Beyond the Coral Sea: Travels in the Old Empires of the South-West Pacific

2. The Eye of the Eagle

Final approach to Port Moresby in the dry season is over arid, brown hills bereft of vegetation and a polished turquoise sea. The colonial terminal at Jacksons airport has faded lettering on the fibro huts, the modern terminal a bland feel, new paint already peeling in the heat. An Air Force Dakota without engines lies abandoned on one side of the runway, a reminder of the first commercial flights. The blast of desiccated air as you disembark is like a physical punch, gusts of the south-east trades dry the mouth. Certainly you are no longer referred to as masta as your bags are unloaded. Only one officer is on duty at passport control to process the entire jetload of passengers. Welcome to modern Papua New Guinea, ‘land of the unexpected’.

Captain John Moresby may have been the first white man the native people had ever seen when he sailed into the harbour aboard the HMS Basilisk in 1873. He spent some time trading with the villagers of the local Motu tribe. He wrote that civilisation seemed to have little to offer this culture. The London Missionary Society were settling in a year later and by 1883 there were five resident Europeans in Port Moresby including the Reverend James Chalmers, a gregarious character who was eventually murdered and eaten by cannibals on Goaribari Island in Western New Guinea. Despite its isolation and absence of road connections, Moresby has remained the capital.

The taxi driver informed me that the bullet hole in the corner of the cracked windscreen was from raskols – a misleadingly benign Pidgin word meaning ‘violent criminal’. They had attempted to hold him up on the way to ‘Town’, the centre of the city. He was a Highlander with an ambiguous smile somewhere between a welcome and a nasty threat. I began to glance anxiously at passing cars.

‘Wanpela sutim mi nogut tru lon hia. Olgeta bakarap.’1

‘Were you hurt? Did they take your money?’

‘Took everything but I drive away quick. Back at work next day. Mosby em gutpela ples.’2

This made no logical sense at all to me so I fell silent until we reached the hotel. It was a dusty drive with colourful children and resentful adults crowding the roadsides. There had been a drought for the last seven months. The usual Western corporate signage had been bleached by the savage sun. A car had collided with a truck bearing the company name ‘Active Demolition’. I glimpsed the original Motuan stilt village of Hanuabada, fibro huts replacing the traditional bush materials. A few cargo ships lay becalmed in the port.

A midday stroll among the sterile office blocks, slavering guard dogs and confectioner’s nightmares thrown up by financial institutions did not appeal, so I headed south for Ela Beach, an inviting stretch of sand facing Walter Bay. Trucks cranked past with men crammed like sardines in the back and small PMV3 buses smoked happily by like toys. Seaweed, cans and other detritus marred the shore, but kiosks gaily painted in Jamaican style lifted the spirits. A rugby side were training on the sand, running forward through a line of plastic traffic cones and then suddenly reversing through them. Many who were overweight fell over during the difficult backward manoeuvre but there was no laughter, just embarrassment. Papua New Guinea is the only country in the world that has rugby as its national sport and every aspect of it is taken seriously. Training was interrupted by the capture of a turtle on the breakwater. A long time was spent inspecting and discussing the prize. Some of the boys scribbled graffiti on its shell in luminous paint and then released it back into the bay, fins flapping, neck craning. Training resumed.

Palm trees with slender trunks curved over the bay in front of international high-rise apartments. I walked past a group of suspicious-looking youths sitting under some trees outside a café and strolled out onto the disintegrating breakwater. A family were competing with each other, skimming pebbles across the surface of the water. The five children, father and mother were screaming with delight at this simple game that seemed to bond them so intimately.

Visitors are warned by expatriates not to approach, in fact to walk away from groups of youths but I decided to wander over to the cluster beneath the casuarina trees. They were chewing betel nut and spitting the blood-red juice in carefully-aimed jets. They were shocked when I greeted them, but smiled almost immediately. The smile on a Melanesian face is like the unexpected appearance of a new actor on the stage.

‘Monin tru, ol mangi. Yupela iorait?’1

‘Orait tasol, bikman.2 Where do you come from?’ They stood up, even respectfully I thought.

‘England. I live in London. My name’s Michael.’ I held out my hand which was shaken softly. They shuffled about looking at the ground, showing signs of amazement by spitting fast red gobbets in the dust.

‘And you’ve come here! Do you like our country?’

‘Everyone seems pretty friendly to me. What’s your name?’ I asked a boy with the most intense black skin I had ever seen – it was almost blue. He had dreadlocks, perfect white teeth and eyes like an eagle. He appeared highly intelligent, but melancholic shadows fleetingly crossed his features.

‘Gideon. I’m from Buka.’ His open face smiled engagingly.

‘Really! I hope to go there. I’m visiting the islands.’

‘It’s beautiful on Buka, but no work. The Bougainville war destroyed everything. I came to Moresby but can’t get a job. I’ve got my electrician’s certificate.’ The shadows were well established.

‘Mipela ino inap lon bikpela skul,’1 said a fierce lad with broken, heavily-stained teeth. It looked as though a bomb had gone off in his mouth. He was angry.

‘I come from the Sepik. I have no parents and no money.’ He looked savagely at the ground and started violently peeling a new nut.

‘Are you all unemployed?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

They nodded dreamily.

‘Don’t you miss your family?’

Silence.

‘I’ve heard that some boys break into houses and steal. Is that true?’ I was living dangerously, considering it was my first afternoon.

‘Yes, but they’re not bad boys, sir. We’re not raskols! We need the money to eat. We want to work but we can’t get a job.’

‘That’s not really a good reason to steal. You could go to prison. Ruin your life.’

‘Corrupt politicians have ruined our country. You don’t see them going to prison.’ Gideon offered this as a challenge for me to refute.

‘No one gives us a chance. We’re on the outside looking in.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Chimbu.’ The older man seemed to stand apart from the rest and was more deeply resentful.

‘Where do you live in Moresby?’

‘Are you a priest?’ It was an aggressive answer. ‘Ragamuga. Six-Mile Dump. You’ll visit?’ He smirked and spat into the dust. I had only read about this desperate migrant settlement situated behind a large rubbish dump. No, I did not intend to go there.

‘But what about your future?’ I was moving into a dead-end.

‘So? No one gives a shit about us. Politicians just want money.’ Isaiah was from East New Britain and had parallel tattoos on his cheeks.

‘We’re bored and no future. That’s the problem.’

I realised with alarm that my group had grown into a small crowd that surrounded me. They pushed forward not to attack but desperate to explain, to justify themselves, expecting me to provide an explanation, an instant solution.

‘Everyone hates us. No tourists come because the newspapers report so much violence.’

I said nothing but the headline in the newspaper in my hotel screamed of the rape of three nurses at Mt Hagen Hospital and the theft of an ambulance. The thieves were demanding compensation for the return of the vehicle or they would torch it.

‘Violence is terrible in the Highlands. That’s why I chose the islands.’ I was out of my depth.

‘You’re lucky. You have money to travel,’ said a boy from Oro Province wearing a bedraggled feather in his hair.

Beavis and Butthead cartoons flickered on the screen behind the heavily-barred windows of the ‘Jamaica Bar’. Papuan reggae music was playing somewhere. I was a distraction but not a solution. Some drifted away and sat under the trees again. Large spots of rain from an afternoon storm kicked up the reddened dust.

‘Well, I’d better be going. Nice to have met you. Gideon, Isaiah …’ I shook their hands.

‘Tenk yu tru long toktok wantaim yu, bikman.1 All the way from London! Enjoy our country.’

They remained standing and smiling as I headed back. This encounter with wasted potential, cynicism, and the crushed optimism of youth left me feeling depressed and impotent. The cultural diversity of the country meant that there was tension between youths from many regions thrown together by unemployment. In traditional villages in the past, fear of neighbouring peoples and respect for the authority of the elders would have limited the freedom of the young. The notion of respect had almost disappeared, but not only in Papua New Guinea. London and Sydney were similar, but this country was poor and the politicians corrupt.

Many observers blame the present law and order troubles on the premature commitment Australia made to the granting of independence in 1975. At the outset, an inappropriate West-minster-style two-party democracy was imposed on the country with legislative power vested in a national parliament. The national government devolved power through nineteen provincial governments. The country joined the Commonwealth with the Queen as Head of State, and a governor-general appointed as her representative. Papua New Guinea covers a vast area (it is the second largest island in the world) and possesses such extreme cultural diversity that the growth of a properly integrated strategy for development has remained a perennial challenge. The first Prime Minister, Sir Michael Somare, was an able and popular politician, but the many emergent parties have become increasingly unable to establish clear ideological principles. Political candidates pursue personal or regional goals at the expense of party policies.1

Most Papua New Guineans still live a subsistence lifestyle in villages quite separate from the influence of the cash economy. The villagers have become convinced that, at both the provincial and national levels, politicians are self-serving and uninterested in their welfare. Traditional social arrangements had already begun to disintegrate under colonial rule. The adoption of an inappropriate Western legal system has only exacerbated the agony of cultural fragmentation. Tribal fighting has resumed in the Highland provinces, but under more murderous rules than in the past. As the traditional society in the village disintegrates, many young people flee to the urban ghettoes of Port Moresby and Lae to face almost certain unemployment followed by a descent into crime. The challenge remains to evolve a system that combines the strengths of traditional leadership with the ideals of modern government, giving due legal weight to the fraught claims of land ownership by the numerous clans.

On my return to the ‘executive floor’ of my hotel, I passed psychedelic kiosks and wrecked cars in the oppressive heat and scalding rain. Luxury expatriate enclaves seemed to be going up everywhere on higher ground. Segregation has made this a city divided against itself. The cool, spacious lobby transported me to a different planet to that inhabited by my ‘new friends’ on Ela Beach, and the grim reality of their settlement homes. This was the arena where exploitation and ‘aid’ were strategically planned by company generals. The sunset from the elevation of the executive floor was sublime; copper and tarnished brass shot through with blue. This luxurious scene was decidedly different from the wild 1920s when Tom McCrann’s hostelry in Moresby displayed a notice in the saloon:

Men are requested not to sleep on the billiard table with their spurs on.

At dinner there was an astounding mixture of guests. A tattooed Scot was having dinner with an Asian engineer.

‘Glad you’re on the fuckin’ project, Wang. You’ve got a degree.’

A German trio who had run out of time were attempting to negotiate a price for the ethnic decorations on the hotel walls. A heavily-tattooed Pacific islander in a black sleeveless singlet, chiselled black beard and jeans patched with grandmother’s chintz was eating soup and tugging at his pearl earring. A Belgian photographer with a ponytail was talking to a glamorous Parisian collector of artefacts from the Maprik region who had a gallery in Aix-en-Provence.

‘Every week I ’ave ze fever on ze exact same day!’ she exclaimed in desperation.

A newly-rich Highlander was eating a roast chicken, juggling greasy drumsticks in both hands and attempting to talk on a mobile phone. Pallid Englishmen and tanned Australians were earnestly discussing football and drink. They had the weak eyes and the furtive mouths of social casualties, bolstering their own false optimism or drowning betrayals in liquor.

‘The free drinks are from five thirty to six thirty. Don’t come after or we’ll have to pay.’

‘Right, mate!’

‘They’re tough men the South African rugby team!’

‘Blood oath! Fuckin’ tough!’

‘Hides like a rhinoceros!’

‘More like a fuckin’ elephant, mate!’

‘Fuckin’ tough.’

‘Yeah. Fuckin’ tough, real men.’

‘Fuckin’ tough!’

‘Yeah, fuckin’ …’ and so on, endlessly, whilst downing bottle after bottle of South Pacific lager.

A huge butterfly enamelled in iridescent blue battened against the glass door leading out to the swimming pool. A Chopin nocturne floated across the lounge from the Papua New Guinean pianist playing a grand piano. I wandered over at this unexpected appearance of European culture and spoke to him.

‘You’re playing Chopin,’ I rather pointlessly observed.

‘Yes. I studied classical music for many years. Do you have a request?’

‘Not classical. Jazz. Can you play “Misty”?’

‘Sure. If you like jazz you might like my novel. It’s on the music stand.’

A small pile of paperbacks entitled The Blue Logic: Something from the Dark Side of Port Moresby by Wiri Yakaipoko was stacked on one side above his fluent fingers.

‘What’s your novel about?’

‘It’s a crime novel about Moresby. Plenty of it around here to write about.’ I could hardly disagree.

Chopin, jazz and crime are an odd mixture. Unexpected conjunctions and unpredictable outcomes were to become a feature of all my travels in Papua New Guinea. I went to bed suffering from a blinding headache which seemed to come from the combination of the anti-malarial drug Lariam1 and alcohol.

The next day the usual horrors were introduced quietly under the door of my room via the dailies.

A youth was chopped to death and two houses burnt down in the Kaugere suburb of Port Moresby over the weekend.

Under the banner headline ‘Patients Hungry’ we learn that patients’ food was stolen from Modilon Hospital in Madang.

A thirteen-year-old sex worker said, ‘My aunt kicked me out because she said I slept with her husband. Prostitution is fun and I get a lot of money.’ Tribal fighting now takes place with homemade guns, grenade launchers and Kalashnikovs rather than spears.

The city looks more attractive on my birthday. Red and mauve bougainvillea are flowering, Ela Beach looks inviting and the frangipani spiral down in pink and white. I decide to go for a walk. Outside the US Embassy I am almost arrested for writing down the sign NOKEN PARK LONG HIA meaning ‘No Parking’ in Tok Pisin (Pidgin).

The evolution of Melanesian Pidgin (or bêche-de-mer English, as it was popularly known in colonial days) was complex. There are many regional varieties of this colourful and witty language which originated on the Pacific plantations of Queensland, Samoa and New Caledonia in the early eighteenth century. It had emerged fully formed by about 1885 and is still evolving in rich referential complexity. Around eight hundred or one seventh of the world’s languages are spoken in Papua New Guinea. Some two hundred are Austronesian spoken in the coastal and island regions, and the remainder are Papuan spoken in the Highland areas. There are three lingua francas – English, Motu (spoken in Port Moresby) and Tok Pisin.

Outside the Westpac Bank a huge Alsatian and armed guard in a baseball cap stand in the centre of three signs warning ‘Beware of the Dog’. The brooding atmosphere of male unemployment hangs about like a miasma, and I have not seen a white face in three hours. Huge holes in the pavement and deep storm-water channels offer possibilities of serious injury. The light burst of a glowering Melanesian face suddenly smiling. At the Port Moresby Grammar School, children in pale uniforms are caged up in a security tunnel hung with plants waiting to go home. Fishing trawlers of unbelievable decrepitude are moored at the wharves. Thick, black smoke pours from their funnels, the idle crews lounging in the shade of tarpaulins or carrying huge tuna by the gills. One boy drops a plastic bag full of silver sprats that cascade over the wharf like pirate’s treasure. Six mothers breast-feeding babies inexplicably sit in the broiling sun on a concrete platform raised above a potholed road. I slip into the shade of the Port Moresby Public Library. An eerie silence reigns, but people greet my unexpected presence with smiles of surprise. Useful titles such as Australian Imperialism in the Pacific and Tuscan Cuisine grace the shelves.

A friend, John Kasaipwalova, had invited me for a birthday dinner. He is a prominent and controversial Papua New Guinean poet and writer and was a student rebel during the drive for Independence in the 1970s. He is also chief of the Kwenama clan on Kiriwina Island in the Trobriands, one of my destinations. I was collected in a Mitsubishi Pajero with gigantic bull-bars, a fantastically cracked windscreen and peeling sun filters. John has a round friendly face framed by a halo of tightly curled hair, his sensibility a rich repository of poetic image and symbolic knowledge. But entrepreneurial activities tend to preoccupy him these days, as he attempts to balance the claims of individual business and his responsibility to his own clan community. He was accompanied by Mary, his attractive Malaysian wife, and ‘Uncle Sam’, who drives the Pajero with fearsome spirit, thundering over unsealed roads past striped drums marking dark detours. While avoiding a cavernous pothole, he asked me to guess his nationality. His mother turned out to be from Sri Lanka and his father an unusual mixture of Dutch, Portuguese and Australian Aboriginal. ‘Dad’s family moved about quite a bit.’ Under an Australian bush hat he had the long grey beard of a swami and spoke with a slight Indian accent. It was a striking face, a colonial cocktail.

The shopping precinct that housed the Chinese restaurant was protected by a high security fence with bars two inches thick, armed guards, slavering dogs and a searchlight.

‘It’s a gourmet place!’ explained Sam as we parked among a crowd of children.