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.

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

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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

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.

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...)

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.

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]

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.

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)

yu gutpla meri tru; makim best cakes. i give cakes to the haus meri and the security guys; the guys give me compliments and the meri leaves me flowers. the love is palpable up here on the house on the hill.

i am not laughing

Corpses of dead dogs are becoming a common sight on Port Moresby’s roads and the stink is an unbearable breathing problem for motorists and pedestrians. Dogs that get run over by vehicles are left on the roads to rot until the corpses dried up, get broken to pieces and blown about by the wind...The Dog Pound is at present caring for 33 dogs, seven ducks, two pigs and seven cats.

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.

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.

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.