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…
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…
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