Paul's PNG CollectionPapua New Guinea 2008-10 |
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Chapter 5 Festive Cheer |
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Social Times In POMLife in POM tends to be a slightly dreary treading of well-worn paths. The patchwork of distinct urban villages offer much the same diet with varied flavours. All will tend to have a market, a collection of mainly Chinese-owned shops, one or more schools, a bus station and endless street sellers with buai and smokes for sale. Boys and others sit listlessly under whatever shade they can find or move about the public areas in search of unknown goals. The flavour is provided by the level of poverty and the cultural mix, which, like all cities, is a changing brew. At first, it was exciting to walk through Gordons, Town or Hohola ; slightly menacing and exploratory expeditions into areas with history and reputations. Morata and Gerehu were out of bounds unless you knew someone who could protect you. But eventually there was nothing new to see with only the undermining thought that you may find trouble to keep you on your mettle. So, it is important to find some social activity if you are not to lapse into an endless cycle of home, market, shops, home. The choice of social life is similarly graded. In Madang, prior to arrival in POM, I met a New Zealand couple who had made the transition from VSO volunteers to contracted doctors. I asked for advice about Port Moresby. “You must have a car. It is quite easy to find a social life. We managed live on someone's boat at the Yacht Club, although you are not supposed to stay there. I found that the best way to join in is to become a member a sports group. There are hash harriers and a squash club.” Within five minutes I was cringing at the thought and reviving the same feelings I had about the ex-pat world in Malawi. What is the point of living in a foreign country if you spend your time trying to recreate home? Might as well buy a time share on the Costa Brava and join an Age Concern group. As yet I have not set foot in the Yacht Club, and I run around the local sports fields with only local dogs as pacemakers. Even the daily run has its moments. I set off down the road some 500 metres from the public playing field with several rugby pitches. One of the pitches has a stand of tiered wooden seating. One this occasion there were some men still lying on the benches in the early morning, having obviously spent the night there. On my second lap of the pitch one of the men was standing in my way. I stopped and engaged in friendly talk, he was from Lae. He soon got to the point “You give me some money.” “No” I quickly ran towards the entrance hoping he was not an athlete. My run home was a personal best. Another day at the same spot I found a pack of dogs running towards me from a nearby shanty village. As the dogs bared their teeth and barked, I remembered my teacher, Ralph Stutgen's , advice, ‘dogs are hunting animals, don't turn your back or they will attack '. I turned to face them, bared my teeth and made loud noises. After a short time , they scampered back to the settlement. A third event happened not long afterwards, as I was heading towards the entrance. I turned to see two young men running fast in my direction. Two shots rang out and the boys looking quickly over their shoulders scarpered out of the sports field. The less-hurried policemen arrived to tell me that the young men were trying to climb a fence into a house. It seemed fair enough to shoot them then, what else could they expect? After this I thought I would find another running route for a while . So, that left three other opportunities. The first is the down-market, local bar, usually hidden away behind a buai spattered door and a faded sign. Your instincts tell you that relaxed socialisation does not lay behind that door. The second is the upmarket disco linked to the rich hotels – not immediately attractive; surely the haunt of the ex-pat crowd. This left our preferred option - Paddy's Bar, a slightly upmarket version of a local bar. The bar is close to both home and office. It is a mixture of a sizeable outdoor area with a band stage and tables for groups to cover with beer purchased during happy hour and consumed all night. A band plays on four nights a week and when not entertaining us invades our sleeping hours at home. Inside is the bar and another dancing area with over loud disco tracks. I described an evening in my letter but suffice it to say that evenings here have a pattern. People arrive early for the cheap beer and spirits. The evening starts quietly, and you may even have a coherent conversation with people. If you are sitting next to Highlanders, they will usually try to take control of you, wanting you to accept drinks and becoming jealous of any attempt by outsiders to take your time and attention. As the evening progresses and the drink begins to talk the big security men are increasingly called into action. Occasionally, young men explode into frenzied action, throwing wild punches from curled stances, few of which cause any damage. They are frogmarched or dragged to the gate by the towering security men. Dancing becomes less inhibited. Small highlanders march confidently to the floor and hold their arms in the air, fists clenched while their short legs stiffly stamp out the beat. Lone men draw on alcohol to create dances fuelled by balletic fantasy. They are always aware of wantoks and perform in front of them with great enthusiasm. Local pop songs bring everyone to the floor. Coastals perform two-step swaying dances whilst singing robustly. Sexes rarely touch. The sound of breaking glass increases, and you must be nimble on your feet as people are no longer able or interested to negotiate paths round you. The slobbering attention of highlanders promising undying affection and respect envelopes you and drives you to the haven of the dance floor. On New Years Evening, Armstrong persuaded me to go to The Gold Club at the Lamana Hotel, who's owner had recently been ‘done in' by Goilala youth at a Gerehu settlement. This is one of the swankier hotels and he reasoned that we would have a more relaxed time with ex-pats and richer Papuans than at the steamier and alcohol drenched Paddy's . As our Christmas Day outing had failed, I agreed. Getting a cab was difficult. We found ourselves in the middle of Boroko in a throng of shabbily dressed people clustered round the Kai-Kai bars ( fast, cheap food) with ambition for the evening without the means to achieve it. Police vehicles were touring the streets in convoy warning people to clear the streets by 10.00 or face the consequences. Each taxi we approached was already occupied. A youth approached us in a tee-shirt with a symbol showing a gun inside a barred circle. We recognised him from our road. He was joined by another taller youth with short dreadlocks who, he told us, was his bossman. More youths gathered around. He explained that they were part of the Governor's plan that the youth were to work with the Police to patrol the streets. In return they hoped the Police would find them work. This is an imaginative response to youth issues. I had recently seen a Police commander claiming that 700 of 1,200 involved on the scheme had been found work. I had even seen for myself some schemes in progress in Six Mile, a notorious area, where youth had invited me to a launch of their scheme and then involved me in some schemes. Our protectors explained to me that they were working with a local employer to set up a safe passage for his staff. He paid them a little in return for them ensuring that people got to and from the PMV bus safely. As they were also the rascols this seemed to work well and these young Simbu (Eastern Highlands) youth had organised to develop a small piece of land for their use behind the buai market. I wished that I had been involved with these youth rather than my frustrating disability project. The Gold Club was a carpeted temple of chrome and glass dedicated to the cult of bling. A mezzanine area looked over a small dance floor, a large, tastefully lit bar and tables with high bar chairs. At one side of the large high-ceilinged room was a wall covered with garish, blinking, winking pokies, already 75% occupied by early evening. I have grown to realise that pokies are the chosen addiction of the moneyed and temporarily moneyed classes. Every bar has a Las Vegas area dedicated to the sacrifice of money. In the temple of bling the pokies demand offerings and receive them in abundance from devout followers. After some time, I found that two of the men I was with had wives, long since abandoned to their devotions. I met briefly with the President of the Women's Council. She had paid for one of her staff to come with her. This acolyte was employed to keep the electronic wheels turning. As credits wore down a K50 note (£10) would be passed back without a word. The helper would then scurry off to buy more credits. This was factory efficiency, pokie style. I spent much of the evening pondering how we could transfer the pokie culture into the workplace - what productivity we could achieve. For some of the women the pokie -face shift lasted from five o'clock in the evening until past two in the morning. I understood more fully the need for even highly paid officials to find extra ways to get cash. If it isn't the booze , it's the pokies. Out on the night club floor, the evening started slowly. There were a few old, white men with their youthful partners never further than an arm's length from their wallets. There were even a couple of youthful young white men inappropriately dressed for a bling-palace and the rest were a mixture of PNG types. The young coastal girls had swapped their grass skirts for almost no skirts; the young coastal boys had swapped their common sense for mullets; highland men and women focussed on drinking. A young Hagen man and his brother were happy to talk to people like me and surely respected me. The three-piece band began the same sickly combination of local pop, country and western and rock n' roll that all bands play. Outside there was an open-air dance floor with one of the disorientated white boys getting wet and slipping around in the rain with a miserable-looking PNG friend. Others were sitting around the edge under cover. As the evening developed the place filled to bursting point. People swirled from inside to outside and back again; dancing was more like rugby league on the crowded floor. A group of young men performed a U.S. hip-hop dance on a high stage. My hitherto coherent young Hagen man began to slobber. When midnight approached there was no noticeable increase in excitement or activity. The band stopped playing and said something about the countdown to the New Year. However, that was the last we heard about it until, like a chain message, people seemed to be passing on Happy New Year greetings. Outside the sardine dancers were straining to see the fireworks. By one o'clock our end of the bar had become the mooring for souls set adrift by drink. By one thirty we began to find that the Lamana Hotel had not invested heavily enough in security. I stepped aside for a very drunk bulldozer cube of a highlander. Whether by design or faulty navigation he cannoned into me knocking me sideways. My slobbering Hagen friend felt protective and decided to confront the cube. Fingers were wagged in faces. Oh no! this had released the women. “ What's your problem you arsehole? Why are you causing trouble with my brother? Don't you push a woman. You are a fucking arsehole.” Like part of a wrestling tag team, she retreated, and another came to have a similar confrontation. I shrank into a seat and luckily things calmed down. That is the exchanges died down, but my slobberer was roused and could not be deflected. He summoned a security man and told him to eject the cube. The security man promised to come back in a minute. Five minutes later the cube was now unable to stand and fell across our table. More Hagen complaints. “Unless you get rid of him, I will kill him.” Twice more the cube fell into our table and on the last occasion Hagen pushed him to the floor, which the cube would have managed himself without help. The security man came and with no idea of what to do somehow got the cube to his feet and started to push him towards the door inch by inch. It was like watching a man trying to push an elephant. Within five minutes the women had arrived, with reinforcements, including another highland man who had earlier tried to sell me gold. More fingers wagged in faces; more voices filled the air with shrill threats and insults. The weary security man arrived, looked at the numbers on each side and led my solitary Hagen to the door. The women sat down. They looked over to me: “ He's an arsehole. He got my brother kicked out. Why can't he just enjoy himself and let others alone? Now fair is fair?” They all leant forward and nodded in affirmation. I shook my head sadly at them and wondered what to do with the beers, smokes and handbag left behind. Meanwhile the staff who had been trained had efficiently removed my half-drunk glass of celebratory wine. Before I had time to collect my thoughts a trio of equally drunk coastals were standing in front of me. The single woman was almost ripping the pocket from the shirt of her inebriated partner trying to find a phone. The third man was arguing with the husband. At this point the cube staggered past to re-join his women. Security did not seem to be on top of things. My sigh was drowned by the sharp crack of the woman landing a monster slap on the face of the third man. He was holding a hand to his cheek. Seldom has a person looked more hurt and upset. He looked at her for at least thirty seconds whilst she struggled to think what to do. His eyes were filled with tears and appealing to her for understanding and restitution. I wanted to give him a hug. At last, she walked to him but before she could put her arm around him, he had turned on his heels and petulantly stalked away passing the Hagen man who had also wandered back in. Both of the original protagonists were now back in action. It was obviously time to leave. Things were not going to improve. Whilst we waited for our driver's wife to run out of credits one more entertainment had been arranged. A tall Bougainvilian man was mauling a short stout woman. She also struck out, landing a right hand on his face. He was more assertive, however, and took her head in an arm lock. He pulled her over to a wall where she was pinned whilst an argument ensued. I noticed that our security man was leaning against the wall right next to them. He had had enough and was taking no notice. I also gave up and walked to the door. Before I left I had time to wish the Women's President a Happy New Year. She spun round with just enough time to reciprocate before the hypnotic call of the pokies left me abandoned and ready to leave. I was glad that we had gone upmarket for New Year, at least the carpet didn't show the spittle stains. The modern Gold Club is shown, pokies still a feature, in Modern destruction, Rascols https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86in8frImaA Youtube video made 2022 Christmas ContrastsAs I was singing along with the Motuan Choir from Hanuabadu , Marlene, Yolanda and three other European friends were seeking adventure on the Island of Buka in Bougainville These ebony skinned people look as though they come from Southern Sudan rather than a Pacific Island and still bear the physical and emotional scars of a ten-year war over copper mining. Marlene, a tall ebullient young Dutch woman, and her friends, wanted to celebrate Christmas in a special way . They decided to hire a boat and find an Island beach away from the loudness of the main centres. The boat man knew just the place and wine, food and supplies were loaded into the banana boat. I was meanwhile into the third verse of Good King Wensaslas picturing the snow laying round about in the heat of the tropical feast of Steven evening. The famous five were by mid afternoon in gay spirits. The wine had worked its magic and it was time to relax on the silver sand. Life could not be sweeter. I was eating mince pies and onto my fourth glass of wine. Suddenly, Yolanda became aware of a noise. It gathered strength and she jumped to her feet “Oh no, there are some boats coming in.” The party bubble burst and they began to pack up the detritus and load it into the boat. It became obvious that they could not avoid meeting the strangers who were now coming close the shore. The two boats each had several young men aboard. They continued packing the boats as the strangers arrived. They were all drunk. We continued our affable party conversations, and we were all somewhat tipsy The young men were not ready for affable conversations. They wanted to know why these foreigners were on their land. They pointed to their gardens nearby. The girls apologised and said that they were just packing up to go and would not bother them further. This seemed to make matters worse. “No, you will stay and share kai kai (food) with us. We will eat together and have a good time .” The girls thanked them but said that they had to get back. “We have a little food left, would you like to take it?” “You don't want to stay with us. Who do you think you are?” The mood was getting uglier by the minute. Some boys had begun to remove the fuel tank from the girl's boat. “Give us drink.” “We don't have any but we can go to the mainland and buy you some.” They started to load the rest of their gear into the boat. The boys began to take it out again. The American Ambassador, a huge bear of a man, had spoken at the launch of our strategic plan. He was only too pleased to have the opportunity to help the disabled. Yes, he , as an African American, felt that the election of Obama had helped African American career diplomats somewhat . Another glass of wine arrived by hand. By now the discussion had turned to money. “You must give us K1,000 in compensation.” That is about £250. The girls continued to look for a way out of the mess. They got into the boat. The Bougainvillian boat owner was in deeper trouble. Boys were kicking and punching him and shouting about his part in the struggle. They derided him about his lack of commitment to the cause. He was crying. The girls were pleading, “Look we must go please let us have our fuel tank.” Some boys gathered around the boat. They pointed to the four girls. “You get out of the boat and come with us.” The one male, a Spaniard was paralysed by fear in the rear. The speeches had ended and the wine-driven cacophony began to subside. We made a fuss of the choir who had performed beautifully against the indifferent chattering of the audience. Jim asked if I would like to share a taxi with him and his five pikininis . The girls were fearing the worst, each considering what rape might mean to them in their own ways. How were they to cope? Marlene, noticed that the leader of the group was not as committed as the others. He did not seem to be as out of control. She appealed to him to let them go. Somehow, he managed to talk the others down. They agreed to accept K100 and gave back the fuel tank. The tearful boat man started the engine and they left the beach not daring to look back. There was hardly enough fuel to get back, the engine kept sputtering. The girls sat silent. The man continued crying “I was in the Bourgainville Liberation Force. I was there.” “ Good night Jim, Goodnight olgeta – HAPPY CHRISTMAS.”
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