The Oasis

4.23.2005

There are few night clubs in PNG. Let me restate that – there are few night ANYTHINGS in PNG. So, when the opportunity arose to hit an evening locale named ‘The Oasis’, I was first in line.

PNG officially has three cities, one of which is Mt. Hagen – notoriously the roughest of the bunch. I was in Hagen last weekend for an education conference. I could feel the difference in intensity whilst walking through the main business district. The testosterone was palpable. Now, my senses were no doubt heightened by underlying paranoia, manifested by the ominous descriptions (even natives of PNG are scared of the place) I had heard of Hagen. Still, I had a feeling like everyone was sizing me up.

So Saturday night we were able to assemble a few brave souls to tackle the violent Hagen night. Upon arriving at the spot, a quick consensus decided (I suspiciously had no vote) that I should go in first, being by far the largest and ugliest. The front door was more like a cage, followed by a filthy corridor and narrow steps up to the club. Ah yes, nothing like entering the seedy corners of the world. The oasis indeed!

On the immediate left was the dance floor – moving down the left-hand side was a series of tables. On the right-hand side was a long bar, shielded by fencing save the small slots where one can exchange Kina for booze. At the back of the bar were a few pool tables, some dart boards and the condemned bathrooms. All in all, the standard bar layout.

We were fortunate to be with Martin, a 23-year old Dutchman that met his wife at the same bar on Christmas Eve, 2004. His wife is PNG, and grew up in Hagen. Because of this, she was well known in this spot and had many friends. A few of these sweet chaps voluntarily served as our guides and body guards, shooing away con men and warning us of trouble – which never came. They were our sentries and performed their task without request or compensation. We were grateful to have them.

A PNG band took the stage for their final set of the night. I thought something was wrong because the band played the same song five times in a row. Only, they weren’t all the same song – they just sounded exactly the same. It sounds like that silly music they play at German bier gardens – with a slight *island twist.* At the conclusion of each song, the dancers would scatter like eraser shavings blown off a piece of paper. It was amazing. When the next song started, the dance floor would immediately fill up again.

About half way through the night a woman asked me if I wanted to dance with her friend. This is standard practice. We danced. You’re not supposed to touch your partner so we performed our steps in isolation, stealing shy glances at each other. It was like grade school dance club. My new friend promptly latched onto me, which will happen. A white man is quite a prize in PNG. I managed to escape by telling her friend I was engaged to be married and I was returning home soon to claim my throne. She understood.

The night appropriately ended with a nervous walk home under the inky night sky, complete with an escort from a local ‘big man’ – who, among other things, is well known for car jackings and aggravated assaults. Not a bad guy if you don’t owe him money.

*I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe PNG music all week. Then, like a gift from above, I turned on the television to discover a program called ‘Super Sound’, which features one hour of PNG-made music videos.*

There are no words to describe what I witnessed. I can’t even rationally talk about it at this point. I need some time.

Randoms

When you are alone in a foreign country, you end up having a lot of inside jokes with yourself. The other day, one of my colleagues was in my house and inquired about my softball bat that is kept close to my bed. I told him that it was ‘my justice stick, in case I need to rain down aluminum on a would-be assailant’. He just looked at me. I get that a lot.

I was on my porch at dusk when a man approached wearing a trench coat and brandishing a large machete. I tried my best not to squirm and tightened my grip on my only weapon – a 300 page paperback book. Turns out he was a sentry that needed to turn on a security light, the switch being on my porch. I am now down one pair of underwear.

Church

4.17.2005 – 11:19am (PNG)

I have not been to Sunday mass for as long as I can remember. I knew this dubious streak would end soon, seeing that I now work for a catholic school and could probably hit the chapel with a tennis ball if I got a good throw off and the wind was right. However, I had no intentions of going this morning. That is, until the principal spotted me shuffling to the toilet (this place has eyes!) and inquired if I would be attending mass. I weakly responded ‘of course’ and after a hurried breakfast, was gussying up in my Sunday Best.

The church is shaped almost exactly like my old parish, Our Lady of Peace (Columbus, OH) on a smaller scale. It is hexagonal and has a sort of space ship quality. I sat in the back and settled in for my daily allowance of curious stares. The 10am mass is opened to the entire surrounding community so there were a lot of new faces. No jacket or shoes required. The mass was spoken in Tok Pisin, but I could pick up a good amount of words - here and there. The sequence followed classic Catholic protocol – opening song – prayer – two readings – songs – gospel – homily – prayer – peace hand shakes - communion – announcements – closing prayer. I passed on communion, feeling I should get a couple services under my belt before I start joining in the entire ceremony. The songs were great – uplifting and even catchy. Members of the church brought up gifts to the altar, which included some fruits and vegetables and some bamboo sticks – these were later taken to the father’s quarters. During the announcements, I realized that Father Charles was introducing me as a *new member* of the community, for the entire congregation turned towards me in one swift motion to take a good look. Startled, I offered a sheepish wave.

My next neighbor is Father Charles. We’ve had dinner together a few times (we share the same cook) and he invited me to have beers with him and his buddies yesterday afternoon. He’s around 35 years old with a handsome, honest face. He’s got a cool, quiet was about him. I didn’t really see him as ‘Father Charles’ until this morning – he was just Charles my neighbor. It was quite a trip, seeing him in his priestly robes looking so pious.

Yesterday Charles found me lying on the lawn between our houses in only gym shorts and a shirt over my face. He thought I was ill. When I explained to him and his friends that I was trying to ‘get some sun’, they laughed and thought this was the silliest activity a human being could ever think of doing. Which, I suppose it is.

*Father Charles later explained to me that he also told the crowd that I was in fact, not a man of the cloth and should not be referred to as ‘Father Mark’ or ‘Brother Mark’*

Sport

4.15.2005 11:00pm (PNG)

I have been dying for a sport fix and it came in the form of *‘Friday Night Football’.* The Australian Rugby League broadcasts a featured weekly match up between two top teams. This week pitted the Sydney Bulldogs v. Sydney Roosters (I like using ‘v.’ instead of ‘vs.’, like the fancy attorneys on ‘Law and Order’) a rematch of last year’s grand final, in which the Bulldogs prevailed.

There are two major professional rugby associations – Rugby Union and Rugby League. Union uses the classic rugby rules, with 15 players on each side. Union is more physical (it involves the ‘scrums’, the huddled mass of men which is the universal symbol of rugby), slower paced and low scoring. Union is played throughout Europe (mostly the UK) and the South Pacific (namely Australia). Rugby League is Union’s little brother – 13 players, faster paced and higher scoring. There are about 15 teams (I could never get a number everyone agreed upon) in the league – 14 from Australia and one from New Zealand. People will try to tell you that Rugby League is a lot like American football but this is a serious stretch. The significant similarity being that when a team has possession, they have 5 ‘tries’ to move the ball (which looks like a bloated football) the length of the field and score.

A few surprises: About 30-40 people (adults and children) turned up in the staff TV room to watch the contest. I expected a spirited crowd but the game was watched in virtual silence. It was a little eerie. I was the only one making any noise, with incessant questions about the rules and audible grunts when a violent tackle or blatant cheap shot (there were many) took place. Also, the crowd at Sydney was weak. Only 27,000 people bothered to make the journey to marvelous Sydney Stadium (it was built for the 2000 Olympics) to see a rematch of last year’s finals – and both teams are from Sydney! The Reds pack in 45K, standing room only for a Wednesday night game featuring Danny Graves’ bobble-head doll. Strange.

Still, the game was entertaining – a see saw battle that saw the Roosters up 22-16 with 10 minutes remaining. Then the school’s power went out. Game over.

On a side note, rugby league, like international soccer, insists on the game clock counting up to 40 minutes (or 90 for soccer) rather than count down to zero. Also, the clock never pauses – even for a stoppage in play. Rather, they keep a separate count of ‘penalty time’ that is added on at the end of the game. Thing is, absolutely no one except the official time keeper on the field knows how much extra time is added – so the game just continues and then abruptly ends when this guy blows the whistle. This, without question, is the most ridiculous tradition in all of sports.

*There are two channels in PNG. EMTV, which is from Australia. The other is a local PNG station – I don’t know the station letters. Let’s just call it WPNG.*

Where are you from?

I’m not the most patriotic person but I am proud to tell people I am an American. I’ve heard a lot of talk about how much citizens from other nations despise Americans. I distinctly remember before a trip to London someone adamantly imploring me to tell people I was Canadian. No offense to the leafs, but I would never stoop to that sort of deception just to avoid some sort of reprisal from an uppity U.S. hater.

I don’t know what these people are talking about anyway. Not once have I ever endured any sort of backlash from anyone, anywhere. I have received nothing short of total respect. In fact, it is my experience that most people I have met go out of their way to accommodate me. Now, these same people may be cursing my existence under their breath and depositing rat droppings in my drinks, but on the surface I have gotten along famously with everyone.

What I really love is when people ask me where I am from. Usually, I say ‘Cincinnati’ or ‘Ohio’ or maybe I am out at a bar and decide to go with ‘California’. Now, I calmly turn and pronounce the letters ‘U – S – A’. This is typically met with an ecstatic ‘ah, an American!’ followed by a silent nod of acknowledgement and understanding. They know.

Rosary School

4.13.2005 – 10:20am (PNG)

The drive from Goroka to Rosary Kondu is quite an experience. The scenery is spectacular. Lush, mountainous green landscape everywhere you look. Low hanging clouds crown the mountain tops. Highlanders are everywhere – small food stands, beer shacks, farmers, road workers and wayward travelers (walking is THE mode of transportation in the mountains). We have to slow down to dodge a pig or goat every few kilometers. *My head is in on a constant swivel, trying to take it all in.* The road is rough – the pot holes are more like pot ponds. I am sitting in the back row of a van, right on top of the wheel so each bump sends me flying into the ceiling. The chickens we are transporting from Goroka shriek louder as the terrain gets worst. It is quite a ride.

*Killing a pig that does not belong to you is a serious crime in PNG, which requires considerable ‘compensation’ to the guilty party. Not only that, if you are caught in the act, you are liable to get a severe beating. During our security session, we were instructed ‘if you happen to hit a pig whilst driving, KEEP GOING.*

QUICK NOTE TO MY MOTHER: Mom, I will not be getting behind the wheel of a car up here in the highlands. I promise. Deep breath… there you go.

The school is quite a large complex. Most of the faculty and staff live on school property with their families. Since this is a boarding school, there are dormitories for the over 500 students. The administration has been extremely polite and everyone seems happy that I am here. A lot of handshakes. In PNG, handshakes are very sacred displays of respect and friendship that can last a few minutes. Some people will continue to shake your hand during the entire introductory conversation and it is rude to pull away. I don’t mind it at all.

The school used to be run by an order of brothers. I am staying in a domicile that housed three of the holy men. Catholic symbols are all over the walls. My quarters are real decent. I have a lot of space, a new fridge and the place is tidy. I would call the conditions ‘summer camp’ or maybe ‘beach house’ clean. You can’t call it dirty but it is certainly not clean. My bathroom is in a separate building behind my house and it is a little scary but I should be able to survive.

I get many waves and shouts of ‘moning’ and ‘apinoon’ as I walk the grounds. Everyone knows that a new volunteer - the American - has arrived and is anxious to meet me. The children absolutely stop dead in their tracks when they see me and stare at me wide-eyed. I smile and say hello and try my best to look casual. I probably fail miserably. As I go by, I hear them whisper ‘white man’. Strangely, there is a family that lives down the road with four children - the oldest boy is named ‘Whiteman’ and the oldest female is named ‘girl’. High comedy.

Angels and Saints

4.10.2005 - 11:25am (PNG)

During the final two days of the PNG volunteer orientation, representatives from our respective placements came to Madang for a partner workshop. The two men that came for me are the principal of Rosary Secondary School and the head of the R-Tech (rural technology) department. Their names are Francis and Gabriel – are those Catholic names or what? I feel very safe traveling with the name sakes of arguably the most notorious saint (besides St. Peter) and the boss angel. (boss angel being the official catholic title of ole Gabs). (I love parenthesis). I get the feeling that Papua New Guineans are easily seduced by Western business terms. First off, Francis and Gabriel are good people and have been very gracious towards me and are clearly passionate about the success of their school and students. However, when thinking about ways they could improve the school, they got ‘strategic plan’ stuck in their heads and have held on to those two words for dear life. Strategic plan. It sounds good, even sexy, but it means absolutely nothing. What are we planning? Who knows! Now here I am, the ‘American Business Man’, charged with swooping in and taking the school to new heights (using my bag of magic, Western business dust). Ah, but we shall press on into the breech.

Yesterday morning, I was scheduled to fly to Goroka and then begin the winding, 2-hour drive through the mountains to Kondu, Kundiawa and the secluded valley, which holds Rosary Secondary school in its belly. My flight was scheduled to depart at 7am, and the passengers included my men from Rosary and another volunteer, Eugene, that was headed to Mt. Wilhelmvia Goroka. My bags were on the airport shuttle (otherwise known as a beat-up mini van) at 6:15am. At 6:30, I began to assume that my employers had already left for the airport. Eugene, a teacher from Nigeria with impeccable comedic timing, suggested that my men may be trapped under something heavy in their rooms and dashed off to check on them. Try to picture this: I am standing by the van (it is now 6:40am) when I turn and see the valiant men from Rosary trudging towards, scraping sleep from their eyes with one hand and stuffing loose articles of clothing into their bags with the other. Poor Francis is barefoot because of a badly sprained ankle and boasts the worst field dressing I have ever seen. Gabriel is not faring better, and it appears that has been struck on his left hand side by a mild tranquilizer dart (it was later revealed that his leg was asleep). I lost the ability to speak for 11 minutes.

The race to the airport was on. We lost. We got to the terminal (which resembles the side of a barn) at 6:50am but the flight was closed. Attempts to negotiate were thwarted by random hand gestures. Immediately, the New Guineans begin explaining to me how it was a good thing that we missed our flight and alternative routes to our destination will be much better. Nothing gets these people down. Buais are chewed and everything is fine. I realize that I need to take control of this situation so I find the next flight to Goroka (Monday) and track down a ride to take us back to the hotel. I am suddenly tasked with working things out with the airline so I find myself driving the VSO van downtown to the Air Link office. I am on the left hand side of the road with a left-handed stick shift, hurtling through Madang and all of this seems normal. Our boarding passes are adjusted to Monday morning with white-out (literally) and hand-written notes on cocktail napkins (not really) and all is set. Now I am back in the same room I had left for good some 28 hours ago, it’s pouring down rain, and I am wondering what the hell just happened.

Loud, Ugly, Bombastic American

Pimpin' Ain't Easy

Rempi Village

Rempi Village 4.3.2005

We are spending the weekend with the Rempi village, along the North coast of PNG. The particular clan we are staying with is home to Willie and Augustine, our language teachers. Augustine is one of the ‘big men’ of the clan and possesses a quiet dignity. He goes out of his way to make sure everyone is comfortable – he has my undying respect. His wife is named ‘Lanette’ – Augustine described her as a hard worker with a strong back, with much pride. She is the absolute sweetest pickle on earth. Fantastic smile. Hearty laugh. She marveled at my postcards from Cincinnati. She brings me my coffee in my favorite cup – the Ox & Tail corned beef mug. I was curious to know how instant coffee could taste so good and then I saw how much sugar they add – heaping spoonfuls. Everyone is gentle and kind. It’s truly a simple life. Cooking, cleaning, farming, laughing, swimming, sport, walks to the market… I have yet to see a dour face.

The village is putting on a pig roast this Sunday called a mu mu. They build this hole in the ground two feet deep, 4’ X 3’. The night before it is filled with stones. A fire is built on top of the stones and kept a blaze throughout the night. In the morning, half of the hot stones are removed. The stones left in the pit are covered with banana stalks and leaves. Next comes the pig – and I mean the whole pig, cut in pieces. The meat is covered by an assortment of stone and vegetables – banana, sweet potato, greens, etc. On top of this comes another layer of banana leaves. The remaining stones are then laid followed by another layer of banana leaves them completed with a few slabs of sheet metal. This will slow cook for 5-6hours. Good times.

Pikinini lik lik

Pikinini lik lik 4.2.2005

I brought the village a new soccer ball and I am glad I did. Previously, they had been using a hollowed out coconut. We played for a while under the hot sun, using sticks in the ground as the goals. The boys looked to pass first, shoot second. Warrants mentioning. I found myself sitting in a group of seven little girls (pikinini meri) yesterday afternoon. The brightest smiles you have ever seen. We sat around and talked for two hours, though we had no idea what the other was talking about. They were fascinated with me and I with them. I took their pictures and they shrieked in delight upon seeing the results. It was the best conversation I have had in a while. And if there is a sweeter sound than children laughing hysterically, I don’t know what it is.

Madang

Madang 4.2.005 – 10:00am (PNG)

I land in a makeshift airfield surrounded by swampy terrain and coconut trees. The baggage claim area is a long plywood table under a shaky roofmade of sheet metal. The baggage handler brings over the luggage on a forklift and tosses them liberally. Once there are no more bags, 25-30 people remain standing in a fuddle awaiting their precious cargo. The man shrugs and says ‘that’s it – come back tomorrow’. End of discussion.

This story is not meant to slam air travel. This is merely a microcosm of the attitude in PNG. Things like this happen all the time. In fact, a recent marketing campaign for travel to the country was simply ‘Unexpected –PNG’. That’s how life operates. If something goes wrong, you simply have a laugh and move right on. A very laid back culture. Everyone here is on ‘PNG Time’. If a meeting starts at 8am, expect everyone to arrive by 9. If someone tells you it takes 1 hour to walk to a certain town, you better be prepared for 2 ½.

Beautiful mornings. By 10am you can feel the heat coming to the surface. By 11am, it is in your face. It cloaks you. The evenings are very pleasant, with the breeze coming off the ocean. It rains professionally in PNG – mostly at night. Torrential downpours. This is the end of the rainy season. Beautiful landscape. Densely populates forests. Dirt roads filled withPMVs (public motor vehicles) which look like VW vans and are crammed with 4 rows of seats. This is the #1 form of transportation in PMG. The roads are lined with people. I always wonder where they are going. Open markets, groceries and various shops. PNG has to import everything so prices are absurd and selection is limited. I walked into ‘Best Buy’ and felt like I traveled back in time to 1973. I would call the ball caps and jerseys they wear ‘throw backs.’ Everywhere I go I am met with stares. Nothing menacing, just cuiriosity. My Tok Pisin is poor but from what I can interpret they are saying ‘who is that pink skinned man and why is he wearing Ponch’s sunglasses from CHiPs?’

BUAI 4.1.2005

BUAI 4.1.2005

There are splatterings of red all over the ground, everywhere you go. Iassumed the New Gunieans were leaking their mud – I dared not wonder WHYthey were bleeding all over town. Fortunately, I came to learn that this was not human oil but in fact Buia – more specifically, the spittle fromchewing Buia. Buia, or beetle nut, grows generously on tal trees in PNG. It is green, the size of a walnut. Inside the green shell is the nut and itis a foul tasting thing, not for eating. However, when mixed with this dakaroot and lime (not the fruit, but the industrial powder correction officersthrow on prisoners when entering the state penitentiary) a chemical reaction occurs which turns the mixture fire truck red. This is chewed then spat freely onto the ground until the sludge is gone. The buzz is akin to huffing glue.* Some New Guineans eat 10-20 Buia a day. Unfortunately, it rots their teeth and makes them all look like they just got socked in the mouth.

* This is a literary device known as a ‘fabrication’ or ‘lie’...