Paul's PNG Collection

Papua New Guinea 2015

SECTION 3      Mendi - 2015 (cont)

Chapter 3 - Cultural Things

It's Good Work If You Can Get It

The bars in Lae are not usually considered desirable haunts for the ex-pat, but Nick has knocked around the world a bit and is working in the Family Support Unit. He also likes a beer at the end of the day.

He had some stories of the bar which was a meeting place for men and women with facilities for what used to be called in Haiti ‘un petit moment '.

The women who worked there were mainly Highland women who had found their way down to the port and were supporting their lives and families by sex work.

One woman turned up with a large bruise on her face. He enquired if she had been fighting. She happily agreed that she had.

“You were fighting with another woman?” he asked.

“ No a man.”

“ What was the problem?”

“He was no good. He didn't please me.”

It seemed that the man's performance did not meet the required standards so not only did he pay, but he took a beating as a consequence . A culturally relevant S & M practice. That should help his performance to improve.

He asked her if she also fought with other people. She said that she often fought with other women, it was something she liked doing and looked forward to a good scrap.

It started us musing about the difficulty of making assessments of the needs of women in the sex trade let alone moral judgements. It seems obvious that women engaged in the sex trade are oppressed and victims of the patriarchal society that sacrifices them to men's carnal lust. They do it because they are poor and have no other choice. Undoubtedly that is true in many cases, but sometimes it is not the whole truth.

In PNG, as in many developing countries, talking about sex is worse than doing it. The missionaries long ago met the needs of people for moral leadership that fitted well into traditional spiritual and social structures. Christianity is the tribal choice, and ritual worship is fervently practiced and energetically promoted. In the Nina Clinic in Mendi a guitar is brought out every lunchtime and a service continues well into the afternoon service time of the clinic. Doctors and other health staff are devoted members of the faith community. I was trapped in an office one day, waiting for the service to finish. That translates into a public morality that colludes with a cultural conservatism to hide the way that people think and shrouds what they do regularly.

Nick's experience with the women of Lae gave a glimpse into a hidden world. The women cheerfully admitted that they had had experienced many, many male partners. He had tried to gently avoid the advances of one woman.

“Let me come home with you.” She offered. He did not wish to offend her.

“Thanks, but I don't have any money,” he said tactfully.

“ Oh that's no problem, I will come anyway.”

We wondered if the attitude to sex was far more relaxed than the faith message would lead you, as an outsider, to believe. What if people mainly saw sex as an activity rather than an emotional attachment. After all isn't that what happens in most towns and cities in Britain every Friday and Saturday night? If that is the case, then it is a shorter step from seeking the attention of multiple partners to deciding to make money from your liaisons. For us do-gooders from other cultures it causes complications in deciding what needs to be done to protect the rights of women and design actions that can help them to improve their lives. Trying to understand their world is a tricky business and we also run the risk of becoming men who become apologists for the abuse of women. And the abuse of women sex workers is all too common. It is not unusual for women to suffer gang rape, beatings and even murder. Recently, a woman was found murdered in Goroka, leaving a lone learning-disabled boy to survive on the streets.

How to help? 

On a personal level Nick talked to one woman who said that she enjoyed sex with other women, although she was in the sex trade. She was one who said that she wished she could get out of this world and return to her home in Simbu in the Highlands.

“Why don't you go back?'

“I can't afford the fare?”

“How much is it.”

“K50.” (about 15 pounds)

He gave the grateful woman the fare and soon received a text to say that she back at home and was eternally grateful. Some six weeks later he received a text to say she was back in Lae.

‘Family I buggarup ”.

A tricky business this sex industry.

Public Transport

It is 6.15 in the morning and a bit nippy. The giant buttresses of rock stretch in series down the high steep-sided valley towards infinity. Steamy cloud hangs around below the peaks in the blue light, waiting for the warmth of the sun. I was promised by the Local Level Government Deputy President that he would pick me up at 5.00 to drive me back to Wabag , as protocol demands he should. It also means that he will get his petrol paid. By 6.00 it was becoming apparent that the warmth and comfort of his new young wife (number two) was a greater lure. Luckily, Simon had space in his pick-up. I am ashamed to say that on this occasion I demanded a seat in the cab on the grounds that VSO won't insure you in the open back. It was also cold. A young boy was dispatched to the open rear to make space.

Now it is 6.45 and we are all standing around on the stony single track surrounded by the most beautiful views of the valley, but our attention is on the front tyre, that has given everything but can't go on. I notice that a number of young men are shivering in tee shirts. They don't complain. You might expect that volunteers would be difficult to find, but, as in most developing countries, the young men are only too eager to show their practical credentials. There is a crush around the wheel, the car is driven up onto a big stone to make room for the jack and fingers twist at the locknuts. Within a very short space of time the pit stop is complete, and we head for Wabag . Simon tells me that this happens about once a month. We get to within a couple of kilometres from Wabag and stop. It is a feature of all journeys that you must stop for Buai ( bettle nut), a smoke (a purchase of a single fag), food (if you have money) and a wee (in that order of priority). People do not eat before travel, this is always the ritual, and it is impossible to overstate the importance of buai and smokes. Here am I am encouraging people living with HIV to eat healthy diets and look after themselves when they are doing their best to encourage mouth and lung cancer. The fags are well known risks, but buai is chewed with lime to create a mild stimulant and burns the mouth.

Kompiam , in Enga, is a bit different from most journeys. The road is still very rough, a two-hour journey into the mountains. Only four-wheel drive, off-road pickups and diners (open back trucks with benches along each side and a tarp roof) attempt the journey. More usual is the PMV, which is a choice between small, but fast, mini-bus or a coaster, which is a more stately and roomy high roofed school bus shape. I was told by a local person early on,

“Take the early bus to Hagen, avoid the late busses, as they are full of drunks and funny people trying to get home. Avoid Sundays as no-one is around and it is easier for rascols .”

Although Hagen is universally despised and feared by those from outside as a rascol town, the reality is that it is, like everywhere, a friendly place with a higher level of risk because of its size. The same rules apply. If they know you, you are safer than tourists or people who will not be seen often in town. 

As I am often passing through Hagen, en route for other provinces I take the early bus. I soon found Joshua, a driver with a bus that is only a year old, which he protects with vigour. He is a big burly man in thirties, who obviously likes his food. His bus crew (the young man who keeps order and collects passengers and fares) makes a speech telling people that can't smoke or chew buai in the bus. This is unusual, as people do as they like on other busses. It still didn't stop a young woman next to me casually spitting on the floor as she talked to her friends. His early morning clientele is often comprised , students, older people and those with business in Hagen that requires an early start. Joshua is very religious and plays religious radio until he gets fed-up and replaces it with local pop. Local pop is a type of lilting south-seas melody with disco rhythms. By the time you have heard a whole album, you take some convincing that you haven't heard the same song ten times. For variety he plays Australian covers of sweet and sickly country and western numbers. If you are lucky someone will deliver a sermon, which is guaranteed to set Joshua off on a 30-minute tirade against some ill or other, usually applauded by the passengers.

Whilst Joshua is the driver of choice for the trip to Hagen, the trip back is a little less predictable. I decided to come back from Hagen on a Saturday morning. Get the early bus, I thought. What I had not factored in was the Saturday early bus was also the choice of Friday night revellers trying to get home.

Hagen bus stations are more edgy than smaller towns. Tough-looking and disheveled young men swarm around the busses determined to steer you to the bus which will pay them a few kina for a full bus. Hands gently settle on your arms, faces come close to yours as you have to decide whether to guard pockets, bag or virginity as a priority. Assumed calm calculation usually gives way to instant decision making as the nearest bus is chosen as a haven from pestering. 

As I was waiting on the bus for others to fill the remaining seats my gaze fell upon a short, heavily bearded man, beyond youth but not old. His filthy tee shirt was ripped across his back and, like many, he had no shoes. The mangis (youth) gathered around him and roughly pushed him around. When he squeezed in to a space to talk to a driver he was shouted at and obviously abused. A young small mangi swung a punch at him, which missed in the jostle. At that moment our driver drove slowly off around the bus area hoping that the bus crew could attract passengers from further along. When we came back the scene was transformed. Our tattered outcast was now the centre of attention. The man previously jostled and abused, in fear of his life, had captivated his audience. The very mangis that had previously pushed him to the edge of the tiny society now pressed forward to hear his stories. Bursts of laughter, appreciative squeals ‘ eeeee ' and much back slapping attended his words as the pauper became king for a while. Such is the secret and fast changing world which we scurry through without ever really comprehending . 

Our bus gradually fills. Some seats are filled by goods purchased at the market. People from Mendi come to Hagen for the cheap, locally grown fruit and veg from the fertile valley or purchase the usual cheap Chinese tat to retail at home for add-on prices. Our bus is nearly full . But wait a minute four people suddenly get up and leave. They are fake passengers who sit on the bus to make it appear full and close to leaving.

“Last two, Last two” the bus crew shouts at groups of disinterested loafers.

There are two kinds of fellow passengers, those who like to bask in the reflected glory of sitting next to the white man and those who avoid him like the plague. I am aware that most of my fellow passengers are quite a bit younger than me and the seat next to me is the last to be filled. Behind me the seats are livelier than I am used to. More loud talk, singing and general banter. I am joined by a Mendi market trader, who has filled all available space with sacks of small plastic balls in sacks. A woman complains that she has an infant and is trapped in her seat. Negotiations take place until everyone is happy. Off we go.

Although it is barely eight o'clock a young man two rows in front of me is already on his third stubby of beer. We stop at the buai market after five minutes driving; bus empties, buai , smokes and beer are replenished, chips are purchased . The beer drinking continues, bottles thrown from the window, although this is a quiet and undemonstrative drinker. At about bottle six, I am watching the drinker, somewhat disapprovingly , it must be said. It seems that as a new bottle is put to his lips it foams and spills from the bottle. He jerks forward. After a few moments I realize what has actually happened . Our weary drinker has projectile vomited, covering at least six people around him with the liquid contents of his stomach. People have decoration on their clothes, in their hair, on their seats. No-one seems very perturbed, and the driver pulls over. People quietly get off the bus and reappear somewhat cleaner than they left. There are no recriminations or perceived apologies, and our young man is soon fit enough to resume drinking, pausing only to hide the remaining bottles about his person as we climb down at a police checkpoint. It is designed to stop alcohol and guns being smuggled into ‘dry' Southern Highlands.

The crisis, turned into mild amusement, gives way to the talents of the bus crew, who launches into a thirty-minute story that entertains and amuses the passengers, except me who cannot understand more than the fleeting passage of single words or phrases. His gattling -gun delivery and lost vowels are too much for me. I get into conversation with the market trader after a while. I do my best in Tok Pissin but fear I must sound the equivalent of Manuel from Faulty Towers. We establish that I come from England. The standard joke is to pronounce it Enga-land (after Enga Province), which always gets a laugh, and that I am a volunteer. This usually brings the question

“Are you a missionary?” or “Are you a doctor? ”.

When he finds out that I am working with HIV he is full of questions. He shrugs nonchalantly at my answers, but his knowing manner soon gives way to eager questions,

“Can you get HIV from cups?”

There is a common idea that people in PNG understand about HIV, except in the remote bush. He certainly did not

We pass the time very amiably, him the Del Boy son of a pastor, keen to absorb information and me keen to pontificate. After all it is what I am here for. Lord knows what I told him in my holiday Tok Pissin, but he seemed happy enough. I wonder if I reduced or exacerbated the HIV epidemic?

Ah here is the airport runway, we are nearly in Mendi Town. Think what I might have missed if I had taken the train.

Sorcery

The game of rugby was going on one Saturday as it always does at the primary school playing field. Unexpectedly, a young man slowly sank to the ground. A crowd gathered round, but he seemed to be dead. As people began to discuss what to do a fox bat flew over the field, circled and came down to land on the dead boy. It put his heart back into his body and he came back to life.

This was the story was told to me by a serious man at lunchtime on a day called to discuss the impact of sorcery in the Highlands and what to do about it. The man came from a village where recently a woman had been publicly tortured after being identified as a Sanguma (witch).

“Did you see the bat come down and put his heart back?” I asked.

“We all saw it, it was just over there.” He said, looking at me with a slight sense of disdain at my question.

He went on to talk about his village and the things that happen that can't be explained.

“Two months ago eight people died in my village.” He looked hard at me. The senior advisor for Health who was also at the table seemed to sympathise,

“Unexplained deaths,” he said without further comment.

“ My father was one” he said, “he lost a brother and an uncle” he said, pointing to the man next to me who nodded, but looked at me with an untrusting expression and never said a word.

“They told me my father died of a brain tumor . I could accept that, but eight deaths in one month?”

I asked if anyone had examined the bodies to look for a cause.

“We took one body to the hospital to ask for a post mortem , but they sent us away.”

In the absence of an explanation people will make up their own story. For some that will be a religious story, others will look for a ‘rational' explanation, some will talk of supernatural forces. Papua New Guinea has only had contact with the religious and modern scientific rationalism for a short time . The highland people only saw white men for the first time in the 1930s and only seriously began to engage with the western money economy and ways of life in the 50s and 60s. Beliefs take much longer to change. The Sanguma culture remains a strong and pervasive part of village life and runs underground in the more elevated circles of educated town existence. The reality for village people is truly shocking in a country, where it becomes increasingly more difficult to find bizarre events shocking.

The day started with the screening of a documentary about Sanguma in which a series of worthy people talked about the difficulty of dealing with it. The Catholic Priest, with many years of research apologized for the next one-minute clip, but said it was important to see it.

The clip was taken in Enga, presumably by someone with a cellphone . Two women were sitting on the ground with their knees drawn up to their chests. They were naked. A crowd was gathered around them. One young man was heating metal rods in a fire. One of the women cried at another boy,

“Why are you doing this to me my son, I have done nothing?”

The boy went up to her with a machete (bush Knife) and held it to her head. Others encouraged him to stop wasting time and burn them. A crowd of people, some small children, watch on. No one speaks against what is happening.

“I am sorry to show you that, but that is what we are talking about. Sanguma is not just words in a conference.”

I knew the words, I had heard the stories of the fantastically brave Catholic Sisters who have driven into villages to rescue tortured women from roused crowds. I spoke to an Engan man who had just last week been threatened with a gun when he tried to intervene. But, to see a woman pleading not just for her life, but to stop torture is shocking and deeply upsetting.

We are close up to alternative ways of seeing the world as we see, daily on the news, people who do not share our liberal, individualized, approach to human rights and dignity. People are shot, decapitated and stoned to death in front of our eyes. Sanguma is another, seemingly impenetrable world, that exists in a parallel universe to our own. 

It is not traditional, the public torture that is happening. It seems that it has come into the highlands in the last ten years. Before that people believed in Sanguma , but it was dealt with in other ways. I asked the Engan man what happened in the past. He said that it was much less intense and was dealt with by discussion, compensation and village courts. In Enga they thought that current ideas had spread up from the Sepik region, but in Southern Highlands the popular story is that some wives had gone to Simbu, the centre of Sanguma practice, to buy spells to stop their husbands wanting other wives. Because they had misunderstood the spells they had been turned into Sangumas .

There is a logic to what happens, even if it is not our logic. In a world with limited access to other explanations, there is need for cause and effect understanding. When a death occurs there must be someone who has caused it. In the past this was much more closely linked to the displeasure of ancestor spirits (some of whom may have loved you in their lifetime ) but is now firmly attached to the living. It is further complicated by the need to deal with ownership and inheritance. 

The real villains of the piece are the glasman / glasmeri , who are diviners born with special gifts that often run in families. When a death occurs unexpectedly, the Glasman is paid K2,000 or more (500 pounds) to identify the Sanguma who did the act. The Glasman can name anyone. In practice this is usually a woman, often a vulnerable woman. She is then questioned by the glasman , which can lead to other people being named. When tortured or before the accused woman might, in a desperate attempt to escape punishment, agree to the charge and name other women. 

The belief at the centre of this practice is that the Sanguma removes the heart of the victim and hides in a remote place such as under a waterfall or in the bush. Sometimes the torture is to make the woman confess and sometimes to make her show them where she has hidden the heart. Some will take the men to a remote place to delay for a few more hours, but of course there is no heart to be found. It is powerful because the torturers believe that if the heart can be found and reinserted into the dead person, that they will come back to life. In the story told to me at lunchtime, the Sanguma can turn into an animal.

The process is pernicious and spiteful. People look out for signs. She is eating too much fat, she must crave human flesh; she is going to bed very early , it must be to allow her spirit to leave her body to go hunting. Gossip starts and spreads among relatives, accusations follow and then allegations are made that are corroborated by the glasman , who has been paid. The youths do the torturing, some under the influence of alcohol. Afterwards they may claim compensation from the confessed Sanguma's family – more greed. People suggest that it is a product of disaffected youth, unemployed, beyond the traditional control of elders and lacking both role and respect in village life. But it goes much deeper than social disaffection.

The police are asked how many prosecutions there have been in the last five years, after all it is illegal to harm or kill another person. The sympathetic CID man says there are two cases ready to go court, but no convictions in living memory.

“People are afraid. We need evidence, which means witnesses. Even if they speak to us they won't come to court because they fear payback. When we go to a community no-one will speak out.”

The District Administrator, a well-educated man, tells how a village leader from Nipa spoke to him:

“He said that the woman was hung by her arms from a tree branch. He tried to tell them to stop, but they would not listen. When they started to burn her genitals, he said he could not watch anymore and turned away. I wanted to throw him out of my office.”

It is another story of traditional practices mutating in a world that changes their meaning and relevance. In past days Sanguma were useful to a society of limited knowledge and threat from neighbouring clans. They could protect from external threat, make spells to protect warriors, placate ancestral spirits. Now they represent greed and gratuitous cruelty.

The Catholics are looking for ways to make a stand against these outrages. In one District of Simbu Province leaders have agreed to out law Sanguma torture and stand together to drive offenders out. The secret is to form large groups that can confront the wall of fearful silence. In PNG the traditional practices are still so embedded that two forms of justice exist side by side. The western- style court system deals with the modern world and works mainly in towns with money economy crime. In the rural areas there is a village court system that seeks to deal with community issues through discussion, and compensation and the application of local cultural solutions. Even when matters go to the western court a defendant will often withdraw the complaint because they received compensation of pigs and money. This allows murders, rapists and felons to go back into the community. 

There are two problems to solve. The first is how to get the woman away from the immediate danger. People want safe houses to be set up so that there is somewhere for women to run to. Even here people fear to give shelter for fear of attack by aggrieved clan members. Then there is the problem of how to rescue women in danger. The police are slow, also fearful and sometimes share the Sanguma belief. Catholic Sisters and some brave individuals are the only angels at present, and they go into great danger when these practices are taking place.

In the longer term there is a real need for education and local action groups. Politicians speak out, but this is a deep problem. Sometimes, knowledge is the key. One man told me how his aunt appeared at his house in Mendi, fearful that she had been accused of bewitching his uncle who was spitting blood. He brought his uncle to hospital, where his T.B.was treated. When the uncle returned, he was able to explain what T.B. was and how it was transmitted. The aunt received compensation for false accusation. 

When you first train with VSO they do an exercise with a diagram of a mountain that rises out of the sea. The point of the exercise is to show you that there are things you see and understand, things you can only see and understand dimly and some things you can't see and will never understand. Where do you think this fits?

More Corruption?

The mobile phone vibrated and buzzed and finally broke into a strident ring tone. I rolled over in bed and wearily took the call.

“Hello Wabag police here. I have two people who gave me your name. I have cautioned them, and they told me you could deal with the problem.” My head spun in confusion, trying desperately to make sense of why I should get a call from Wabag as I tried to get some sleep in Mendi?

A follow-up call from an agitated Jacky, the Engan PLHIV group President gave me a clue.

“ Mendai won't give me my bus fare. The police said you should help me.”

“How I am I supposed to help from Mendi? You will have to sort it out between you.”

Later I had a series of top-level phone conversations with other agitated people. This must be what it is like dealing with world crises as a President or Prime Minister.

As far as I could make out the route of the problem was that Jackie felt that the training budget should stretch to helping him to pay off his creditors in Wabag . Mendai , under severe instruction and threat from me, was trying to hold the line. The result, a roused Jacky attacked him at the Provincial HQ ripping his shirt and breaking his bilum (shoulder bag), landing them both in the police kalabus . 

This was happening at the lower end of the corruption pyramid.

If you travel to the higher ends of the power pyramid you will find the Prime Minister and M.Ps also playing their corruption games. Recently, I have had several conversations that have made me realize how ingrained corruption is in PNG. As a piece of investigative journalism, this article could well land a Pulitzer Prize.

It started with a trip to Kandep with the new Deputy Provincial Administrator. The cosiness of the early morning drive must have seduced him into more open conversation than he intended. We started talking about his new job. He had pushed aside the current incumbent by making himself useful to the Governor. He talked of how political everything was and how careful he had to be not to deviate from the Governor's agenda and wishes. He confided that sometimes he had to do things he knew were wrong to get on. I asked him what he thought the coming year would bring for him. He puffed out his chest like a cockerel. 

“I want to get involved in campaigning for the election.”

“You will go out into the villages to canvas votes?”

“ Yes I will be one of the people who goes out to persuade local leaders and voters to support the Governor.”

“Is that difficult? ”. He took his eyes off the road and looked at me smugly.

“No, you give out a lot of money. You need 5 or 6 million kina to make sure you get elected Governor.” 

“You give money for votes?”

“Yes.”

“How much does a vote cost?”

“Up to 100 kina .”

“Can you trust that they will vote for you?”

“ No you just have to pay it.”

Later I saw what happened if you backed the wrong side. He was in charge of relief supplies and he made it clear that Erave District would not get their full quota because the local politicians were not supporters of the Governor.

Everyone complains of corruption, but when it comes down to it, you would rather have money than principles.

Later that week I had another car journey with the Provincial Treasurer (PT) of Enga – the local government accountant. He was just as forthcoming. We talked of the election process and he said that it was difficult to counter the corruption of those at the top. He had been PT in Southern Highlands and said that he wanted to do things properly. One day he was called into the office of the Provincial Administrator, his boss and told that the Governor wanted him to go. 

“He wanted me to give contracts to his company, but I wanted to him to tender like the others.”

He refused, but was fighting a losing battle. The Ministry told him he would be better off and safer back in his home Province of Enga. Indeed, safety is an issue. In Hagen, an auditor uncovered a massive fraud. He is now being moved to Port Moresby after a series of death threats.

We moved onto the subject of the Prime Minister, who has made a name for large infrastructure projects to build his popularity. One in the pipeline is a new University. Strangely, it is to be built in the middle of a rural area away from all major road links and facilities. It just happens to be in his constituency and later I was told by a woman on a bus, that it will built on his grandmother's land.”

The PT told me “ I was told that he owns more than 3,000 companies, but no one will ever be able to trace him in the register.” 

In the end everything is in the hands of the politicians. They listened to Western Advisors and are decentralizing resources and funds down to District level. This is founded on the sound principle of getting the funds as close to local people as possible. However, the M.Ps saw it another way. They voted a Bill that gives them control over the funding and the power to appoint most of the Board that makes the spending decisions. Just in case of problems they also inserted a clause that gives the Boards immunity from prosecution.

This means that do-gooders, like me, try to persuade local people to advocate for their rights and needs to people that will only respond if it suits their ends. As one man said to me:

“I have to be careful, before the last election people got killed round here.”

I used to wonder why African embezzlers needed to steal so much money. A deceased Nigerian General had 90 million pounds impounded in England, much to the chagrin of his family, who wanted it back. I could understand greed, but why so much. As time goes on I realize how many people must be paid in order to stay in power. It is an alternative form of government, often much closer to the way things are organized on a clan or tribal basis than our individualistic western democratic systems. 

Even in our ideal democratic systems, money is a key element to elections. When was the last poor person elected President of the U.S. or Prime Minister? How representative is our House of Commons of the population? Whilst most of our politicians do not buy votes, don't they promise people more money in their pockets? We watch TV series about the deals and threats that are necessary to get legislation passed, find out from cabinet paper that arms deals are decided on a cost benefit analysis of principle versus jobs. Are things really so different in our own worlds? I suppose that the real difference is that we have more systems that guard our principles and catch transgressors, but does that amount to fairness and equality for all?

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