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!