but there are good bits too...

I'd only been back in Australia for 1 week, but on Monday I got a letter from someone at work in Goroka. It was so lovely - remembering my mum and her visit - that i'm putting it up here, to sit alongside with the daily craziness of the story from Kainantu.

"Hello and Good Morning in the Name of our lord Jesus Christ. I have just a few words to say. Firstly, how's your trip from Goroka & Port Moresby & to Australia, I hope you had a good trip.

I will not see you again, Saturday was the last time I left you at the airport. Thankyou for being with us in the Institute. I hope you have learnt some tok pidgin from me and Elice.

Robyn, I'm very sorry that I didn't shake hands with your Mum before she left Goroka. Mum I hope you enjoy your staying in PNG, mostly in Goroka. I'm your friend whom you asked for bird watch. I think that's all I have to say nothing much.

Wish you all the best in your homeland Australia and hope to hear from you soon.

Bye bye for now.
God may bless you all"

the more things change, the more they remain the same

Chaos and looting: as reported by James Kila in today's National (http://www.thenational.com.pg/101606/nation2.htm)

KAINANTU, town in Eastern Highlands province was in chaos last Friday when a mob raided an Asian shop and looted all its merchandise in broad daylight. Stones and other missiles were hurled at police and vehicles owned by Asians. The looting and unruly scene happened after midday.

Youths smashed the walls of the Highlands Wantok shop, situated near the Kainantu market, open and took away bags of rice, boxes of corned beef, clothing and electronic goods. According to eye witnesses, the looting followed the death of a local youth after a scuffle with one of the security guards employed by Highlands Wantok, an Asian merchandise company based in Kainantu.

Members of the public mobilised and moved into the shop, overpowering the guards and shop attendants and grabbed anything they could lay their hands on and ran off.

The incident happened at the section of Kainantu town leading to Aiyura near the main markets. Stores and shops owned by locals were not affected.

[...] Community leaders who tried to call for calm were shouted down and stones, bottles and sticks hurled at them...The road to Aiyura and Bundaira and the bush tracks near the town were crowded with men, women and children walking home with their loot. Two traffic police vehicles parked outside the shop could do little as the huge crowd shouted them down and marched into the shop.

farewell

Left png on Sunday. Back to Australia. What adventures I've had! What unexpected experiences. What wonderful friends.

all these things that i've done

And now it’s three sleeps and I’m out of Goroka, plus one and I’m out of PNG itself. I’ve been thinking ahead to leaving for a while, so it was with surprise that I found myself feeling sad last night. Sad about finishing such an extraordinary experience, about leaving such an extraordinary country. Living here has been seriously challenging – but who doesn’t like a challenge? At least you’re alive, thinking, doing. I love how here every day offers possibility; everyday is unpredictable and contains something unexpected. How many places do you live that can offer that?

Whilst I’m really looking forward to being back in Australia, life there doesn’t offer that – slightly crazy – element. There’s a lot more gloss in Australia: things are tidier, neater, run more smoothly, carry less risk. I’m worried I’ll end up bored again. But I’ve also grown up a lot since coming here, and know that it’s less about the place and more about the person you are, and the people you have in your life. And I feel excited about that.

So it’s a nice sadness. The luxury of leaving. The sadness I don’t know how to place is that of saying goodbye to PNG friends who I probably will never see again. For now, I’m wrapping up their voices, faces and gestures, and storing them softly in my memory. It’s inadequate, but it’s all you can do.

thanks png

you know, i really like png again. some stuff is ridiculous and terrible, but i'm really glad i have had the chance to move around a bit more and live in villages. before i left - back in june - i felt worn down by the place. but living down in central revived my enthusiasm, and i'm leaving on a much happier note. png is an amazing place, and the people are complex and some are wonderful. i feel pretty fortunate at having had the chances i've had.

Getting excited about this Central Province village trip. We are going to have an excellent time! I spoke to the participants tonight on a teleconference call; it was less strained than I imagined, and everyone sounds pretty good. It is a small group (only 6 others), which will be much easier to manage than a larger one. It was fun explaining to the kids what village life is like, and what things they might encounter. It reminded me that it is actually quite hard to imagine the lifestyles here, without experiencing them first hand.

Village 1 is about 100 people. Access is via a river, using a swing bridge. Wash in the river. Village 2 is bigger, but more remote, up a heavily forested mountain. Language is Hotu - not Motu; I hadn't even heard of this one before. Wash in a waterfall 100m away, or swim in river 1 hour's walk away. Fly in to nearby airstrip, hike for a few hours to get there. Needless to say, neither have electricity. Most people are SDA - there are twice daily services! And both are currently building us pitpit toilets.

Bring it on.

**

Yet saying that: today at work I felt that familiar twinge you get when you leave a place you have known, where you are known, where you have made a home and friends. I need to travel, I'm not good when everything's stable and the same - but it's not easy, dragging yourself out again into the unknown.

Still, it's what being alive is all about. And I'll do it again and again.

Lots to do before leaving, but at the same time there's that funny stillness which comes when you're busy and have a departure coming up quick. I sit down and don't do anything, just look at stuff. Everything's about to change and I'm not yet sure how.

Not related in anyway: jellybaby sculptures, in Cairns. You want to touch them, but they're hard plastic, not soft and squishy. Still, they raise a smile everytime. Jellybaby sculptures. Aha.

would you? could you? should you? did you?

Yes. I am changing roles and taking up something different. Throwing in the editor-gig and becoming a team leader/coordinator, for a group of 6 volunteers from Australia (aged 19-26) who are coming to png for 9 weeks to live in a couple of villages along the kokoda track (2-3 weeks in one place, then we move on. One village is a bit above 2000m - 500m more than where I currently live). We live the village life, work in the gardens and school and wherever needed with local people and maybe do a bit of community development work (this is something under negotiation. Locals can nominate a project they’d like us to help with, or we can come up with one.)

It’s going to be demanding and exacting, and I will have to be switched on at all times - and I can't wait. I wouldn’t have been prepared for it a year and half ago, but now I’m ready, and a bit tougher, and a bit more practical; mi save nau. Goroka was great last year, but coming back this year the challenge has gone, work has wound up and I’ve been bored and feeling flat. I'm waiting to leave, really; to hook up with people back in Australia when this is done. But I don’t want to sit here waiting, wasting time as life drifts by. I want to be out there creating my own stories, saying yes to things. And just as I was thinking along these lines, this opportunity came along. Something more challenging. Something promising a bit of adventure. Something I haven’t done before, that will push me to stretch that bit further.

So anyway – along came this opportunity and I took it (it’s still with the same volunteer org I came over with). Bonus part – I am coming back to Australia for a tiny bit before it all begins [grins]! Have a briefing and have loads of gear to organise and have to go out woopwoop (trans.: Wodonga) to do a 4-day wilderness first aid course – but I’ll be back in my ples.

At the end of it all, we will walk the kokoda track back into Moresby. It will only be about half the track, so will have to come back another time and do the whole thing. Still, it’s something.

all sweetness and light

in bali i saw the prettiest garbage trucks i've ever seen.

timor: baucau - com - los palos

From Baucau it was back on a mikrolet and further east to Lautem, then to Com.

Fish on sticks. Popular road-side snack.

Com was hard to get to, and hard to leave. To get there took a 20k walk. Thought we walk until could hitch a ride, but there was NO traffic at all, so … ended up walking the whole way.
buffalo being used to plough a rice paddy field, something we passed on the walk

It was worth it though. We stayed in a beautiful balinese-style guesthouse that was one metre from the high-tide mark of the beach. We were the only tourists in the village - but the downside was that we were almost chased by women hawking their thais (a traditional type of weaving, made into long skirts or bags).

goats are everywhere all over Timor. this one was in com.

We stayed two nights. To leave, we needed to catch a passenger truck out – but the town’s sole truck had broken down. Would we have to walk to get out? Not so fun the second time around...Luckily someone with a mobile called for a mikrolet from Los Palos, and before dawn we were on our way. This was the 20th of May, the anniversary of independence. We got off the mikrolet at the main markets of Los Palos.

kuskus (type of possum) for sale at markets

From there we caught a local bus into town, and wandered around trying to find some accommodation. Feeling a bit despondent (one horrible room right full of mosquitoes and with a roaring generator parked outside; another nicer place closed), we walked around – and met the only other Aussies in town, who also happened to be volunteers. Excellent people and even offered us a bed for the night.

Now smiling, we went with them to watch the independence celebrations: marching by groups of school kids and local government admin staff. With our new connections, we were able to get seats in the VIP tent – which was good because the sun was hot and the event dragged on for 2 hours. There was a bit more marching late afternoon, but that was it for the celebrations. A French warship that happened to be in the area decided to pull into Dili that afternoon, thinking that there’d be a huge party worth crashing. But there was nothing going on.

Dawn bus back into Dili the next day – a few incidents here – taxi from bus station to our accommodation took some short cut which meant driving along a dry river bed – farewell beer with the volunteers we’d met – dinner at an excellent and cheap Chinese place. Food in Timor much better than PNG: there is range and variety, and spices and flavour to the food.

Next morning there was time for a last wander around the dusty streets before airport + exit.

dili cafe

And the next day, Dili exploded.

tourist in dili - baucau

The past few weeks I’ve been out and about. First it was to East Timor (via Cairns and Darwin), for an excellent week of travel. Tip for any future volunteer-travellers: find out if there are other volunteers from your organisation in your country of choice, and arrange to hook up with them whilst you’re there. It is always great to have a friendly face to talk to in a strange place, but they’re invaluable in terms of information – you get the shortcut to best places to eat – markets – things must see and do – places to avoid – local habits to watch out for – language-culture-custom advice – lp guide book – maps – accommodation tips (or maybe even a free bed if you’re lucky) – it’s a fantastic resource. And the bonus was that they were cool and smart and now I’ve got some new friends. Australia Volunteers International seems to have a pretty good screening device – don’t know if anyone’s very good at capacity building or whatever they’re hired for, but they’re certainly great people.

Stayed in Dili for a few days. UN Toyotas everywhere – and this was the reduced presence; can’t imagine what it must have been like 5 years ago. Lunch on first day was a reminder of what it’s like being a traveller – that is, a naïve idiot. Not knowing where to buy food, or any of the local languages, we ended up in a strange empty bakery buying ice cream and a sweet roll, apparently stuffed with peanut butter. Didn’t quite leave me sated, but the sugar gave us energy to climb the stairs up to the huge (20m) statue of Jesus that overlooks the bay Dili sits on. As we climbed up we were overtaken by Portuguese joggers. Climbed back down and rewarded selves with beers at a beach-side café, sitting back as the sun set. Holidays! Volunteering in PNG began to look rather dingy.

As it grew dark we walked up to another beach-side restaurant. Slowly little round bobbling lights appeared above the shallow water, as locals began fishing along the coral reefs at low-tide.

Did a bit of exploring the next day, but a few hours were eaten up booking our tickets to Bali the following week (there are only 2 international flights from Dili – Darwin or Denpasar). Had forgotten this type of admin/planning stuff also takes up a fair bit of time when travelling. Wandered around some markets. Had coffee in the famous Hotel Timor, with a few Portuguese ladies and some NZ police, and lunch with a volunteer mate.

from the markets

The place was pretty quiet, she explained; maybe one third of the locals had fled the city to their villages when there had been riots at the Cormo markets a few weeks previous, when a few people died. Still, if the place was a bit tense it was certainly more relaxed, and safer, than PNG, I thought. On the way back to accommodation for an afternoon nap (it’s hot and everyone siestas, ok), explored some of the shops; entering one computer store, we turned to leave: the cabinets were all empty and the shelves had nothing on them. It looked like it hadn’t yet opened. But the manager called out and told us to wait; he had plenty of stock, it was just “out the back”. He had removed it from display since “the troubles”, he said. It’ll be back to normal next week, he assured us.

Had a Portuguese beer – a Bock – at the UN hangout City Café, which was exciting for me, having read about this place in The Floozy’s Guide to Dili, or something like that, a crappy book by an embarrassing aussie girl I will not give publicity to here.

Next day caught a bus and headed east, along to Baucau. Baucau is the largest town outside of Dili, but it is a pretty sleepy one at that. There was a beautiful old market place in the centre of town. It was built as a crescent shape, overlooking gardens, but the building itself was an empty pink shell. It had been burnt out around the Indonesian withdrawal in 1999, and had been abandoned ever since.

One remarkable feature of Timor’s landscape is the burnt out building. They’re everywhere: ever-present in the streets of Dili, spotted throughout the countryside, and visible at most turns in rural towns and villages. Someone said that 2/3 of buildings are ruins, though I’m not sure that it’s that high. Still, there is an incredible amount of ruins. Rough scars left as part of the environment, not knocked down, not fixed up, not inhabited by the homeless. Just left there.

Baucau: Following advice from the vols, we stayed in Bruno’s guesthouse. Wandered around town, met some other Australian visitors, went to a community centre, wandered past school children being given marching instruction by soldiers; dinner with the other Australians and some vols …

Following day went for a wander down the road we were staying on. Passed fields of rice paddies, and the abandoned Portuguese hospital (oddly, though it hadn’t been used for years the window panes were still intact, doors in place etc. A little graffiti but that was it). My travel buddy had out his big camera and was snapping away. Rounding a bend in the road, someone passed us on a motorbike. We saw a plainclothes guy fiddling with the strap of an M-16. As you do. He was leaning against a police vehicle. He looked up and cheerfully wished us good morning. I wanted a photo of this, but we weren’t sure if it was the right thing to do. We walked a bit further, and then turned and began to head back. The motorbike came up from behind us, and slowed down. “Are you looking for something?” we were asked. As the naïve tourist, I couldn’t pick the tone: was it one of warning? Was it threatening? Or was it just helpful? Had we seen too much? Was the big camera too overt, did we look like we were from the media, was this a problem? Who knows. We just smiled and said no thanks, and walked on.

It was hot in Baucau, and a swim was needed. There was a good looking pool in town, with sunbeds and a well-tended garden; the guidebook said it was filled with the help of natural springs, and it was usually packed out with locals. But today the pool was empty; not a drop inside. So we hiked down to the beach, about 5km down a sometimes steeply twisting road, passing through the usual tropical vegetation dotted with ruins here and there. I love the tropics. Growing up in the driest state of Australia, with eucalypts and dry, tough foliage as “bush”, the stuff in the tropics is more exciting and mysterious, more movie-like.

The beach at the bottom was a bit average, but had a quick swim anyway, watched by about 12 kids who lined themselves up, as if for a show. As we began the walk back up the huge, looming hill, a mikrolet (public bus) cunningly purred along beside us and offered us a ride to the top. We ceded and hopped in.

Had a beer in the late afternoon at the town’s biggest hotel – the Pausada, pink and outlandish. They had 3 monkeys in a small cage; one was held to the ground by a 40cm chain attached to a rock. Not sure what custom this is: local? Indonesian? Portuguese?

couple of PNG snapshots

The Rainforest Habitat (Unitech, Lae) is worth a visit if you ever head down that way. I’ve visited Lae before, but hadn’t been to this spot until I went on Monday. There are a lot of tree kangaroos (the largest collection of the species in the world; a lot are in medium-sized cages out the back), lots of eagles and birds in general (including cassowaries and birds of paradise). The best times to go are when it opens (10am) and just before closing (say 3ish; closes at 4); these are feeding times and everyone’s waking up and having a stretch (it gets very hot during the day and the best spot is somewhere dark and shady; not good for two-legged visitors who want to peer at wildlife).

There’s currently a volunteer down there (“Since his arrival three weeks ago a new computer was bought…”), a bloke from my home town’s zoo: Gert Skipper. (Or that’s the name he goes by. Sounds a bit like something you might make up if you were on the run, pretending to be a zoo keeper…Sorry Skipper. Just kidding.) It’s cheap – only 7kina – and there’s even a café in the first big aviary-enclosure you visit. Recommended.
**
We’re in our dry period in Goroka. Beautiful sunny days, cold nights. Bit dusty. And the ground is cracking.
**
It’s pay fortnight today in the Eastern Highlands Province (pay fortnight = government and main business payday). Goroka town was busy; people from surrounding villages and more remote areas had made the trip in to hit the shops. There were trucks in from Bena and Lufa and community schools, parked on the main street whilst everyone lucky enough to score a lift went and shopped. There were crowds around all of the supermarkets. People coming out were carrying bags bursting with rice, oil, tinned fish (mackerel or tuna), 2-minute noodles. Most of it will be eaten this weekend (probably with beer), before people go back to waiting for the next pay fortnight, returning to kaukau (sweet potato), a few greens (like pumpkin leaves, called pumpkin tips here), spring onions + rice or white bread rolls if you’re lucky (bread’s sweet here, with a lot of sugar).

The images of those bags of store goods are on my mind. In a few weeks they’ll be a fond memory: I’m moving out of GKA central, and heading down to some villages Kokoda way. Where there are no trade stores. Where there is no electricity. Where I’ll wash in a stream, or a waterfall. And where I’ll be collecting a few more stories for the memoirs.

more on timor

ABC Australia says: "A top-level crisis meeting between members of the East Timorese government is yet to reconvene. The meeting has so far failed to settle differences between President Xanana Gasmao and his prime minister, Mari Alkatiri. Our reporter in Dili, Peter Cave, says it is now apparent that the prime minister, who is widely blamed for the political and security crisis will survive, but that the president will emerge with control over national security and defence."

There was undisguised contempt and frustration with Alkatiri amongst the whiteskins when we were there - but apparently he had a lot of support amongst locals. Enough to maintain his position anyway. Yes there have been various triggers in the past couple of months, but one has to wonder about political intervention. How much of this has been allowed to escalate because of personal battles at the top? It's an age-old situation - the road to hell was paved with good intentions, remember - but it still depresses.

And so does the looting, destruction and burning of buildings. This will sound a little naive, but I was amazed at how actual amount of buildings that are ruined shells - all over the country. Alomst 40% of structures were burnt out holes, still empty 7 years later. These palpable scars covered the landscape. And more are being added?

Sori tru.

and in the meantime, keep reading dili-gence

road trip, timor leste

One day in Timor, maybe a week and a half ago, we caught a bus out from Baucau. It was going east along the coast, then south down to the town of Los Palos; we wanted to stick to the coastal road so we got off at a village named Lautem. The plan was to catch a bus from Lautem to Com, a seaside village further east. We were unaware that there is very little traffic travelling this way. (If there had been a bus that day, it would have appeared very early in the morning; it was now around noon.) Seeing no bus, we decided to start the walk - 20kms to Com - and hopefully hitch a lift.

There was no traffic, no lift. We walked the 20kms.

On August 30 1999, the people of East Timor voted resoundingly for independence from Indonesian rule in a referendum. What followed was a nightmarish period of violence as the Indonesians withdrew; Indonesian army and police officers, and pro-Indonesian militia, killed hundreds; over half the population were displaced.

On September 25 1999, a militia team commander and several others drove from Com to Lautem. They said they were going to get rice from a warehouse near Lautem, but “[t]he most obvious indication that they were not in fact intending to get rice was that they drove right past the rice warehouse.” They were also armed with SKS automatic weapons (used by Indonesian security forces) and carrying machetes and knives.

About one kilometer past Lautem, the militiamen passed two young men pushing a cart. The militiamen chased the two men, hurling rocks and shooting at them. One of the men was wounded but managed to escape. The second was caught and tied to a tree near the side of the road.

The militiamen next set up a roadblock, placing large stones on the road. Some used a nearby hill as a lookout, and others took up positions in a ditch, aiming their weapons on the road. And then they waited.

“At about 2:30 p.m. the same day, a gray four-wheel drive vehicle came into sight from the direction of Lautem heading west toward Baucau. There were eight people in the vehicle, including two nuns, three Brothers/Priests, a journalist and two other lay persons.”

When the car stopped at the roadblock, three militiamen simply opened fire. The driver and some passengers were killed.

“As one of the surviving passengers tried to get out of the vehicle, a militiaman grabbed him and dragged him to the river where he was shot and killed. The same militiaman poured petrol over three other survivors and lit them on fire. One of the three ran from the car to the river”, but was shot and killed.

A nun got out of the car and, kneeling on the side of the road, began to pray. Someone slashed her with a machete. One of the nuns, Sister Erminia, got out of the vehicle and knelt down by the roadside to pray. As she prayed, a militiaman (Horacio) slashed her with a machete. Another militiamen shouted “Don’t kill a Sister!” but the commander roared: “Kill them all!”

Someone picked up the nun and threw her in the river, then shot her twice.

The militiamen pushed the car into the river. There was still one person alive in the car; he tried to get out, but was shot and killed.

The militiamen then remembered their earlier capture, one of the men pushing a cart who they had tied to a tree. One militiaman cut off his ear and hacked his neck with a sword, then pushed him into the river and shot him. “Finally [the commander] Joni Marques threw a grenade into the river, where the dead and wounded lay, to be sure that there would be no survivors.”



East Timor 1999 Crimes Against Humanity Geoffrey Robinson 2003

images from dili

View of Dili airport from the plane.

We saw the above sign at the airport, as we were leaving, and had a laugh about it. (And about the separate check-in desk reserved for UN personnel.) Less funny now.

"I can’t see things improving greatly for a number of days except if you are journalist. For them, this is what they get up in the morning for." We also enviously eyed some foreign correspondents, but as the above quote points out, there's ambivalence there too. Dili-gence writes some good tales about what has been happening, as it has been happening.

Still hard to reconcile good holiday memories with the terrible news of what has been going on in Dili. Had some excellent adventures, and have lots of stories, but still feeling a bit tired after a lot of travelling - and there's still a big pile of washing to do (how much I wish PNG had Bali's amazing cheap laundry services, where everything is scrubbed and comes back wrapped in plastic and only takes a few hours. Ah, travel can spoil you..) and work to get back into and oh some dirty harry movies to watch (yay! thanks n) and so stories will come later.

Dili beach, two weeks ago

so: bali

strange place - some great sections, but a lot of touristy places crammed full of shops shops shops. am amazed at how many shops they can squeeze into a block, and how many of these shops simply sell the same things. it all seems to revolve around shopping; if you don't buy into the capitalistic pastime there's almost nothing to do (and the beaches aren't all they're cracked up to be). but i'm just feeling a little jaded. flying in from a developing country into this makes you a bit cynical.

anyway, flying out tonight/tomorrow at 2.30am - onwards to jayapura - vanimo, png.

dili update

dili = hot and quiet today. caught a bus back in to the capital from los palos; close to the city, passed a guy lying in the middle of the road, face-down; bus stopped, then roared on. Not sure what condition he was in. Up and over a ridge, a rock was thrown on to the bus roof; all the passengers looked scared and the bus driver put his foot to the floor. 5 mins later a branch was thrown on the bus. Everyone was silent now. When the trouble happened in Dili a few weeks ago, thousands (literally) of people fled Dili to their villages. Only now are they starting to come back (on our bus there was at least one full household + baggage moving back), but people are still very afraid. I'm not sure how real the risk is though; everything appears based on rumour. And other than that, we've had an excellent time - so much more safe and relaxed than PNG! Mixed feelings about returning to the secure-compound-restricted-life there - but hey that's still a week away. Tomorrow flying out to Denpasar

air niugini? nogat

ok so last trip i did with air niugini, flight out was delayed 4 hours. flight back had two legs; both were cancelled and rescheduled and cancelled etc.

this time - flights ok. only - THEY LEFT MY LUGGAGE IN GOROKA

ps I love Cairns! Surprised, but true. Also - broadband 20mins AUS$1. Unbelievable.

for both my sisters

It is black and cold outside. My sister knocks at my door and we move together, starting up the road. Our house is positioned mid-way in a valley, half way up or down, at that mid point. Down is a dead end. To go anywhere, we have to hike up over a hill (the one to the front, the one to the side, or the one at the back).

We walk fast up the hill in front. This is the best hill to walk up: there is a little dip before it slowly and steeply curves up. It is quiet; no one else is out on the street, or even awake it seems; lights are off inside houses.

When we reach the top of the hill, we turn left and start to jog. There are no cars out at this time, so we can claim the road as our own. The road follows a ridge; it inclines and curves a little, past the kindergarten we both went to, and then it descends gently. This is the nice stretch; legs are moving, breath is coming out into the cold air, we are jogging past an orange street light feeling good. The road turns and we cross the train bridge; now and then we’ll see the Overland coming through, arriving from Melbourne.

A big steep hill is right in front; here the run really starts. Down to our right – if you leap over a fence and roll downhill – is the freeway, also connecting to Melbourne. A few cars are moving along, their lights illuminating the way to Adelaide.

Somewhere around this time, I notice that the sky is changing. It’s gone from black, to black-blue. I hear some birds; I see the outlines of trees. Then it’s blue-black. Then that faint silvery blue that appears like a mist until suddenly it floods the sky, always happening so quickly.

We’re still running. Keeping up a steady rhythm fills up my mind; there’s no room for feeling amazed. But before this light comes, before the world sharpens back into the definitive real, there is a space that I remember now, about twelve years later. In that space the world is blue-black and I am jogging with my sister in a land of cut outs by jan pienkowski. I don’t need to look over to know that she’s there; things might be made of distinctions and sharp edges, but we’re not. It feels like we’re two arms of the same thing, running along a road through a forest, with the sky huge and beginning to swirl with colour, above us.

yes i did

On friday, to get a visa to visit a neighbouring country, I had to officially declare that I had been briefed by their embassy about "the recent security situation at the border" (um...no...) and that I am willing to "bear all the risk that might be occurred and will excemption the Embassy and the Republic ... from any object or subject of sue or law or policy".

And err they currently have my passport and I well kind of need it to leave the country on Friday and it's now getting a little close, particularly if we remember that this is PNG where anything can happen ... So did I sign away my rights? Yep.

coffee ball, 2006

Last night was THE social event on PNG's annual social event calendar (on which there is...well nothing else up here in Goroka): the coffee ball. The theme was gold. There were predrinks at a friends place, and then a predrink in the downstairs bar, before heading upstairs to join a queue to get inside (so much like a school formal). There were little corsages for the ladies upon entry (nice touch) and gift bags (one per 16 person table) with perfume, gold cartier lighters (bottom of pic) and golden bows that were broaches. Unexceptional food came and went. There was terrible music, but a bit of dancing (one mate drunkenly danced with the governor of our province, something I will tease her about forever). There was the company of some excellent friends. It was probably the last coffee ball I will ever go to; feeling a bit tarnished today, but will be right by tomorrow. And now I'm just waiting to get my passport back from the Indonesian embassy - hopefully with a visa inside it - and will head off for some more adventures on Friday. 5 sleeps.

another one from the festival

There's so much to look at that you often don't notice simple but stunning touches, like a headress. Until a tired performer sits down in front of you and there's a different view.

looking damn fine

I went to the coffee festival today. I went last year as well; and overall last year was a bit better – it hadn’t been raining as much, so it wasn’t so muddy; there were a few less stalls but better organised (rather than this year: few more stalls, but no organisation at all, just, say, a sign). But also last year I knew less – so who had a stall and who didn’t was something I didn’t understand – and last year the stalls themselves were interesting, whereas this year I could just walk on by … (only I didn’t; I was sucked in by the prisoner rehab program and bought prisoners’ peanut butter, and even prisoners’ peanut biscuits – not just for me, but enough to give away. I always fall for the prisoners! At Christmas I remember buying really crappy bookmarks made by local prisoners. Why? Why? It’s partly a joke, but…not entirely. And what was that pencil portrait of Osama bin Laden, hanging proudly in the local grammar school’s exhibit? And this must be one of the last places American British Tobacco can sponsor events and have their logo proudly displayed everywhere.)

And yet there’s something about the coffee festival that’s better than the bigger, more famous Goroka Show later in the year. It’s smaller, and fewer white tourists come. Somehow – despite its commercial underpinnings – there’s a good feel about it.

The singsings and bilas are fantastic. What is captivating are the elements of innovation each time people get dressed up and prepare their dances; it might be a new thing for them, or it could simply be something that I myself haven’t seen before. But it’s those details that keep me fascinated. And it’s also simply a lot of fun, being around people – and knowing a few – who are dressing up in their cultural finery, and feeling proud and beautiful. They show it off and each region is competitive and they’re looking damn fine and … it’s a feeling, too. (Also you ARE in amongst it: you can move amongst the dancers, get any pics you want, people are happy to pose, or not; no one has to stand behind a rope, and there’s no antagonism; it’s pretty good.)

This year too I saw a Tolai whipping dance: a man would hold out his bare arm, or offer his back, and another would, simply, whip it. It sounds barbaric, but there was a fair amount of performance in the offering of body parts, and the emphasis was on the stamina. A friend whispered that they rubbed something on their bodies beforehand to limit the pain; I’m not sure if it was true or not, but I have to confess that I was captivated by the whole thing. And it certainly attracted one of the biggest crowds.

we need some heroes

Our optimism, at times euphoria, was, of course, not quite justified. We all underestimated the power of the multinationals and the corrupting effects of power.

(Ulli Beier, reflecting on “the scene” in Port Moresby just before Independence)

**

Number of doctors in PNG:

In 2000: 275

In 2003: 191

**

- Few weeks ago: finance portfolio stripped from well-performing MP and passed on to corrupt Minister rumoured to keep PM comfortably endowed with cash

- Today: finance portfolio through latter Minister set to give out 35.6 million kina to MPs in open cheques (approx $400,000 each); they don’t have to submit project proposal or expenditure summary. It’s interpreted as $$$ to spend on getting re-elected next year.

- Today: magistrates desperately need $65,000 kina to fund leadership tribunals (charges and investigations into alleged crimes committed by leaders ie politicians).

[Don’t like their chances]

**

“The old men want to eat rice and tinned fish before the die. That’s the only thing they think about.”

[Young person I spoke to today. Oil has been found in the village. The community elders want to sign the first contract that's been offered by an international company - the one who found the oil. There's no thought of what they're signing away, as well as what they're signing up for. They don't even want to get a second opinion, or future payment options: they want cash, and they want the cash now. The young in the village are fighting to be heard, worried about the realities of development, thinking about local precedents.]

the tolais and the whiteskin meri

Last week I went to a local school’s 50th anniversary. It was a big celebration: one of the original founders (an Australian nun, who was 82) had come over for a week of festivities, culminating in this one day. A girl from Rabaul that I know had been teaching a group of female students some Tolai dances. This girl asked me if I would be willing to present the school founder with a few gifts, as they performed the dances. That was fine with me. Next she told me that she would provide me with my outfit: a meri blaus and a lap lap. This was also good.

What she didn’t mention was the bilas (the decoration). So on the day I put on the laplap and the meri blaus and twirled around and felt quite happy – and then was told to sit down so that I could be properly dressed. 45 minutes later I had small skirts of leaves tied around my upper arms, around my hips, and several across my chest. I had a feather headband, plus something like an imitation egg + feather + ferns tied to the top of my head (because my hair is like “soft rope” as someone recognised, they just used strands of it to tie the headpiece on to my head; you can imagine how fun it was getting that one out…). There was also a lot of body paint: white and green powder smeared or striped over my arms and neck and face, and a special red on my cheeks (this red looked great on everyone else, but on the whiteskin it turned bright orange).

I wasn’t convinced that the overall effect was a winner. But people – especially women – were fascinated and even moved that I was willing to be dressed according to their way. Their response was touching, and made the occasion less artificial. Some told me that I was very beautiful and many people stroked my arm or shook my hand.

I was given a basket to wear (the strap around my forehead, the bag sitting on my back), and a basket and a staff to present as gifts. The basket and the top of the staff had bunches of particular plants (I didn’t know their significance); the staff also had lengths of shell money attached to it. Individual little shells had been threaded onto long lengths of cane, which then lined the staff. Shell money is still used more than cash in a lot of coastal villages, but on this occasion it had a more symbolic value.

As the dancing began and I went forward to present the gifts, an announcer told the crowds (a thousand or so people) that I had been adopted by the Tolai community and was representing them in handing over these items. A bit started – adopted? Since when? – I put on a sombre, responsible look and handed over the gifts quickly, before escaping to the sidelines to watch the dancing with everyone else (as much as I could, anyway; lots of the crowd wanted to shake hands with the Tolai whiteskin now).

Initially I felt uncomfortable about the politics: the whiteskin dressing up in another culture’s costume, not knowing the significance of what she had to wear, or even of being asked to wear it. But, again, the sincerity of people’s reactions made me put that aside; what was important was their interpretation, I was just lucky to be able to take part. Dressing up in bilas was not something I expected to do in PNG. And it was a bit of an honour. And – I admit – all politics aside: it was fun.

13 sleeps

In two weeks' time, I'm leaving this world for another: that of Timor Leste. The itinerary looks like this:

- Goroka - Port Moresby - Cairns - Darwin - Dili -

I haven't got a return ticket, because - fingers crossed - it will be back to PNG via Indonesia (maybe Denpasar - Jayapura - Wutung/the West Papua/PNG border). What I know about Timor I know mainly from earnest historical-political books and articles; I can't wait to learn about it in person, on foot, with my own two eyes. Although I know comparisons are odious, it will be interesting to compare Timor with PNG. Hopefully going to meet up with some other volunteers there. And I'll be travelling with a good mate, which will also be fun. I'm getting excited.

momentarily

Friend came to see me the other day, + husband + mum + sister + kids + extra kids. mum had made me a bilum. All were excited by the visit and cajoled me into taking photos.

I'd been in a bit of a mood, whinging to myself about the world. But the afternoon was fun and they were all so happy. (Especially about your visit mum! Everyone I know is excited about it; hope you're ready for some socialising, we are going to have to go out visiting! Everyone loves a mum.) This mixed society - culture - life isn't enough for me. But I certainly don't despise it. I learn from it, which isn't always easy, but there are lots of moments to enjoy. There are moments when I'm happy. And it's nice to photograph them, and have some cheesy shots for an album.

I wonder what on earth I will think of all this in 50 years. What stories will I tell, what photographs I'll drag out. It's inconceivable at the moment.

(hadn't realised until looking at photos that the sister got bel - check out the lady in the white shirt - preggers...)

a post for the 25th

This is a post for both of my grandfathers. Bill/William Tucker, who was in New Guinea in WWII, I'm not sure where and I'm not sure doing what, something involving the airforce.

And (AB) Joe Barrington (MID), on the HMAS Shropshire, an "experienced operator...who could read around the curved edge of the radar screen". Barrington was a member of a radar team known as the 'Crazy 13', which included "some radar trainees selected from an interested group of high IQ graduates from Sydney University" - funny because Grandad left school at about 15, and lied about his age when signing up for the navy. He is a smart and canny one though, and I've no doubt he held his own against the ponces from the uni - probably taught them a thing or two, and no doubt won them over with a few cheeky jokes; he's a charmer. The war opened up Grandad's world; he went to America, to bars in New York, to England, and later even along the west coast of New Guinea.

Grandpa Bill never spoke about the war, to me as a kid anyway. He tended not to speak about the past. But Grandad did, and does; over Christmas lunch when I was back in Aussie last year he could recall his time and locations in PNG exactly. In 1943, for instance, he spent Christmas in the waters of Milne Bay. (Dancing girls - the Rockettes! - were flown out to entertain the ship, but he didn't really go into that part. Pictured above.)

Adventures, travel, mateship, training, skills, a role and a purpose: we so often hear about the negatives, but these were some of the other things I heard in stories from that time. They don't cancel out the other things, but they should also be remembered.

pioneers

Spent this afternoon reading 'emergency sex' - which sounds rather provocative but is in ways more political then armorous. It's written by three UN workers (2 american, 1 nz), about aid missions they were on in the 1990s, and is quite fascinating. They're honest about the inexcusable actions (and withdrawals) the UN takes in Haiti, Somalia and Bosnia, and the consequences, and they are willing to name those responsible (such as Clinton and Annan), which is refreshing. And they are open too about their initial idealism and subsequent disillusionment with the body and its work, and their own roles. I have been mulling over the ideas behind interventions - both UN style and the volunteer/aid worker/NGO models - for a while, but will post about that another time.

I must admit it was exciting to read about people choosing to live life differently; volunteering in PNG is in a different, minor league, but it's always reassuring to know that there are others out there who need something more than a steady job out of life. And must also confess that, despite it all, at the end I did go to the UN's webpage to check out their current vacancies (nothing for me at the moment).

doing business or png; or, something rotten in the state

Down the road at Kainantu there is a gold mine. The mine is owned and run by Highlands Pacific Ltd (Australian). From what I hear, the mine has a lot of potential. Last Wednesday, however, the mine was closed down and workers taken off the property after threats of violence. (The mine’s shares dived.)

The threats were coming from the Barola Kafe clan and other local groups who claim to own the land the mine is on. There is no currently no clear landowner. In May 2004, the PNG government’s Land Title Commission began trying to work out who has ownership, but they have not been able to finish the job because they repeatedly go into “recess” due to a lack of funding. They stopped after one year, resumed last November, and stopped again last December.

After Wednesday, two mobile squads were sent to Kainantu to guard the mine (the Goroka and Lae squads). They are there to guard property and employees. The mine was reopened on Saturday, but the mobile squads are staying on indefinitely. (The share prices rose slightly.)

What is interesting is how far the government is getting involved. The mine was only opened less than one month ago, by Grand Chief Sir Michael Somare (the prime minister) himself. The national government has assured Highlands Pacific that it will “convene” the LTC soon [presumably this means they are going to throw a bit more money at it]; they aim to have the land ownership issue settled in 6 months time. But the most overt signal is the appearance of the mobile squads. Almost all other private enterprises in PNG would be providing their own security. If troubled flared up, they would beef up their security forces; perhaps donate a car to the local police, depending on the problem. This time, the state security forces arrive, and the state pays.

I don’t know if the landowners have a legitimate claim or not. (A bit of context: there was a landslide not far from this area a few months ago; the road was damaged; locals were demanding one or two million kina compensation before they would let workers in to fix the road.) And I don’t know if the government is offering so much support because they stuffed up with their LTC. But it would be interesting to find out why the government is getting behind the LTC now, and why it didn’t before. And why – and how – the mine was allowed to open without the landowner issue being formally established – is probably a question no one will raise.

But there’s something wrong here, and with PNG and governance, money and business in general. I’m beginning to think Somare is way more corrupt than one might initially suspect. (There are other stories about other mines, and development in general.) A statesman? He’s as bad as he wants to be.

unfinished maps

Now I'm about as old as the adults, and I've lost that albino-blond shade. Tomorrow means another krismas lo' mi - it's another birthday. Feeling a bit philosophical about it this year, being close to some things and people and far from others; having traversed “scapes” mental and physical that were unexpected. Tracks, lines drawn out of experiences that I can’t always understand, until much later, until long past their beginnings.

But some things remain familiar. Like that feeling of being "alert, excited. Travel, such [as] through space, was her self-enchantment. Relocation into new coordinates. Forfeited certainties. The erotics of strangeness. She couldn’t bear the persistence of the known into stale habituation..." (G Jones, Dreams of Speaking)

That's what I've got the foolishness to ask for of the next year - more relocations, more strangeness; a lack of habit -

wow and flutter*

Have just come back from a great weekend away. Tired and a bit sun burnt, need to wash clothes and buy some food. And then - I'll simply be ready for the next holiday.

(*sntrck to riding in a boat; stereolab)

Yesterday I went snorkelling off an island, and later just off a boat, above a coral reef, while better people dived. Snorkelling in png makes you feel like you're falling in love, I reckon: it's all-absorbing, makes the world look beautiful, and it makes you happy.

this is where i was this morning, out on a boat, doing some fishing. later on there were dolphins and even a (small) whale

the long distance runner

Well it's been a marathon but i have made it to the end of the longest stretch i am ever, EVER going to do in Gka central: I haven't left the area since I arrived at the start of Jan at the start of the year. But the big projects are done; the rest of the year is going to be spent teaching the haus meri to write, and doing other extraneous things. And I'm going to be leaving - and returning - on a much more regular basis. Starting tomorrow: over to the coast for a few days; a small step but at least it means a break through the mountains for a while.

Also need to buy some new runners. Have had current pair for just over a year now, and (am vaguely proud to say) I have actually worn them out! Soles are shot, insides dissappeared ages ago (so have to wear thick socks to pretend there's padding), and now sides have given up the ghost. It mgiht have been running inside at the gym, but still. Respect, thanks.

anthropology and today

I’m talking to M at work today when the phone rang for her. It’s someone she knows, calling from Wabag to get her to pass on a message to someone who had come down from Wabag to Goroka for a holiday. The visitor’s brother has been knifed in a tribal fight and is dying; she has to go back quickly and see him in the haus sik (hospital) before he dies. The fight was a bad one; several men had already died. They are lucky to have this time at all.

**

Going into town at lunch, I pass a group of women who have white mud or ashes smeared over their faces (a sign of mourning). This makes for a funny contrast as they eyeball me and call out hello with cheerfulness and curiosity.

**

It has been wet and cold all day. When I go home from work I have toast and tea, and pick up the book I’m reading – an excellent “true novel” by an American anthropologist about witchcraft in a remote African village, written in the 1950s – and I determine to finish it tonight. It’s a gripping read, and I’m soon yanked back into village life and the approaching death of a heavily pregnant woman and accusations of witchcraft begin flying and –

**

A neighbour is going to be away when it is my birthday, and she unexpectedly comes over in the evening to present me with several packages “not to be opened until the day”. Very exciting, but I can’t open them so I return to my book where counter-accusations of witchcraft are being thrown back and –

**

A friend who’s on holidays interrupts, dropping off some movies I’d leant her, and as we’re talking, someone who lives in the next building also comes out onto his balcony, and we all stand on the little jutting platforms that are our balconies, half-shouting pleasantries. A big project has finally been completed (today) at work, and he invites us over for drinks tomorrow. Strange – he doesn’t usually entertain – and you can never tell if this means cordial or alcohol – but, plans made, we all go inside.

**

And it’s back to the book where the woman is made to drink many different traditional herbal potions to bring on childbirth and to give her strength and to ward off evil spells, and she has to drink more and more because no one can agree on which one is the most potent, the most fitting; and then the accusations start up again and all the men decide to go off and consult the community’s diviner to find out who the real witch is and then it is night and silent and the woman is comatose with grossly distended belly and an owl hoots several times and she convulses and dies. And then –

**

A girl comes over, someone I have only met a handful of times; she’s just moved down here, from Rabaul; her aunty lives and works here. I can’t quite get used to her: she laughs manically at very unexpected moments, and never at the times I think she is making a joke. She peers at me as if fascinated, and yet is partly scornful as well. She’s a fiery one, for sure. And she has come round to ask me if I would like to be involved in a local school’s fiftieth anniversary celebrations. It’s the school I visited last week. I made such an impression pretending to be a princess that she is here to invite me to come back and officially present gifts to the school, in front of even bigger crowds. This time I have to appear dressed as a Tolai. She is a Tolai, and has been teaching girls at the school a special Tolai dance. She will provide me with a laplap, meri blaus, and some type of basket to wear on my head. I will present the gifts, and she and the girls will dance. And the Tolais will be the best performers of the day.

What can I do? Tell her I’d laughingly made a bet with someone last year that I would never wear a meri blaus? And that although I’d been laughing, I’d kind of meant it? Tell her that she doesn’t need a whiteskin dressed up as a Tolai to make an impression? Tell her that I am nobody?

No, I cannot tell her those things. My princess mask comes down. Mi hamamas tru, I tell her; I am very happy. I am honoured to have been asked. And this is true. She is deadly serious and quiet for a few moments, and then squeals and says that she too is very happy. She keeps alternating between the squeals and the intense, serious looks.

**

I pause before I pick up my book again. I wish I could gain the objectivity and insight of the anthropologist, and write a witty and yet insightful novel about experiences in today’s PNG. But a logical narrative thread eludes me. More and more, this is just life: some things are understood, some are not. What I learn does not add up; it just contributes to this vary varied thing I am living. And in this sense, all anthropology and ethnography is as if a novel; artifice trying for more coherence than the unfashionable real provides.

the heart remains a child

Things you don’t need to bring to PNG

• a saki set (if you drink wine it’s from cordial glasses. Those little saki cups remain virginal)
• stapler – staples – glue – pens – sticky tape – stickers – markers – scissors – pencils (but the pencil sharpener has been useful) (and you love stationery so don’t care)
• a smooth, egg-like stone you found on an island beach holiday when you were a child
• a piece of fake fruit (I still am not sure why I have a bright orange, plastic mandarin)
• a princess di teatowel (I love it so I don’t use it. It sits in the dark of a cupboard)
• mugs
• good books (you have to either leave them when you leave again, or pay for the heavy buggers to leave with you)
• Berocca (never used it before, and still don’t)
• a shoot-out, pop-up umbrella (all the umbrellas here are golf-sized, and with reason: the down-pours are massive and little granny-umbrellas are pathetic)
• picture-hanging hooks
• so many clothes (the second-hand stores here are huge, insanely cheap and fun – whole eras of fashion history before your very eyes! Also, you don’t know what’s hot and what’s not until you have lived in your new home for a while; bring some basics and buy your real wardrobe here. And then buy another one because it’s all so cheap it’ll never be this good again)

Things surprisingly useful

• sewing kit from nana (packed out of politeness, but it has been used many times)
• bottle-opener (the kind with arms)
• sari fabric from india (hides ugly tables and plain walls)
• blu tak (useful for a thousand things)

Essentials that keep your wheels running smoothly

• the laptop
• the camera
• the books (read or unread, left or lugged again)
• the little swiss army knife keyring (only had the basics but used weekly. Much missed since swiped by Australian airport security)

a day in the life

On Thursday I went with a friend to visit the school where her husband teaches. We had some surplus books lying around at work, so I brought them along to donate. Good good she said. When we arrived, a school assembly was going on. There are 800-900 students; they were all sitting, squeezed into the open air hanger-style assembly area. We chatted to the husband, and I casually handed him the books.

He told us to wait where we were - just out of sight of the assembly - and he ran up to the vice-princpal and conferred. Then he returned, smiling.

"Littlepilgrim," he said, "We would be very happy to accept your gift but to be proper it must be in front of the students. Yes, that is the proper way."

I demurred, but he was insistent. "You will just need to make a short speech," he added as he was steering me in front of the masses.

Suddenly there I was, standing before 800 students, the only whiteskin around for miles, smiling wanly and clutching three lousy books as if they could protect me from 1600 eyes. They all politely welcomed the doctor (titles are very important here, and are used on every possible occasion), gave her the special visitor clap (I'm not sure why, but this was three quick sharp claps) and then waited expectantly. Embarrassed at being treated as if I were as lovely as Princess Di, I then could do nothing but, well, act like I was indeed a princess. I thanked them all for such a lovely welcome, told them that I came from Australia and was very happy to be in PNG, and that I hoped they would find the books useful and enjoy their studies etc etc. More claps, and then photos, awkard minutes standing smiling with arms outstretched and the books midair, being received by the librarian (in one shot I am caught giving my friend daggers at this unexpected publicity).

the geezer

The three books were quickly distributed amongst staff. The library has been closed to students for months anyway; the school needed more admin room. Whilst they need more books, they need new, bigger buildings as well, and new toilets (2 toilets for 800 students + staff; no comment needed).

Finally another special clap ended the display, and I was given a tour of the school. Mostly this was fun - the kids are great and full of laughter, especially at my pidgin - but it was a little uncomfortable when we visited the special ed classroom and the blind students sand and the deaf students signed a depressing song for me, called "Nobody's Child". It was a great performance, but after the first verse I was jiggling a bit and ready to leave. I hadn't been prepared for the ceremonial handover nor the tour, and am not really a princess, you see; haven't got that royal patience or tact.

there's gonna be a fight

breaking news: very early this morning, as pmvs (public motor vehicles) were coming up towards goroka through heganofi/buolo hill, raskols threw rocks. The windows on three pmvs were smashed - back and side windows. The pmvs roared on to goroka town, where they sit now. The buses were going to Hagen. Hageners own the buses.

Oh, that was a bad idea, raskols of Heganofi. You don't mess with people from Mt Hagen. They are currently gathering in town; there is perhaps a couple of hundred there right now, angry and upset.

A bit of excitement to the morning.

cloaks and daggers

Let’s start with the daggers.

Good news: MP Ipatas-hey-let’s-have-sex-I’ve-got-AIDS has stepped aside.

Bad news: for “charges of misconduct”; everyone knows what he’s done but it hasn’t been publicly printed. He’s going to legally challenge the charges.

Bad news: cabinet reshuffle. Patrick Pruaitch – as corrupt as they come, probably more so; read here – has been promoted; now not only is he in charge of forestry, he’s garnered the finance and planning portfolios as well. This is really, really bad news, suggesting that it's more than a rumour that PM Somare is also implicated in the RH forestry company’s corruption of png. Bart Philemon was previously in control of the finance portfolio, and one of the very few good guys in politics. He seems to have been shafted, no one quite knows his new role.

And cloaks…

It’s a hard part of the volunteer job to gauge – the consequences for your counterparts of working with you. There are the objectives in your job description. And then there’s what is actually possible and likely. But there are plenty more affects that come from your presence and your actions, and what they are – well that’s a question not for you to answer, because mostly you won’t know.

But it’s one I think about all the same. Today I asked one of the women I work with if she would teach me how to bake bread: she has an oven, but mostly cooks outside on an open fire (more social, and saves money by not having to pay for gas); I thought it might be entertaining to do, and I have been wondering if she really makes bread or if it’ll turn out to be some kind of damper. Something to learn anyway. She was very excited, and blurted out: “Finally I can teach you something! After all that you have taught me.” I’ve been here for over a year, but this was one of the first times she intimated that ours was not an uncomplicated relationship for her.

I know the relationship isn’t simple; what I mean is … for the first time I had a sense of some of the complications. In PNG, there is a heavy basis of reciprocity to relationships: you do things for others, and in the future they can do things for you, and you can ask them to do things for you. This will read as a simple statement but it has enormous ramifications that encircle our lives here. Our working relationship is in this way, I think, a challenge for my workmate: although I personally feel that she gives me truckloads, today she gestured that she sees it differently, that I give and she doesn’t have much occasion to give back.

This is just one of the unexpected consequences. Jealousy is another. Other departments or workplaces with no volunteer may get shirty and resentful. Anthropological articles on PNG often term it a place of jealous cultures; I thought this was a bit dated, but it is not at all, just a fact of life.

A friend – a fellow volunteer – raised another consequence from her workplace, in regards to working with men. People marry young here – girls late teens maybe; guys tend to be older, so perhaps in their twenties. The people my friend works with a mainly guys, literate, most with a school level of about year 10 and married to village women (that is, women from their ples, where their wantoks are and where they came from and go to; living in town is always temporary, even if for decades).

The difficulty is a profound one: with this volunteer around, the men’s ideas of the world have expanded: what exists, what is possible, understandings of how things work, how to get things done. This is no light matter; these are fundamental shifts in conceptions of the world. But changes like that are not announced, they don’t happen overtly. There’s no thunderclap. Little differences creep in on a daily basis; they’re not noticed at first, but they build up.

It’s been two years since these guys first began working with the volunteer; all involved have changed. And some of the men are now having difficulties in their personal lives, in their relationships with their wives and their wantoks. There is an intellectual gap not previously noticed or experienced between themselves and their wives, who often still live in the village while the men commute, who haven’t had this constant contact with someone from “outside”. Same with their wantoks: it is no longer so satisfying to spend time in the village, sitting around a fire, telling stories about limited communities. This is no longer all there is to life.

These are issues which are opaque. There are no answers, of course, but the questions they raise don’t go away either. Often our term as “volunteer” is just a cloak: we hide under it whilst we engage in the undercover activity of a “change agent”. We’re here to introduce new ways of doing things in a manner that is hopefully sensitive and that will hopefully make sense (and few of us actually applied directly for such a role).

But just as that suggests we have a double-purpose, so to do the people we work with. And all of this muddle – it’s tiring and frustrating and also stimulating, and partly why you do apply.

the pig on saturday was impressive. they took it off campus, killed it and cooked it, and it came back whole - tongue, teeth, trotters, everything glistening. it was hard to get a photo, with the crowds it attracted. meat was a bit overrated, but the spectacle wasn't, my old boss plunging a bushknife into the thick belly to start off the carving.

yes we have no...

have just spent last three hours peeling green bananas. 3 hours! with 5 other women! imagine how many bananas that was. peeling with peeler; others had knives, but i wasn't quite as skilled with the blade so i stuck with the idiot's tool.

tomorrow = big mumu feast to farewell ex-director at work. a medium-sized pig has been bought (it cost more than my fortnight's salary) and was killed late this afternoon (I was all ready to document procedure, but pig was taken off campus, to a place with a spit to roast it on; apparently highlands' way of killing pig is to whack it on the head with a shovel or big rock; other places will spear it; will shoot it; will stab it). (pig was bought on wed and spent its last days tied up on our campus; thursday night people tried to place a ladder against the fence, climb in and steal the pig. would they have lifted the screaming thing and carried it up the ladder and over the other side? we will never know; plan was foiled by the guards. guards were scared and didn't know what to do, so just woke up people who live on campus by knocking on their doors. "Um, excuse me, it's midnight and [stage whisper] there's someone with a ladder against the fence trying to climb in! What do we do?")

as well as the pig, there'll be a ton of veg, 3 tonnes of bananas (we were peeling yellow-orange cooking ones; there are also purple cooking ones; both will be cooked in coconut cream with greens and chickens) (oh and there'll be another type of mau (ripe) savory banana, plus the sweet ones in the fruit salad. so many). soft fizzy drinks. no sdas (seventh day adventists) are coming so we won't have goat. and then we've got icecream and black forest cake for desert. the whole thing is about the food; forget the event. actually, the big deal is really the preparation. then people eat too much, laze around and maybe have a nap. sounds like christmas.

notes on anniversaries

1996 was the year of law enforcement in PNG, I learnt today. PNG’s third state of emergency relating to criminal behaviour occurred that year also; a national curfew was enforced. All over the country, people had to remain in their homes between 7pm and 4am. It seems laughable, thinking of the many many isolated rural and coastal communities. How serious was this? (Thanks Skate.) I imagine they just meant towns. I’m not sure if it was due to nation-wide problems, or Pt Moresby’s own issues. Anyway, it didn’t help. Many people suspected that criminals would lie low, and strike doubly hard when the curfew was over. Some raskols found it entertaining to run from one area to another at night, without being picked up by the police.

But – more to the point – criminals weren’t worried, for a very obvious reason: they operated within daylight hours! A surprisingly little amount of crime happens at night here, both in 1996 and today in 2006. The most dangerous time for a woman in a 24 hour period is shortly before dawn until perhaps 7.30am (few people are out in public at this time, so great chance of getting raped). The most dangerous time for a business occurs shortly before (when the tills are full) or during the shifting of cash to the bank – which must of course happen during business hours.

Tribal fights, too, continue to obey traditional time rules: start at around 8am, finish at about 4pm. This allows people time to arrive at the scene of the fight, and to leave and go home before it gets too dark, and when they are tired and not fighting well anyway. Tribal fights will also dwindle and effectively be cancelled when it rains heavily.

*

yo and i have been here for several months over a year and my second bday in png is approaching and friends had better be around for it or else (forget brisbane, ok). And yesterday i had to tell the person i love most in png that i am leaving early. And i came home afterwards and, well, i cried. What is this, getting sentimental? Only one year, but I must have been here too long. Mates will recall my anti-sentimental stance over great events like princess di's death and stupid movies. Yet i'm just such a weakling now that if i tried to argue I simply couldn't hold a serious position. i am turning sentimental! i blame png; i just wasn't like this before. People here - especially men - cry easily and openly. And ... it's important, important to show your feelings (sometimes you get into trouble if you don't; imagine); it makes sense here.

when i get back, of course, i'm going to be just as tuff as i used to be. don't get the wrong idea.

bang bang bang bang

It was hot today, mid-afternoon. We were working, photoshopping an image. We heard bangs. And then one of the dogs started barking. “What’s she barking at? Is there some trouble?” my colleague asked.

As I stared at the image we were working on, half-listening to her, three men ran past our office, down into the gardens behind our building. “They’ve got guns” someone shouted. But now they were hidden by bush; we couldn’t see them, but they could see us. They were still there; the dog kept barking at a certain point. There was a moment of clear and present danger.

Someone called the front office to get help; someone else called her home, 50m away, and told her kids to lock the door. A police car roared up and two officers – who did not appear to be armed – leapt out and ran into the garden.

When it’s real, you realise how out of your depth you are. I’d never been in a situation like this before. They have guns and they could shoot us. I write it and it sounds simple. But there was that moment when I realised it, and I felt frightened and outraged at the same time. How pointless it would be if I were shot, if I died here, in this office.

On the one hand, it’s cops and robbers and bang bang bang bang! It is exciting. But on the other it’s an awful kind of quiet. They have guns and they could shoot us. Out of the blue like this, one of us could be shot and die. What if it’s me, what if it’s her. On a sunny afternoon at work. For absolutely nothing.

**

They’d held up a car nearby and stolen two cash boxes (so prearranged: they knew who to watch for – when – where to wait – where to run). They’d fired four shots at people as they ran off; one box was hidden/dropped in their getaway, but they held on to the second. One man’s shoe fell off in our yard. No one stopped to get it. The police ran and chased them through our gardens, but they vanished over a fence.

on not reading kafka

benefits of the balcony. we don't get sunsets, but you can get some nice light/shade views

Prague was the first non-English speaking city I visited. I went there by myself when I was 20 and discovered - among many other things - Kafka. Well, not him exactly; I saw the memorial plaque making the place where he had lived, just around the corner from the main square, just down from a stretch of those repetitive glassware shops. And I bought a nice edition of some of his short stories (1904-1923) from a bookshop named “Shakespeare and Co” – not the same as the famous Parisian bookstore where (at that time) you could get a free night’s accommodation in exchange for a bit of re-shelving.

This bookshop was a bit more upmarket and had its own café. It was cold that day; I walked to the book store, crossing the city and the river via one of the old bridges, and bought the book and sat in the warm café which was filled with middle-class looking students. I had a hot chocolate, pretending to read my book but really content to just sit back and watch and listen.

That was my first try at reading Kafka. I tried again later, back in the hostel, but there were too many distractions. The hostel was in the upper floors of a clock tower; downstairs, the belly of the tower opened out into a main train station, and from there train lines seeped out like entrails. So I could hear the noise of the trains, the ringing of bell when the clock reached an hour, and if I kneeled on a shelf, I could peer out of the window placed high up in the wall, and watch a city.

Another girl in the hostel – a Canadian – and I went out in the evening to one of the beer halls, and drank jugs of beer for the amazing price of 40 aussie cents. Walking home I remember being a bit disorientated – the glow of light from an Italian pizzeria on the cobblestones – huddling inside my coat against the cold – stopping and buying a hot dog, which turned out to be a weiner with saukraut in a bread roll, and not half bad.

It wasn’t until I’d been back in Australia for a while that I picked up Kafka’s stories again. But I couldn’t get into the style of the writing, whether it was his or the translator’s; soon I put it down, and wandered away. This has happened several times over the years since then. I brought the book over to PNG with me, thinking that this would be the time to really discover Kafka. But I still can’t get past the first few pages. It crosses my mind to leave the book here when I go. Kafka in PNG. Maybe I will. And yet I’ve become attached to it, for the stories it reminds me of, the cobbles, the cold.

I bought a book in every major place I travelled through on that trip, a tradition I’ve stuck to until PNG, where there are none.

rats

I posted something the other day mentioning polygamy. Went out for dinner tonight and heard this one from a very reliable source. And it’s all true:

A Highlands MP – has 7 official wives – countless girlfriends (plenty young female university students; he pays their uni fees), likes to party – has AIDS. First two wives are dead (one from suicide), both had AIDS, both spoke to relatives and police in last weeks of their lives claiming he had knowingly infected them with the virus. A special committee was formed to investigate, and at this stage he is going to be charged with manslaughter, one of the first people in the country to be charged under new AIDS laws. He flies to Australia regularly for treatment. Those he has infected haven’t been as lucky.

Unbelievable.

The story came out in the papers this week, but his name has not yet been published; he hasn’t yet been charged. A friend spoke to him last week in Moresby. He was wearing boardshorts, hanging out by a pool, relaxed and having fun. He sleeps around so much that he is known in Enga for having four testicles. Ipatas is proud of this moniker.

Soon after talking about this, a big fat rat squeezed its way out of the airconditioner in the town's chinese restaurant. There is an upper skirting board running around the room, with plants and lights. The rat skuttled through, knocking plants aside, not bothering to hide its noise. At one point it slipped and teetered for a moment over the side. It was relaxed and having fun.