Basketball

Basketball - 5.26.2005

High Level View of the Rosary

Kundiawa Lutheran high school hosted a sports challenge this weekend, inviting all the area schools. The glamour event of the afternoon was the basketball round robin, involving the faculty members of each school.

The teachers of Rosary had a supreme sense of confidence in their chances with the addition of 'The American' in the lineup - and they let me know it.

The pressure was on. The consensus was that I was some sort of basketball superstar. At six foot one, I am pretty much the tallest man in the province. I have also been seen wearing a snappy pair of Cincinnati Basketball shorts, which added fuel to the myth. I can play, but my game certainly does not inspire. A friend of mine has described my game as 'deliberate and jerky', which is just about the most perfect, concise description of anything I have ever heard. My PNG running mates were also under the impression that I could dunk. Highest of high comedy. When I tried to explain to them that I could not they assumed I was being humble. The legend grew.

Saturday came and I was immediately introduced to the PNG style of play when after the first possession, an elbow was swung in the general direction of my face. I felt the breeze as it went by. After that, I realized we were playing prison rules. The two games I played were undoubtedly the most intense, physical contests I have ever been a part of. It was brutal. I spent most of the time in the paint and it was like a mosh pit. If I pulled down an offensive rebound, I would literally get flogged before getting off a put back. My arms were sore for two days. I didn't even bother trying to go after a loose ball. These turned into wild scrums filled with flailing limbs and grunts. They PNG people play hard from one end of the court to the other - despite the fact that some played in their bare feet* on an uneven, gravel playing surface.* My main goal was survival.

There was a referee, but he only blew his whistle for specific violations. On three consecutive trips down the court, a player driving to the basket was mauled. No whistle. And then the ref called the offensive team for a 3-second violation - probably the most obscure, under called rule in the book. On one fast break, I was navigating through traffic and was literally hip checked on two different occasions. The last one put me off balance and I was called for traveling. I was pretty fired up at this point and expressed my distaste in the call. Nothing but laughs.

The PNG players have never seen a shot they don't like. Basically, if you are within 30 feet of the goal and you can see the basket, then you have an obligation to shoot. I have never seen such an assortment of wild shots. Just crazy, rocket launches of heaves that would careen off the backboard in different directions. Even stranger was the fact that some of them went in - and the shooter would casually settle back into defense like he practiced that double clutch prayer from the corner every day in his back yard.

We managed to win both of our games. I played ok. I dominated the glass (and I should have). Despite the physicality of the play, there were no arguments or angry play. The final whistle of our last game was one the sweetest sounds I have ever heard - I was dead on my feet, battered and bruised. I can't wait to play again.

*About 50% of the people in PNG wear shoes. The further you get away from the town centers, the number plummets. I am astounded by the durability of the human foot. The PNG people (kids included) calmly stride over rocky terrain that I would not take unless I had sturdy boots. My tender little hooves ache just watching them walk around town on their bare soles. I try not to look anymore.*

The Facts

I realized that I have provided little background information about Papua New Guinea. So let's go back to the beginning and establish a good starting point:

- When the first Portugese explorers discovered the island, they called it 'Ilhas dos Papuas' which means 'Island of the Fuzzy-hairs'. Later, Dutch explorers called it New Guinea because it reminded them of Guinea in Africa. When you put the two together, you get Papua New Guinea

- The population of PNG is 4.2 million - less than 6% of that total are formally employed- Port Moseby is the capital and political center of PNG. It is also the largest city. The two other cities in PNG are Lae and Hagen.

- Mountains enclose Port Moseby so it is impossible to travel to or from the city by motor vehicle. Plane, boat or by foot.

- Before the continental divide, PNG was connected to Australia so the two countries share many of the same species of plants and animals. The PNG also share some of the ancient blood lines of the Australian aborigine.

- Rabaul was the cultural center of PNG up until 1994 when it was leveled by the volcano Vulcan - the volcano still rumbles and perpetually coughs up ash - PNG is home to 38 species of the 'bird of paradise' which have bizarre displays and mating rituals. The bird appears on the nation's flag, which is red, black and yellow.

- The national sport is undoubtedly Rugby League - the national team isnamed the 'Kulus', which is the pidgin name for 'bird of paradise' - the next two popular sports are cricket and soccer

- PNG became an independent nation in 1975

- The first (and current) Prime Minister is Sir Michael Somare, nicknamed 'the chief' - he appears of the K50 note

- Every Prime Minister has a six-year term. However, no prime minister has EVER completed their entire term. Each PM has received a 'vote of no confidence' (kind of like being impeached) and removed from office (thoughsome have come back to win a later election, like Somare)

- An estimated 800 different languages are spoken in PNG - the specific dialect of each tribe is known as 'tok ples'

Ah bullet points… a gift from god to the lazy writer. Who needs paragraphs, structure and transitional phrases when you can slap an arbitrary dot in front of sentence fragments? Bless you sweet bullets. We will meet again.

Randoms II

I was riding into Kundiawa with my friend John this past Friday. John is a retired systems planner from London who is moonlighting as a volunteer teacher at Rosary. Great guy. As we made our way though the busy streets, John exchanged one of those abrupt, shouting hellos (by far my favorite kind of exchange) that occur when one party is in a moving vehicle and the other is on foot. The two men waved happily at each other. I asked John who that was and he cheerfully responded 'oh, that was the man that organized the burglary of my house'. Good times.

I was scheduled to meet a new volunteer this week in town at the bus exchange. He gave me a time when he expected to be in and asked how he would recognize me. I said 'um… well, I'll be the white guy.'

There is what I like to call a 'PNG Group Laugh'. At first I thought it was unique to Rosary but apparently it is used by high school students around Simbu. If a group of three or more kids find something collectively amusing, they will all share an obligatory 2-second chuckle followed by a resounding 'WHOOO!' The timing is impeccable. And whether you have 3 or 50 teenagers engaged in a funny, the 'WHOO' begins and ends at the precise moment. It's quite remarkable. How they all come to a split-second decision that a particular moment is worthy of team laugh and unified 'WHOO', I will never know. All throughout the day and night, I hear the sounds of the PNG group laugh, springing from the different classrooms and dormitories. I am sure that this practice reveals some underlying truths about their culture but I don't want to think too hard about it.

The following is stolen directly from Lonely Planet, but it was so funny that I had to share it: When the first elections for the House of Assembly were held in PNG in the 1960s, the town of Lavongai took to the spirit of Democracy with gusto and decided they would vote for American president Lydon Baines Johnson.

Lavongai went 'All the way with LBJ' but when the American president didn't show up, the islanders decided they needed to take more direct action. They refused to pay their taxes and instead put their money in a fund to buy Lyndon Johnson. They raised a lot of money, but they never did manage to entice the American president to come and represent the people of Lavongai.

Goroka Coffee

Goroka Coffee

I traveled east through the Highlands to meet some fellow VSOs and attend the Goroka Coffee Festival. Two hours by PMV at a pedestrian price of 10 Kina. Traveling this kind of distance alone by road is a little daunting, but if you are going to live in PNG for a significant amount of time you just have to get over it. PNG strangers helped the entire way. I tried to read but I still cannot take my eyes off the rolling mountains. They are truly a marvel.

The coffee festival was held at the ‘Goroka Bowl’ (which made me think of the ‘Holywood Bowl’ where ‘The Doors’ recorded a live concert) – an open, grassy amphitheatre, better known as a ‘field’. There was a tremendous line to get into the main show on Saturday morning. While waiting in the mass of people, a boy pointed at me and exclaimed ‘look, Steven Seagal’, much to my companions’ delight. Not exactly the look I am going for. I was appropriately nicknamed ‘Seags’ the remainder of the weekend and forced to recite every quote from his movies we could recall with a smoky glare. My favorite being his immortal words of revenge from ‘Hard to Kill’: Oh I’ll take you to the bank… the BLOOD BANK!’

While in line for the show, we experienced what I like to call ‘white privilege’. Basically, if you are white, you have a first class ticket wherever you go - carry over from the colonization period. At the super market, my bags do not get searched. When I jump on a PMV, they put me in the front seat. It’s not right, but everyone adheres to it – and it’s borderline rude to turn it down. At the festival, as soon as the police spotted four white guys (it was actually 3 white guys and 1 Asian but those kind of distinctions are not made. 2 colors: black and white) they cleared a path and offered us passage to the gate. We declined, but the cops insisted and we trudged through the human tunnel, heads down in shame, which had been quickly built. It’s quite a paradox because you know what you are doing is wrong yet you look at the one hour line and everyone seems ok with it and the next thing you know you are part of the problem. My whole life I have wanted to be treated like a VIP and now that I am it is completely embarrassing.

The main attractions of the festival are the ‘sing sings’, which are ceremonial dances. Tribes come from all over the country to represent their region and tribe. Faces are painted and elaborate head dresses are adorned – some rising almost 10 feet in the air. It was hard to focus on one group because so much was going on and you were free to move about. There was no schedule so there was a spontaneity to the whole event. The tribesmen were extremely gracious and patient and would hold poses from minutes while certain volunteers fumbled around with their digital cameras.

I got the opportunity to wear a traditional mud mask worn by the legendary Asaro Mud Men. According to legend, the Asaros had lost a tribal fight. Prior to the payback raid, they covered themselves in gray mud and huge mud masks. When the ghostly apparitions emerged from the bush, their opponents fled. The head piece was heavy – at least 10 pounds. Tragedy struck. When I tried to remove the helmet from my gargantuan head, my nose got caught in the mouth piece. I panicked a little and yanked too hard from the back – the mask shattered in my hands. I was left holding the broken pieces. I wanted to cry.

The owner of the mask was as stupefied as I and we just stared at the chunks of clay for what seemed like an eternity. I hastily rummaged through my pockets and handed him a wad of Kina. This seemed to placate him somewhat but he maintained this look that simply said ‘you’re kind of a dumb ass, aren’t you?’ My blank stare provided his answer.

* * *

The weekend culminated in the Goroka Makers Ball, held at the fabulous ‘Bird of Paradise’ hotel. Sam, a volunteer from Australia, and I were lacking tickets. We shared discussions of crashing the party but this was mostly crazy talk to pass the time. We went to a pre-party that included a wide range of volunteers, international businessmen and foreign dignitaries. The ball had a ‘Hollywood’ theme so everyone was either wearing tuxedos or costumes they had pieced together from the second-hand shops. It was a weird scene but the people were quality. After a few rum drinks, Sam and I decided that one way or the other, we were getting into the coffee ball.

I didn’t really notice until we arrived at the lobby of the hotel that I was horribly under dressed. It was a good-looking crowd and I was bringing up the rear, blazing in jeans and a T-shirt. I spotted an Aussie businessman I had met the night before and explained my dilemma. He ushered me up to his room and let me borrow a shirt, tie, pants and belt. His shoes didn’t fit me so I stuck with my sandals. Another guy gave me a jacket so I was sharp from the ankles up. Now we had to hatch a caper to get inside.

It came to me. I suggested we pretend to be journalists from the Post-Courier Gazette. Sam, still underdressed, was the logical choice for the camera man and someone immediately produced a serious looking camera for him to use. I swiped some stationary and a pen from the front desk. We looked the part. Writer and photographer, sans press credentials. We approached the entrance to the ballroom, babbled our purpose, and strolled in with ease.

I set to my interviews with my camera man at my side. We could have bagged the whole bit after five minutes and we both knew it. But we were having such a time playing journalists that we just stayed in character. Sam was a machine. I have never seen such commitment to a bit. He must have take 300 pictures. I still don’t know who he got the camera from.

Now, a wise man might have wondered why the only the only journalist at the Coffee Makers Ball was limiting his interviews to women between the ages of
21 and 35, while the power coffee men were ignored. Ah, but who has time to ponder such questions…

The girls were great. They were very eager to be interviewed by the American Journalist. They made sure I spelled their names right. Sam lined them up in different poses. I scribbled quotes. Sam would complain about the lighting and refocus. I whispered that the story might be picked up by the AP. It was absolutely absurd.

Everything started happening in all directions. The ball was like a cross between a drunken wedding reception and a Halloween party. Wine flowed. The dance floor was packed. A German lady named ‘Jutta’ who looked like Annette Benning told me WAY too much about her failed marriage. Sam had shots with the governor. Arthur, a Dutch VSO, won the ‘best costume’ contest.

I was yanked on the dance floor by a wild woman in red. I left my precious notepad behind. A young woman I interviewed busted me when she picked it up to discover illegible hieroglyphics, random boxes and arrows pointing nowhere. She forgave me. We left together with a small group. I had no idea where we were going and didn’t care. Suddenly, a Rascol came out of nowhere and snatched her purse. I was so shocked that I could only offer a feeble kick that missed him by a week. He didn’t get far. Six cops who were stationed outside the hotel ran him down like grass. They dragged the thief back to us and offered the opportunity to take a swing at him. We respectfully declined. I walked the girl to her friend’s car and hurried back into the hotel to find the boys. It was closing in on 3am and the glass of weird I can handle in one night had runeth over. We left soon after and laughed the whole way home.

I can only imagine what happened to the purse-snatcher. They probably took him to the bank… the BLOOD BANK!

Compensation

Compensation

Law & Order, at the community level in PNG, begins and ends with compensation. In PNG terms, compensation is simply a settlement that resolves a dispute. This settlement is typically cash, but can also include livestock or land. Every dispute, every insult, every ‘wrong’ has a price. This is compensation.

A ‘wrong’ is loosely defined. More to the fact, it is not defined at all but rather conjured by the wronged party. Some are legitimate, some are not. For instance, vehicles (specifically pick-up or flat-bed trucks) are routinely spilling over with people hitching rides.* If a member of the cargo is drunk on home-brewed liquor* and falls out of the cab, compensation will be claimed on the driver. In a more extreme case, two men gang raped a woman infected with HIV. Upon discovering this, the villains claimed compensation on their victim.

Compensation is usually of a domestic nature. True story: a PNG volunteer was approached in a bar by a local woman who claimed she was single. He took her home – it is impossible for a white man to do anything discreetly in PNG so their exit was witnessed and the news spread like a rash.

The woman was married. The husband found out while the sheets were still warm and was undoubtedly shamed. Compensation was in order. The volunteer had two choices: go to the village court and have a judge decide an appropriate monetary amount or settle it in the bush. He went to court.

The court was described to me as an open field. Also, since this was a particularly steamy case, quite a crowd was gathered. The cheated husband brought a contingent of his ‘Wontoks’ as a show of force. I imagine the desired effect was achieved. The judge awarded the man 100 Kina (equivalent $34 USD) in compensation: case closed. Once compensation has been agreed upon this issue is wholly and completely resolved – there are no residual effects from the offense. The husband has restored face in the community. The woman’s scarlet letter is removed. The animosity between the male spouse and the backdoor man has been erased. In fact, they can now (and sometimes do) become friends.

A friend of mine likes to say ‘in PNG, life is cheap’. Unfortunately, this statement is all too true. If I were to run a man down in the road, my first action would be to flee the scene (and this is suggested procedure). Next, the family would then require that I pay (regardless if it was my fault or not) compensation for their loss – on average, 1000 K. I am better off killing a man than a prized pig because the compensation amount would be larger for the swine.

* * *
There is also a favor system in PNG that revolves around compensation. If a person or tribe provides assistance, somewhere down the line a return is expected – and the equality of the return is closely scrutinized and remembered. If I give you a pig, and a month later you give me a chicken, you are still indebted to me at least 15 more chickens and a sack of buai.
Quid pro quo in action.

There are three tribes that border Rosary Secondary School. Last year, one of the tribes was threatening to raid the campus (for reasons worth another story). Another of the tribes came to the rescue and guarded the perimeter of the school until the cause of the dispute was sorted out. This weekend, the protector tribe (tribe A) is paying compensation to another tribe (tribe B) to settle a dispute (you can make yourself dizzy trying to make sense of the overlapping treaties, rivalries and debts). Apparently, a male member of tribe A ‘accidentally’ killed his wife, a member of tribe B. This was the exact explanation I was given – when I asked ‘how do you accidentally kill someone?’ everyone just giggled. Tribe A has asked Rosary to contribute to the kitty – sighting last year’s defensive help. Now, Rosary could refuse. However, you can bet that this tribe will no longer protect the school if a situation arises. You could call it the PNG version of disaster insurance.

I went with the group of men to deliver the cash ‘gift’. We were greeted with a series of wild chants by the men, echoed by wails from the women. My group gave a series of speeches I could not understand, presenting the donation and making reference to the years of friendship the school and tribe have shared. The tribe’s chief responded with a speech of his own, making reference to ‘Brother Mark’. This was followed by more chants and wails and an invitation to a feast this weekend. It was damn cool.

An old man, keeping himself upright with two sticks, loudly shouted above the crowd in. His voice was powerful despite his feeble stature. No one seemed to pay him any mind, as his monologue continued on and on. I asked the guys from my group what he was saying but they could not make it out(again, PNG has approximately 800 different languages – this man live 2 MILES from Rosary yet speaks in a vernacular that only people in his village can understand). A member of his tribe deciphered for us and said that hewas talking about the fighting he did in WWII and how proud he was to fight alongside Americans and Australians against the Japanese. He exclaimed his pride to see an American man in his village. We all nodded in agreement.

*Pick ups and flat bed trucks will sometimes transport over 50 people, absolutely jammed into every available space. It’s quite a sight to seethese trucks bounce around the decimated roads.*

*PNG home brew is made of an assortment of fruits including bananas and pineapples. There is some sort of rudimentary fermenting process that produces liquor that can be as strong as 80 proof. Nasty stuff. Getting drunk on this stuff is referred to as getting ‘steamed’ and it is an ugly display. These fellows just get staggering drunk, get into random fights and often pass out in the middle of the road.*