a word of caution

over dinner at the chinese tonight (it was buffet night; spring rolls were not actually cooked, and cold, but there were cakes and donughts also on the spread! bring on goroka style chinese), we were laughing about this; i've met the daughter, and she's cool, and it is not that it's untrue, but...

Annemarie from Thorn, Holland writes: [on the bbc travel website] I have been to PNG for a month on holiday as my daughter lives over there and works for VSO. I know by experience that PNG is a very dangerous country for a woman alone to travel by herself. It's a beautiful country and when you stay in one of the lodges or expensive hotels it's a nice experience. But it's also a very corrupt and criminal country where HIV and AIDS are expanding dangerously. Travelling without an experienced PNG guide is not recommended at all. It's expensive to live in and expensive to travel to. You paint a very luxurious picture and you do not tell about the violence, the 75 % of the people who are jobless, the trouble to get money to the right places, the handicapped children/people who are living hidden from the world because families are ashamed of them, the trouble people have to live in the past and the modern world etc. Maybe it's not useful to tell this to a travel programme but it's the truth.

US$1

New Tribes! This is the strange, cult-like compound of several hundred religious americans down the road from Goroka. I've posted about them before, but only driven past their hideout. Yesterday, however, we drove INSIDE. For a garage sale.

It’s quite pretty; big houses on a hillside, views of mountains, no fences. The houses don’t look like much from the outside but the insides were impressive – polished light wooden floor boards, sloping ceilings, big kitchens, open plan living areas. We went past a sundae parlour (American style sundaes, but closed on weekends), and sadly were too early for the skate night (held in the high school gym that night for the kids; roller skates! Burgers and fries!). We went straight to the garage sales: three families had gone pinis (finished their time in png); they left behind whole households full of stuff for the next occupants, who had decided that they didn’t want most of it. (Note: this is the first ever garage sale I have heard about up here; going to one is not a typical Satuday activity.)

And what stuff! It was nice weird mix, just as you hope New Tribes will be. For instance, women’s pads for sale – not in original box but in a freezer bag?!! Gross. Freshly made bagels. A shelf of books under the title “For Christians Going Through Hard Times”. Battleship. A potato-cutting-chip-device (friend bought this). A grater (I bought this). Loads of kitschy ornaments, Tupperware, old scuba gear, crocheted rugs, Christmas decorations and a giant fake tree in a box.

Almost everyone else was a whiteskin, but we still felt self-conscious. “Everyone can tell we’re not Christians” someone said. And it was true. People stared as we drove up, stared as we got out of the car, and simply continued to stare. We were also the only people without American accents. “Hi you!!” women kept calling out. “Mom…” At one house there were two young men talking seriously out on the balcony; I stopped to re-tie my shoelaces (ever the sleuth) and listened: they were talking about a conversion! “So he came to me later, when the others had left, and asked me about the selection for heaven: being a righteous believer was the requirement, was that right?” The other guy made an interested sound. “Yes, he’s really a step ahead of the others, he’s thinking things through.” Hmmmm.

Other weird things: everything was priced in American dollars. They had to convert to kina when we wanted to buy stuff. (Um, we’re actually in PNG right now…) There were a few cars around, but people kept zooming up to the sales on motorbikes and golf buggies (left-hand steering) – oh and this thing (left; see the sale items purchased tied to the front and back).

I bought a souvenir, for US$1.

kool

Last night I went to a cultural night. You learn to get wary of that term – well, I have anyway. They usually involve a few skits, quite a few dance numbers, and occasionally a song or a band. The first time you go, a cultural night is fascinating, fantastic, fun; you don’t mind that it’s supposed to start at 6.30pm and it doesn’t get going until 8:15. You are amused, rather than bored, when watching pretty much the same performance for the second or third time. Etc etc. Whilst admiring the energy and effort and pride put into the shows, I have to confess that they tend to be long evenings, and – to my taste only – often a bit dull.

But last night I was invited to one some friends were performing in. It was the finale of a 3-week orientation-to-png course, and all of the participants (missionaries, expats, volunteers) had to group together by nationality and perform something, anything. There were 12 or so numbers, and I admit that I went dragging my feet, muttering “stupid cultural shows” to myself.

But it turned out to be lots of fun, and very funny. The Philippinos sang beautifully; “well that’s one result of a totalitarian dictatorship” muttered my acerbic neighbour. She was a harsh judge; the phippinos sang very sweet sad songs, and everyone else was rather moved (admittedly we couldn’t understand the lyrics). The Indonesian group was made up of four men who had practiced all day to do some type of line dance; all out of step, always one forgetting which way to turn, all to a song that went for 8 hours. “Well you can tell that took a lot of effort,” sneered the acerbic neighbour. Yet after the line-dance fiasco each of the Indonesians danced solo, performing a dance from their ples; each were unique and quite intricate, based on small gestures rather than balletish leaps; the Javanese was particularly impressive, it reminded me of a dancing Kandi man of Sri Lanka, and was hypnotic to watch.

But some of the best parts of the evening came from the responses of kids in the audience. They giggled and wriggled and peeked through their hands and squealed and made everything a delight. You could just pinch those little cheeks.

opportunity (let's make lots of money)

A classic Highlands Highway incident occurred last week. A thousand and one stories of chancey scams are attached to this road, ranging from the harmless (when I last drove down from Gka to Lae, about 30mins outside of Gka a tree had fallen on or near the road; it was now on the side of the road. A group of local guys were standing on the road around it; when we drove up they prevented us from driving by, demanding 20kina for clearing the way. We managed to get away with 5k) to the potentially violent (general group-of-raskols-with-guns type), to truck-climbs-slowly-up-hill-and-raskols-have-time-to-clear-off-with-cargo-in-truck’s-tray. The one I am about to tell you is a tried and true example of opportunity seen and seized.

Anyway, last Thursday a coca cola truck was driving up to Ramu from Lae, carrying around 900 boxes of soft drinks. One of the truck’s tires blew, sending the vehicle careering off the road.

Local men, women and children sprang out from wherever they were and ran to the vulnerable truck, grabbing boxes and carting them home. Even more: passing PMV [public motor vehicle] buses stopped, people jumped out, snatched boxes and returned to the buses, which quickly zoomed away (or pulled away with a shudder and a fart of exhaust, depending on the bus).

Aside from 50 or so boxes they managed to track down somehow, all the cargo was long gone by the time the police tried to recover it. 850 or so mid-sized boxes, with, let’s say 36 cans in each – that’s around 73 100 cans. And that’s a lot when you think of the average streetside seller, with an esky and maybe 8 cans for sale. The truck driver was enraged, calling people’s actions “stupid and insane”. But, you know, one man’s folly is another’s fortune.

corners like it's on rails

today was an excellent day. the first big fat book that my staff and i did from start to finish (edited (heavily) - designed a style for - created graphics for - laid out electronically - designed cover - even wrote blurb for) - well it arrived today from the indian press. And it looked good! Really good. I felt very proud of our efforts. Work isn't exactly intellectually stimulating, but it has other benefits.

And then ... tonight was top gear night! i don't really watch tv here (we have an uninviting "rec" room with a share tv), but i make a special effort for this show. it's funny, there's news, great camera work, the odd celebrity - and ... cars! flash cars, electric cars, cars with two engines, and cars that can corner like they're on rails. it's fantastic.

if this ain't love...

At a dinner party recently, someone I know – a female expat – said that it was time that she found herself a Papua New Guinean partner. She’s been here for a while. Having travelled around a bit on her own, she now wants to go to more remote places that the average whiteskin doesn’t get to. This is the purpose of the PNGian partner: he brings safety, legitimacy and – if not acceptance, then at least – access, to remote rural villages.

It’s a practical argument (the “adult love” was also mentioned, in the same practical manner). I find it a bit strange that people can be so matter of fact about relationships – particularly cross-cultural ones; what about all the difficulties and the implications? - but I haven’t lived here for several years. Maybe I too would go … a little troppo. Not to say it’s always an odd situation; there are plenty of cross-cultural relationships based on people as individuals, rather than skin-colour – it’s just that you see more of the other kind.

White male and PNGian female relationships are more common (by at least 10:1) than PNG male and white female. There are several obvious cultural reasons for this: for the white guys: it’s a patriarchal culture, men are always welcomed and partly because of the patriarchy and partly as a colonial hangover, white guys are considered a valuable catch; he can easily hang out with her male wantoks, and is accepted by the females. If he has an ounce of charm, all will love him (I’ve heard it said that white guys who can’t make it in western society, can make it here. Nasty, but there is some truth in it). It might be easier for him to be adopted by a village than to have a no-strings affair – but if he’s after the latter, he can always pay.

For the white girl, it’s not as easy. She has no real place amongst his male wantoks; it is probable that the females will be hostile, but even if not they will be very hard to get to know; acceptance takes years. Locals would think the white woman odd (why is she doing this, leaving her own wantoks and coming to us?), whereas the male wouldn’t be questioned.

I know of some successful, loving cross-cultural relationships. A young professional couple in town; an Anglican pastor and his aussie wife who’ve lived (in a house) in a village for almost 20 years. And I know some others; an Aussie male who lives with his two PNGian girlfriends; “they’re not for conversation,” he says, “and there are none of the complicated emotional demands that white women bring.” A white priest who has a history of “adult love” with young black boys (locals shrug; it’s a man of god, an older whiteskin … no one intervenes directly. If it were a PNG man doing the same things, very different story).

Black and white relationships are tricky ground. Each to there own is the best response I can come up with, albeit an inadequate one at times.

thurs afternoon

At five I walked from town to home, after doing some supermarket shopping. It was still clear; the evening cloud hadn’t dropped and the sun was lighting up the creases and peaks of far off green mountains. Unphotographable; beautiful. There were lots of people out walking; kids were throwing a ball around; two groups were gathering for court. A woman paused on a grassy patch, untied her bilum, laid it on the ground and resettled the baby in it before retying the blium around her head and continuing on.

I looked again at the mountains, at their soft green and the pale light which highlighted their crumples (we have such gentle mountains here; no fierce crags). I could hear the occasional car, insects chirping, people talking, the rustle of my shopping bag, the swish of my shoes as I walked through the grass.

What will I remember of this? I will remember people, certain adventures, the feel of the spaces I live and move around in. But … the actuality of the experience is bigger than me, now as I am living it. I live inside my head a lot, sure, but what I see and learn here, what I do, who I’m in contact with, the dailyness, the living – here, amongst these mountains, with these people, on this land: this experience is something I can’t map or articulate; it’s something I can’t quite grasp. It’s larger than me. I don’t know what it might mean.

I’m struggling to articulate even this. But it’s good; these moments of wonder, which almost verge on awe, are reminders of what it is to be alive, caught up in it all but pausing for a moment.

**

That or I’ve been working too hard. Also possible. But enough musing; dinner + book club are on this evening; alan bennett’s latest - the audio version, which i hope will be ... fun and not to nana-ish.

happiness is a warm electric toaster

this may look like a mere toaster, but it is actually a huge victory. a toaster! of my very own! there was one in the flat when i moved in, but within two weeks it had died (power surge). That was about 11 months ago. I mentioned it to the admin manager, thinking something might come of it, but nothing ever did. I mentioned it several more times; despaired; cooked bread in a pan once or twice; and caved in and did nothing. But when a new person moved on campus, full of demands for things to kit out a flat, the campaign began again (if she can do it, so can I. I need that toaster!). That was...last October I think. Today was the day I have been dreaming of for months. The box arrived. Expensive toaster inside (with a "cancel" button; feature I haven't seen before. Fancy). Mi hamamas tru.

(Unfortunately I had nothing to put on the toast but some weird cheese spread which expired last year that the ex-flatmate left behind. Still, the bread was hot and crunchy!)

discipline 2006 png style

There was some interesting news about punishment in pnggossip today. One for the kids:

"A headmaster at a Goroka school is in trouble for allegedly demanding that four grade six students lick the dust off the floor of their classroom recently. Parents reported the matter to police and the resulting court case attracted many interested people in Goroka after the headmaster was charged under Section 7(b) of the Criminal Code. The case has been adjourned until a final witness can give evidence. The teacher is out on bail. He has denied the charges and stressed the need to maintain discipline in schools. "

And one for the crocodiles: killing season is on! There's going to be a "hunting safari" here in Feb. Mick Pitman,

"nicknamed "Crocodile Mick", said they would be going after six killer crocodiles ranging from 4 to 5 metres that had reportedly killed 13 people. Mr Pitman has been granted a 12-month hunting permit by the PNG Government. A PNG environmental protection officer will travel with the safari. Any hunters wishing to join the safari will have had to pass a target-shooting test."

end of the weekend

post-work beers with mates on fri. sat=shopping with png friends. popping over to see a friend from work for afternoon tea. welcoming back aussie pal over dinner. sun=markets with neighbour. long lunch with some other aussie volunteers. then hanging out with another mate, the brit. have a stack of ironing to do. people to contact. desk to tidy. a better post to write. but i'm sleepy and there's that nice sound of heavy rain. it's more pleasant to leave it all until tomorrow.

death of a godfather

Bill Skate was finally buried today. ("there's no other godfather. I'm the godfather.") Ex-prime minister, he had a state funeral – and a public holiday was declared in the NCD (national capital). Ex-king of the underworld, there was also a bit of worry about how people in the settlements of Pt Moresby – his powerbase – would react. But things seem ok.

More revolting is the phoney eulogising going on – this guy was a raskol! Packer was clean in comparison. Skate was scoundrel, a weaselly type of man. He grew up in Moresby settlements, raised by his mother (his father was Australian and not present). Dabbled in crime (robberies, selling stolen goods). He became an accountant, and kept his ties to Moresby’s criminal gangs. In the late 1980s he lost his position as head of a public savings and loans company, amid claims of corruption and “mis”management. But this became his opportunity to enter politics; he ran and gained a seat in 1992. That feat was achieved via his allegiances with several key raskol gangs.

He was governor of Pt Moresby in 1997 – the time of the Sandline affair. When it became public that the then-current prime minister (Sir Julius Chan) and his deputy (Chris Havieta) had signed a contract to pay international mercenaries to come in to PNG, train and potentially kill other PNGians – Skate was the first politician to publicly voice disapproval. (A few years earlier Skate had stood for the role of prime minister, but was beaten by Chan.) It was Skate who stood up in parliament and moved that Chan step down as prime minister (he and Havieta stood aside, pending an inquiry into the affair).

At the next election, Chan lost his seat. The party Skate led gained a few seats – enough for him to begin bargaining with others, trying to form a coalition. Skate was persistent and keen: he knew what he wanted. And he got it. He tried negotiating with Somare’s camp (Somare was the nation’s first prime minister), but Somare’s party refused to cede to Skate’s demand that Somare not stand as prime minister. So Skate wheeled and dealed with anyone, even – stunningly – Havieta, Chan’s right hand man, one of Skate’s foes. When voting time came (the members of parliament vote for the prime minister in PNG), Skate was in, getting almost double the amount of votes of the nearest contender (Somare). Once he had the seat he wanted, Skate’s next move was audacious: reappointing Havieta as deputy pm.

But Skate was audacious. And sometimes it worked: there he was, prime minister! He’d come from the bottom to the top; and he never forgot where he came from. He had two wives, and apparently 12 children. He was in power as the situation in Bougainville calmed down, and at the moment you can read of people arguing for a relationship between the two events – though it is more likely that the latter was put in motion after a lot of hard work by people who were around before Skate was PM.

Later, the media turned on him, and were instrumental in getting him kicked out of office. Video tapes were released of Skate getting trashed, drinking whisky. Then there was the time he infamously, proudly, audaciously claimed (drunk on said whisky) that: "If I tell my gang members to kill, they kill ... there's no other godfather. I'm the godfather.” There he was, prime minister! (He lasted 18months before lack of support forced him to resign. Usual rumours of corruption, bribery, gangs...)


[we have had an hour long black out; power just came back on. I love hearing the roar of people cheering in the valley when this happens: paura! hamamas tru!]

the lady

Last night finished reading “On Beauty”, by the Z. Smith. I haven’t read any of her work before, but this I really enjoyed. And I can’t help it – years of training means talking about books is a must. No one up here has read it (though someone has the audiobook; borrowed it but the voices are terrible), so I need to vent here.

Firstly, it’s excellent. The narrative romps along, moving continuously (in contrast to something like The Line of Beauty, where it is the narration that is the focal point, slowly un-spinning). There’s a pace, there are many events; there is no musing for the sake of it. You get the sense of a novel mapped out in terms of plot, and then sketched in (supported by admission that it’s a homage to Forster). And it’s enjoyable and works – and it really hurtles towards its end. It’s fun for the reader; it’s a bit of a ride.

And I liked her lack of sentimentality: regarding Howard and Kiki, for instance. Or Howard and his father, as in Howard’s unexpected and unreflected-upon trip to his father’s place. It happens all of a sudden, is meaningful and upsetting – and yet is not an excuse for a bit of a Princess Di moment (wailing, reminiscence). There are only two (I think) other mentions to the father; their relationship is what it is and is left at that. And is more powerful, and believable, because of that.

There is a beautiful attention to detail – Levi tying his shoes at the beginning, and getting his father to tie them at the end. The translucent-handled knives. The appearance of the colour yellow in the opening scene, and its reflection at the close of the novel – the colour that is the “intimation of what is to come”.

And secondly, there are a few quibbles. At times, the novel’s attention is a little uneven – why is so much space given to Levi in comparison to Jerome? Jerome’s story was also interesting, and perhaps a little less tokenistic. Or perhaps just as much.

And a caution – there’s also the shadow of Malcolm Bradley’s The History Man: similar plot but Bradley’s is nastier. As well as a retelling of Forster, this is a re-imagining of Bradley, an attempt to explain Bradley.

Also, the academic arguments are really out of date – again look at Bradley, who was writing in the 70s. Then the lets-laugh-at-post structuralism was current and had a force; now it’s lame and unbelievable. I have not yet met an academic who would stand up and make such unreflexive, thoughtless arguments. People might write such things, and these papers might get published, but almost 30 years have passed since this was an innovative intellectual approach that was taken seriously.

Read it. It’s good.

nobody mention the bodies in the barrels

adelaide's parklands, where everything is straight and planned and rational.

On Monday morning I caught up with some people I work with, and we talked about what’s been going on 'round town. The day before – on Sunday afternoon, as I was napping, to be precise – the local Shell service station was robbed. Police chased and caught some of the bandits; they killed one who was trying to get away.

My eyebrows raised, but my four informants – all good Katolik meris – all began praising the police (getting results) and saying “he got what he deserved” etc. Just desserts is how it’s interpreted. Also caught up on the Papindo robbery that happened a week before I went on holiday (Papindo is a local supermarket/haberdashery thing): the robbers split the cash they’d stolen amongst themselves, but one was a little shifty and tried to scam a bit more than was fair. When the others realised, they started to beat him up. He cried, saying he had three pikininis to care for; he begged for his life. But it didn’t save him.

“Hm. Ino blipim prens blong dispela raskol” I started to say in my old crappy tok pisin; what I meant was … you wouldn’t trust the friends this guy had. But again everyone else was sneering at the idiot who had got himself killed; serves him right for trying to steal from the others, they argued.

Capital punishment is not illegal in PNG; there are currently 10 or so prisoners who are on “death row”. I have heard that there is no agreement on the method of execution, hence their stay – but I don’t know if this is true. What is surprising is that, in a place where the average person is supportive of harsh punishments, capital punishment has not been officially used yet. But it is also heartening.

On Saturday, Sox (photographed below) dropped round with his brother. We were chatting about how Christmas had been, whether there’d been any trouble (I seem to be into talking crime at the moment); there was nothing up here, but there was a bit of a fight closer to Daulo Pass. Sox sighed and said it was not a good business. People should try and fix things between themselves, he went on, but if it doesn’t work, they should not be fighting. They should go to the law. The law is removed from individual, it does not take sides, it is there to sort things out fairly. He said this reverently, with real belief.

The legal system here has as many challenges as anything else. But, in societies where locally-administered punishment is common, you could see it as heartening that capital punishment is not pushed legally. Plenty of people already have that type of retributive system in their local communities. I might be wrong, but it could be argued that people want something else out of the law. That the law is there, ideally, not to operate the same way as village law (i.e. just on a larger scale and with a stamp). It is there to offer some kind of justice, ideally a better kind of justice.

Perhaps. Anyway, hearing about people’s moral responses to events here has that effect: it’s usually surprising, not just for learning about how others see the world, but in what it reflects back to you about your own sympathies and judgements; about what a rational child I am, perhaps in part the after-effects of growing up in a poster-town for Englightenment's ideas.

tuesday morning

Working from home today. 12 men are trying to chop down a big tree that stands right next to one of the office buildings; the power to the offices has to be turned off every time they attempt it (this is the fourth attempt).

Yesterday I hung out at work, clearing out junk (I think our department breeds ancient typewriters and old computer screens; I thought I’d sorted it out already, but yesterday found another screen and three more typewriters. Where do they come from?), but that is only fun for about 5 minutes. Today the power went out at 10am and I have lugged home (well, electronically) a book I have just started editing. But suddenly I’m taken back to the years of writing the thesis: there’s all this other stuff to do, rather than work. Have a snack. Flip through an old newspaper. Choose appropriate music for working (yo la tengo). Open curtains. Stare out window. Stare at shadows on wall. Go out and collect some rain water from the tank. Come back and resume position at desk. Stare at desk. Consider tidying desk. Go online. All this is build up to actually opening the document I am working on.

eastern parklands, adelaide

Been through them innumerable times. But this time I found things I’d never seen before. Like this drinking girl, who looks Aboriginal. I couldn’t find an inscription, but I must admit I didn’t look too hard (like at the back).

And ... giant duck heads on poles?

I haven't yet mentioned it - but had a wonderful time back in the place where the streets have names, and I know them. Will post soon about some things I saw there - but just haven't had a chance so far. On the plane and in the queues on the way back, for the first time I created a list of things I wanted to achieve this year. I came back feeling really motivated, ready to get going on some projects. But then I landed and there hasn't been time for much at all, let alone writing that book; I had forgotten how busy life is here. This weekend is a write off already, and I still haven't had a chance to watch even one episode of degrassi. man; maybe my priorities are all wrong.

flying to papua new guinea

According to plan, I could get from Adelaide to Goroka all in one day.

This is not what happened.

Monday 02 Jan 2006

Adelaide to Brisbane QF0657

Departing: 6:25am.

(SA from the air)

Brisbane to Port Moresby PX006

Departing: 10am.

Transfer from the Domestic to International airports without trouble. Inside the latter, I check out the Departure Board to find out what row I need to check in at. It’s number 7. But:

Departing: 16:00pm.

I groan internally; that’s about 8 hours to spend in this airport! And I will miss my connection to Goroka. I head to row 7 to find out what’s going on; there’s a big crowd of people there already. We are told that the Air Niugini plane flew into Australia last night, was damaged in Sydney’s storms and had to make an emergency landing at Brisbane. The plane is being checked out by Qantas engineers, but there is no information on when the flight will be rescheduled: probably not today, maybe not even tomorrow.

(A German tourist – female, middle aged, cropped hair, long rats tail from behind her left ear – has a verbal spit at the Air Niuigini staff member who is telling us this. She rants and rants, and even calls her an “effing bitch”. I try not to grin. Someone else also comments that it’s a relief it got damaged in Aussie: it will be fixed properly, and flying will be safe for the next few months. It might sound harsh but it’s true.)

After half an hour, we are told the flight has been definitely cancelled for today (later find out that after landing, engine came loose and almost fell out), and that we will be provided with accommodation in the city. We’re taken by coach to the hotel, and this whole process takes about two hours. It’s ok; it feels like an adventure. I’ve never had a flight cancelled before. But when we arrive at the hotel – the Carlton Crest – we walk into the lobby to find a check-in line of about 100 people.

(Half of the queue)

It takes an hour and a half to get to the reception desk – to be told that there are no rooms available and I will have to wait until 2pm to check in. O-kay…

I head out into Brisbane on a 35degree public holiday. I find the mall – surprisingly all the shops are open – and the cinemas, but there’s nothing I want to see and nothing I want to buy. I wander, then go back to the hotel. I check at 1 if there are any rooms, but there aren’t. I check at 2 – and there are still no rooms. Feeling less adventurous now and more tired, I wish I were as brave as the swearing german woman. But I am polite, and you know what? It works: I get a room in twenty minutes.

Rest of the day passes. That night, at 1:39am, I wake to what sounds like the shower. But how did that turn on? I get up to investigate, and find that an air vent in the ceiling is gushing with water. Why me? I call reception and the night porter comes up, tells me it’s an aircon overflow, and that he’ll move me to another room. I can leave all of my things where they are and simply come back early in the morning. So I chuck my sneakers on and move to an identical room two floors down. Eventually I sleep, but am woken by the sunlight at 5am. At 6 I grab my key card and leave the new room to return to the old. Naturally the newspaper delivery boy is also in the hallway, and we have to catch the same lift. I am wearing crumpled tshirt and shorts, and clutching only my keycard. I can see him peering at me curiously (“What naughty business has she been up to?”).

Tuesday 03 Jan 2006

Brisbane to Port Moresby

Departing: Unknown

Although departure time is unknown, we are taken to the airport at 7:30am. After half an hour, we get confirmation: we’re leaving this morning.

PX004

Departing: 10:55am.

Unfortunately the check in queue is massive: there are now Monday’s and Tuesday’s passengers. More waiting, this time an hour and a half. People are either edgy or resigned. But eventually that’s done, and we do take off. Before we do, I buy myself a reward.

Arriving: 13:55pm.

At PoM, the visa checkpoint is chockers as usual, but the “domestic transfer” line is moving at least. Get out in reasonable time – maybe 30 mins – and find bag-with-wheels within 5mins. Customs is a breeze – they just let me walk through – and so I trundle onwards with the bag-with-wheels, to the Domestic Terminal. It feels really good to be back in PNG, I think.

Port Moresby to Goroka PX962

Departing: 1600pm.

I check in, say farewell to the bag-with-wheels again, collect my boarding pass and wander through into the Domestic Departure lounge. I’ve got 15 mins until boarding; I phone work and arrange for someone to come and pick me up from Goroka.

Boarding time: 15:30pm.

There is an announcement. My hand reaches for the backpack – time to board – but the announcement informs me that the flight has been cancelled. “Please exit the Departure Lounge and go to the Customer Services desk.” No! But no great surprise; almost one out of three flights to or from Gka have been cancelled lately; when I flew out of PNG, the Gka-PoM flight was delayed for four hours, perilously close to being cancelled.

I join the line, and find out that I was the last person they checked in – everyone else was told the flight was cancelled. Great. The bag-with-wheels is off somewhere, alone. Meanwhile I stand in line. When I arrive at the actual counter, I am told to stand in the “reissue tickets” line (luckily someone in the from of the “reissue tickets” line sees my plight, grabs my ticket and gets it processed with theirs). Then I have to stand in the “customer services” line again, while they arrange overnight accommodation.

This takes two and a half hours. I find my bag. I am tired and sick of waiting. But on the positive side I am making new friends, with people in the line. That night we reward ourselves with a few cold beers at the hotel bar for having made it through the last two days.

Wednesday 04 Jan 2006

Port Moresby to Goroka PX 960

Departing: 9:15am.

Check in: 8:45am.

Get to the airport at 7am. Do the check in thing all over again. Wait in the Departure Lounge. First two flights of the day – to Hagen and to Kavieng – both fail to board, let alone take off. Flight to Gka is scheduled as the third – but will we actually leave? And when? No info is given about the delays. And so our check in time comes and goes – and there is no announcement.

But then out of the blue at 9:05am the flight is called and we board. People flying to Hagen look vicious, and I feel sorry, but not that much.

Actual departure: 9:20am.

Arrival in Gka: 10:30am.

The marathon is over. Home!

Pt Moresby domestic departure lounge. From early this morning. After a marathon journey to get not very far (2.5 days!) I am finally home. (Will explain saga later.) Net is so slow can't get into email, so take this as news. The eagle has landed. (And Bill Skate has died.)