trace elements

Caves in Laos

2008-05-27T16:16:00.006+10:00

On Sunday, we hired a motorbike and road out from Thakek, Laos, into the surrounding area. It was sunny and the road was reasonably good. To get to the first cave we turned off the main road, following a red dirt road through a local village ... and then another village ... and then getting directions and turning back, getting off the bike and following a walking track. The track led across flat land, past rice fields and skinny cows munching on grass in an unused area, to a sudden outcrop of limestone hills. At the base of one of the hills were steps leading up to a shrine, and more steps from there weaving up into a cave opening. The cave was decorated with little colourful flags and woven god's eyes, and further inwards were several shrines: images of buddha with incense and offerings.

The second cave was a lot further off the beaten track. This was only discovered recently - 2004 - by a local who was out hunting for bats. Climbing a cliff face, he entered a cave to discover over 200 images of buddha inside. Apparently he didn't tell anyone for days; the story goes he was too frightened he had imagined it all. To get inside I had to don a traditional skirt, and we took off shoes and hats. Bending down to go through a narrow openeing, it was a surprise to enter and find ... a staircase with a handrail to guide us down into the cavernous space inside, reasonably lit by fluros and ventilated with a fan! Nice. All the buddha statues were guarded by a few local people. We looked around, and sat down, and an elderly man came to each of us, recited chants over our right hands and before tying plaited orange string around the wrist. Although we couldn't understand what was said, it was a peaceful gesture that meant something to the people doing it, and that was enough.

We visited a few other caves, and the final one I went into by myself (there was a large entrance fee and by now we'd seen a few). This was the biggest one by far I'd entered. Steps led up and around curving walls, so I lost sight of the entrance way. Everywhere I could hear the sound of dripping, and the ground was wet. Initially there were fluro lights angled about the place, but after half way they stopped working and I dug out a head lamp. Water flooded the pathway, and I clambered up the side of a wall to keep going further inwards. At the end of the path, I was at the top of an inner chamber, and looking down could see a deep, still, clear pool.

I turned off the headlamp and listened to the cave, and my breathing. A Frenchman has described memory as being like a series of rooms. But these chambers make me think more of the heart: a series of resonant chambers, opening up off one another, forming slowly over time, like love.

tales from cambodia

2008-04-29T13:41:00.000+10:00

We arrived in Siem Reap on Friday, and that night went to see Angkor Wat at sunset. It is an amazing place, and that first time was the most exciting. There were thousands of other people around, and seeing the outline of the Wat across the water (there's a moat around it) was very moving: it felt like an honour to be there, such a pilgrimage for so many. We were happy just to be there and so wandered around without a plan. It is huge, and there are many different areas, from the reliefs carved into outer walls to inner courtyards, higher levels, remnants of bhudda statues etc. All on a massive scale, making you wonder about their feats of engineering (how did they manoeuver the huge stone blocks?). The weather was cloudy so there was no big sunset, more a gradual change in light. But it was a special place to be.

We arrived in Cambodia by boat from Vietnam, travelling up the Mekong river to Phnom Phen and staying there for a few days. Cambodia itself has been interesting to visit, often sad. We have learnt a lot about the recent past – the civil war and then the terrible years under the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot until the invasion by the Vietnamese.

We visited S21, a former school that the KR used as their interrogation centre for 4 years. It was very frightening and eerie; little had changed from the brutal set up they had used. We also went out to one of the killing fields, where they had uncovered about 10,000 skeletons; the KR had taken people out here and executed them before shoving them in shallow pits. Today most of the bones have been removed and placed in a memorial shrine, and grass has grown over the empty pits. There is nothing much to say there, as you approach a great sadness. There are other fields in different parts of the country.

Most of all we are learning from people's stories; everyone you speak to lost family during those years, some were tortured themselves, almost starved and had to work in the fields; many many were orphaned. The KR killed everyone who was highly educated, whether lawyers, engineers, administrators or Bhuddhist monks. This has meant great problems down the line – how to rebuild a country when you have lost so much expertise.

Leaving PP we caught a bus up to Battambang, a medium sized town further north-west. We spent an afternoon volunteering in English conversation classes in a free rural village English school, which was great – fun to talk to younger people about their lives. Girls I spoke to were focused on their education – before boyfriends, thankyou! They wanted to learn English to become guides. Several monks came – they were just like other 20yr old guys, no different. I think I'd been expecting zen masters.

The school's director told us how both of his grandfathers had been executed by the Khmer Rouge in th 1970s (one had been a doctor, the other a police chief). The Khmer Rouge still controlled this area during the 1980s, and it was only in the 1990s that his parents felt safe enough to dig up the remains of one of the grandfathers and place his bones at a temple. They identified his bones by the clothes around them; for all this time they had remembered what he wore and where his body had been taken.

The next day we hired motos (i.e. motorbike + driver) and went out in the area around Battabang. The villages are a mix of permanent housing and grass/thatched houses. Most people are rice farmers. There were some Muslim villages, but the majority are Bhuddhist. Right now it is dry season, so the fields were hard, river was low and the roads were dusty. Some enterprising locals had planted vegetable gardens on the banks of the river – temporary one, until the rains came and the water rose again. We visited Wat Banan, an ancient temple rising steeply from the flat plains, and Phnom Sampeau, which is another temple, though not as old. Around Sampeau are limestone caves; the Khmer Rouge executed people above them and let bodies fall into them. There are skeletons there still. I couldn't stay in the caves long; it was a disturbing place. Not for everyone – there were some local people in one of the caves sitting around having their fortunes read from cards. Bizarre.

My driver had been orphaned during the Khmer Rouge years – some family members executed, others dying from sickness and starvation. Afterwards, when the Vietnamese came, he participated in two revenge killings against former KR officers.

People are rebuilding lives now, with a new generation who have been born after the war. But the past is still alive, still such a powerful presence here. There is a lot of talk of corruption in the government, and there is a visible gulf between the rich (in their lexus 4WDs) and the many many poor people. Most roads are poor, health services are limited and available on a payment basis (how much money do you have? Then this is what I can do for you), goods and services are expensive. Elections are coming up in a few months. I wonder if they will go smoothly.

dreams from saigon

2008-04-13T19:31:00.006+10:00

Back to Asia, and back to blogging. This time from Saigon / Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Only landed on Thursday night so I still feel alert to so many differences here, and ignorant of the city's own routine.

We've been spending time walking around, getting used to crazy traffic: there are hundreds of motorbikes and taxis and cyclos and buses and trucks on the roads, and initially it looks like they are driving every and any which way - whenever they want. Unpredictable, and close and sometimes alarming (combined with getting used to left hand drive cars on the right side of the road). But after a while out in amongst it you start to see a pattern in it all: walking out into traffic is a bit of a confidence trick, you have to walk with purpose as if there is a clear path ahead of you, and if you look like you believe it, the traffic will swerve around you.

We've also visited a few museums, local markets and tried some local dishes. It's so exciting and invigorating to be in Asia again; I'm loving it.

Today we left Saigon to explore old Viet Cong underground tunnels (at Cu Chi). Combined with visits to several other war-related museums, with very graphic information and photos from the Vietnam war (anti-american), I'm looking forward to having a break from the horrors of the recent past; they're giving me bad dreams. Tomorrow we're packing up our bags and heading to the mighty Mekong River.

living in melbourne

2007-03-08T21:22:00.000+11:00

Sydney Road street festival, Sunday 4 March. The umbrellas were popular, though a bit pretentious when twirled by white ladies. The road - a major thoroughfare - was closed to traffic: no trams, no cars, only feet and the occasional pram. The area was packed with people, bands, food, stalls (even a radical leftie stall selling books including "socialism and lesbians"). But the main thrill was walking down the middle of the road, along the tram tracks, in that space you're usually not allowed to visit.

but there are good bits too...

2006-10-18T16:26:00.000+10:00

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

2006-10-16T18:47:00.000+10:00

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

2006-10-10T10:13:00.000+10:00

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

2006-10-04T08:38:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-26T08:35:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-06-20T18:52:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-06-18T20:00:00.000+10:00

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?

2006-06-14T12:55:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-13T20:03:00.000+10:00

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

timor: baucau - com - los palos

2006-06-12T13:07:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-10T15:18:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-09T17:41:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-30T19:14:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-30T15:16:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-29T20:05:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-24T18:46:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-21T15:36:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-13T11:35:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-10T19:41:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-08T20:03:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-07T14:39:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-06T10:16:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-04T20:21:00.000+10:00

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

2006-05-02T20:27:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-30T19:46:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-29T12:07:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-27T20:34:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-24T18:45:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-23T20:19:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-20T13:48:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-18T20:15:00.000+10:00

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*

2006-04-17T20:26:00.000+10:00

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)

2006-04-17T20:22:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-04-17T20:06:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-13T19:41:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-11T20:29:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-10T20:11:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-05T16:58:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-05T08:00:00.000+10:00

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

2006-04-04T20:37:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-04-03T19:00:00.000+10:00

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...

2006-03-31T20:25:00.000+11:00

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

2006-03-29T19:56:00.000+11:00

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

2006-03-27T19:29:00.000+11:00

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

2006-03-25T15:32:00.000+11:00

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

2006-03-24T22:15:00.000+11:00

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.

life and death on this island

2006-03-23T19:53:00.000+11:00

There was a man who was a good soccer player. He was 30, and had lived in Goroka for most of his life, but his home village was in Manus. He was married to a nurse; his wife was from the same village in Manus. They had two young sons. He worked in the coffee business – not growing the beans himself, but buying them from local growers and selling them internationally. He was reasonably well-off; he had affairs with two other women, considered his second and third wives. (To have additional wives, you have to be able to financially afford additional wives.)

A month ago, out of the blue, he decided he needed to go back to his village. He hadn’t been back for a long time. He went around Goroka town to all the people he was close to, asking for money for his plane far back. He raised enough, and returned to the village. And last week he died. Suddenly; he was not overtly ill.

Everyone is talking. Because he had such a “strong cultural marriage” – he was married to women from the same village – it is said that other villagers may have used sorcery to kill him, because he had extra wives. “AIDS” is also whispered, in a malevolent way – again because he had so many wives. (It’s a funny thing: polygamy is accepted – and the wives fighting, often violently, is accepted too – yet if something terrible happens – a sudden death, for instance – polygamy always comes up as the reason why. “He got sick because…”)

The coffee company the man worked for gave 5000kina to the first wife so that she and the two boys could fly up to the village for the funeral. The family are burying him quickly. There is a lot of fear and distrust; people expect his death will be avenged, the fatal sorcerer will be found.

When a person dies, it is commonplace to hear mention of sorcery. Medical explanations for a death might be available, but they don’t address the “real reason” for the death. Sorcery accusations do: they explain why someone died in terms of their relationships with other people in the community. Perhaps the dead person was selfish and did not share wealth, or showed disrespect for a village by disrespecting his village wife by getting a second wife. Sorcery accusations are increasing in PNG – and their side effect, the killing of suspected sorcerers. It’s a profound problem that is testing, and eroding, communities. And it doesn’t go away with education, science, literacy (or Christianity for that matter) … To throw my ten cents in – I think accusations might lessen if poverty decreased, and access to services (medical care, schools, respected police) increased. But that doesn’t seem to be happening.

mad dogs and um ... americans

2006-03-21T22:18:00.000+11:00

Read a strange article today on the history of psychiatry in Papua New Guinea. Strange because fitting psychiatry into this cultural context seems a mighty stretch. But it covered the psychotic-ness of whites as well, including this interesting fact: in WWII, “Among the Americans the evacuation of psychotics was of an order greater than among the Australians, with the psychosis exit rate much higher from war-time New Guinea than from either the Mediterranean or European theatres”.

Another interesting fact was that, after WWII, a psychiatric hospital was opened in the vicinity of Jayapura (capt. of now-West Papua), but quite close to the the border with PNG. At first it was "an exteremly poor old style mental asylum" - and it was known as "Irene" (no explanation given). I shudder to think what it must have been like. It's not hard to believe being sent to "Irene", in the freaking where, would send anyone crazy.

it's about sunshine

2006-03-19T11:05:00.000+11:00

and it's about time! after weeks of rain and swathes of mud, today we have blue skies and sunshine and the tracks are hard and your shoes don't get filthy and the pigs have disappeared from the market and the food isn't sitting in the mud and it's a friend's birthday and all things are good.

doll parts

2006-03-18T13:45:00.000+11:00

travelling in new delhi, 2001

Men, their behaviour and their attitudes towards women, can make life hard for a girl in PNG. And of course I’m on the lucky side with my white skin, my volunteer’s salary, my knowledge that I leave. The hassles I get are small fry. But you do have hard days, and long-term it’s not a society I want to live in - largely because of gender issues.

(One benefit is that I appreciate much more where I come from, and the times I live in. My parents were really cool when raising me – shoutouts to mum and dad! I never felt that there were things I couldn’t do because I was a girl, and consequently I did everything I wanted. At school it was the same; when I was educated there was a sound acceptance of the idea that boys and girls were equal. In my teens, at high school, this started to change: that was when there was a push to recognise differences between the sexes, and to acknowledge that there were different strengths and weaknesses. But it didn’t affect the curriculum, and just made common sense. It’s really only been through travel that I have experienced and glimpsed different, more gendered, worlds.)

I was talking with some other (male) volunteers recently, about living in PNG, and about leaving it. There are some great career opportunities here, and life can be an adventure. But we agreed that the experience for girls was significantly different from that of boys. Boys here – local or expat – have great freedoms, compared to girls; and I do wonder if, were I a boy, I might want to stay on longer. But I ain't and I don't.

What this means varies according to where you are – coast vs highlands, town vs village, matriarchy vs patriarchy – and on your class, education, and employment. Here in Gka we’re in a patriarchal stronghold. There are very few women in public roles; you’ve gotta be one tough susa to work productively – to get others to work for you – to cope personally – etc. When I first arrived last year, the Assistant Director at my work was a female from Bougainville (Bougainvillians have a reputation for being very strong, especially the women; they’re different from mainlanders, because of their recent history – Sandline crisis etc). So anyway this woman was no nonsense, savvy, fierce and with a wonderful sense of humour. Sadly, she left soon after I arrived; I enjoyed hanging out with her, she had some serious stories to tell. But more sad was her conclusion, after living and working in the highlands for ten years, that could she do her time over again she would never accept employment in a powerful position here, as a female.

(You like to think that if a woman takes up a position in a previously male-dominated area, that it is some type of break through, some type of significant change. It’s hard to learn that that is sometimes not the case: that change hasn’t occurred, that taking on challenges sometimes isn’t worth it.)
**
Leaving is on my mind at the moment. According to a set publication schedule, we finish our major work on 1 Aug this year. I hadn’t been aware of this until recently; my visa goes until the start of Feb next year. So we’re currently re-negotiating a finish date (me, my boss here, and the bosses in Aussie – the volunteer agency), I’m guessing towards the end of September.

People at work don’t know yet. We were doing some future planning during the week, and a woman I work closely with, who I have formed a strong friendship with, turned and said: “And of course you will go, too.” And she looked at me, and her eyes filled with tears. And I could write a book on the pause that followed – on the working relationships involving pngians and whiteskins and the many and varied tensions and influences that occurs within them; on their social relationships, on their lived experiences; on whiteskins dropping out of the sky into peoples lives, making huge changes felt, and then almost always leaving again; on the impact that that has on both pngians and whites; on the impact of the history of the last fifty years on the present; on these particular women, herself and myself, and all that has gone before for us and all that has shaped us and all that has happened to us for she and I to reach this particular point in time, this particular pause –

And although I could write a book on that pause, when it occurred there was nothing I could say. I really enjoy my job, and I know I won’t find anything like it back in Aussie. In terms of lifestyle here, well, whilst I've loved the adventure, I’m ready to leave it; the restrictions are too much and it’s not the place for me. But there are certain key people it is going to be very hard to leave. I had thought that they would, but “leavings” don’t get any easier with experience. They’re always particular, and particularly hard.

can't talk -

2006-03-15T19:43:00.000+11:00

editing. major, big fat book (on catholic church; sigh). content = unreadable. but man just read it for the editing! ahahahaha. yes starting to feel a bit crazed; last six weeks have been our busiest time of year, lots of publications going to printers, keep thinking just push through to next week and things will be sweet and next week comes and i keep thinking just push through ... and so it goes on. but me staff are great and it is really rewarding to see the changes in their work, and the work place itself, after a year. and anyway seriously after march it will be smooth sailing. you hear that world?
will talk more then

Malaysian woman shot dead*

2006-03-09T20:48:00.000+11:00

This was the title of an article in one of the (two) dailies a month ago. Some friends highlighted it (there was a story to the case itself) and I remember joking about its emphasis – forget the death; according to the paper’s emphasis, that’s less important than where she was from. (That emphasis isn’t isolated to the media, but it’s easier to make fun of there.)

But since then I’ve followed the story. It has grown to uncomfortable proportions.

On Friday Jan 28, the manager – “a Malaysian” (named) – of “Tropicana Rabaul” went to a local restaurant, the Unicorn, “with two Taiwanese men and two women”. They were drinking, and he fired a bullet from a 9mm glock pistol into the air; it hit the roof. The incident was not reported straight away.

Mystery over death of Malaysian

The following Tuesday, at 7am, the husband was having a shower when he heard a gunshot. He (30) was married to a woman (named; 28) who also worked at the “Tropicana”, and they lived there.

His wife was in the bedroom. She was dead; she had a 9mm pistol (a glock 17) in her hand and a gunshot wound to her head.

He called the police two hours later.

Two police officers attended the scene. Searching the house, they found a total of six firearms (including two 2.22 rifles, a glock 26 pistol and a pump action shotgun). They confiscated them, believing that they were unregistered. They were considering arresting the husband and charging him for this offence. In the meantime they were interviewing him about his wife’s death, which was being treated as a “suspicious murder”.

The provincial police commander chief superintendent (yes that is a real title) admitted that the investigation proved difficult. Murder or suicide? In the meantime, police were interviewing the husband about the unregistered firearms. The woman’s body was flown to Port Moresby to be cremated, and the ashes sent to Malaysia. In the meantime, police were trying to confirm whether the firearms found were registered.

Asian on gun charge. Asian guilty of gunfire.

A week later, someone reported the Unicorn incident to the police. The event had not been considered worthy of reporting, until after the wife’s death.

Two police officers went to the husband’s premises to investigate the claims (of discharging a firearm in a public place). He gave the officers a plastic bag with two pairs of shorts and K30,000 in cash. The police officers didn’t see the money at first, and asked for his gun license. He went into the bedroom and came out with two envelopes containing K6000 in K100 notes and K1000 in K50 notes. He told the officers that “all the documents they needed” were in two envelopes and the plastic bag.

The police officers opened the envelopes and the bag. They then went to the police station and “lodged a complaint”.

Asian pleads guilty

When in court over firing a gun in a public place, the husband pleaded guilty. He was arrested on the same day for attempting to bribe the police. He was still being investigated about the death of his wife. Bail was refused; he was remanded in the cells at Kokopo.

Malaysian goes berserk in police cell

Two days later, there were incidents in the cells.

In the early hours of the morning the husband went to the toilet, with two guards as escorts. Leaving the toilets, he grabbed a fluro light tube and smashed it against one guard’s head. “He then tried to use the remaining sharp part of the tube to stab another… However, quick recovery by the officers coupled with shouting from other prisoners brought early morning joggers and police officers from the nearby barracks who helped to throw him back in the cell.”

Near noon, the husband stabbed a fellow male prisoner (named) with a kitchen knife. The police had no idea how he came to have access to a knife. The husband pushed the knife in under the man’s abdomen; the victim was taken to hospital and underwent surgery.

There was a female prisoner in the cell adjacent to the husband’s. Between them was a fence. The husband put his hands through the fence and pulled the woman by her neck against the fence, attempting to strangle her. Another female prisoner hit the man in order to release his hold, and hollered for help.

After these events, the husband was hit by other prisoners. His face was punched and cut “before police could intervene”, though they said that they were “keeping a close watch” on him now. He was put in solitary confinement due to “the security of other inmates”. He was charged with two new counts of assault and one count of grevious bodily harm (in addition to the charges of discharging of firearm in public and attempted bribery; he was still under investigation over the death of his wife).

Malaysian in hospital

Due to injuries sustained from fellow prisoners, the husband was taken to hospital. He had a headache and was later given pain killers.

Malaysian to know fate today

The sentencing for the discharging-of-firearm charge was delayed; the husband was “too drowsy” to appear in court after receiving medical treatment – the painkillers – at hospital. They were initially withheld from him because of his “state of mind”.

Now if it were 1959-1960, and we were in America, well I would just fold up my newspaper and grab a pencil and a pad of paper and jump on the next train to Kokopo and go write myself a story of true crime. As it’s not, I wait for the another installment in the next day’s papers.

*Note: all headings and quotations are from The National and the Post Courier. Most of the events are alleged; the court trials are yet to commence.

carry on nurse: state of health care in png

2006-03-05T16:46:00.000+11:00

Health services in Papua New Guinea have declined in number, quality and funding since Independence (1975, when the Australian administration officially withdrew). This includes the training of medical staff, the number of points at which you can access health care (whether it be in the form of a visiting midwife; an aid post; a doctor; a hospital) and the availability and cost of medicine.

Between 80-85% of the population lives in rural areas, and survives on subsistence farming: they grow what they eat. For a villager, a hospital might be several days’ walk away – or a boat ride and walk away, etc etc. To combat this, each province has numerous aid posts: places where there is supposed to be someone with some form of medical training (i.e. nurse), hopefully radio access to someone with more training for advice (i.e. a doctor) and some basic medicines. But the aid posts have been closing down. Funding was not provided for the upkeep of buildings. Staff had inadequate medical training, occasional visits from trained doctors or nurses ceased, medicine was limited and old. Some – fortunately – still operate, and operate well. But overall this is not the case.

There aren’t many hospitals, and some have closed due to lack of funding and staff, and/or security. Hospitals don’t always have doctors, and they aren’t always open. If without doctors, nurses did have radio access to a doctor for advice – but this has stopped (in the cases I know of). Hospitals aren’t always safe places; there can be tension relating to treatment of certain patients when there is a local tribal war, for instance; in an area where critical infrastructure is weak, staff can be at risk of physical attack and abuse. Staff morale in many hospitals is low. All hospitals have trouble stocking medicines. (Case in point: a nearby hospital: open only from 8am-4pm; without a doctor; staffed only by nurses; several nurses reported being raped; medicine cabinet often consists of little stronger than aspirin.)

In Goroka, we do have a hospital – and last year its first maternity ward opened (this was because of an Australian team of nurses who “adopted” the hospital; they fundraise for it here and back in Aussie; they come up once a year and do 2 weeks volunteer work there).

But there has been a move away from hospitals in the last 2 decades. They remain out of reach for a lot of people. If you’re seriously sick (imagine a breach birth), you don’t want to/are unable to walk for hours, for a day, or for days to get there. The boat or PMV (public motor vehicle) ride might also not be an option – perhaps the sea is too rough for a pregnant woman, maybe roads are impassable at that time (mud slide, broken bridge etc), maybe you’ve been cut by a bushknife and are bleeding and there simply isn’t time for the long journey. Maybe the discomfort of travel makes it impossible, and/or because it costs money.

Plus, getting to hospital, waiting to be seen by a staff member, being seen and told what medicine is needed – you might then be told that you have to buy the medicine yourself because the hospital can’t afford to buy it. This has been happening in Goroka (in a case reported on in the media, to a child with leukaemia). This is medicine that is not subsidised, and costs over one hundred kina – something few can afford. This means that patients usually just have to begin the trip back home, without any medicine. Their illness gets worse, and maybe they die.

And so we arrive at another issue: the reputation of hospitals, or peoples’ attitudes towards them. Given the lack of staff, lack of medicines, lack of proper training – well, people die in hospital. And so the hospital is known as a place you go to and die. Hence, a significant number of people will avoid going to hospital for treatment – or simply won’t consider it as an option. It’s not hard to understand: if someone you know is seriously ill, has a painful journey to and from hospital, comes back and takes a few aspirin* and then dies anyway – well why bother going? Maybe if you simply rest at home and avoid the hospital you will be ok.

This is coupled with a growth in use of traditional medicines – which is partly a positive change (accessible and affordable), but given that the market for trad medicine is totally unregulated, has also resulted in a lot of scams (“miracle water” from a spring somewhere in PNG is marketed seriously as a cure for cancer and AIDS).

The rate of infant mortality has risen significantly in the past twenty years, and is amongst the highest in the region. Life expectancy remains amongst the lowest in the region (a little above 50 years). HIV/AIDS remains a disaster area – but that’s a story all of its own.

I present to you a dire picture of a state in crisis. And yet – it’s just life. Heath care is vitally important, and some situations here are so bad that they are unacceptable and need to be fought about. But: Living here for over a year now has subtly but profoundly changed my understanding of life, and of the world, and how to conceptualise it. People are lively and active and hard working. And they love and have families and dreams, and they learn and strive and try. It’s the best we can do.

(*Aspirin: common cure-all; buy individual tablets at the market; a workmate who had typhoid trusted that a few aspirin would make it go away)

daydreaming

2006-03-05T14:19:00.000+11:00

let's imagine i was given unlimited funds to be used solely for travel for say one year. Today, this is where I would go (just in order of current interest):

-Rio de Janeiro (and I'd pop over to Chile whilst there)
-Burma (crossing at the Chinese border)

From there, I'd go to Calcutta by sea OR to Bhutan - which ever was possible.

And somehow find my way back to Mumbai again, and explore more of southern India than last time. And New Delhi would be revisited.

And oh Berlin. Berlin is always on the list.

...so much to answer for

2006-03-01T13:37:00.000+11:00

Lae is in a bit of trouble at the moment. “Disaster Looms” screamed one of the front pages yesterday – but they were just talking about the potential damage of a potential earthquake, info gleaned from a power-point presentation at a conference; nothing new.

More like disaster was the news that, yesterday, hundreds of Ahi villagers had planned to strike, cut off the supply of water and electricity to Morobe’s capital (Lae), and close down the provincial headquarters if the governor Luther Wenge didn’t agree to meet with them. On Monday a hundred-ish crowd of angry people gathered outside the provincial hq. A youth leader of Ahi wanted to take 5 provincial govt vehicles as ransom, to ensure that Wenge would indeed meet with them. But the presence of the police task force prevented him. The crowd were reportedly shouting out insults to Wenge, including this one which made me laugh: “you’re a highlander only adopted into Morobe”. (Honestly, why are highlanders always blamed? I secretly suspect they’re going to take over png in the next decade or so.)

of mice and men

2006-02-27T21:36:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-27T08:09:00.000+11:00

goroka, early morning. view from my new haus.

pseudomonas - png toothpaste scam

2006-02-21T21:01:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-21T20:46:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-19T21:04:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-16T22:22:00.000+11:00

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?

2006-02-15T22:42:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-14T20:58:00.000+11:00

(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

2006-02-13T20:56:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-12T11:20:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-08T20:05:00.000+11:00

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

2006-02-06T13:11:00.000+11:00

(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.

2006-02-02T21:47:00.000+11:00

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.

a word of caution

2006-01-31T22:16:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-29T10:47:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-28T15:51:00.000+11:00

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)

2006-01-25T21:35:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-23T21:49:00.000+11:00

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...

2006-01-22T15:35:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-19T19:13:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-19T13:35:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-16T13:12:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-15T22:02:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-12T20:37:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-11T20:50:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-10T20:37:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-10T11:45:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-08T17:45:00.000+11:00

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?

2006-01-07T12:11:00.000+11:00

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

2006-01-04T17:57:00.000+11:00

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!

2006-01-04T12:46:00.000+11:00

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.)

up, up and away

2005-12-17T14:10:00.000+11:00

Tomorrow I fly out and start heading towards the home base. It’s not better or worse, but things will certainly be different there. I won’t be saying “mornin’” to everyone I pass when I walk around (and I’ll have to pay more attention to how I dress). When I stand in line at the bank, strangers won’t start up conversations with me (and there won’t be 20 people ahead of me in the line). When it gets after 5pm and I’m still walking around, I won’t be worried about safety. I will be able to buy fresh milk. To catch a train. To drink water from the tap and not worry about typhoid. I will miss the fresh, cheap fruit and veg in Goroka – but there will be such a variety of other foods available that maybe I won’t after all. People with red lips will be wearing lipstick, rather than chewing buai. There will be bookshops.

guard dog

2005-12-17T12:54:00.000+11:00

"guard dog" is actually the name of the security company who guard the place where I live - I'm not being rude. Sohi (above) is one of the security guards at the place i've been housesitting; he doesn’t work for the firm, he's private. The bow was fixed by last night (look; it's a big 'un), and so he put on the uniform and proudly posed for a few shots.

in action

2005-12-15T23:15:00.000+11:00

last night and tonight = farewell dinners (for people leaving permanently) and early chistmas ones too. it's fun, and great to spend the time with such good people. goodbyes are part of it all, but don't define it. yet at work and outside of it, my mind is half elsewhere: it's just 3 sleeps till i leave too (impermanently).

blips drips and strips

2005-12-13T21:20:00.000+11:00

Tonight I asked Sohi if I could take his photo to show my family. He was very excited. “Wait Robyn wait!” he cried over his shoulder as he ran downstairs. “Yu takim piksa long mi na bow and arrow. Yu showim gutpla security!”

He came back five minutes later with a bow about 6ft tall and a bundle of spears. He carefully enacted what he would do if someone tried to climb into the garden:

“I would hide in a very dark place, and pull back the arrow like this, and he wouldn’t know I was there, and then I would shoot this spear and he wouldn’t be able to run, and I would run upstairs and knock on your door Robyn and you would call the police” (shit! I think. I have no idea what the police number is. Phone book is 5 years out of date. I don’t think there is a 000 here. must make effort to be more security conscious.)

Unfortunately, I had forgotten to bring my camera after all (but don’t worry; will get a photo when he’s back at work on Friday.) Or maybe that’s not so unfortunate, as the third or fourth time he pulled back the bow, it broke (“bush materials” he muttered and shook his head. He gets what looks like a long tough strip of bark from the market.). I asked him if he has ever had to shoot a person, or even an animal, but um he hasn’t. Still, it does look impressive when it works.

There’s also the weird edge added by his outfit. I’d seen it before, but assumed that it was for warmth at night. Now I learn that it is his own security uniform: it is what he wears, he tells me, when he is on guard. It’s a green and black chequered dressing gown, one of those full body types in wool that your dad or grandpa might have. Or, in Goroka, your security guard.

[As I type, I can hear someone doing some chopping. It’s one of the two security guards; he is making an axe handle. This afternoon, walking home from work, a old woman came up to me and we said “apinun” (afternoon) and we shook hands. (I didn’t know her.) She grinned broadly at this interaction, and then hugged me; and hugged me again; and finally let me go with a farewell “ah, nice”. Oh, to touch the white meri! I have no idea of what this might mean to her, but it made her smile so that was good. It's not a rule, but: some days PNG will make you smile.]

2005-12-12T19:15:00.000+11:00

I hear it's been pretty hot in Adelaide. Up here in the land of the clouds, things don't vary so much. It's clear around noon most days, and clouds are around before and after. You need a blanket or two at night (fact: only expats have quilts), and jeans and a shirt will become your daily uniform. Now and then you remember, though, that it's beautiful.

I had a chat to one of the guards tonight, So-hi (I have no idea about this spelling; this is phonetic). He is a great guy, and is turning into a bit of a mate. We chat most evenings. Lately he keeps bringing up my departure - it's only for two weeks, and I'll be back for a year. But he talks about it like he's touching a sore tooth. I said tonight that I was really looking forward to going, seeing my wantoks etc, and he almost cried (guys here can be quite senitmental; crying occurs frequently, and publicly), saying that he and the other guard have been talking about me and gosh they are really going to miss me and x y z. It was really sweet - but then I am a sucker (I have also just made them another cake). "It's only two weeks!" I say. "Ah, but, mi feeling sori tru" he sighs. Hm; I am a complete sucker. I am moved.

in da g

2005-12-11T13:56:00.000+11:00

It was a mate's birthday during the week, and the real excuse for the party last night. I bought him a birthday cake from the supermarket. There were five to choose from, mostly with Christmas wishes. This one had a birthday message which was irresistible, given my friend is an Aussie bloke who turned 29: "I am, 2 days old, please, love me! Carry me like a honey moon and kisses me as a Baby Bird!!"

goroka. 10.12.05.

2005-12-10T14:39:00.000+11:00

tonight we party like... it's my birthday again!

andy you're a star (in nobody's eyes, but mine)

2005-12-09T07:37:00.000+11:00

well enough of seriousness; after considering poverty and the ills of the world, i turned on the tv and "tommy lee goes to college" was on! i am out of touch - hadn't heard of this gem before. (and it was even actually err amusing to watch him flunk out of the school band - "you said you were a muso! bigshot wanker".)

i posted about new tribes recently, a weird and secretive american mission outside of Goroka. just after I posted it, I came across their yearbook for 2002. (still can't work out how it slipped into my bag). Inside are shots of the staff (all [named] whiteskins, barring one: "maintenance" is pngian), wills of the year 12 students ("Firstly, I give my life and those in it to God. With my focus on the cross, I can walk on water..."), and shots of the crrrrrazy antics they get up to. Like mud wrestling (left) and sticking people in big pots (right). We were laughing at this but then my friend asked - wait - look closely at that second picture - is that blood in the bottom left?

comparative sociology

2005-12-08T20:06:00.000+11:00

So png – like any other place – has it’s problems. There are many things it has going for it, however. These two are phrased negatively, but – given the poverty and lack of useful employment here – are very important:

- hardcore drugs are so minimal as to be non-significant. I have never, ever heard of any up in the EHP; I’m sure they appear (in minimal quantities) PoM, Lae, maybe somewhere coastal or along the border – but they don’t make it here. There is tons of dope, but nothing stronger. Dealers aren’t big men.
- guns are old. Yeah, I know: they still kill. But people aren’t wearing night goggles and hiding from tracer ammo.

I watched “City of God” last night, and the doco on Rio de Janeiro’s pavelas (slums/settlements/ghettos). It’s actually a relief to think of PNG in comparison; individually people here are so good (and comparatively society is positively innocent); the problems related to drugs are not entrenched, crime is not the only option, not necessarily trans-generational, not so inevitable. Nor so organised. Guns are an issue, but it must be said, a background issue – a political issue (RdeJ’s police storehouse of confiscated guns! Unbelievable. And what was it the chief of police said? “We have modern armament that even Libya doesn’t have.” This is serious. “People are used to it. They conform to it.”).

But it also reinforced what I’ve been thinking about for a while: forget cultural differences. The big obstacle that is ever-increasing is poverty, linked with class. In so many areas in the world, “gaps” between classes are widening. That is where crime – drugs – guns step in.

[Oh my god! We’re having an earthquake! Must save houseowner’s ming vases - ]

2005-12-07T17:42:00.000+11:00

when i was down in lae i bought some of my favourtie foods - these packet meals are amazing. you don't have to do much at all: put a silver pouch in boiling water for 5mins, that's it. and what's inside the pouch actually comes out looking exactly like what's on the cover! veg and all. and yet there are no artificialities whatsoever. how do they do it? i don't know. this time i actually read the back: the food "technology" is developed by the Defence Food Research Lab in the Ministry of Defence in India. i've had space food before, but not defence food. impressed.