the tolais and the whiteskin meri

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

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

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

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

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

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

13 sleeps

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

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

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

momentarily

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

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

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

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

a post for the 25th

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

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

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

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

pioneers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

unfinished maps

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

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

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

wow and flutter*

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

(*sntrck to riding in a boat; stereolab)

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

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

the long distance runner

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

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

anthropology and today

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

**

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

**

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

**

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

**

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

**

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

**

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

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

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

**

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

the heart remains a child

Things you don’t need to bring to PNG

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

Things surprisingly useful

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

Essentials that keep your wheels running smoothly

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

a day in the life

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

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

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

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

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

the geezer

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

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

there's gonna be a fight

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

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

A bit of excitement to the morning.

cloaks and daggers

Let’s start with the daggers.

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

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

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

And cloaks…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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