un), and so he put on the uniform and proudly posed for a few shots.


in action

Thursday 15 December 2005


last night and tonight = farewell dinners (for people leaving permanently) and early chistmas ones too. it's fun, and great to spend the time with such good people. goodbyes are part of it all, but don't define it. yet at work and outside of it, my mind is half elsewhere: it's just 3 sleeps till i leave too (impermanently).

Tuesday 13 December 2005

blips drips and strips

Tonight I asked Sohi if I could take his photo to show my family. He was very excited. “Wait Robyn wait!” he cried over his shoulder as he ran downstairs. “Yu takim piksa long mi na bow and arrow. Yu showim gutpla security!”

He came back five minutes later with a bow about 6ft tall and a bundle of spears. He carefully enacted what he would do if someone tried to climb into the garden:

“I would hide in a very dark place, and pull back the arrow like this, and he wouldn’t know I was there, and then I would shoot this spear and he wouldn’t be able to run, and I would run upstairs and knock on your door Robyn and you would call the police” (shit! I think. I have no idea what the police number is. Phone book is 5 years out of date. I don’t think there is a 000 here. must make effort to be more security conscious.)

Unfortunately, I had forgotten to bring my camera after all (but don’t worry; will get a photo when he’s back at work on Friday.) Or maybe that’s not so unfortunate, as the third or fourth time he pulled back the bow, it broke (“bush materials” he muttered and shook his head. He gets what looks like a long tough strip of bark from the market.). I asked him if he has ever had to shoot a person, or even an animal, but um he hasn’t. Still, it does look impressive when it works.

There’s also the weird edge added by his outfit. I’d seen it before, but assumed that it was for warmth at night. Now I learn that it is his own security uniform: it is what he wears, he tells me, when he is on guard. It’s a green and black chequered dressing gown, one of those full body types in wool that your dad or grandpa might have. Or, in Goroka, your security guard.

[As I type, I can hear someone doing some chopping. It’s one of the two security guards; he is making an axe handle. This afternoon, walking home from work, a old woman came up to me and we said “apinun” (afternoon) and we shook hands. (I didn’t know her.) She grinned broadly at this interaction, and then hugged me; and hugged me again; and finally let me go with a farewell “ah, nice”. Oh, to touch the white meri! I have no idea of what this might mean to her, but it made her smile so that was good. It's not a rule, but: some days PNG will make you smile.]

Monday 12 December 2005


I hear it's been pretty hot in Adelaide. Up here in the land of the clouds, things don't vary so much. It's clear around noon most days, and clouds are around before and after. You need a blanket or two at night (fact: only expats have quilts), and jeans and a shirt will become your daily uniform. Now and then you remember, though, that it's beautiful.

I had a chat to one of the guards tonight, So-hi (I have no idea about this spelling; this is phonetic). He is a great guy, and is turning into a bit of a mate. We chat most evenings. Lately he keeps bringing up my departure - it's only for two weeks, and I'll be back for a year. But he talks about it like he's touching a sore tooth. I said tonight that I was really looking forward to going, seeing my wantoks etc, and he almost cried (guys here can be quite senitmental; crying occurs frequently, and publicly), saying that he and the other guard have been talking about me and gosh they are really going to miss me and x y z. It was really sweet - but then I am a sucker (I have also just made them another cake). "It's only two weeks!" I say. "Ah, but, mi feeling sori tru" he sighs. Hm; I am a complete sucker. I am moved.

Sunday 11 December 2005

in da g


It was a mate's birthday during the week, and the real excuse for the party last night. I bought him a birthday cake from the supermarket. There were five to choose from, mostly with Christmas wishes. This one had a birthday message which was irresistible, given my friend is an Aussie bloke who turned 29: "I am, 2 days old, please, love me! Carry me like a honey moon and kisses me as a Baby Bird!!"

Saturday 10 December 2005

goroka. 10.12.05.


tonight we party like... it's my birthday again!

Friday 9 December 2005

andy you're a star (in nobody's eyes, but mine)

well enough of seriousness; after considering poverty and the ills of the world, i turned on the tv and "tommy lee goes to college" was on! i am out of touch - hadn't heard of this gem before. (and it was even actually err amusing to watch him flunk out of the school band - "you said you were a muso! bigshot wanker".)

i posted about new tribes recently, a weird and secretive american mission outside of Goroka. just after I posted it, I came across their yearbook for 2002. (still can't work out how it slipped into my bag). Inside are shots of the staff (all [named] whiteskins, barring one: "maintenance" is pngian), wills of the year 12 students ("Firstly, I give my life and those in it to God. With my focus on the cross, I can walk on water..."), and shots of the crrrrrazy antics they get up to. Like mud wrestling (left) and sticking people in big pots (right). We were laughing at this but then my friend asked - wait - look closely at that second picture - is that blood in the bottom left?

Thursday 8 December 2005

comparative sociology

So png – like any other place – has it’s problems. There are many things it has going for it, however. These two are phrased negatively, but – given the poverty and lack of useful employment here – are very important:

- hardcore drugs are so minimal as to be non-significant. I have never, ever heard of any up in the EHP; I’m sure they appear (in minimal quantities) PoM, Lae, maybe somewhere coastal or along the border – but they don’t make it here. There is tons of dope, but nothing stronger. Dealers aren’t big men.
- guns are old. Yeah, I know: they still kill. But people aren’t wearing night goggles and hiding from tracer ammo.


I watched “City of God” last night, and the doco on Rio de Janeiro’s pavelas (slums/settlements/ghettos). It’s actually a relief to think of PNG in comparison; individually people here are so good (and comparatively society is positively innocent); the problems related to drugs are not entrenched, crime is not the only option, not necessarily trans-generational, not so inevitable. Nor so organised. Guns are an issue, but it must be said, a background issue – a political issue (RdeJ’s police storehouse of confiscated guns! Unbelievable. And what was it the chief of police said? “We have modern armament that even Libya doesn’t have.” This is serious. “People are used to it. They conform to it.”).

But it also reinforced what I’ve been thinking about for a while: forget cultural differences. The big obstacle that is ever-increasing is poverty, linked with class. In so many areas in the world, “gaps” between classes are widening. That is where crime – drugs – guns step in.

[Oh my god! We’re having an earthquake! Must save houseowner’s ming vases - ]

Wednesday 7 December 2005


when i was down in lae i bought some of my favourtie foods - these packet meals are amazing. you don't have to do much at all: put a silver pouch in boiling water for 5mins, that's it. and what's inside the pouch actually comes out looking exactly like what's on the cover! veg and all. and yet there are no artificialities whatsoever. how do they do it? i don't know. this time i actually read the back: the food "technology" is developed by the Defence Food Research Lab in the Ministry of Defence in India. i've had space food before, but not defence food. impressed.

Monday 5 December 2005

must be the season of the witch


When I woke up this morning I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water – and with my poor bare feet I stepped on a giant bug. Disgusting squishing crunch and then goo sensation.
***
Last week at work, we finished the production of a book we have been working on for six months. It isn’t a good one – accepted before I arrived – but it is concerned with sanguma in the Highlands. When we finally sent the book off to the printers in India, I felt relived: enough of witchcraft and sorcery! But today we had a bit of a tok save at work about it. The issue, it seems, is getting worse up here, rather than better. By which I mean more people are being accused and killed for practising sanguma.

Two weeks ago in a nearby village (Kamilaki) three women were killed and their bodies dumped in the Kamilaki river. One was a human rights activist; her family is educated – she has a few brothers and worked and paid for their school fees; one went on to join the provincial government, another filmed for the local news for awhile. It is rumoured that the brothers were involved in the killings.

It is alarming, to say the least. Once you have been accused of practicing, there is little you can do to clear your name; mud sticks. In Morobe I know men have been accused – usually the situation relates to power struggles – but I don’t know that many men have been victims in the Highlands; generally it’s those without a secure position in the community: single women, old men or women, maybe a young teenager, but typically a widow, who might be seen as a drain on resources when resources are scarce. It is pretty frightening that women with powerful positions are being affected; this is a patriarchal stronghold anyway, and there are so few women in public roles that this type of loss reverberates very negatively. It also indicates that things are getting worse within communities; what people value, what makes them feel secure, is shrinking.

It’s not easy to get a hold on PNG. From Australian foreign policy prats, PNG is considered either a “failing state” – or a failed one. I don’t think either are true – and anyway Australians have an excellent historical record for getting PNG wrong – like about 95% of the time. So we’ll watch and see. This is your faithful correspondent, reporting live, as it happens, from Goroka, Papua New Guinea…
Last Friday I took a trip with a friend (and fellow aust volunteer) to check out the status of the building of a footbridge in the EHP.

The site was down on the backside of Goroka, but to get there, we had to travel down the Highway to Ramu – leaving the province – and then curve back up in a V-shaped route. There is no possible direct route, so where we ended up was only perhaps two hours drive from Gka as the crow flies; about 6 hours drive by road.

Past Ramu, we kept travelling once the nice bitumen road ended. We drove along a track for an hour; the Ramu river has flooded and the going was slow and precarious at times. But with some neat driving from Silas we had no troubles.

Silas however hadn’t been down here before. We were travelling down in two cars, and ours was leading for most of the way. Finally Silas pulled over and told the other car to lead; he didn’t know where this bridge was. But – no one in the other car knew its location either! We had been driving for five hours, the road was getting less and less like a road and we were quite isolated – not passing any villages anymore. There was an added bit of tension in the air because if it rained the water would rise and we wouldn’t be able to make it out: we’d be stuck in this swamp land.

But we couldn’t just turn around; talk about losing face. So we kept driving. The foliage grew thicker and thicker – how long had it been since cars had last driven down here?. It was beautiful; but eventually Silas, who had been silent for a long while, said: “this is turning into jungle; I don’t think we can drive much further.” He was right.


we pushed our way through the grasses.

of course immediately after this pronouncement we rounded a bend and there was the bridge.

site inspection

this is the "old" footbridge.

Sunday 4 December 2005

doing the highlands highway


drove down it on friday, exploring the back of the eastern highlands province via ramu; then further down to lae; and from there we drove the stretch back to gka today. i love the highlands highway; if you ever come to png you must try and travel along it. good road, and you pass through really fantastic landscapes.

although lae has bigger shops with more stuff (foreign newspapers and mags! tru), leaving the humid morobe, it was delicious to come back to our highlands' air: fresh, cool and clean.

Thursday 1 December 2005


one thing i don't tire of is the reciprocal deal with food: i still love receiving food from people's gardens as an exchange for something i have done - or not; something i am expected to do in the future...yeah it carries it's risks (you want me to do/host/allow what???), but you can also play the game in return. and, from my background, it's something i value: bananas you grew! or peas or mangoes or ginger or peanuts or pawpaw or even the old sweet potatoes. and because i'm still foreign to this game, it often comes as an unexpected gift: "i was thinking of you and you're a gutpela meri and here are some bananas i grew; they are for you". it's a little gift, but enough for me, and moving in its gesture.

Wednesday 30 November 2005

don't panic


fence to road where they rrrrioted

Early this evening there was a riot! Right on the road of my compound! You could hear the sound of a big crowd – it must have been huge, because although they were moving down the street the noise didn’t cease for a long time: it was a steady flow. People were shouting, roaring even, and banging on fences. Well that’s what I thought. My neighbour thought it was gun shots.

But she has malaria at the moment. I was mucking around in the kitchen and it was only after about 10 minutes of this racket that I decided to peer out of the window (couldn’t see a thing). That was when she flung open the door of her flat and ran out into the main hall way and dead locked the front door. Turning and backing up against it, she asked me, flushed and sweating, if I’d heard those gun shots. I am sure that what we heard wasn’t that bad, but did have to concede that it wasn’t really just a bang on a fence; more like something big and heavy ramming the fence.

Still, the fence on our side of the street is still standing. And it’s pouring with rain now, so everyone would have calmed down and gone home. (When there are serious tribal fights, there are strict rules: you only fight between say 8am and 4pm; you’ve got to have a bit of time to prepare, and outside of those times it’s too hard to see and therefore not fair.)

I shouldn’t laugh at tonight’s eruption, but even as it was happening it was hard to take seriously; it’s pathetic and inexcusable, but sometimes you’re just not in the mood for dramatic melees. This time last year I know there were big riots in town; shops closed down and people stayed indoors for at least three days. The police and mobile squad could do nothing. The shell service station near where I live was raided and robbed, and mobs of people roamed the streets attacking businesses owned by people from a certain province – it was a cross-provincial fight. It’ll be interesting to hear tomorrow what stories start going around about this one.

All that I know, there’s nothing here to run from

and on another note: a friend once told me that everyone (all the whiteskins that is) comes to PNG for a reason – a personal reason, not just work. I wasn’t so sure; what about just for an adventure, pure and simple? But with time I’ve come around to her way of thinking. And I think that I’ve sorted out what motivated me to come here. So for the past few weeks I’ve been wondering whether or not to see out my contract here; 12 months felt like enough. But … something’s clicked and I’m happy now to be coming back here next year, after a little break. There are cool people around socially and at work, who I look forward to spending time with. And more than this: now that I’ve got my own things worked out, I am not sure what might be possible next. And that’s exciting.


me and the beautiful girls i work with. i had forgotten just how pink i am.

Tuesday 29 November 2005


A few months ago, when I went up to Chuave and explored some caves. Coming out, this fellow was casually hanging out on this ledge. You couldn’t spot how he’d managed to climb there – and the awkward thing was, now that he’d made it up there, he couldn’t get down. There were about a hundred people – locals – down below, watching him, calling out to him, teasing. Lots and lots of laughter; what a fool. He was too embarrassed to try and get down while everyone was watching him, and so after about half an hour of waiting, we left. Some people stuck around to shout out scathing remarks, but everyone continued to laugh and laugh; such an idiot.

Laughing at others is a great unifier here; it really brings people together. It might surprise westerners’ sensibilities now and then, but that just shows how silly they are.

A week and a half ago it was International Children’s Day. Out in a big village area in the EHP, celebrations were held; over 500 kids were involved, and certainly plenty of adults. I saw some footage of what went on: as well as adults shouting at kids with megaphones and making the bored kids march (yay! Go kids, this day is just for you), there was a theatre performance by some teenagers. It was about an adopted kid who was mistreated by his wantoks (extended family); no one paid much attention to his suffering and he ended up hanging himself. Rather morbid perhaps for a day celebrating kids, but you get the message.

What was great was the audience’s reaction: as the noose tightened and the child ended his own life, everyone roared with laughter: “what a stupid kid! Hahahah”. Ah, great play; great times.

You get used to this, and often you’ll find yourself laughing along too – if not at the same incident, then at the craziness of it all. Another similar, though less public, incident happened at work today. We received a letter written in very poor English [below]. This is not something I would typically make fun of – partly out of sensitivity to others, but partly because poor English is par for the course: it’s a second or third language here – but it was a bit mad and turned into an occasion of great entertainment for my co-workers (all PNGian). We were all gathered together and then someone read it out aloud, and then someone put on a funny voice and read it out again – and I must admit I was in stiches. Everyone was full of scorn at this poorly written letter – even those who can’t write at all; they all joined together in laughing at – in shaming – this person. (I think similar situations are slightly different in intent in Australia; they feel different, anyway, but I can’t quite put my finger on the distinction.)

And just because the letter is insane – involves religion; warning – I include it below. (Minus the little circles at the top of the “i”s)

Dearr, Self Study in Papua New Guinea [we have no self study at work, but the po box was correct in the address]

I am Moses ex-grade six for 1985 I want to wish you from this college of self study secretariate because I kneedy to wrote my note to you to know more about all your information about youth world, and adult education, THE WORK OF SOLVING DIFFERENT PROBLEMS, I need you will accurate me for some books to read and study and if some courses to up grading my education please can you brought me a material for study…Once upon a time the heavenly father the creator of all things give me a vision and told me that I must because in this scripture (Mt 6:33) speak to me about seek ye first the kingdom of god and all his righteousnesses and then all every things shall added unto you. that’s all I have drops of words from me to let you know And I hope that you will actually read this sentence or this passage and may you will help me please quickly return it back to me.

Yours sincerely, moses

Monday 28 November 2005

i find it kind of funny, i find it kind of sad


So: in the last couple of months, living here has become normal and not a wild and crazy mad-cap adventure. The days pass by pleasantly enough, but my mind is showing signs of behaving like a rat in a cage, running for hours on its little wheel: I've started to go a bit puzzle-mad.

I've gone through crazes with crosswords; card games; suduko; jigsaw puzzles; and now this guess-words-and-phrases-from-pictures thing someone has given me from the Independent. Mental stimulation needed! Movies, books, conversations, crappy newspapers...these are all good, but not enough; I am attuned to a more complex technological (if this is the word) environment. Whilst it is great to have plenty of time to think, I am not very good at emptying the mind and practicing zen; I need to process information, to interpret, sort, analyse, react. I need mental activity! Even if it is just illusory.

Saturday 26 November 2005

where the streets have no name

Coming to live in a different culture, you go through several broad stages. Let us use an Australian coming to PNG as our example. The first stage is one of excitement: everything is new and fascinating; it’s all so different, such unchartered territory; there’s so much to think about, to learn. (This wantok system; the physical and character differences of people from different provinces; social classes; sanguma; etc. All epitomised in singsings.)

The second is one of recognition: you start to notice underlying similarities with the place you came from. Things aren’t so different after all: problems might appear in a different manner, but concerns are the same the world over, you think (love and land are two examples). Maybe it's unchartered territory, but it's all familiar.

Once you’ve got those stages out of the way – and everyone goes through them, we’re not so unique as we’d like to think – things become more challenging. You’re no longer so naïve as to find everything amazing, nor do you have that feeling of knowing everything; now you’re aware that cultural differences are real, and not necessarily fascinating.

And this is where people’s responses divide: you either love PNG, loathe it, or you learn to live with it. I’m going down the last path.

Thursday 24 November 2005

use the force



Doing some research on the rpngc (royal png constab.) today and came across a list of recent campaigns they had run. Why do police always pick such corny names for their operations? It’s lame to laugh them – but irresistible, imagining a group of your local boys in uniform sitting around, chewing buai, thinking it over. “How about…the pukpuk [crocodile] exercise?” – you can just picture a guy from Sepik with a gleam in his eyes.

The “paradise exercise” – that’s just boring. But then – now this one’s definately from a highlander – there was the wantok warrior exercise! Yeah! Forceful and culturally proud, and … ambiguous: are they the goodies or the baddies?

And this one must have come from someone who joined the force after having watched cop shows on tv: the operation of the night falcon. a real classic.


(there was also a recent article headed “HIV/AIDS blamed for high turnover”, commenting on the decline in police numbers 5100 to 4700. Given the title, you start to reflect soberly on AIDS in PNG, shake your head … and then you read that three or maybe four police officers have died from AIDS, oh, over the last couple of years. The rest of the officers - ah, that would be the other 396 - have actually been sacked and/or made redundant.)

Wednesday 23 November 2005

dry lightning


peas from a friend's garden; not connected to anything, just...showing you what peas look like here

I mentioned the other day pren blong miDulcie (my friend with the sweet name), and that there was a story about her. Work today is frustrating; so to avoid it, and thoughts like what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-in-this-office-for-another-14-months, or maybe-I-can-escape-in-July, I will write about this. It’s an average example of the culture here – of daily life of village people – of people in what might be like the working class – of conflict – of value – well, of all of these elements tangled up together, as in any true story.

Dulcie works at a supermarket, 7am-7pm, six days a week. Before she was hired she was asked to sign a contract absolving her employers (Philippinos) of any responsibility for her safety as she makes her way to and from work. Told verbally by the boss that if she didn’t sign then she wouldn’t get work, she signed. Her village is a good one hour’s walk out of town, so she rises and leaves her three kids and her husband before dawn; and she leaves work in the dark and walks back home. Man b’long Dulcie ingot wok (her husband doesn’t work).

In the last couple of months there’s been a reasonable amount of petty crime in town – to me most visible when involving whiteskins, but I’ve heard a number of things involving locals too. I think it feels a bit better now, but I’m just lucky; it’s not improving for some of my friends. And Dulcie’s been worried and warning me about stuff for a while. She doesn’t feel safe walking into work.

And then two weeks ago, at 6.45am, she was grabbed by a man on her way into work. She was almost at work; he was drunk and grabbed her on a hillside and pulled her away with him. She is a tough girly and resisted and shouted. There weren’t many people around to hear, and he pulled out his bush knife, so she stopped resisting and went with him. He gripped her by the arm and led her up into town, to the Genoka settlement. Here he stopped to take a piss – and she grabbed her opportunity and ran. As he bellowed and stumbled after her, she darted towards a cluster of huts, running around and hiding in one. He continued to shout out: “Meri blong mi! Stop that woman, she’s my wife!”.

There was a couple in the haus she ran into first; hearing the guy’s calls and peering out and recognising him, they let her hide only until he went past: then she had to get out. She scrambled to another haus and here was luckier. Two teenage girls hid her under a bed. The man came back, going from haus to haus, seeking her out, telling everyone that she was his wife and threatening them to reveal her hiding spot. But these girls denied seeing her; they hid her well, and after some time had passed and it was safe, she crawled out and went and reported the incident to the police. Then reported it to work, and then went home.

She told her husband, and later that day he and a few others from the village went in search of this guy. The guy had brought shame on Dulcie, and that had to be responded to. Finding him in the settlement, they beat him. One hit his head hard, and blood trickled out of his ear. Then they left him.

The guy gathered some wantoks and went to the local hospital. He got a medical report and was prescribed some medicine – both of which cost money. And several days later he made a claim against Dulcie in his village court (she’s from a different area and has her own village court). He wanted 100kina compensation from her, for her actions had resulted in his injury and medical costs: because of the stories she told her husband, her husband and others beat him up.

So Dulcie was called to appear before village court. She turned up with her wantoks, and he was there with his. But the air was unsettled and they moved to the police station where police were present and could calm things down if necessary. Dulcie submitted her counterclaim – he abducted her and it was clear from her point of view that he wanted to rape her – and demanded her own compensation of 100kina. There was a standoff: the guy raised his claim, he wanted more money from her; and he was incensed at the idea of having to pay compensation to her. But the police sided with Duclie, and warned him that if it went to a higher level court, he’d have to pay a lot, lot more. They suggested that he pay her 50kina. But he was disgusted, and refused to relinquish his own claim: he required compensation.

In the end, with police acting as mediators, it was agreed that Dulcie would pay him 100kina and he would pay her 50kina. They had five days to come up with the money. The guy and his wantoks were very unhappy about having to pay a toya (cent) towards Dulcie. When she and her wantoks left, they walked through the Peace Park (where village court usually takes place, and the place in town that is officially designated – and generally respected – as a peaceful place). Here one of his female wantoks started shouting out at Dulcie and when Dulcie replied, this woman punched Duclie in the face. Dulcie weren’t havin’ n’ne of it, and punched her right back. At this stage people intervened – this was the peace park after all – and they moved off down towards the markets. The fight erupted again – and crowds instantly formed; it’s the same the world over, girl fight girl fight! – but was again interrupted.

And that’s how things stand at the moment. Dulcie doesn’t feel safe going to work, and so never went back. And the police recommended that she stays in her village for a while and doesn’t come into town; it’s not safe for her around here now. So she’s decided to stay at home until early next year, when things will have calmed down. I hope so. It’s a risky situation; here it is seen that the guy has been shamed. And as such he – and his wantoks, in some circumstances – are likely to retaliate, to re-establish position. Violence and more money. If there are rapes or killings, a clan war could start.

And all this I see as a catastrophe and terrible and complex etc. etc. But it matters who’s “seeing”. Dulcie is quite matter of fact about it. No drama about living in the village full time for a while; they will survive off food from the gardens. The physical threat is scary but if she sticks to the rules and doesn’t come into town, this guy should stick to his and she should be safe. Compensation demands and payments might not be ideally awarded but the money will be found somehow, because they are part of life, and indeed make sense of it.

Whilst I see drama, to her it’s daily life. She accepts my concern, but I can see – even as I say “oh be careful”, “sori tru!” – that my reaction in turn seems a bit dramatic to her.

What seems to matter to her, as she tells this to me, is not my reaction. What matters – I think – is the telling of the story, to me. Telling her story to someone like me has a value to her. And of course, being able to listen to someone like her telling her story, has its value to me.

Ah yep; just an average convoluted interaction about the world your correspondent is trying to forge a life in.

Tuesday 22 November 2005

stay human


Look at that - it's like a vision from the future, looking from here: skysrapers! lights! big screen in public square! all rather dazzling. like watching 'somersault' - at first it was...intensely Australian; that landscape, those lives. But then before you know it you're straight back in there and there's no need to think too much about it. And this photo - after I first glance at it, I read the caption - what is playing in Federation Square? Australia's Funniest Home Videos. Oh yeah, that's right; it's not a vision of the future at all. It's more real than that.

I'm looking forward to going home.

mmm...meat

Working on a book that we're soon to send off to the printers –
It's taken over 6months so things are getting almost unbearable, having to read the same stuff again and again and again –
Half is interesting (ethnographies of highlands' communities' sanguma and kumo (witchcraft-ish) practices and beliefs) -
But half I'd recommend burning (Christian biblical interpretation of said ethnographies) –
Luckily I'm here to "build capacity" so I simply have to delegate, sorry –
But anyway, going through the almost-last look today reading some subheadings still made me laugh–
Just add exclamation marks and blurry photos and you've got something from your average tabloid –:

  • sanguma can take the appearance of an animal
  • pig returns an arrow
  • pig turns into woman
  • girl inherits bat from her mother
  • lights that travel
  • body stays put, spirit travels
  • insatiable appetite for meat

Monday 21 November 2005

friday night poker


it took me a few hours - almost had to ask for a loan, things were pretty dire at one stage - and maybe someone had to go to bed and drinks had to keep flowing - but hey! check out those chips! stacked - eventually - in my favour.

a secret migration

Yesterday I took a drive with a few friends of mine who are lucky enough to have a brand-spanking-new 4WD. We drove up to Mt Gahavisuka; it used to be a national park and now, well, although there is no more government funding it still seems to be a national park. Driving up there is no average Sunday drive: the road is dirt, with a lot of clay-based sections. The car tipped and bounced and shook as we crept along crevices and slid across rivulets; we needed those extra gears.

When we reached the top we got out and went hiking down and then around the small mount. The paths were well kept, and though it was muddy – and here and there there were landslides obscuring the way – it was a pretty and pleasant walk. It looked like a young-ish rainforest, with lots of pandanus tress, vines and moss covering skinny tall trunks; creeks and little waterfalls were running with clear and cold water. We didn’t see any animals and we could hear some birds but not many; I imagine most wildlife is killed for food. We didn’t know where the paths were going, and when the path branched it always felt a bit funny to make a choice – we didn’t know which track led where, and anyway we were just out for a walk, it didn’t matter.

Eventually we came to a small clearing. There was a cement square, making either a grave or a memorial; carved into the square was a name – Grainger – and birth and death dates (1930s – 1989). Nothing more, in this remote spot in what felt like the middle of a forest.

Continuing on, we climbed upwards and came to another clearing. Here were the remnants of a building’s framework. It was an old, abandoned orchid farm. It must have once been beautiful: you could make out the carefully arranged path that skirted the area, and you could peer through the overgrowth and catch glimpses of a view of the Eastern Highlands and Chimbu mountains. There were a few orchids remaining, and four were in flower. Scattered around were tags of thin metal, carved into which were the names of the places the orchids had come from, and the height at which they grew (it varied from 1500 – 2200m; we were at about 2000m). The dog tags of the lost and fallen orchids.

I don’t know anything about the orchid farm, or Grainger, or whether they were connected. It was a suitable place, though, for that orchid thief from Adaptation. Suitably beautiful and exotic, and weird. Perhaps if we knew something – anything – about orchids, we might have made a rare find. As it was, we poked around, and moved on.

Friday 18 November 2005

she cries your name

i have a pngian friend named dulcie, who's younger than me but has 3 kids; sometimes she drops by to hang out and tell stories. Lately she's been in a bit of trouble - but that's another tale; what i wanted to mention today was her visit at lunch time. she brought her little baby - it's about six months old, and this one is a cutie, with big black eyes and long eyelashes and the softest skin imaginable. i couldn't remember the baby's name - and i asked dulcie - and dulcie said, "She doesn't have one yet. You can name her. You pick her name and you give it to her." Oh, the temptation!

But ultimately I declined. If it had been a boy, there are a couple of names I would have suggested. But I couldn't think of any good girl ones - and it's a big responsibility, being the namer: you're implicated in the child's future (someone was telling me that they were once asked for uni fees; an extreme example, but you get the picture). (This morning too someone was telling me that they'd met a child called Einstein. You do get some funny names here; lots of biblical ones - I know 3 guys called Moses - and 1950s anglo ones: I work with Theresa, Isabella, Priscilla, Laurencia, Bernadette...)

Wednesday 16 November 2005

don't always dream for what you want

Don’t always dream for what you want
(I love to watch good dancers talk)

(sleepy jacksons)

Luti, the beautiful haus meri, called me at work today. I had a few meetings on and didn’t get her message for several hours. When I called back, she sounded a bit alarmed and told me that I’d forgotten to turn the tv off this morning before leaving for work. Not quite understanding what the problem was, I asked her if she was alright – and she explained that she didn’t know how to turn it off.

Now my tok pisin ain’t too good; my comprehension is ok but making myself comprehended is another matter. Bearable in person, with body language (i.e. mi laikim yu…just kidding, just kidding), but over the phone it’s a nightmare. How to suggest looking at the bottom front of the tv, to the right, there should be a big button there – press it and the tv should turn off (I could have simply tried: yu lukim long tv na bipela button; yu pushim), or, failing that, to switch it off at the powerpoint or to pull out the cord from the powerboard (I should have simply said: yu rauism rope bilong em). Instead words crumbled and turned to dust in my mouth and I stuttered and spat them out one by one (“tv…pushim…button…off”). There was an embarrassed silence on the other end; I could hear her thinking: what is this, a crazy? Luckily a buddy was around and I got some help and we got where we needed to get.

Yu save nau? I continued to stumble. Yu makim tv go pinis?

And then Luti said thankyou very much I understand but don’t want to turn it off now; I want to watch it. I very nearly lost control and burst out laughing, but managed to just splutter a little down the line and say that sounded good, hanging out and watching tv.

Monday 14 November 2005

at the bottom of everything

In Indonesia we stopped for one afternoon and night in Sentani. Sentani is a satellite town, really; it is home to Jayapura’s airport. But it is also known because it sits on one edge of Danau Sentani (Lake Sentani).

[there are pictures but not loading today; will post later; imagine shot of lake here]

I had forgotten until last night that I knew a (true) story about European desire and repression that was set on this lake. In the early years of the last century, European missionaries entered the Sentani area and set to work saving souls. Part of this work involved the destruction of images that locals had carved and painted: obscene images of naked bodies and sacrilegious images of pagan idols and false gods.

At Sentani, missionaries threw almost anything with imagery into the lake. Spears, prows from canoes, masks, drums, wooden bowls, sculptures, figurines: all were drowned.

And remained so for years. Until, in the late 1920s, the Surrealists in France became fascinated with the art of Oceania. One man named Jacques Viot, a member of the set, travelled to the Pacific from Paris and collected work to sell back in Europe (he had debts to pay, and dealing with primitives was a low-cost, high-return venture). He came to Lake Sentani, hiring locals to paddle out onto the lake, dive down and collect and surface what they could find. If what they produced pleased him, he would pay them; if not it was discarded again.

He collected a huge haul, which was packed and shipped back to France. A lot of it remains in private collections today, but the National Gallery of Australia is one public place that has a few items. As I said, this is a European story, and I do not know a local version. Did people salvage a few key items without the missionaries’ knowledge? Did they surrender their images willingly, or was there a struggle? (How did they make everything sink, and stay down?) Did they convert, make Christian images? What happened in the time after their iconography was sent to that watery grave? What happens on an abstract level to a community without its imaginings? And on a practical level: what did people do, who had once carved and painted? Could they still see and understand the world, without their reference points? What did they think of the lake? And of this Frenchman who came and watched and selected and took away.

*

The lake is huge. Imagine several lakes joined together, and it’s still probably bigger. Late in the afternoon we set out to visit its shores; according to the map there was a track which would take us there in no time, but as we walked it appeared that a new aircraft hanger was being built right where the track ought to be. So we detoured, through a rubbish dump and a settlement (lots of attention; who are these crazy whites, why would anyone walk this way) and a bit of swampy bushland, before hitting a road.

[imagine shot of road, bit of tropical jungle on side]

A road that, ahem, would have been the direct route; it turned out that we didn’t need to detour at all, that you could just walk through the airfield (we saw kids running on the strip seconds before a big plane took off). Oh well; wouldn’t want to be one of those know-it-all, successful, irritating travellers anyway.

[imagine shot of airfield]

Sunday 13 November 2005

a hard day's night



Last night was a final farewell dinner for a friend who flew out to Australia today. She's another volunteer, and has been here for almost 2 years. First bottle of wine is a screwtop - easy. But the second has a cork, which is a little more challenging, for we are in a house without a bottle opener. Neighbours are all out, so it is a knife and pliers job.

But that isn't the hard part. At 11, tired and tipsy, it is time to go home. One person is dropping three of us off. We scramble into the car, sit, wait, and wait. Nothing happens, there's not a sound as the keys are turned. The battery's dead. I only live 5mins walk away but it's not safe enough to walk, so we all scramble out of the car again and go back inside; what had been a dinner party is now a sleepover.

And i'm getting to the hard part. See, in the picture, those tiles? That's the floor. There aren't enough beds, so this is what I get to sleep on (ok, so there is a thin matt covering the tiles, but they remain hard). And for some reason the hostess has given away all her blankets, so I get a sheet to ward off the cold. It is a long night, a very long night, as I carefully roll from one position to another, trying not to notice that the floor is making my very bones ache, trying not to register the thumping bass from the nightclub up the road.

Of course it's hilarious to the person leaving. What a lark! What a way to end a stint in PNG. For me it's not so funny. Today I am full of sneezes. A night not to be repeated.

Saturday 12 November 2005

easy rider

Biak, Indo, from the bike.

You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other ... Plans are deliberately indefinite, more to travel than to arrive anywhere ... Secondary roads are preferred ... We want to make good time, but for us now this is measured with emphasis on "good" rather than "time" ... Twisting hilly roads are long in terms of seconds but are much more enjoyable on a cycle ... roads where ... kids wave to you when you ride by, where people look from their porches to see who it is, where when you stop to ask directions or information the answer tends to be longer than you want rather than short, where people ask where you're from and how long you've been riding.

(Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance)


Wednesday 9 November 2005

BBC PNG reports...

In case you’ve been a bit lax lately and may have forgotten, here are some signs by which you know you’re in a honky tonk land*:
*just as I wrote this I saw a news update claiming that one of the terrorist suspects arrested the other day in Sydney was a bit-part actor on Home and Away. Up the ante Australia! There I was thinking that this place was crazy.
-an MP announces in Parliament that he knows a price has been put out for his head. And when he names the exact price, and names – in Parliament – the person who’s going to pay the price. (And when you find out who the MP is and your reaction is, “oh, him again”.)

-ID cards are being introduced in town, for the employed. This is geared towards the settlement areas: this way, if the police go into the settlements and people can't produce an ID card showing that they are employed, then they can be "moved on". This is set to start happening from 14th, and we've (my whole workplace) been warned to be careful from now on in; might get a bit messy at first...of course everyone's in agreement that it is the settlers who cause all the trouble. (i remain hesitant.)

-a friend gets her application for a private telephone line approved. And it's been 8months wait. And: that's just approved. Nothing else is scheduled to happen for a while.

-the MP for a Highlands province who was re-elected in 2002 in a wildly undemocratic manner (see Tanim) announces he’s running for re-election in 2007. And is willing to run for the position of Prime Minister. And says so happily in front of the current PM – not to cause any division, but … to let the PM know that if and when he wants to retire, well there’s someone around to take his place. (btw: the pc – one of the daily newspapers here – has already decided who to push for the next election; had suspected it for a while but it’s clear that it’s philemon. Who isn’t a bad choice.)

- a PNG farmer who has heard about potential bird flu cases in indo and Australia kills all of his chickens. Just in case.

- talking to someone you realise that the existence of New Tribes has become normal.

New Tribes: an intro

15 minutes drive out of Goroka you’ll find the New Tribes compound. It’s a large mission (own airstrip, own school) full of bible-bashing Americans. If you go to the local hotel in Goroka on Saturdays you’ll see their young hanging out at the pool, bunches of kids under 23 (all whiteskins, barring one or two afro americans, with loud, brash US accents). They do not – it’s a rule – date pngians (though they will employ them). (right = jcd's image; ta)

They believe that once the word of god is spread amongst every single “tribe” in the world, god will come to earth again and take all the saved to heaven – yep, to form the new tribe. They have been in trouble globally for their attitudes towards indigenous peoples: they preach, they’re not interested in listening to understand. Christianity can’t merge with tribal life: it’s one or the other. And so local practices are condemned, classed as backward, pagan, “dark”: traditions are interpreted as the reason why tribes are “behind” and why societies are having troubles. Traditions are evil and stupid; people who follow them invite punishment from God. Whereas a tribe may have had multiple spirits – ranging from good to bad, helpful to cheeky to dangerous – New Tribes preach of only Evil and God. (This reads as a small thing but is quite a radical shift, dramatically changing people’s understanding of the world and of forces within it; of their relationships to place, to the dead; and of course to daily life – weather, food availability, sickness etc.)

New Tribes also get into trouble for their practices: they go specifically to tribes who have not been “missionised” already. These places are extremely remote, so they often build airstrips, bring in planes with their missionaries – who need supplies and so in come businessmen, in come brands (these kids are americans, no mistake, and coke is it, and so on and so on). “Cultural destruction” is a term thrown around with “new tribes”. (see here, for example).

These are some of their ideas about mission, anyway. What they really do in their compound up here no one knows, no one. I’ve been asking all over town for months. There are a lot of them, and they have plenty of money. There are rumours (from locals and expats) that they are reporting to the CIA – but given that they do not mix with locals, and that this is the highlands we’re talking about (what could they possibly report back on that would be of interest to the CIA?), this is rather unlikely. These rumours may be related to their religious surveillance tactics: they encourage locals to inform on others when they don’t attend church, for instance. However, I can confirm that NT have just been kicked out of Venezuela because the government there believes that they are spies. Maybe there’s something to it; maybe not. But we like to think so.

Monday 7 November 2005

my weekend: on the trek

Little … is a friend of mine and it will be said that I put Little up to write the letter – as a matter of fact I knew nothing whatever about it, and, had I known, would have advised against it.” (Murray)*

Monday November 07 2005

Goroka

My Dear Friends

I owe you many apologies for not writing sooner. I have just returned from observing the Markham River and Finisterre slopes from the air. Finisterre’s hills are beautiful soft ripples, peaking and flowing like crumples in your doona. At one stage we had an excellent view of the river’s course along a slightly rising plain; three extensive plateaus were visible. There is little water at the moment and rather than merging as a single course it spreads, divides and branches; it was as if we were looking a the silvery silhouettes of trees.

I arrived here this morning after a very early start: 5:15am alarm. Daylight came at last, but by then I was at Lae’s mainland airport, a nice two hours before departure. Only one fellow passenger on board, though plenty of those damnable baby chickens again. Counted over 35 of boxes of them being loaded into the back of our cabin. (A curious thing: I am rather inclined to think this airline is a chicken courier first and passenger transport second.) For my own part, I am not quite so mad about the smell.

This flight came about due to an unplanned jaunt down to Lae. A chap was driving down on Saturday and offered to take me along. I have had enough of a fixed camp myself and would sooner be on the trek again, so I accepted eagerly. He is a very good sort, and a great pal of mine ’tho I do not often see him; clever and interesting and not a bit superior.

Lae is growing to be a town and one has to wear more clothes and entertain more than in the old days of flannel shirts and tinned meat. Saturday evening we went to a farewell bash for a friend returning to Australia. It was quite fun. The chums gave us tea and offered us pumpkins and other roast veg along with great curries and plenty of other drinks. The company was good; people here are interesting and keep you going all the time. Still, it must be said that this is a curious country with queer inhabitants both brown and white: also met a middle-aged version of Napoleon Dynamite (it tested the limits of my self-control not to laugh at how totally socially inept he was. That sounds bad I know, but – this really was Napoleon).

Yesterday was a day of recovery. Best that could be said was that I remained alive and out of gaol, and not yet bankrupt. Time passed with movies and a snooze.

I hope that in my next letter I shall be able to tell you that we are en route to Capetown – though really it’s not Capetown I’d like to be journeying towards today; perhaps … Brunei.

I trust that you can read this scrawl and hope that I have not bored you to extinction over my trip. With love to Z and the children –

Believe me, yours affectionately

L

*Bold, italics = paraphrasing J.H. Murray, colonial administrator of New Guinea 1904 – 1940ish. Selected Letters of Hubert Murray. Ed. F. West. OUP 1970.

Tuesday 1 November 2005

brightsides



caught up with friends who have just been back to australia - and hearing about it, was like -

for the first time -

hearing about visiting narapela kantri -

can't talk. eating.

mango season has hit. as someone who buys mangoes by the box from markets in australia, this is my time. good small ones are 50t (25cents), long oval ones are about 1.50; today i took a bag and filled it.

Sunday 30 October 2005

before Armstrong took his steps, she'd been there with friends*

My current things wish list:

A space pen.
Paul C. Fisher’s design: it’s used on US and Russian space missions (in fact, has been used on all of their missions since 1967). And it writes upside down, underwater , at extreme temps and even on a greasy surface. I really want one.

A case.
Actually a pelican protector case, medium sized. It is guaranteed forever: unbreakable, watertight, dustproof [take that!]; it is resistant to [unnamed] chemicals and is corrosion proof. Even has an “automatic purge valve for quick equalization after changes in atmospheric pressure”.

A book.
John Berger’s Here is Where We Meet.


It looks like a list for a journey into outer space: a pen to write essays on extraordinary travels (or “help me”; or “I come in peace”); a case to carry a camera and a notebook, and any specimens gathered (that will survive the rigours of space and the journey back to Earth, even if we crash land); and a book (even in space it’s Sunday afternoon sometimes).

*international colouring contest

Friday 28 October 2005

friday on my mind

tonight's plan is to catchup with a mate who's been out playing anthropologist in the bush for 6 weeks. we're going to the (one) hotel, and tonight = ladies night. it's a new thing: the receptionists and waitresses have to wear these bilum dresses - kind of like knitted dresses - they are png designed - and they chat to you like 1920s club hostesses, while a man in the corner sings out of tune and plays a casio organ. it is actually quite entertaining and i can't wait. (but as i write this i wonder, am i starting to...go feral?) (no answers required)

and most cocktails are (well, dodgy and) K4 ($2aussie) for the ladies.
*

you could be good and have fruit or toast for breakfast...or rhuburb crumble german cake thing!

Thursday 27 October 2005

play it again, sam


friends are leaving town soon; the season of go pinis is starting. in a few months there'll be a different crew around; it is sad, but also exciting - new things with new people, feeling that kick of independence again. on your own, having to work it.
***
went to book club tongiht, for reading of 'summer of the 17th doll': bit of an ocker play (remember 'the one day of the year', yr 11 english), guessing from the '70s - yet surprisingly funny to read aloud. and fun, to play with voices.

Wednesday 26 October 2005

stranger danger

In PNG there are some really bad, locally made tv adverts. Seriously bad. (The chook that talks and the person who squawks, for instance; I think it’s an ad for flour or rice; you cringe in sympathy for the [human] actors, every time: that squawk and the way they have to flap their elbows, so humiliating…The girls who “become women” by using x hair gel, and go out to…an almost deserted room to play pool. The music in the background…etc etc.)

This morning, yes when I was watching morning tv (am now back at home and without a television, so will go back to serious highbrow reading habits; tomorrow it is Henry James over breakfast), I saw an older ad which made me pause. It is for PNG tourism, and this time the quality was pretty good; it was the message that surprised. “Make visitors feel welcome!” a voice-over intoned as a mixed-race couple waited at a hotel reception desk. “Give them a smile!” I’d seen it before but today its emphasis struck me: the tourism industry’s intent here is not on selling PNG to tourists, but on selling tourists to Papua New Guineans.

Stranger-danger attitudes are common – less about whiteskins (everyone knows they’re strange, and they are) than about people from other districts and provinces. It’s not easy travelling here, but with a bit of work from both sides – tourists and locals – it is rewarding and surprising, and often unique.

(And this picture is not really related, other than that it depicts objects that might sell to tourists: beautiful green beetles threaded on to wires over a metre long. Why and what for and from where, I don’t know; but they look cool.)


house i have been housesitting comes with a haus meri. i love her. not only is she fun to watch tv with (always cries out when people are fighting or shouting), but ... she cleans everything and washes and irons all my clothes - and i don't even have to ask! maybe it's bad, but i love it.

do you see what i see?


no bars on the windows! almost everywhere else in town has bars - big or small, pretty or ugly. (this is the housesitting place again. i will now stop posting about it)

Friday 21 October 2005

welcome to the house of fun

i am housesitting. i started last night. and it is lux: not only do i have a whole house to lounge around in, but there is a stereo (not music from the computer!) - tv (with remote!) - cable tv - (BBC WORLD!!!) - dvd player - shelves of dvds to pick from (no vcds!) - plus loads of books - and the guardian. there is so much to do.

last night i sat for an hour, channel hopping, staring at movies and books; so much choice, i was paralysed. eventually settled for 'ghost in the shell'. and then there was a blackout.

Thursday 20 October 2005

elongates - retracts - spins out again

Lido village and Vanimo town were tense. An Engan husband and wife, living in Vanimo for the mister’s job (snr public servant), were having trouble. She’d heard that he’d been having an affair with a local woman, a girl from Lido. The missus decided to pay a visit to Lido; there she had an argument with villagers for allowing a girl from their village to have an affair with her husband.

A few days later, on Thursday 1 Sept, her brother JKK is spotted in Vanimo and attacked by Lido villagers. He runs away – is chased – runs to court house for refuge – is beaten. (Controversially, three plainclothes policemen were at the court house and saw what happened, but didn’t intervene.) The beating stops, but a relative of the Lido girl hits the Engan man with a plank. The blow gets him on the side of the head, and it is fatal.

The relative soon surrenders to the police, and a type of calm settles. But it now turns into a story in the press. The following week things about the town start to appear: "armed villagers were patrolling the town freely", it is reported: Lido villagers with high powered arms (later denied by police); "not the first time Lido villagers have attacked other Papua New Guineans living and working in town", it is claimed. Police are too friendly with the Lido villagers, it is asserted. Businesses fear rioting.

A petition is presented to the provincial authorities by the town’s Highlander community. They are calling for an investigation into the event, and for the policemen involved to be fired or transferred. Also in this list is a demand for compensation for the killing of the Enga man. They want K200,000 cash, 20 pigs, 20 cassowaries, 10 cows, and an additional K25,000 for "repatriation and funeral expenses".

Lido villagers in general stay away from town. Police go to Lido, and with the help of the village leaders, they apprehend nine "suspects" and question them. They charge the relative who had surrendered (the media do not report that he surrendered, but this is what a Lido villager asserts). It is alleged that there is a ringleader amongst the nine, a former policeman. With the questioning of these nine, tension rises again.

On Tuesday 6, police publicly issue an ultimatum: they will not tolerate protests or marches about this issue. (If you want to protest, you have to get approval from police and give seven days’ notice.) Police call for Lido and Highlanders leaders to sit down and talk. (This itself is a bit of a sticky comment, because it comes from the police chief who has also just called for motorists not to stop if raskols try and hold them up, but to run them down.)

But town remains agitated and on Wednesday businesses do not open. Highlanders – ones living locally, and friends and family of JKK who have travelled up to Vanimo – march through the streets and present a compensation petition to the provincial government. This petition demands that the police chief and his entire force be removed; the other demands have increased a little:

K200,000 cash
20 pigs (K120,000 value)
Cassowaries (K20,000 value)
10 cows (K15,000 value)
K16,000 to repatriate body from V to Hagen, plus K5,000 to transport it to Wabag
K25,000 funeral expenses

The provincial governor announced that the government would not be paying the compensation - because it had not been budgeted for, and (oh yeah) it would breach the financial regulations act.

It's around this point that you realise the event has turned into story. The truth elongates - retracts - and spins out again. Maybe one one Lido villager was involved, after all; maybe JKK was attacked because earlier a Wabag man had pulled a bush knife on the Lido girl. What occurred, and why, changes according to who is talking.
**
On the way back from Indonesia, we stayed in Lido village - quite unaware of what had been going on. Here we met Frank: a friendly and exceptional conversationalist. (He is my oral source; other findings have been gleaned from archival research, most notably involving PNG’s two daily rags.) Naively, I asked him "so what was this about Engans and riots recently?", and he told us a story.

Now I know that, like the other versions, what he spoke of contained his own sympathies. As with Biak, I wish that I had been more aware of the context I was walking through, and talking about.

Wednesday 19 October 2005

we arrived in lido village as innocents

Having spent the morning travelling from Indonesia, Lido was a respite. No motorbikes, no buses, no cars. No horns, no shouts. No pollution. On the coast just west of Vanimo, it is a stereotypical tropical village: coconut palms, white sandy beaches, the sea, the sea; houses on stilts built almost on the shore itself, and bunches of giggly, gangly, beautiful kids.



There is a surf club here, and they’re working to build up the name of the area as a surfing destination. (The season hadn’t quite started yet, so can’t report on the waves. But the founder of Tracks has surfed there, and commented favourably in the guest book.) It’s near the equator and it’s hot. When we arrive it’s mid-afternoon; there’s almost no one around. People rest at this time; older women go out and fish. At first glance, there is no one at home at the place we want to stay. We wait underneath the house, in the cooler shade. But we’re not alone: in a bilum hanging from a rafter, there’s a chubby baby, fast asleep.

After about twenty minutes, the baby’s mother returns and we organise the accommodation. Then it’s time for a paddle down at the beach, and a bunch of kids take us on a guided tour of the village: we meet a man carving a boat, a group of men playing canasta (keeping score in a thick, neatly ruled book), see the kids’ school, the teachers’ accommodation, the cemetery, the surfing beach, the church. We explain who we’re staying with to people we meet along the way, so that they can place us; although they are used to visiting surfers, strangers are rare in this strong community. Life is simple, and gains its strength through relationships and traditions. If you wanted to build a house, marry, fish, make gardens and love, raise a few pikaninnies, know your neighbours, swim and watch the sun set and rise every day, well this could be the place to do it.

But things aren’t always as they seem. Back soon with a tale of true crime.

Sunday 16 October 2005

we're hungry, beware of our appetite

Addictions. I have a few.

1. sudoko! i am even buying the local rag every day to do it. and when there is no paper, well, err, you can kind of, find some online, if you're so inclinded...

2. Change. I get bored easily; bit too easily, need to mature a bit and settle. I felt a bit disconnected from my life in Goroka this past week. Boredom has set in – this is no longer a crazy adventure, but normal, life. I was crotchety; I wanted adventures. But last night, having dinner with friends, suddenly what had made me cross earlier – normal, life – was touching and good. I felt connected to where I was and what I was doing again. (It’s odd that feelings like that are out of your control; sometimes you just have to ride them out, they go when they are ready, not under your orders.) Given the chance, I would have my bags packed within an hour (maybe less) and head off travelling for a few years. But actually I have over a year to pack them, and it wouldn’t be much fun to spend so long preparing for the pack.

3. Cigars; those little thin cigarette-style ones (if you can't smoke cigarettes then you've gotta get your fix from somewhere). British newspapers (Guardian has sudoko too). Meandering around online. Talking along with tricky and martine when listening to maxinquaye.

Saturday 15 October 2005

one fish , two fish

it was on a late afternoon wander on the first day in biak, that we stumbled across the fish markets.

it was perfect timing, with the day's catch just coming in.

the haul included some big ones.


look! piles of those little flashes of silver you swim with

Friday 14 October 2005

if you go down to the woods today...


well, if you cheat and go to the markets, there are not only strawberries but blackberries! for only 1kina (50c) a punnet! to celebrate i have bought cheap bubbles, and sent german girl out for ice cream. love the friday.

Thursday 13 October 2005

smooth operators

skanky hotel, Jayapura

Vanimo, PNG: “Do you sell any rupiah?” we ask at the hotel reception desk. “No” is the reply, one we’re used to by now. We had intended to buy some rupiah before crossing the border – to pay for a taxi to Jayapura on the other side (and the LazyPerson’s travel guide warns a bribe at the Indo border office is required, and when reporting to Immigrasi in Jayapura. However, turns out that at neither point are under-the-table, back-of-the-passport, nudge-nudge-wink-wink deals necessary.).

We asked at the bank, but they don’t sell it. We asked at the moneychanger named in the travel guide – down back of X Trading, a supermarket, we walk up flight of stairs, knock on door, door opens a crack and we get peered at. But they’ve sold out. We go one to ask at every supermarket in town. And even ask at the car dealership. Nowhere has any rp.

On the morning of border-crossing, before going to the Indonesian consulate to collect visas, we ask at the hotel. It’s pretty much the last place in town to try. But again ‘no’. We walk on to the consulate. Car drives up, beeps and pulls over. Driver looks Philippino; no one I know. But he says something to us; I don’t catch it, but I can see two fat bundles of rupiah next to him on the passenger seat.

Half on, half off the road, he whips out a calculator (brand new, price tag still stuck on) and as other cars pass we make a deal. 3000rp for 1kina. Doesn’t vary if we buy more/less; this is a fixed rate, “good price”. We swap cash and he counts it all out, carefully and visibly.

“Are you from X Trading?” J asks. How did he find us? “No – X Forest Products” he replies. I stifle horrified laughter. XFP are well-known for screwing over local communities and raping the environment. Under various business names, they own most of the town. Including our hotel (…join the dots). Here we are, doing roadside deals with the devil.

With pretty visas and wads of rp, we’re set to go, and wait for the pmv we’d arranged earlier to take us up to the border (it’s a 45min drive away; a red pmv makes the trip every day). Unfortunately, we’ve been stood up, and so instead of a 10kina trip in a bus we hire an old, decrepit yellow taxi for the bargain price of 100kina. Still, it gets us there and the drive is good; I love the tropics.

On the Indo side, our taxi is a new Toyota kiang. On comfy (plastic-covered) seats we zoom down and around to Jayapura, listening to Boney M of all things, loud (in my brand new guide book bhasa I’d asked driver to play some music, and this is what we got).

An hour and a half later, we’re in a city! An Asian city! Motorbikes and cars; traffic again! Music. Mixes of different people. KFC. Mosques. Dirty. Busy.

Perhaps a bit stunned by it all, we make idiot travel faux pas: booking into the first room we see. (It looks like the Chunking Mansions in Chunking Express: too many men squeezed into single rooms, scheming.)

In the middle of the night I sit up in terror as I hear rats scuttling in the wall behind my head.

Wednesday 12 October 2005

it's a rant, a rave


The facing island, a mortal blue, beckons, intensifies, vanishes.
- Peter Rose

I was cross yesterday. (Today's been much better and I am able to grin at it all again. Even though our power's out this arvo. What a lark!) If I had been able to whinge online, this is what it might have sounded like:

Nothing works – no net access, no water; not just for an afternoon, but for 36 hours. Everything is grating: work, length of the day, and town. Went into town for lunch and got grabbed by some idiot as I was buying a paper. Well “grabbed” is a bit nice: my arm was encircled by an iron claw. That refused to open. The owner of the claw wasn’t after my bag or anything, just out roaming with the intention to harm. He wouldn’t let go of me. I wasn’t in the mood, but he was stronger, and the bastard left a bruise. Also read (in said paper) that a politician wants Australians out of the country, claiming that they/we are making PNG a terrorist target.

It’s all little stuff that I’d usually laugh about, but still, some days it gets you down. My defences relaxed in Indonesia – which is one of the best things about being on holidays; that and laughing so much. Coming back is just a pain. Ah, holidays. When other worlds beckon, intensify, vanish.
**
update: went to a dinner party tonight, where 4 out of 6 white females have been robbed/hassled in the past two weeks; whiteskins are thin on the ground really, so that's actually a pretty telling stat. What to make of it though, depends on who you talk to. Princess Anne visited Moresby last week/week before, and the local mobile squad went down as reinforcement; they are still not back because they have not yet been paid for doing so; this is oneof the reasons given for the crime stuff. it'll pass; must simply act safe and lay low.

Biak Story # 7

Humour me and read on as I tell you a little story, with a little history, set in Biak.

Gua Japeng / Gua Biseng

Japanese Caves / Grandmother’s Cave; one guide book gave us the former, the other gave a more folky version, citing a rumour about an old woman who lived in the caves prior to WWII.

It is hot when we arrive at the caves. They’re open now for tourists. We got a quick ride up on ojeks (hired motorbikes); it’s sometime approaching midday, in that hot, bright, so-close-to-the-equator sun. Once we’ve paid our entrance fees and given our mark to another guest book, it’s a relief to start walking along the pathway, into the shade.

The path leads into a tropical forest. We move through a soft green light; trees soar upwards, while vines, ferns and plants grow thickly at a more pedestrian level. The path we walk on is about a metre wide, old cement covered with lichen; we pad gently along.

Gua Japeng is just outside of Biak Kota (the island’s biggest town). The caves were of strategic importance in WWII: up at this entrance, they overlook Biak’s airstrip (built during the war); they also tunnel down south-eastwards to the coast, coming out near Bosnik.

On 27 May 1944, American forces landed on the beaches near Bosnik. Japanese soldiers were hidden in the nearby hills and caves, and although the Americans landed easily, they had a weak position and initially had trouble advancing beyond the beach area. It wasn’t until 22 July that they could claim that Japanese resistance had been overcome.

When defeat was perceived, thousands of the Japanese soldiers withdrew and/or hid in the caves. They refused to surrender. Allies threw drums of petrol and hand grenades down the caves’ entrances. The Japanese – maybe six thousand – were incinerated.

(thanks to JCD for pics)

Sometime in the past fifty years, the Japanese government built a memorial at the cave area. Priests cremated the bones that had been gathered.

Today, the memorial is now behind a sunny blue picket fence. The Japanese had installed stone seats so that people could sit and gaze in at the caves’ entrance, but I couldn’t see them and I think they’ve moved. There is, however, a big box that the guide will open for you; inside are bones.

They looked freshly unearthed to me, and whose they are – well, it’s more fun not knowing.

“Gua Japeng”, of course, refers to the Japanese soldiers who lived and died in the caves. It is the term the locals all use, and the sign at the caves’ site. Forget this grandmother business; history is less mediocre, and people are not so weak. Listen to the stories they tell you; there’s mettle in there. Let me tell you another one.


Biak Story # 12 Biak Bloody Biak


On 1 July 1971, a declaration of independence was made by Papuans – independence from Indonesian rule (I’m referring here to West Papuans; not sure what the correct term is). The date remains an unofficial anniversary, marked each year by Papuans; usually marked with caution, for fear of arrest.

In Biak, in 1998, it was different: there was a big public demonstration.* Hundreds of the OPM – Organisasi Papua Merdeka (Free West Papua Movement) – gathered at Biak Kota’s water tower and raised an independence flag. They were public. They were armed, with knives and spears. Local church leaders convinced them to disarm, but the crowd refused to disperse. People stayed there for days.

On 3 July, police and the ABRI – Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Inodnesian Armed Forces) – came down with batons and charged the crowd, who resisted and fought back. 13 soldiers were injured; I’m not sure about the Papuans. The OPM stayed.

Two days later, the police set down a deadline: people had to disperse by 5pm. The crowd didn’t budge; people set in for another night. Additional armed forces were flown in, and marines assembled (Biak Kota is a port town, and two navy frigates were in). At 5:30am on 6 July the crowd was attached. Many people were still asleep.

The official forces open fire, killing 20 Papuans and injuring 141. People were shot in their legs, a “prearranged strategy to inflict maximum terror. The shooting was indiscriminate” (Elmslie 241). Houses in the area were searched and suspected OPM sympathisers were shot on sight.

The people caught were assembled at the water tower. They were forced to lie down; once down, they were rifle-whipped and kicked. They were forced to crawl down to the wharf, and lie back again, now in the fierce sun. For two hours they had to lie as soldiers marched on their faces and stomachs, and beat them. Then they were ordered to crawl to the town jail.

Another 139 people were loaded onto the two naval frigates. This included women and children. The frigates went out to sea. Women were stripped and raped. People were slaughtered. Bodies were chopped into pieces and put in bags; others were thrown overboard.

A few kids jumped and swam, saving their lives. One man hid in a barrel and survived. No one else was seen again, alive.

In the following days, bodies washed up on Biak’s shores, or were snarled in fishing nets.

The Indonesian military later reported that one person was killed and two were missing. They explained the bodies that were turning up as being those of victims of a tsunami, which occurred at least a week later (I’m not sure if it was even that same year).


I only read about this later, after I’d left Biak, so I didn’t pay attention to a water tower, if I passed it. In fact, I hardly saw any Papuans in Biak Kota. It was different outside of the town; there were Papuans in the inner parts of the island. On the coastal areas we moved through, though, most people were mixed race; more lighter shades of brown than black. And the kids everywhere were mixed. I’d never read a scrap of information about Bloody Biak. It was someone JCD spoke to who gave the clue; I’m sure that story will appear over here some time soon; will link properly when it does.


*IRIAN JAYA UNDER THE GUN: Jim Elmslie. 2002. Uni of Hawai’i Press.