7.22.05

Father Charles left for the Philippines to study for a year. We had become good friends. I will never see him again. This reminded me that when I leave I will never return. Before he left we went into Kundiawa together to have a beer and a game of pool. The sound of the balls clicking around the table saved us from complete silence. We had nothing to talk about. I kept thinking about how we were going to say goodbye. What should I say? Are we supposed to hug? Maybe a hand shake, pull-in to a hug? In the end, we left each other with an awkward handshake in his car. I said something generic that I can't remember.

It's the dry season. This only means that it does not rain quite as much. But the rain is polite and comes at the right times. It will dump sometimes at dusk and you can see the clouds coming in mid-afternoon. When the cold breeze sweeps through you know you only have about 15 minutes. It also rains at night and shuts the dogs up, making sleep almost fun. You just don't get those long gray days filled with intermittent spurts. The rain is nocturnal.

I watch more world news than I ever have before. A lot of coverage of the London bombings. I don't know how you stop a suicide bomber. When your own death is not a deterrent, every security precaution is virtually eliminated. It seems to me that a backlash against Pakistanis in England is imminent - a move the government is seemingly condoning. I feel bad for the mass numbers of Pakistanis, Indians and Middle Easterners in England. I doubt the average Londonite can tell the difference between a Pakistani and another nationality of similar skin tone. An Egyptian student with his books on his back is going to get on the wrong car of the tube and get his ass kicked.

When I was young I remember thinking that war was simple and cool. I liked looking at strategic battle plans that depicted the positions of each army and the advancing fronts. I was happy when we went to war with Iraq for the first time. It was an opportunity for USA to 'kick butt'. The death toll was just another stat, like the number of rebounds or blocked shots in a basketball game. It was clean. There were great villains with fantastic names that made you scowl when you said them right - Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini. We were the good guys. The dates were defined. WWII, US Involvement: 1941-1945. No sweat. This terror war, or whatever it's called, I don't know when it started. 9/11 is the simple answer but it began before that. I don't know who we are fighting anymore. I don't even know what I mean by 'we'.

My Colleagues

While in Madang on holiday, a VSO volunteer from Kenya approached me with a wide smile. He told me that he had a funny story involving members of the staff from Rosary. The first words out of my mouth were 'oh, dear lord.' I braced myself for what was to come.

Charles is an agricultural teacher at a college in Wewak (on the north coast of PNG). While teaching agricultural studies, he is attempting to build a practical studies curriculum in his school. Since Rosary has a practical studies curriculum in place (in theory), he wanted to come down to Kondiu and check out our operation. Rosary accepted his request and even agreed to send a transport to Hagen (he flew into Hagen from Wewak) to pick up Charles and his team. I thought this was an extremely gracious gesture by Rosary, specifically considering the limited resources we claim to be suffering from and the fuel costs involved in a round trip to Hagen. (I later realized that the head of our practical skills department had a loan application pending in Hagen and wanted to check the status - this was his way of conjuring a free ride.)

Word circulated around the campus that a school vehicle was going to Hagen.

ROAD TRIP!!! Three other teachers and the deputy principal seized the opportunity and piled into the idling van. Now, there is nothing wrong with a group of guys going on a ride. Unfortunately, it was Tuesday morning and school was most certainly in session. Nevertheless, the van sped off into the day leaving full classes staring at blank chalkboards.

So, you have yourself a crisp PNG morning, the open road, a driver and four of your buddies all playing hooky. I guess there is nothing left to do but to buy a few slabs of beer and drink as fast and as much as you can. And drink they did.

Try to imagine poor Charles, a mild-mannered African who does not drink, waiting in Hagen for his transport to Rosary where he is hoping to gain some insight into how a practical studies department should operate. All of a sudden, a van comes screeching to a halt in front of your face and out pours five men, drunk as lords, scrambling into the bushes to relieve their bulging bladders - and this is your ride. He climbed in gingerly amidst crazy drunk talk and hearty pats on the back and away they went.

The traveling fraternity party sped back towards Kondiu as Charles did his best to make sense of the mad men surrounding him. He was offered beers but calmly declined. He was about to be saved from this tragedy on wheels as the turn for Kondiu approached when someone made the realization that they were out of drinks. Much to Charles' horror, the bus sped right by Kondiu and continued on to Kundiawa in quest for an alcohol refuel. The excitement was yet to come.

As the bus neared Kondiu, one of the teachers in the back seat whistled a beer out of the window and into a garden. He picked a bad spot. There is a section of the Highlands Highway, on the way down to Kundiawa, where the surrounding landscape is beautifully maintained. It's quite impressive - Jane calls it 'Garden Village'. The people who care for this land do not take kindly to litter bugs. The infraction was spotted and word was signaled down the road. I have no idea how this was accomplished but in an amazingly short period of time, a roadblock was assembled. So, only a few hundred meters away from the spot of the flung bottle, an angry mob of stone carrying Papua New Guineans were waiting.

The van was forced to stop and was quickly surrounded. I can only think of Charles, sitting in the middle seat of the van wondering how in the world did he ever get involved in such a debacle. The crowd demanded compensation. (Now, I usually bristle at this whole compensation business, but in this case I completely agree. There is no reason for a grown man to toss a beer bottle into someone's yard - especially when more than half the people that trudge along that path do so barefoot) They asked for 30 Kina, which is more than reasonable. The Rosary crew scoffed at such a figure. The culprit of the hurled trash wanted to get out and fight and had to be shouted down by the remaining passengers. Tempers began to flare. Charles sat paralyzed. Eventually, they agreed to a settlement of 4 Kina and disaster was averted.

As Charles finished his story I was stupefied. At the beginning of the story, I was very excited and shuddered 'yes' at every turn. By then end, I was a little embarrassed. I never asked Charles how the meeting went, though I don't think he'll be coming back.
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On the Road

On June 29, between the towns of Kainantu and Goroka, there was a major hold-up on the Highlands Highway. A convoy of 4 PMVs was stopped by over 30 Rascols. They raped two women. They took everything. It was ugly. The police scattered the criminals and shot two dead. After this, security was on high-alert along the Highway.

I had traveled along this same road down to Madang but thankfully missed the disaster. I would be traveling the same road back. VSO informed us of this tragedy and gave us the option to travel back by airplane if we felt our personal security was in jeopardy. Some took the plane tickets, others braved the road. I was not going to travel back to Madang until the 11th of July so I was in a unique situation. In some respects, the absolute best time to travel on the road is immediately following a crime of this magnitude for security is at its peak. My trip was two weeks later, enough time for the hornet's nest to calm down and for the Rascols to regroup and launch another strike. I asked our country directory if he personally would feel comfortable in traveling by PMV on my departure date. He said yes.

This was good enough for me. I could still take the plane ticket but felt I would be doing it for the wrong reasons (convenience rather than safety) so on Monday morning I hit the road.

Monday - 7.11.05
7am - Bright and bushy-tailed at the Madang bus exchange. A number of PMVs roll around in circles but the navigators are all shouting 'LAE, LAE, LAE'!

Lae is an industrial harbor city, west of Madang - and the opposite direction I am going. The PMVs will continue this practice all morning until they are at capacity.

8am - Still nothing for the Highlands. I break into my food stash, which is four apples, five breakfast bars and a bag of spicy-hot cracker nuts which are outstanding. I have two bags and they are both bursting at the seams - and I packed light.

9am - 'LAE LAE LAE LAE!' Still nothing for the Highlands. I am trying to catch a ride to Goroka, where I can then grab a ride to Kundiawa. I run into a man that knows my name. I remember his face but I cannot place him.

I think I met him in Madang when I first got here in March. I'm too embarrassed to ask him how we know each other. Still, he is good people and is traveling to Hagen (the road to Hagen passes Kundiawa) so we decide to be travel buddies.

Bowie's rules for the PNG road:
- Don't look like a tourist - act like you have been on a PMV before
- Become friends with the driver
- Tell everyone in earshot that you are a volunteer* from the USA
- Bring plenty of water and snacks
- Mind your business
- Make sure your bags are touching you at all times
- If you are offered the front seat, take it - it's the most comfortable and if the police see a white man in the front, they will rarely stop the vehicle for a shake down
- Find a national you can trust that is going in your direction and latch on to him for dear life (this is THE most important rule, especially if you have to change buses and interpret confusing bus stops)

* A volunteer couple from the Netherlands was traveling by PMV when potential thieves stopped their vehicle. The driver told the robbers that the white people aboard where VSO volunteers. The men apologized for the disturbance and let the PMV pass - VSOs get a lot of respect in PNG. Also, a lot of PNG people do not like Australians and if you do not indicate otherwise, they will assume you are an Aussie.*

10am - still waiting. There is a large contingent of travelers wanting to go to the highlands and no takers. Many attempt to persuade the drivers to go to the highlands instead of Lae but are waved off. My hope for making it to Kondiu by nightfall is fading.

10:30am - I decide to join the negotiations and talk to one of the drivers. It usually costs 30 Kina for a ride from Madang to Goroka so I suggest that he demand 35 and personally guarantee that he will have a full ride. No dice. He will not drive to Goroka, because of the robbery that took place two weeks ago. He does offer to drive as far as Kainantu, 45 minutes outside of Goroka. I turn to my wise sage who nods in agreement. We have a ride and scheme to convince the driver to take us all the way to Goroka in route.

10:45am - the driver, being a kind soul, agrees to go by an office where a passenger has left his bag.

10:55am - now the same passenger, and his buddy, needs the driver to take him by his house so he can pick up some more luggage. Again, the driver agrees. I start to squirm.

11:05am - still another passenger yells from the back - he needs to be driven by his house so he can pick his watch. Incredibly, the driver agrees. I am in a rage and the other travelers grumble.

11:15am - the watch man returns to the PMV to let us know that his house is locked. I am in near hysterics and yell out 'oh hells bells, LET'S GO!' We finally hit the road. Absolutely maddening.

12:43pm - There are many one-lane bridges along the road. Basically, the first vehicle to the bridge crosses first. We approach a bridge and start to cross and are halfway there when another PMV enters the overpass and heads straight for us. Our driver stops while the other keeps coming. If he is playing chicken, we are both going to win because there is nowhere for us to go. I brace for a head-on collision when the PMV comes to a screeching halt 3 feet in front of us. All smiles from the opposing vehicle as our level-headed driver reverses off of the bridge and concedes to these fools. I am not well.

1:30pm - we begin the climb into the mountains

3:00pm - it is apparent that we are not going to convince our driver to go to Goroka. He says it is too dangerous which makes me a tad queasy. That plane ticket is looking real good right about now.

3:15pm - Kainantu. This is a road stop town, right in the middle of nowhere. Still, there are thousands of people* milling around in the streets. Just an obscure, hot place. My guide is on the ball and finds us a quick ride.

We take big gulps as we shuttle off towards Goroka. This is the stretch of road that everyone fears.

3:30pm - a caravan of PMVs, all happy and in one piece, pass us in the opposite direction. We all share a sigh of relief

4:45pm - Goroka. It is a mob scene at the bus exchange, with hundreds of people trying to make it to the Highlands. Prospects are grim and the sun is sinking fast. You just do not want to be on the road at night. Every time a van drives by, it is rushed by hopefuls yelling 'CHIMBU, CHIMBU'

(Kundiawa) or 'HAGEN, HAGEN' - the drivers all shake their heads.

6pm - My guide and road buddy gives up on making it to Hagen and decides to find a place to stay for the night. I am alone.

6:15pm - a coaster (big bus, holds 25 people) rolls by and announces in front of the crowd that it will travel to Kundiawa - but first they need to run an errand. They start to load the bus with logs and produce. I ask the driver 'can I just get on now, I'll help you'. He looks at me sternly and says 'NO!'. I was impressed with the conviction in his voice and obediently step back, nodding my head in respect.

6:30pm - surprisingly, the coaster returns and there is a surge of people moving towards the curb. It feels like a crowd of concert-goers, waiting to enter a festival-seating venue. I hold my own and am ready. As the travelers begin to squeeze into the door, the driver signals to me to come around front and get in his driver side door. I don't have to be asked twice and am giggling like a crazy person as I dive over his seat into the spacious shotgun chair. Just a wild scene.

7:30pm - the coaster is crawling threw the mountains and the trip is slow - this is compounded by a couple drunks in the back who demand stops so they can take a leak every 20 minutes. I painfully watched the sun go down some time ago and now scary darkness covers the land. I have accepted the fact that I will not make it back to Kondiu tonight.

8:45pm - Kundiawa, 45 minute drive East of Kondiu and the friendly confines of the Rosary campus. This is far as I will make it on this day. While it is only 8:45, it might as well be 3am. The streets are empty save a few random fires surrounded by shifty characters. This is not a good time to be out on the town. A few VSOs live in Kundiawa, including the couple from the Netherlands (Robert and Clarika). I know where their house is and stomp with a purpose towards their place. I pray that they are home because I am not quite sure where the other VSOs live.

8:50pm - I see my sanctuary and better yet, Robert's silhouette as he passes by the window. I am saved. I quicken my pace and notice that there are two dogs right on my heals. I shoo them hastily, assuming they are just like the cowardly dogs in Kondiu. I am wrong and one of the dogs bites me on the leg. Cursed mutt.

My day of travel ends with Clarieka tending to my fresh wound with antibacterial cream. Another scar from the road. 15 hours to travel less than 400 KMs. I wake up early the next morning and finish the trek to Kondiu without incident. Home again.

*While most of PNG is considered 'rural', that certainly does not mean 'under-populated'. The Highlands is absolutely jam-packed with people.

Every market, weigh station and road side store is overflowing at all times of the day. I routinely ask myself 'where do all these people come from?'

The answer is simple. If you squint your eyes while you look across mountain ranges and rolling landscape, you can see it dotted with tiny villages and homes. Densely populated. While walking through the bush, the land can seem devoid of all human life but I challenge anyone to try to find a spot in PNG where they can yell and not be heard.*

The cost of things

1 Kina = $.34 (USD) 1 Kina = 100 toya (PNG cents)

Cost structures in PNG are all over the place. Some items and services areabsurdly cheap while imported goods and travel expenses (at least by plane)are very expensive. Here’s a breakdown:

Bottle of Tobasco sauce – 30
KinaBox of Cereal – 20
Kina Big Bunch (approx. 20) of bananas – 1 Kina
Bottle of domestic beer (at a bar) – 5 Kina
9 holes of golf – 2 Kina
Australian-made dress shirt at second hand shop – 40 Toya
One nights stay at a resort – 200-300 Kina
Internet café rates – 50 Toya/per minute
Phone calls to the USA – 4.40 Kina/per minute
SCUBA Diving (including ground transfer and two dives) – 100 Kina
16oz can of Guiness – 16.50 Kina
PMV Ride from Kundiawa to Madang (about a 9 hour trip) – 40 Kina
Plane flight from Port Moseby to Brisbane, Australia – 1000 Kina

Golf

I played golf a couple times while in Madang. The first time out, it took me three holes to get over the fact that it only cost me 2 freaking kina. The course is right on the water and filled with tall palm trees. The caddies rushed my friend Marie and I (a VSO from the Phillipines) as we approached the first hole but we waved them off.

The fairways and greens were well maintained. Unfortunately, the course is also covered with random pieces of trash* that float across the grounds. This is maddening for I mistook my ball for a crumbled up napkin about 10 times. You have to guess when approaching the greens because none of the holes have flags (they all would be stolen if left out). Then again, considering my golf game, it wouldn’t make a difference if I knew where the flags were anyway. I was lining up for a putt when one of the stray dogs scattered about the course planted himself in my path and began rigorously licking himself. I didn’t have the heart to shoo him away and took a two stroke penalty.

A teenage kid with a limp followed us the first few holes. He diligently placed a stick in the holes to serve as a flag as we closed in on each green. I figured he was going to tail us the whole way, performing flag duties, and then ask for a little money. At the third whole, Marie’s drive went into the drink. The kid walked up to edge of the water. It was apparent he was going to dive into the pond and fetch her ball. We scampered over to him and told him not to bother. He shook his head in understanding. As we went on to the fourth hole, I looked back and saw that our flag man had stripped down to his bare ass and dived head first into the shallow abyss. He found the ball and triumphantly walked off with his prize.

There is a neighborhood surrounding the golf course, though these homes weren’t exactly mansions. A group of kids took an interest in our game and by the ninth whole had amassed quite a gallery. They watched our drives and then hustled down to fringe of the green as we set up for our approach shots. They sat in complete silence. The PNG Open. I was actually a bit nervous when I went to swing, feeling the pressure. They even offered a polite golf clap as my chip sailed over the green and into the brush. I tipped my hat as my ninth shot rattled into the hole. Hearty cheers all around.

*I can never find a trash receptacle in this country. Ever.

Return to Madang

Return to Madang
When I first got to PNG, I thought Madang was a dump. It seemed dirty and confusing and strange. I have undergone a complete paradigm shift. After spending three months in the highlands, I traveled the long road back to Madang for the 2005 VSO Volunteer conference. What I found was a South Pacific paradise. Smiling faces, vivid shades of green, tall palm trees and that big blue sea that stretches out forever. The place is beautiful and I am ashamed that I failed to see it before.



The selections in the super market now seem endless. I was stopped dead in my tracks yesterday when I say a tray of ripe, red tomatoes. I stared at them for 45 seconds. My appreciation for selection and options has skyrocketed. When I get back to the states and visit a Krogers, I may have to be sedated.

The conference came at the perfect time. My school is on break and I am officially at the halfway point of my placement. Almost 40 vols from around PNG gathered at Jais Aben (a lodge right on the beach) for the 4-day meeting. Some of the volunteers come from truly remote areas and make my living situation seem glamorous. One couple, two doctors from England, live deep in the highlands in a place called ‘Jimi Valley’. On top of running a clinic, they embark on ‘patrols’ every other week. They will hike to distant villages and provide medical attention and care. These hikes last most of the day across wild terrain. They will go 2-3 days eating only Cau Cau (like potato) and greens and sleep on the ground. They are the real volunteers.

I feel privileged to be a part of such an impressive group. It felt like a meeting of the United Nations – over 15 countries were represented. England and the Netherlands were represented in force. The range of backgrounds is equally impressive – doctors, teachers, agriculture specialists, physiotherapists, environmentalists, journalists. The wish I could have recorded all the stories I heard. The nights turned into weird dance parties – nobody in this group is shy. I seem reserved in comparison.

An added bonus was the diving. Jais Aben is on a peninsula that juts into the Pacific and is surrounded by small, uninhabited islands. Interspersed between these pieces of land is clear blue water and beautiful corral reef.

PNG claims that this stretch of reef is better than anything the Great Barrier Reef has to offer. I wouldn’t know to compare but the dives I went on were phenomenal. My command of the English language is simply not strong enough to appropriately describe what I saw under the surface. It was another world.

Mourning the Dead
Funerals are a regular occurrence in PNG – the human mortality rate is quite high. A few unique occurrences happen at these ceremonies. The close friends and relatives of the deceased cover their faces and exposed skin with mud the color of burnt orange. This mud is also smeared onto the vehicles involved in the procession convoy. While there are cemeteries, the majority of New Guineans prefer to be buried in their own village. In fact, most people are buried in their front yard.



Lastly, and most jarring, is that the women take part in what is called ‘the wailing’. Basically, the women attending the burial will crowd the grave site and howl at the top of their lungs. The group feeds off each other and the women turn completely hysterical in their cries for their fallen wantok.

A friend of mine was approaching a funeral site with a New Guinea woman – she was completely composed and talking amicably with him the whole way. As soon as she got within 20 yards of the casket, she launched herself into blood curdling yelps that frightened my friend something awful. When they left the village, she was back to herself.

Sunken Ship
I think the promotional plane for the movie ‘Titanic’ must have exploded over PNG and rained down giveaways across the land. Not a day goes by that I do not see someone wearing a ‘Titanic’ t-shirt picturing Leonardo and Kate Winslet holding each other in front of a backdrop of a sinking cruise liner. Not one day.