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.