overexposed but you get the idea

markets i shop at

under the sea

a lagatoi (a trading vessel). beautiful.

one account of the origin of the lagatoi has Edai Siabo being taken by a sea eel down under the ocean, where he is taught how to make a lagatoi. when he resurfaced and returned to land, he began to construct one, and later made the first hiri (traditing journey to the gulf of papua)

tombstones

I don't want my tombstone to read: I never owned a network. (T. Turner)
**

I had a look at Unitech’s library last week. The map collection area was busy (the latest complete detailed set of maps for png i've found are from 1979, so i'm always on the look out for anything more recent. and the elderly ones are always fascinating), so I went into the Rare Books room. The door was ajar and I knocked, but there was no one there. I hovered for a moment, no one came, so I pushed it open and went inside. I peered at the shelves, and, well, once I’d realised the floor outside was uncovered and I’d be able to hear anyone approaching, I gave in to temptation and actually touched, opened and perused the rare books.

I was gentle of course.

The collection was erratic – some things were not at all rare, and some books were falling apart, but not at all valuable; and there seemed to be no real order. But there were some interesting finds, like this (shoved – carefully no doubt – under a bottom shelf).

**

Later that afternoon we left and drove back to Goroka. We stopped at almost all of the roadside markets for coconut and buai (this was after the second stop; by the time darkness fell, the back of the ute was full. By then of course we were driving up hills at a snail’s pace, trying to conserve petrol by coasting down the hills without power, hoping – against logic – that the next petrol station would be open…But we eventually did get back so let’s not revisit those long and slow hours.)

**
Today was the first day in weeks that I have had free, without plans. Nice. I didn’t do all the things I ought to have done, but I did read “Tuesdays with morrie”, another secondhand find. I tried not to read it all in one go, but couldn’t help it. It made me (ok; cry a little bit &) laugh.

“You hate that word, don’t you? “Spiritual.” You think it’s touchy-feely stuff.”

Well, I said…

Kainantu - Yonki - Markets - Unitech - Tropfest...

On the way down, before Yonki, we passed through Kainantu. Now this is a serious cowboy town: “think guns – drugs – prostitutes – violence – general lawlessness: these are the main industries here” I was told. No aid agencies will place people here, despite the need; it’s not safe enough. I started to laugh but looked around and stopped.

There are Japanese people around at the moment, building a bridge (with Japanese funds); they have rented out the whole Kainantu lodge for their stay. The lodge is on the edge of town, on top of a hill; our driver – who is from an area about half an hour’s drive away – says the lodge is the place nearest to safe in the area. And the smile he says this with starts to form but stops.

Someone needed a toilet break in Kainantu, so we veered left, up to the lodge. (One of the Japanese workers was outside, leaning against a post and smoking. Imagine his time: in daylight working on the bridge; before too late in the day leaving and driving – probably being driven, safer – back up to this compound, to sit, watch tv, smoke, maybe he drinks too, perhaps cards if the other workers are companionable…weekends must be long. He didn’t look like a reader. Maybe when he was new here he tried to go out one night, but if he had, that had stopped. “Bored” is too lively an expression to describe how he looked, “resigned” too hopeful. He looked hard; his eyes were lifeless. “A second, a day, a month, what’s the difference?” he seemed to ask. “It’s all dead time here.”)

Then we got back on the highway and drove to a pottery/tourist shop. It’s a little past the main drag, and sells beautiful, lamb’s wool, woven rugs (very expensive), t-shirts, laplaps, keyrings, pig tusk earrings (they look like coral, very cool; I might buy some another day – just to say, hey, check out these pig tusks) and the pottery: mainly coffee/tea sets( mugs and milk and sugar containers). They are done in a style that reminds me a lot of the ceramic things in mum’s kitchen when I was growing up. It’s very earthy and swirly and brown; I can see their appeal. There are bowls and plates too: they call out for pate or tuna mornay and nana maskouri (sorry; sp) or ‘bridge over troubled water’ playing softly in the background…maybe a glass of mulled wine…

[typical car view of hills as rumpled as discarded clothes; look at that jagged zigzag on top]

After that stop we continue to coast down the hill, stopping for a few touristy shots of the view. It is great, actually, to feel like a tourist: to escape the routine and your own well-worn routes. (This is my personal challenge: to stay put in one place for two years; to stick around when the novelty wears off and things are routine. I find moving on much easier, and tempting. And I’m still not sure that there’s anything wrong with that – conceptually, I mean; I know I’ve signed a contract and I’ll see it out. But otherwise: why not keep moving? Why stay in one spot? There are costs I know – but there are also benefits. And there’s so much to see, so many places to go, people to meet…)

At the bottom of Kassam Pass, we stop at a shanty town; someone says its called Sodom and Gomorrah, and says here is where you’ll find ladies of the night; can this be true? Whether it is or not, one of me mates buys a six pack and heck it’s noon now: I have a beer.

An hour later, you notice the houses are overtly different: whereas in the highlands there are low-to-the-ground round or rectangular houses, thatched rooves, woven walls, few if any windows (all to keep the heat in), down here everything is up on stilts, things woven or placed together much more loosely (to catch a breeze). And the air smells differently.

we stop at a roadside market at about 9 Mile and buy some pawpaw (I buy some on the way back too; the stuff they sell in Goroka is an outrage, to me: pale yellow coloured and people eat it crunchy, like eating raw pumpkin! Seriously wrong. I buy one but have a chat in my broken tok pisin with the woman selling them, and she – no doubt out of pity – gives me two more; they’re giant-sized. I think tomorrow I’ll have to give some away: despite my desire to, I just don’t think I can eat them all). Down here there’s loads and loads of buai (betel nut) for sale (nothing like in the highlands, where it doesn’t grow and you buy each individually; down here you buy it buy the bunch, take a bag).

When we left it was cold, and has remained cool for most of the way. Now, in the outer districts of Lae, it’s muggy and still. Cardigan comes off. Without any trouble we find our way to Unitech and my AVI buddy’s place; I’m surprised that it’s so easily navigable – guess I’m still not quite sure what to expect from a PNG “city”.

It’s nice to get out of the car and stretch. Although I enjoyed the ride, towards the end – as ever – you get bored and just want to arrive. J’s home which is a relief and so out we tumble. I have a nice afternoon checking out where he’s been; and then all of a sudden it’s night and people are arriving and we have to scoff down dinner and turn on smiles to meet and greet strangers and I have a few beers and then the tropfest screening begins.

It’s a fun night, lots of strange people to talk to (the Japanese pilot who at the end of the night – pink eyes! Pat maybe you’re right about your asian gene – laughs and laughs and says “oh, mi cheeeeeeep drunk”; the girl who’s lived here for 12 years and went to school in Canada with Spike from Degrassi (! “You fucked Tessa Campinelli?!”); the missionary who couldn’t swim 2 years ago and now loves to dive and doesn’t want to go back to Switzerland; the extra who’s had a great convo with Sharon Stone and who appears in the final film of the night, a PNG “Imaginary Life” scenario; the guy who asks me about the flintstones’ house, but doesn’t seem to know that it is me who posted that photo…I don’t enlighten him). The films are amusing to watch in a crowd (there are at least 30 people crammed into the room; I crouch on the stair well and get a good view), and the party continues afterwards. I meet someone who’s a wantok with a Gemran workmate (society is small; this happens a lot – you meet someone who knows someone you know…), ladies getting drunk and confessional on red wine (I am still a kid, no lady, and stick with me beers) and lads are lads (“I’d like to answer your question but I am totally fucked”) and cigars get passed around…

(average stubbie holder here = paint can; usually with paint label still on it; this one's a bit more special, and i noticed the owner was pretty proud of it)

(cue some clever rolling stones ref)

This weekend just past, I made my first trip down to Lae. On Friday I had a few drinks and pizza with some goroka volunteers. I stayed at a friend’s; she works for the provincial govt and needed to go down to lae for a few work tasks, and so had managed to pull together a car and a driver and some workmates; me and two others were catching a lift down with them.

Sat morning we’re expecting a lift at 7 and get up early; the lift arrives about 7.30 but at 7 an english guy we know pops round with newspapers: he wants us to get him some frozen fishfingers from down in lae, and without an esky newspaper is the answer to the transportation issue. (We’d discussed this over drinks last night, but he although it sounded like he was joking – 200kina of fish fingers! – he was obviously in earnest.)

So along comes the car and we head off, stopping at the markets to get some veg (given the different climates and sizes, markets differ in each place). The car and driver zoom off to pick up someone else, and we end up waiting 30 minutes for them to reappear; they do, to tell us this is not the car we will leave in, we’ve gotta wait for this other one to turn up. So we wait – a man pauses and hovers and introduces himself and is willing to take us around Goroka (this has stopped happening so much; people know me now, and I don’t usually look so backpackerish I presume – well, I like to think). This time we say no thanks, we know the place and we’re heading down to Lae; he’s disappointed, and more so when he learns we’re not from Switzerland but Australia. Anyway, eventually we see the car – it drives past – it drives past again – and it does another loop. Finally someone runs out into the road and the driver sees us and pulls in. We jump in and go to pick up the others; by now we’re at least an hour and a half later than expected, and they don’t seem to be waiting for us; so we drive around checking out the shops – no whiteskins there – before heading back and – hurray – this time they’re answering our shouts from the gate. They leap in the back; we’ve got a twin cab and I’ve got a seat in the back. I’m not fussed either way, but it turns out l’m lucky to be sitting where I am: by the time we arrive in lae, one of the tray-riders – a blondie – has had her hair turn a grey-ish black after hours of exposure to the diesel fumes. Ahahahaha; she was distressed and I’m not laughing at the distress, just that…it was a little bit amusing…

So off we drove. I love driving and being driven – or really, it’s movement itself, in its varied forms. Travelling, moving out from what you know and into places you haven’t encountered before. Whether it’s near your everyday or veering wildly away from it, that feeling is addictive. And its poetics: moving not just literally, but in other ways. I know it’s a tired metaphor, but any traveller knows how true it is, how good it is, and how it doesn’t get old. It’s what keeps you alive.

And we went through spectacular country, winding through the highlands for a few hours until we reached ramu and then the plains of markham valley. With the window down you can breathe in as much as you like of smell so specific to the highlands: sweet grasses, almost like loosen, but with something else. So good. And it wasn’t just the smell: everything looked very pretty, covered in a pinkish-purple flowering grass. (‘may grass’, because it flowers only at this time of year)

This is a view of the Yonki dam which you drive past/over; it’s a hydro dam (is this the term?), and provides power for most of PNG’s electricity I think.

and this is view down towards ramu (kassam pass); it’s bigger than this, but I haven’t yet stuck the shots together. The road down from here is made up of tight, tight turns: abandon any idea of a “hairpin” turn, these are “devils’ elbows” (in Adelaide there used to be one on the old south eastern freeway – just the one, then the road would straighten out. Here you slow down and make it round the one, only to be faced with another, and another, and another. The mountains ripple, and there’s no other way down.)

(the smoke you can see is from ramu sugar)

bright lights + a big city

back today from lae. went down for a tropfest 2005 screening. this shot however is nothing to do with that: the electric-lightbulb wonder takes pride of place on the uni of technology's library. i have a shot too of the whole building; the cross is even more bizarre in context

well it's not a close up but you can see it. more stuff later. i am tired and all i can smell are diesel fumes; the highway air, kids, is thick with it (it can even turn blonde hair black. seriously.)

yesterday boxes arrived from our printer in india; inside were hard copies of the first publication i've worked on here. still grinning about it. not that there's time for pause - am in various stages of editing a few books; soliciting/collecting articles for another one and for a journal; nearing the end of that damn therapy manual and doing other web pieces. and i need to start writing an introductory essay too; soon, soon. I know it's not very cool nowadays to enjoy work - you're supposed to focus on leisure and lifestyle, hang out to leave work and have quality self-time; but that's just not my thing. i love to work. and you know what, i have a really good job.

i'm working on a therapy manual at the moment; wildly irritating. all of this talk of "supression is a cancer", "play helps you surface buried emotions", "discover your inner strength, the real you" makes me go grrr. especially because it's all american jingoism, imported for png kids (yes, children). don't be reconciled, i want to write; avoid closure! throw this book away, it has nothing for you! worry about tb, not emotional cancers!

love and other catastrophes

Today: rediscovered faye wong cd; ah, chinese pop...and i bought these white jeans for 10 toya!!! (that's 5 aust cents). white jeans! deliciously unpractical. and a cowboy-ish shirt for 20 toya. if only i'd brought my rm williams boots over..

**

One of my friends turned 31 recently. She wants to get married; she’s been busy getting a degree and working, and now is worried – all her friends got married and had kids years ago; of her siblings (there are 6, she’s second eldest), she’s the only one who’s single and the only female without a child. After her birthday, she spoke to her family and her uncles are now on the look out: they’re going to find her 3 or 4 possible matches. Then, she’s decided, she’ll meet them, and ask them to spend time (living with) her parents, to make sure that they’ll all get along. And then she will marry.

(I asked someone else: do you think this will work? Will the uncles find suitable men? And will they in turn be willing to marry this girl? ‘Oh yes’ was the surprised response; of course.)

Another friend of mine, who’s still a young ‘un at 25, plans to get married when she’s 30. Her husband, she’s told me several times, must be able to climb a tree and kill a pig. She’s an urban girl, as are her parents, but they all spend holidays back in the village. And in the village a man would be laughed all the way back to the city if he couldn’t climb a tree or kill a pig.

She has a boyfriend (who can do both), but there was trouble recently when another girl made her move on him. She did this by moving from Moresby up to Rabaul, where he lives; she befriended his mother, spent time gardening with her (this is important; forget the boy, to get in you must get in with his parents), and ended up moving in with the parents for a while. The boy (somehow) only realised her intentions when the whole community began openly speaking about their engagement. He was in a bind: he didn’t want to marry her, but everyone was expecting it and if he didn’t he would not only embarrass himself and his family in front of the community (and his family would give him a hard time for months afterwards), but bring great shame to her. He chose the hard route and told the girl he didn’t want to marry her. His family had to pay compensation to the girl and her family; it had to be pretty big, because who would want to marry such a girl now? After she’d publicly declared her intentions for another man; and after she’d been publicly rejected? They made the payment in the traditional form, with shells, but I think cash would have also been involved.

The girl went back to Moresby, and my friend still has her boyfriend.

I think of my Australian friends and the different ways issues of the heart are negotiated.
I’ve been thinking about the cross-cultural relationship question since I held up someone at a bar and debated what he thought. Actually, that’s not entirely true: it’s been on my mind since I met P, a highlander. He was chatting to my boss and we were introduced, we talked for 5 minutes and then I left. In my mind, we’d established a “hello” on-the-street relationship. But the next day he turned up to my work, with his family in the back of a truck, wanting to take me away for lunch. He was totally drunk and not keen to take no for an answer. (Needless to say, the answer he got was no.) Then he rang work a few times, and I ran into him on the street – but, sober, we had a good chat and he gave me a bilum and things are sorted now. I know that connections are much more immediate here – you won’t spend 6 weeks making a friend, it’ll be 6 minutes – but what that connection is going to ask of you is something I still find unpredictable. It keeps life interesting.

Someone else – someone a little less insane – has asked me out twice, but both times I’ve kind of avoided a direct answer. He’s a great guy, but I feel too new: I don’t pick up on the cultural cues, I don’t know the expectations or obligations, I wouldn’t know what I was getting into until I made a mistake. Nor would I want to dictate what I wanted/expected, to set up rules about how it was going to work. And that’s not even considering the community pressures here…Aside from these minor anxieties, I’m not convinced by cross-cultural relationships generally; I have the utmost admiration for couples who try them, but.…as well as the overt work, they involve a lot of sacrifice, often on one person’s behalf; and there’s a certain intimacy you lose, that intimacy you have between people of the same culture, it’s not just in-jokes but a way of being, a way of understanding how things work, even a way of moving throughout the world – to lose that is too much of a cost for me.

Of course, I may change my story within two years. Watch out if you know how to climb a tree.

ponderosa

tom decko, png artist

Last Friday I went to an art exhibition opening in the local uni’s infamous-new-library-with-no-books (the story gets more farcical the more I learn about it. The building, for instance, has been sitting there for 2 years, but there were disputes about payment – the compensation – and so someone “hid” the keys and no one had access…for 2 years?!!!).

You’ve been to one opening in your life then you’ve been to them all. Basic ingredients: cheap wine; a few pretentious geezers wheezing their way around, either muttering Very Important analyses to themselves, heads bent in close, or throwing out comments designed to intimidate; a few people uncomfortable, not sure how to “properly” look at “art”; a few hovering near the wine and/or food; a boring speech. If you are at a “contemporary” exhibition opening, then there’s gotta be at least a few pieces of welded-sculpture or the like. And if you’re at a “cultural” opening, then there’s gotta be a few people in costume, singing or doing a welcome dance etc.

So we had all of these. But most of the art was really good, and it was a chance to explore the library (every single shelf on the ground floor bears a big sticker saying: “Donated by the people of Japan” and bearing the J flag). (And yes there were a lot of empty shelves. And a LOT of very old books.). And I had forgotten until today that there was a photographer around who’d taken photographs of myself and two friends looking at a particular painting. All terribly posed but it was funny at the time; we thought the photographer was from some island newspaper. But no: The National, it turns out. There is P with glasses on looking reasonably intelligent, but next to her is someone with a big white face staring rather vacantly – me.

I can still hear everyone at work laughing.

Yeah yeah yeah.


The night before I went to the final in a public lecture series at the local uni, on gender and leadership. A very worthy topic here in the highlands, but … well a bit of a yawn. My boss got me to go to two, I skipped another, but went to this one; attendance (mine) specifically requested by coordinator, but I wasn’t doing her any favours by going: a friend was taking part as a panel member in the final session, and went to support her; my workplace was officially thanked for attending each time I went, and thanked first, before all others who’d actually helped in some way. Coordinator has submitted her phd thesis to my work for publication and is trying to curry favour (thesis is unpublishable; won’t stand on its own, not matter how much flattery). Realised two other things:

- I loathe powerpoint; whether your content is good or bad it turns everything into dot-pointed superficial fluff. I don’t think I’ve really come across a situation in which it was a useful tool. It ought to be banned; someone send out a bug disabling it, please…
- I would never take on an academic teaching position in a uni in a developing country. Ok, not quite never: if radical changes were allowed, then it might be possible. But not…well, not in the current PNG. (Something I will only elaborate on off-screen.) It’s work for some, but not for me.

a few lines of people sat back to back and, admist singing, threw their heads around and leaned back and forth at a dizzing speed. (sorry; i can't remember where they are from). must be designed to produce some feeling of disorientation; and the heat helped - they were sweating.

the grass men warming up

these guys you don't often see (some are regulars on the performance route)

The Coffee Festival on last week is like the royal show. There are stalls with businesses displaying their wares (machinery, pest controllers, fish farms, to the local jail - selling stuff from rehab programs like chairs prisoners had made and seedlings they had nursed; I even bought some jam from another stall: marmalade, “made to a traditional english recipe”.) But the big attraction are the singsings, the performances by various clans. They dress up, make up, and sing and dance. I knew some people who were participating, like Maria. She is our beautiful haus meri at work; she is gentle and very sweet; people call her mumsie. She was part of a Highlands women's katolik group.

yum. this was lunch: fried crunchy bones + salt = lip-smacking good.

there was lots to see at the coffee festival. including fish, but the singsings were what i was watching. will post some things tomorrow.

the ball

preball drinks: some flapper, some glam, travolta and newton-john, and a cowboy

predrinks - mia farrow, eva peron, uh...guy in shirt, sarah j parker, and apparently that is grasshopper (means nothing to me)

we meet for predrinks at um 5 actually, on a friend’s balcony. more and more people arrive arriving, dressed to the nines as they say, until the balcony’s full and people flow on inside around the makeshift bar –

But I preferred it outside: you can see from there that we're circled by mountains. With the soft blue triangles as the background, for a moment it’s as if it’s a set and the stage is the balcony and we’re all caught up in some bigger drama – the mountains sometimes lend you that sense of largess, of life from a greater perspective.

There was time for a few drinks actually and I meet two ticket-less guys who we later sneak into the ball, one jokingly poses as a photographer but somehow it works; then the sun's popped down and the inside lights shone out brightly - and then in cars and cars we went into town, to the Bird (the local hotel), to the ball.

Inside – a drink in the downstairs bar. It’s packed full of people and hot and bar service is slow – then upstairs and to tables.

Somehow I am sitting on a table next to the Governor. He sits at a table of similarly important men; none of them look like they’re having much fun over dinner; maybe they cheered up later, when the dancing started. I am sitting next to someone whose name I immediately forget, but I keep that quiet and find out that he’s a bit of a (self-called) wordsmith and we have a bit of a rave. And on my other side is a volunteer mate, the cheeky cowboy, who somehow later on gets voted best-dressed male. (he has fake pistols, and is warned not to muck around with them – people will think he’s serious. He laughs and tries it – and suddenly it’s no joke: people are not amused. A few nights ago I was driving through town late at night and saw a security guard with a bow and arrow; presume he wasn’t joking, but you never can tell.)

And we eat and chat and there’s some entertainment - most of it I saw the night before at the uni’s dramatic arts performance or at the coffee festival during the day, so unfortunately I am not overly taken in. instead, what grabs my attention is the dozen beers that turn up at the table, donated by an anonymous person, so before any mistake is realised (serious? Joke?) we are ripping them open. Ahaha: tinnies!

And somehow later on I am at the bar and there are tequila shots lined up. We down them and someone goes off onto the dance floor, someone else disappears, and I remain at the bar with a mate having a debate about something insignificant (highly unusual behaviour of mine…). At 3ish we head off; my neighbours (and with them my lift) have already left, so I stay at a friend’s. (Of course I don’t go straight to bed but instead stand in the kitchen raving to another person whose name I immediately forget, but I keep that quiet again.)

The next morning I pop in to a friend’s and find him with a hooded sweatshirt on. This isn’t a joke: the hood hides a thick white bandage around his head. After the tequila – within 5 minutes of being on the dance floor – another fella had smashed a bottle on his head. He’d seen it coming, and turned, so that it caught the top of his ear and left a jagged cut down his hairline. He knew who had done it, but didn’t say much more than that. Maybe he’d stepped too close to someone’s lady; unlikely (he’s married), but too much too much to drink and it’s possible someone saw it that way. I hadn’t noticed anything the night before – but it wasn’t just my goggles, no one else had either. He’d been bundled up quick and taken to the hospital for 33 stitches. He was glad of that tequila, he said; didn’t feel a thing.

all morning the morning has been blackening

we had a stunner of a morning yesterday.
**
sister organised sending flowers for mothers' day.
sis: Tulips and 'stocks' - does anybody know what 'stocks' are? and apparently very pretty.
me: stocks? hm...sounds like a lie - that's not a flower! it's a bulb. it's what they called flowers in 1944 in germany
sis:...in hovels under grey german skies with the smell of Berlin burning, singing german folk songs to ward away the Russian tanks. Yes, 'stocks' really official flower of misery...the combination of dutch tulips and stocks is now seeming scarily macarbe...

sorry mum.
**
and sorry for lame post. am battling with fever/flu at the moment. yesterday's morning started beautifully but ended up with sweats and aches and self-pity. awww. almost never get sick so am not good at behaving well.

i would like to tell you a funny story about a lady's camera getting hit and damaged by one of these phalluses as she tried to angle for a good shot - but it's not really my story to tell & i suspect someone else will write up about it...these guys performed at last night's ball

The ball was – let’s face it – pretty much like a school formal, only everyone drinks openly at the former. But the predrinks were great, it was fun to see the kids dressed to the nines, and the company was good (even tho someone gave it one star).

went to the coffee festival this morn. lots of pictures and fun. art opening and drama production last night. it's all happening in goroka this weekend. time for an afternoon nap...

And you must be...

...and i quote direct from the brochure: "The Red Carpet will be rolled out on the evening of May 7 for all visitors and residence...Ball goers arrive at 7:00pm and are led to their tables by Hotesses..." Spelling is original. Ah, png. It is going to be an experience. I am looking forward to meeting my Hotess.

mail!!! some of the local rag - and even NW - all very exciting! And the phones are back in working order after the storm on sunday (our lines are underground, and after sunday's massive, violent downpour, they cut out; not unusual apparently. even em tv was down! and whilst we lose sbs and 7 (our other channels), em tv is like the bad penny, it never - or almost - goes; yep, that's how bad it was.) but mail! thanks girl!

softly suspended

I saw a lone, low cloud tonight, softly suspended behind one hill and in front of another.

It was just after the sun had set; just after the sudden, thunderous downpour had stopped. A photograph couldn’t capture it. The camera grabs the instant, but not the moment. One thing I love about taking photographs is that it reminds you of the wonder of the experience of seeing: there is so much that doesn’t fit in the lens – wrong light, obstructed, position, timing – but that we see. That mysterious conjunction of eye, heart, mind. Place.