of mice and men

Now and then things happen that remind you that you aren’t from here and don’t understand a lot of what goes on. A new staff member has recently started at work; he’s Papua New Guinean (Chimbu), but he and his family have been living in Bavaria for the past 5 years. The kids have grown up speaking German, and it’s been a big challenge for them to come back to PNG, learn pidgin and English, adjust to the mud, the unsealed roads, the thousand and one differences.

At this morning’s staff meeting, Jack related an incident that occurred last Friday night. There was a bit of a hullabaloo out on the street; a crowd of people were chasing a man. The man leapt over Jack’s fence, round the house and towards the back. The back fence is too high to leap over, so the man had trapped himself.

Jack and his family had heard the man’s movements. Jack’s teenage son crept outside, armed with a torch and a bush knife. He found the man, trying to hide under a bush in the corner of the yard. The teenager approached him – there was nowhere for the man to go – and put the knife up against the man’s cheek. “You’re caught,” said the teenager.

Jack came outside and he and the teenager then handed the man over to the crowd. “He was bashed up pretty badly and then they took him back to his village,” said Jack, nodding at the justness of the outcome.

My mate – a coastal girl – laughed later on, when we were out of earshot. “You can take a highlander out of PNG,” she said, “but you can’t take the highlander out of a boy.” I don’t know if she’s right or not, but the story surprised me.

(in a much more pleasant incident: i bought a bottle of wine on the weekend from the hotel; a new guy (from Hagen; Hagen guys have a bad rep but there are some I really get along well with; go figure) accidentally overcharged me; we were chatting away and i waived the receipt. later felt stupid but it's only money. in the mean time he'd worked out the error - tracked down my number - and this morning rang and then drove down with my change! Sweet.)

conch shell from buka

Currently working on a collection of letters written by a british missionary and his wife who came out to png prior to WWII. The letters span a 40 year period. It is interesting that in the last five years, when the writers are in their 70s, the letters admit to worries, fears and bewilderment, whereas these topics rarely appear in the earlier writings. The topics of these late letters are also more outwards-looking: they engage with what is going on in other parts of the world, other lives. The earlier letters are focussed almost exclusively on their own affairs.

These changes are not noted in the letters; the writers are not at all self-conscious or self-reflexive. But I see these differences emerge, as I read and edit the correspondence for publication. Strange that writing can record much more than you intend. Strange too that conjunction of growing older – turning out towards the world – and admitting to anxieties. Is it because that’s what old age can be like – a time of confusion and fear, a time where little happens in the theatre of your own life, so that you look elsewhere to be occupied?

Or is it that they are no longer concerned with hiding these anxieties? Have the demands of ego withdrawn a little more? Are pride and saving face less important? Do they see less, or more, clearly?

clouds, fences

goroka, early morning. view from my new haus.

pseudomonas - png toothpaste scam

In other news there is a toothpaste scam going on in PNG! Someone is supplying PNG with pseudo-colgate toothpaste. Authorities are on to it, though, and have started doing raids on stores (“mostly foreign-owned” stores the local rag reassures).

There are seven fake varieties. They contain “much less” than the recommended fluoride levels, and may have “a certain bacteria called pseudomonas (pronounced sudomonas)” the said newspaper reported – but I’m not sure if that last part was a joke…

Colgate-Palmolive HQ (Sydney) said the fakes did not contain the required ingredients “to prevent cavities and gun disease”. Definitely a concern when you’re living in PNG.

The newspaper carefully listed all of the fraudulent versions, pointing out helpful clues of the evil kind, like “Colgate 105g, which has a picture of an Asian family and has Chinese writing”. Aha! (There’s a lot of fear and suspicion – if not outright racism – towards outsiders, particularly “Asian” people, usually Philippino and Chinese, especially business owners.)

Like any good citizen, I was concerned and went and checked my toothpaste at home. Thinking about it, I realised that it did taste a bit funny. Perhaps it was not real Colgate. Unfortunately, my colgate was made in Ho Chi Minh, Viet Nam, and covered in a language I can’t read, so I still don’t know if I am brushing my teeth with pseudomonas.

the cut

When the trees are cut, you call in the mobile tree cutter. This is a machine someone has seen around, somewhere in the province. “I saw it at X primary school last October” says a researcher; “I’ll call them” – and the mobile tree cutter’s movements are traced and it is tracked down. It operates as a freelancer. It is ordered. I don’t know what it might be; it turns out to be this:


Unfortunately I could only get a photo of it on Sunday, so the cover is on the actual cutter; it came with a crew – 6 guys, and every time they started it up an extra 10 or so would drop around, obscuring my view.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter; after slicing two tree trunks into planks, it broke down and was taken away. It is not coming back.

Each trunk was placed carefully on top of the steel frame; then the cutter was switched on (electronic circular blade/saw) and it was manually pushed forward, slicing in half whatever was in front.

The operator was good; he produced some nice planks. There was a lovely smell of sawdust in the air for a while; then it rained, and it smelt of glue.

tall trees and true

Seven trees used to form a line in front of the office where I work. They are some type of European pine; a few are dead, and a few look dead. As if growing weary, one had started to lean.

Last week people decided it was time the tired tree came down; the lean was towards some other buildings; if it fell in a storm it might do some damage.

First they tried to pull it down – with ropes and cars.

(leaning tree; first rope highlighted)

One guy scrambled up the tree and tied a rope around it. When he got back down, people realised that two ropes – and two cars – would be needed. So he had to scramble back up and tie another rope around the tree’s neck.

Next, cars were driven round to the area where people wanted the tree to fall. There was a minor distraction when one car got bogged, but soon enough they were in place. The ropes were tied to the cars.

Two drivers then slowly began to reverse the cars – or they tried to. The tree didn’t sway. Tires spun, a bit of mud flew, em tasol (that’s all).

So it was on to plan 2: the chainsaw.

There was a minor distraction when the chainsaw stopped cutting the trunk and simply started smoking, and people realised the blade was blunt, but soon enough the blade was changed and the cutting continued. Another pause occurred when the chunk cut wouldn’t come out. But one of the people got a shovel and dug it out soon enough.

Then the cars were started and put into reverse again. And this time it worked – the tree came down!

No one cried “timber”; instead there was a rather awkward hush. Unexpectedly, not one but two trees had come down. And they’d both smashed straight through the neighbour’s fence.

tomorrow, in another informative post, I will show you what we did with the wood.

touch it and you'll glow

Last box was moved today. And only then did I notice it - the box I mean. Where did I find this? What is it doing here, in my hands, in PNG?

black or white?

On the weekend I went to the supermarket and bought a chocolate bar (on sale; their expiry date has passed, and in a new move the supermarket is discounting their price; until now they just continued to sell off products)(note that I buy them all the same).

Anyway, after you’ve been through the checkout you walk through an electronic scanner thing and between two security guards. The guards will pat down Papua new guineans, and check their bilums, but smile at me and wave me through because I’m white. Even if I were to stop and offer my bag for inspection, they would wave me through. On this particular day, the beeper when off as I walked through; this time, I thought, they’ll want to see inside the bag. The chocolate bar, you see, is the only thing in the store that they bother to apply the electronic bar to, the bar that sets off the alarm. The store was busy and I had been at the checkout furthest from the guards; they didn’t know what I had purchased. And the alarm was beeping.

I stopped and made move to open it, and no – they just waved me through.

I foresee a great future for myself as a white profiteer.

i can't help myself

(when i get that feeling/ gets in my system/ can't put the brakes on)

I am moving! Moving house. Moving to an upstairs flat. Moving to a place with a balcony. Moving to a place with my own, non-share kitchen. Moving.

This is great timing; worked out I am a shade under living in the shoebox (my current flat) for 365 days (when I first arrived, I had a few weeks in a temporary accommodation). So my record remains intact: I still haven’t lived in one single place for one whole year since Dukes Lane, 2001ish (fires pistol jubilantly in air) (blows the smoke from the smokin’ gun)(grins). It’s a funny record, and not one I’m serious about, but it’s mine nonetheless.

And I didn’t have to have a fight to get the place either (whips her pistol back inside knickers). Just had to use a bit of patience (that, and I’ve lived here for a year now and know the power of doing a bit of chatting beforehand, setting up the dominoes so that they can’t but fall in your favour). (grins).

**

I had forgotten until I read lillian's post that i was in india in 2001 at this time of year (i.e. valentine's day). There were protests and newsagencies were attacked and trashed by demonstrators fighting against the perceived invasion of western materialism. there were a lot of things that happened when I was there I didn't reflect on much at the time; it was later that they came to appear more significant. It's been on my mind lately; I'd like to go back to that part of the world, and go further than I did then.

the postal service

Today I received a package in the mail. I was quite excited, because my mail box lately has been depressingly empty (...........hint). Only, when I inspected the little box more closely, I realised it was something I had posted – not to myself in a fit of sadness, but to someone in Australia – last Thursday. I had clearly marked, in big red texta, on opposite sides of the box, “TO” and “FROM”. And yet – it didn’t even leave Goroka. It was just stamped, and sent, express route, back to me. The post here is erratic, but I didn’t think it was retarded.

chewing the fat

Lamb flaps – usually imported from NZ – consist of teeny tiny bits of less-than-choice, even unidentifiable- meat, and lots and lots of fat. Until now I’ve opted not to eat the flaps, but yesterday, to be polite, I succumbed.

I was at a friend’s birthday party. It was supposed to be a “high tea”: 2pm, cakes, bring some bubbles etc. But this is the highlands of papua new guinea; cake is all well and good, but where’s the meat? Where’s the fire? And so it turned into a mumu. The birthday boy, conceding this, bought some lamb chops; he’s Australian, and in Australia a lamb chop would be valued over the flaps. But not here; he was told that chops aren’t the thing, it’s lamb flaps. So it was another trip to the supermarket, and a box of the best.

There was plenty of good food – a savoury sago with fish, and a sweet one; the usual savoury, mumu-ed bananas and greens; and the old aussie classic, potato salad – so it was easy to push the meat to the side of the plate and ignore it after my first few tries (I couldn’t break down the fat! Just chewing and chewing); I don’t think anyone noticed.

And the party was a good one. The hosts are two of the only people I know who manage to successfully combine PNGians and whiteskins at parties. Sometimes people try, and it’s uncomfortable and after a few sentences two distinct groups form; and often people don’t try: it becomes an either/or situation: either I am hanging out with my whiteskin friends, or I’m hanging out with my pngian friends.

This is usually the case, up here, amongst the people I am friends with. There are lots of reasons for it, and I think racism is actually one of the least likely – again amongst the people I know, who are almost all working for socially-orientated NGOs and/or volunteers; talking about moneyed expats is another story.

The most common reason for this split is a simple and banal one – but one that people sometimes shy from admitting: you find an ease is there when you’re with people who come from where you’re from (in my case, the west), that is not there with people who aren’t. This is not meant as a derogatory comment. I mean, in my muddled way, to point out that you appreciate different things when hanging out with different people; hanging out with whiteskins, for instances, I appreciate the ease with which I can … say something in a particular tone, and it’s meaning will be understood. Hanging out with PNGian people I know, I behave differently, and a bit more self-consciously; I pay attention a bit more because the cultural cues are ones I’m learning, not ones I grew up with. Cultural differences are real, and have a force. No one who lives here, wherever they are from, would pretend that there are no differences between people. What is tricky to talk about, however, is what these differences mean, and where they are felt.

So when someone combines different people and different groups together at a party, and it works and people mix, everybody there enjoys it and appreciates it. It was the kid’s 30^th birthday, and throwing such a party was a very cool way to mark it.

plots cooking

In 2006 we’ve upped the security. Alongside the big-bellied, always-sleepy Simba, we’ve got Kida. She doesn’t bark a lot; in fact, she doesn’t do anything much but sniff and look worried. Perhaps she knows more than I do; we did get a beautiful Doberman a few months ago – Rondo – but she lasted a mere two weeks. The other whiteskins on campus believe that Rondo was spotted, watched and stolen. There are two theories:
1) A car pulled up, a door was opened and Rondo was bundled inside, driven down to Lae and sold for over one thousand kina; or
2) Rondo was stolen by people on foot, who took her home and ate her. (most favour this option)

These other whiteys have been here for a minimum of five years. However, I still don’t believe that’s what happened: I think the new dog merely ran away, and probably found some new people to feed her. But I am still a nupela, young and naïve.

Not much else to report at the moment. Work is big and busy and has its unexpected moments; the director is leaving at the end of the month, people are a bit on edge, some letting a little ambition shine through, others withdrawing, turning to their family life as if turtles gaining cover by withdrawing under shells. People always react to change in particular, personal ways.

Me? I’m just itching for some type of change. I hate sitting still! Today I began my campaign (in a minor key) to try and move house. In my twenties I’ve moved a little more frequently than annually, and I don’t feel like giving up this habit this year. But shh! Don’t say anything; there is an old Italian priest here who is a bit of a curmudgeon and hates change; I know he’ll find some reason to prevent my release. Until then, I will spend time rearranging my furniture.

one day

(turtle, Solomon Islands)

i was talking to a volunteer recently who'd been living for the past while on an island that is part of the Solomon Islands. He'd been living, with his wife, on the world's largest uninhabited tropical island (still classed as uninhabited, because they had no children; odd but true).

He told me a great story about tagging turtles. The turtles thre are huge (hand gestures indicating almost 2m long). To tag them, 3 people go out oin a motorised banana boat. When they spot a turtule, they pull in close and follow. The turtles shoot along, and the driver tries to run parallel as one of the taggers leaps off the boat, hoping to land on the turtle's back. If the jumper holds on to the side of the shell, the turtle can very quickly dive down dep, and there's a real risk of being sucked down and then drowning.

So the jumper must grab on to the turtle's flippers straight away. This is very hard to do - hence there are 2 jumpers in the boat. If the first fails, the boat speeds away with the turtle, planning to circle back for the missing passenger later. If the second also fails, the driver keeps speeding along with the turtle. He steers the boat close once more, and - in a moment so quick there's no time to hold your breath - he cuts the engine and makes hiw own hopeful leap.

This is something I'd love to see.

On the corner of Pultney and Rundle Streets, Adelaide city, right outside Hungry Jacks, there is a small plaque for Arthur Conan Doyle. I can’t remember what it commemorates: did he stop there on his tour of Australia, when he was promoting “spiritism” (séances, contact with the dead etc.)? Or did Holmes have a connection to the city? I forget.

I have just been reading a fictional account of Doyle – and a different partner of his, George – in Julian Barnes’ “Arthur and George”. It’s a delight to learn more about Doyle as a character, and the first two-thirds of the book make for a gripping read. (It is based on a real life crime he himself investigated.) The writing is pleasingly accurate: words are always precise and apt, exactly capturing character, and from that, worlds. (The description of George’s obsession with trains and stations and station masters and tickets, and the implicit understandings – contracts – that are created between the railways and a person who purchases a ticket and becomes a passenger – this is excellent. And neatly used to explain the way George understands England, and the role of a citizen within it.)

Yet I felt the last third of the book was a bit of a let down. The narrative seems to move a bit more from character to character – but unnecessarily: we get many different points of view but they don’t all add to the tale. George’s presence at the end – at an event he would seem unlikely to attend, with his book and binoculars – wasn’t convincing. The “spiritism” in this later section also jarred. It is something for Doyle’s story, but not fitting for this tale of Arthur and George. The scene with George in front of Prince Albert’s statue seemed pushed, as if Barnes wanted an epiphanic moment before the book’s end. It didn’t work, from what you knew of George, and in the writing itself there was something lacking – a poetics was missing. (And I still don’t understand what an “unofficial Englishman” is.)

(Btw – reading a hardback edition from Jonathon Cape, London 2005 – there were numerous proofing errors; haven’t seen such a carelessly printed book from a big publisher in a long time.)

But if in the end Doyle himself is not always so interesting, it does make you want to go back to Sherlock and Watson and life and olden times.